Quit yer whining

9 days between posts, that seems about right. Sorry about that everyone, this might have got written sooner, and now that it is actually getting written it will probably actually be shorter than I intended, because I should really be doing stuff tomorrow, not waking up at 4pm as I have been for the last week and a half or so. Caught a lot of MASH again recently. (That zany Hawkeye! He's so, er, madcap.) However, once I start writing these things I tend to spout on a bit, so I could be talking out of my arse on the going to bed. We will see.

Anyway, the last 9 days have been long. Last Monday seems like about a month ago, in fact. During this time there were one or two interesting things going on, but there was also a lot of angst and and silent raging that no-one really needed to hear about, compounded somewhat (and indeed over-ridden) by worry, with my Mum being in hospital. So, as I'm not really one to blog about these things (instead it all goes down on paper to be discovered later, when I'm famous, or dead, or both), unless this counts, then I thought I'd spare everyone all that bollocks (get me drunk sometime soon, it may all come out anyway) until it was mostly gone, which it now is. A lot like my Mum's uterus. She will be OK, but ended up having to have a total hysterectomy to rid her of the soccer ball-sized (literally) thing that was in there, and will be in hospital recovering another 3 days, and then off work for 6 weeks. We saw her yesterday after the operation, and she was dopey and had many tubes and things and it wasn't pleasant to see one's mother in this condition, but she will at least be OK. Nice work modern medicine, although pity this isn't Star Trek, where I'm sure a better solution than 'let's rip a significant chunk of her anatomy out completely!' would have been found (probably a pass or two with the old tricorder would have done the trick). Still, as I say she will be OK, which is the main thing. Yes.

Right, so while all this was going on, I was in a play last week. To which I expected more of you to come to, actually. So all those not Nic, Andrew, or Tim M., or of our foreign readership contingent, can consider yourselves in reading this to have been on the receiving end of a general 'where were you, you bastards?'. Not to worry much though, it was not like it was high art (although a couple of plays were certainly aiming for that) or the product of 27 months hard work or anything, so you are all mostly forgiven. The show went well, we sold out the last 2 nights and people seemed to enjoy it, which was nice. And then we had a rather massive party on Thursday at its conclusion, and once again there were crazy drama-folk (a club of which it seems I am an honorary member), and there was beer, a dynamic combination. Fun was had, it was most good and cheered me up no end in quite a few ways. Once again drama party wannabe / groupie Nicholas 'Stud' Mason managed to get himself in on mid-week drunken drama action, to good effect. Later cousins Calum, Alana, and Vanessa 'It's OK, We're Friends Of The Band' Marshall showed up, and 5 of the grandchildren of Cyril and Mavis Taylor amused themselves by saving the other one from herself: "I'm not drunk, I'm not drunk". Righto, Ness. I too by the end of proceedings was 'not drunk', so 'not drunk' in fact that on the way back to Picton with Josh and Nic I stepped out of the taxi and fell over and twisted my ankle. Nice one. The elbows and knees are taking something of a battering of late, what with the necessary abrasions one takes in the course of playing indoor sport on astroturf, and the unneccesary ones that they get when they keep coming into contact with concrete at speed. My grazes have grazes. It's like that poem:

Little fleas have smaller fleas
Upon their backs to bite 'em;
And smaller fleas have smaller fleas,
And so ad infinitum.

OK, so in fact it's not like that poem at all, but never mind. Whatever doesn't kill us only gives us crippling joint pain later in life, or something.

The previous Tuesday's Tim's a Loser celebratory ashphalt-impacting efforts have already been covered elsewhere (who dives at something and misses?), so I won't go into additional details, except to say that a face-plant into the river, drunk, at 5am, is a rather excellent experience. I would actually have to reccommend it. It's an outstanding way to clear your head, not only because you suddenly find yourself in rather cold water (actually it was less cold than I might have thought), but because as you reach the edge of the bank and spring outwards, there is a sort of epiphany a split second before landing, where your brain sobers up totally and tells you very quickly 'you've just thrown yourself inexorably into a river in the middle of winter at 5am, you cretin. Oh well, too late now, go with it', and then there is all the confusion and kinetics of actually landing, and then you find yourself sitting in the middle of a river, pissed as a newt.

Brilliant.

In saying this however, I can of course accept no liability if you try it yourselves and get hypothermia on the way home, or perhaps impale yourself on a duck. The inherent risks are a factor in the reward. It's like, er, robbing a bank. But more wet. Oh, and beware of chaffing. Beware.

Last weekend there were films, oh yes. TBALC maintained its champion film-viewers status as Tim and I watched, with various others at other points, Identity(interesting idea, pretty good) Friday, and then Pirates of the Caribbean (Arrrr! Hee hee. Also pretty good, Johnny Depp ran off with the film, or perhaps I should say he swaggered off with it. Swash was well and truly buckled. Apparently he also takes off with Once Upon A Time In Mexico, coming out here soonish) and then, stoically, all of the Martin Lawrence / Steve Zahn vehicle National Security, er, the trailer made it seem good, honestly! (one very funny thing. Just the one. Ah, and a shoot-out in a soft drink warehouse, which wasn't a bad idea. Don't bother though.) Steve Zahn is funny, damnit, but he seems to be stuck in crap. He's the Chevy Chase of his generation. Oh well.

Then in a surprise move on Sunday, we won soccer, 9-0! It was mostly due to my no goals. Like Beckham, my role in the side is not to set an efficient defensive screen, or even put in the odd perfect through-ball, but to attract hordes of screaming Japanese girls. I had done my job well, and the piercing cries of the assembled Asiatic teens succeeded in shattering the eardrums of our opposition, throwing their game off no-end (we had prepared ourselves earlier with the strategic placement of ear-plugs). I was so pleased with the good result I magnanimously allowed two or three of the lucky fans to brush my arm as I left the court. (They fainted, natch.)

Tonight, in what was even more a surprise move, Nic and I guided our Wednesday night cricket side through to an actual victory. Holy Unlikely Occurrence, Batman! We could not remember, thinking about it afterwards, if this was our first or second actual win (like, we actually won! Wow!), since in the history of our team we tend to come off the court slapping each other on the back congratulating ourselves on the close nature of the loss we just had, so those seem like wins. But this was different, this was our team with more runs than theirs, at the conclusion of the game! Amazing, but unfortunately for the world at large, surely an omen of impending apocalypse. Damn. Sorry everyone, we won cricket, make your peace with God. I give civilisation a week tops.

This sign of impending doom followed the Dramasoc Half AGM, which I was roped into, despite not being a member of Dramasoc. I don't know why. I kept telling people I was not actually a member of Dramasoc. I continued to tell them as I was drafted into their teams for the Club Olympics (Friday) and the Improv Deathmatch, vs. Comedy Soc next Monday (that should be good, although I suspect I am seriously rusty, come along though one and all, most of the Comsoc people like Dan, Jeff, and Javier are Court Jesters, so at least they'll be funny) and I really tried to tell them when they nominated me to be on the committee, which I thought was pretty silly, and so pulled out the self-depreceation and duly didn't get voted on. Then afterwards I immediately thought it probably would have been pretty cool. Damn. Oh well. I'm still in the Club Olympics, apparently. What the hell are the Club Olympics? Anyone? Guess I will find out Friday. Talk Like A Pirate Day! Arrr, Pirate Olympics perhaps, featuring shotput (with cannons), the 100m peg leg dash, and, er, the 1500 metre swab (um, probably. Look, shut up!).
One can only hope.

Right, and with that, I'm clearly bleating, bit on the short side, but it's 5 past 4 and that'll do, pig. That'll do.

More as it comes to hand.