Well, it all started with the dawn of time...
Man was just a glint in a nebulous mass of gases, as the Big Bang wracked whatever passed for a reality prior to it's being, and then the Earth and all other planets great and small were created in a very short time indeed. After a while, primitive single-celled organisms were born when lightning struck a particularly fortuitous conglomeration of chemicals, and life never looked back. Mainly because it had no eyes at that point.
Cell walls came, and cilia went, and life diversified into such a rich plethora that it was bound to incur the ire of statistical probability, and many extinction events occurred. Dinosaurs ruled and were wiped out, and then the mammals raised their furry five fingered hands to take the crown of "Earth's Champions". Rats took to the skies to become bats. Bats returned to the ground to hunt as cats. Cats were skinned to make hats, and so on. With the fall from a tree of the first proto-ape ( the mythical "Drop Monkey"?), mankind was unceremoniously set on its long journey toward uprightness, culminating in the perfection of mechanised locomotion: the bicycle.
Present day:
Friday evening: I go out to Victoria and catch up with Ant and G, who are here on their honeymoon OE. Brendan meets us there, and after drinkies, he and I shunt off back to his place in Uxbridge for some more drinkies, and some sweet gaming. Nice. 3:30am - we head to our (separate) beds.
2pm, Saturday: Brendan is meant to meet up with his brother Damon to go bike riding. The plan? For Damon to bring 2 bikes via trains to Uxbridge, then they'll ride them back to Damon's in Euston. Finding that I'm around, Damon generously offers me a third bike, and upon acceptance we plan to head for his to meet him at about 3pm.
3:30pm We leave the house. Computer gaming may have had something to do with our late departure, but I was lost in electronic limbo, so I really couldn't comment - we just woke up from Wesnoth, and found it was way past time to go. We take the route offered by Damon, which is the one he'd planned for taking bikes on the overland, and we completely miss the fact that we could've just ridden the underground all the way to his. Our minds are feeble.
4pm: we arrive at the overground station and realise that the next train isn't 'til 4:30pm, and it only drops us at Marylebone. Wicked route planning...only now do I realise that we should've just ridden the Metropolitan all the way to King's Cross...
5pm: we arrive at Marylebone, and head off on the Bakerloo to Regent's Park, and cut through the park to get to Euston. Brendan forgets where the hell his own brother lives, and Damon's phone is crap, so it takes a while to sort out directions.
5:30pm: we arrive at Damon's. We sort out our bikes, chew some food, spin out to the wicked new Tool album cover, and then plan a route. It entails riding the canalside west, taking a few minor detours, but essentially ending up back at Brendan's in Uxbridge - should take 1 1/2 to 2 hours, apparently - but then Damon reckons he can get from Euston to Waterloo in 7 minutes on his bike - a prospect which - given London drivers and, even worse, pedestrians - frankly terrifies me. We cogitate for about 30 minutes over how we're going to get the bikes back if we ride to Uxbridge, all solutions seeming like madness, so we decide in manly fashion that an answer must eventually present itself without any further effort on our part.
6pm: we leave the house and make our way smoothly through London's back roads towards the Regent's Park section of canal. Things go well, and I even navigate - SUCCESSFULLY!!! - the section from Regent's Park to Little Venice, as it's kinda like my hood.
The next 2 1/2 hours: we ride! Dodging traffic and shooting the breeze, like a poor, pre-adolescent version of the Hell's Angels, we manouever our machines deftly through foot and road traffic alike. Upon reaching a pikey encampment on the canalside, howver, we begin to wonder if we might not be completely lost. Damon fetches his GPS and places us, and unfortunately we've managed to reach Sudbury on the Hill, some 10km east of Uxbridge, and a tad off course - who knew there was more than one canal?? We decide to make for the nearest rail station, as we have no lights on our bikes, and our crowns are bare for all to see and attempt to crush should we dislodge from our trusty mounts.
8:30pm: we arrive at Wembley station, and decide to go in search of food. A Nando's clone provides us with excellent fare, including a cool and refreshing jug of sangria for only £10 - hah! I was buying litre-cartons of sangria in Espana for EUR1.30!! Damn restaurants...then again, I did wake up the next day feeling human, which is more than I can say for the carton stuff. Just imagine spicy Miami Wine Cooler, but red... Argentina are playing Mexico, and for some reason all the locals (not a Brit among them, I might add), are booing the Argies. Why? A lay-over from the Falklands, perhaps? Who will ever know...
10pm: Off we go to the rail station, and catch a ride home. Arriving back at Damon's, we deposit the bikes, have another drink, and then Bren and I head back for his.
11:30pm we make the tube - Euston to King's X. Arriving at King's, we are informed that ALL the lines heading due west are buggered up til Baker St, so - fearing the imminent closure of the system - we hightail it to the Piccadilly line and switch to head up on the trusty Bakerloo.
12:30am: we rush and rush to get to the Metropolitan before we become stranded, but we needn't have worried - there it is, just waiting to take us all the way to Uxbridge. Ahhh, relaxation...
1:30am: 4 stops from Uxbridge, we are told to "All change please - this train terminates here". WTF? Apparently another train is coming through in 5 minutes, so we set ourselves skeptically down to await it. The drunk group of chavs next to us begin hijinks, and entertainment ensues.
1:40am: still no train. The chavs press the "Service Intercom" button, and inquire of the operator whether he gets lonely sitting in there, and has he enough air to breathe? They really are quite sweet little chavs.
1:45am: "Your train will be here in 5 minutes - it is just at Rayner's Lane", chimes the announcer. 5 minutes later, a train does appear, but unfortunately it is laden with old ballast from the tracks down the way, and is clearly not intended for human transportation. Cue more chav hilarity vs intercom... Another 10 minutes after that, the real one does in fact arrive, and we are underway again.
2:15am: we arrive at Uxbridge. Chav West. Walking through Uxbridge town centre at the end of a drinking night is a dodgy prospect, but only in that the girls are world-class slutty, and the boys are all ogling for a fight. Or cheesy chips. Bless them again, most of them seem content with cheesy nutrition. We walk our way back to Brendan's, musing on how the tart in front of us has removed her high-heels to try to get more traction in bare feet while in a fairly restrictive mini-skirt she chases her boyfriend Gary, who is fleeing ahead of her on well-shod foot, clutching his polystyrene payload of cheesy carbs to his chest and feverishly comsuming them before - apparently - she gets her gold-digging hands on them. We rock on into Brendan's place at 2:45am, and proceed to play computer games until 5am, when the sun chases us like cockroaches to our darkened (but separate) dens...
And all this, just for a bike ride. Hallelujah, Transport for London...
Monday, June 26, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
World Political Climate, According to The B
Syriana should be a good film - I want to see just what sort of evil masters I've sold my soul to by entering the oil industry... There's a good book about that whole thing too - "The Prize". Apparently the whole Israel-Palestine conflict exists because the British split up the oil rights/controlling influence in the Middle East with the US after WW1. But everything's so vanilla these days, you just don't get that kind of apocalyptic greed and apathy anymore. I mean, look at Afghanistan and Iraq. The US took the evil there to task, and wiped those countries clean, all for the humanitarian good. It may have cost a few lives on both sides, but really - the people are happier. And since then Bush has made sure the countries receive all the aid they need to get back on their feet, starting with the development of their naturally vast petroleum reserves. This is sensible, because it ensures a stable, State(s)-owned income for the people, and encourages jobs across the board, as many menial tasks are created by the multitude of Western advisory entities flooding in to provide aid and buoy up these proud peoples in their time of need.
The ancillary effects are widespread also. Just as an example, in Afghanistan the harsh rule of the Taliban Mujahideen guerillas was to the detriment of the populace and the country. They are proficient fighters, to be sure - for how else could they have survived and ultimately resisted the equally evil Soviet invaders during the 80s? ... So when America (Fuck Yeah!!) stepped in to bring these despots to task, they knew they were facing a rugged, thoroughly trained, well equipped fighting force. Surprisingly, they also knew the leaders and key figures fairly well - but that's just another laurel of merit for the US Intelligence Services.
So now, stability and peace reign in the Middle East, thanks to Bush and the American people. The only possible sources of trouble come from the direction of rogue elements within society, but - like football hooligans in England - you're always going to have someone who's a little dissatisfied with the result. What's important though is keeping the majority happy, and all the Arab nations are finally at rest and moving forward as one. The minority now belongs to the Israelites - the sons of Abraham - whose ancestors killed the christian Jew, Jesus. Their continued aggression and antagonisation of Palestinian peoples has blemished their once-peaceful image - an image used to solicit compassion in the US where so many Jews reside, funding the industries of film and clandestine banking. It was this sympathy in the States which prompted so much free trade of training, weapons, funny over-long suits, and bagels between the two countries. But now, with Arabs consolidating their position and reconciling their differences it is looking grim for any Hebes taking a stance on the Palestinian land upon which they squat, like a nation of dark and hairy Pikeys.
In the future, will America be forced to reign in the aggressive Israelites? Will a Jewish latter-day prophet arise like the Moses of antiquity to part the Red Sea of Pain brought down upon them by their New World cousins? Will the Hebrew people realise their grievous error in condeming the son of God - the same God worshipped dutifully and sincerely by all States-men, be they black or white, fat or obese, NRA or KKK - to death on a stick, apologise, and finally come to relish pork, as do their pallid and sickly British cousins, in all it's crackly fatty glory? Will they see the truth, that Moses betrayed them on the Mount by toppling their golden-calf idol and calling it false, when in reality the Golden Arches and 100% pure beefboard of MacDonalds truly do rule the world? Well, I have hope, yes. But when hope and reason fail - and often before then, too - I know America stands ready with a Big Fucking Gun, committed to democratically running the world's business. Amen!!
The ancillary effects are widespread also. Just as an example, in Afghanistan the harsh rule of the Taliban Mujahideen guerillas was to the detriment of the populace and the country. They are proficient fighters, to be sure - for how else could they have survived and ultimately resisted the equally evil Soviet invaders during the 80s? ... So when America (Fuck Yeah!!) stepped in to bring these despots to task, they knew they were facing a rugged, thoroughly trained, well equipped fighting force. Surprisingly, they also knew the leaders and key figures fairly well - but that's just another laurel of merit for the US Intelligence Services.
So now, stability and peace reign in the Middle East, thanks to Bush and the American people. The only possible sources of trouble come from the direction of rogue elements within society, but - like football hooligans in England - you're always going to have someone who's a little dissatisfied with the result. What's important though is keeping the majority happy, and all the Arab nations are finally at rest and moving forward as one. The minority now belongs to the Israelites - the sons of Abraham - whose ancestors killed the christian Jew, Jesus. Their continued aggression and antagonisation of Palestinian peoples has blemished their once-peaceful image - an image used to solicit compassion in the US where so many Jews reside, funding the industries of film and clandestine banking. It was this sympathy in the States which prompted so much free trade of training, weapons, funny over-long suits, and bagels between the two countries. But now, with Arabs consolidating their position and reconciling their differences it is looking grim for any Hebes taking a stance on the Palestinian land upon which they squat, like a nation of dark and hairy Pikeys.
In the future, will America be forced to reign in the aggressive Israelites? Will a Jewish latter-day prophet arise like the Moses of antiquity to part the Red Sea of Pain brought down upon them by their New World cousins? Will the Hebrew people realise their grievous error in condeming the son of God - the same God worshipped dutifully and sincerely by all States-men, be they black or white, fat or obese, NRA or KKK - to death on a stick, apologise, and finally come to relish pork, as do their pallid and sickly British cousins, in all it's crackly fatty glory? Will they see the truth, that Moses betrayed them on the Mount by toppling their golden-calf idol and calling it false, when in reality the Golden Arches and 100% pure beefboard of MacDonalds truly do rule the world? Well, I have hope, yes. But when hope and reason fail - and often before then, too - I know America stands ready with a Big Fucking Gun, committed to democratically running the world's business. Amen!!
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
The Unbearable Lightness of British Fingers...
The situation is that my "friend" Alice has been promising to send a care package from NZ for aaaaagggeeeees now, and she seems finally to have found time to make good on it. Or so I thought, until she decided to send mine and Rob's to my beleaguered colleague in Cambridge...
Alice:
"OK boys. I decided to send you a joint package. You will have to share.
I sent it to Rob because I thought his sharing skills might be slightly more developed than Barry's although I am not sure. So Rob, SHARE!
And Barry, plan to be in the vicinity of Rob in the next 4-10 days...."
Rob:
"Good choice!! I'm definitely more reliable than barry (or "Andrew" as they call him over here). I'm moving house this weekend because i've been robbed twice and i hate my neighbours. I hate them because they keep robbing me.
Hey baz, you could come and help me move!! Yeah! Great idea! I'll provide the brains, you provide the braun, and i'll provide the beer - that means i'm providing twice as much as you, but i'll just take the extra out of the alleged care package."
The Magnificent B-Lord:
"
But if I provide the Braun (a make of electric shaver...), in the immortal words of Midnight Oil, "Who's gonna shave me? Who's gonna shaaay-ayyyve meeeeee!!??" Perhaps if I provide the brawn - and a Glock to keep that filthy neighbour of yours at bay - we'll be more evenly placed for negotiations.
ALICE - it's a criminally poor idea to send the care package to Rob. Cambridge is as a war-torn Mozambique-y Mogadishu style third world starving nation. Crime is rampant - and so are the lions - but more importantly is the fact that Rob's tenement estate is the epicentre of all the world's evil and amorality - as evidenced by the theft of all things of value that Rob possessed (ie, laptop and wallet), as well as his very presence. Send the package to me. I've only had a couple of packages from home go missing in the mail since I got here, but that was at Xmas when all the light-fingered little gits at Royal Mail were on a self-imposed weed-embargo in order to concentrate on obtaining their "Xmas Bonuses". But now, they're much more likely to be back dozing in corners, sleeping off the richness of their yuletide sprees and giving thanks to the British Government for preserving their little slice of welfare heaven against all odds and notions of efficiency.
Besides, Rob is moving soon, so your package will arrive just in time to provide a delightful little "Thank you" present for his ... resourceful ... slum co-habitor. AND - it gives Rob a nice excuse to come to the City of Dark Angels (or, "Filthy Sooty Dysentric Pigeons"), for another wee drinking session with his favourite cronies. Do the right thing Alice. Make your own decision. Do the right thing. Not for me. Not for Rob. But mostly, for me. Actually, completely and utterly singularly positively for me. And under NO circumstances give the package to Cynthia to bring back upon her return, as any chocolate will live in abject fear for the duration of the ordeal...(kisses Snyth!)
So sayeth The B."
Alice:
"OK boys. I decided to send you a joint package. You will have to share.
I sent it to Rob because I thought his sharing skills might be slightly more developed than Barry's although I am not sure. So Rob, SHARE!
And Barry, plan to be in the vicinity of Rob in the next 4-10 days...."
Rob:
"Good choice!! I'm definitely more reliable than barry (or "Andrew" as they call him over here). I'm moving house this weekend because i've been robbed twice and i hate my neighbours. I hate them because they keep robbing me.
Hey baz, you could come and help me move!! Yeah! Great idea! I'll provide the brains, you provide the braun, and i'll provide the beer - that means i'm providing twice as much as you, but i'll just take the extra out of the alleged care package."
The Magnificent B-Lord:
"
But if I provide the Braun (a make of electric shaver...), in the immortal words of Midnight Oil, "Who's gonna shave me? Who's gonna shaaay-ayyyve meeeeee!!??" Perhaps if I provide the brawn - and a Glock to keep that filthy neighbour of yours at bay - we'll be more evenly placed for negotiations.
ALICE - it's a criminally poor idea to send the care package to Rob. Cambridge is as a war-torn Mozambique-y Mogadishu style third world starving nation. Crime is rampant - and so are the lions - but more importantly is the fact that Rob's tenement estate is the epicentre of all the world's evil and amorality - as evidenced by the theft of all things of value that Rob possessed (ie, laptop and wallet), as well as his very presence. Send the package to me. I've only had a couple of packages from home go missing in the mail since I got here, but that was at Xmas when all the light-fingered little gits at Royal Mail were on a self-imposed weed-embargo in order to concentrate on obtaining their "Xmas Bonuses". But now, they're much more likely to be back dozing in corners, sleeping off the richness of their yuletide sprees and giving thanks to the British Government for preserving their little slice of welfare heaven against all odds and notions of efficiency.
Besides, Rob is moving soon, so your package will arrive just in time to provide a delightful little "Thank you" present for his ... resourceful ... slum co-habitor. AND - it gives Rob a nice excuse to come to the City of Dark Angels (or, "Filthy Sooty Dysentric Pigeons"), for another wee drinking session with his favourite cronies. Do the right thing Alice. Make your own decision. Do the right thing. Not for me. Not for Rob. But mostly, for me. Actually, completely and utterly singularly positively for me. And under NO circumstances give the package to Cynthia to bring back upon her return, as any chocolate will live in abject fear for the duration of the ordeal...(kisses Snyth!)
So sayeth The B."
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Yahweh bless the former Soviet Socialist Republic
Lithuanian Vodka. Alright - so in the first few blogs here Ben's going to be taking a hammering, but it will come to pass that every man woman and child known to us (and some know more children than others), will have slights and libels a mile wide painted against their names. Let it begin...
Our story starts one summer’s day many years ago now, as yet another great exodus to the bach at Piha was winding up - most of the delinquents making their meek ways back to social propriety at something approaching 50kmh. Only the hardcore remained - the unemployed, apathetic, and just plain bad - Ben O'Connor, Unkle Bazlord, and the quasi-caretaker of the magnificent venue, Brendan Millar.
For those unfamiliar with the goings-on at the Piha bach, I suggest that we all take pains to ensure that as many stories as possible make their way onto this website - those were happy days, like the kind Bryan Adams and Don Henley sang about because they knew all the fun that was left in their lives would come exclusively from expensive spirits and cheap whores, or sometimes the reverse.
Ahhhh, Piha. What can I say? Probably quite a lot... The usual practice there was to get blindly drunk in the evenings and then laze and sunbathe in the afternoons. Little bit of swimming, little bit of chilling, and then a whole lot of craziness. It would happen a lot that some of the more restless youths would find themselves compelled to fling their bodies over and through a particular Flax Bush in the front yard, Millar of course being the prime exponent of this endeavour, with myself being easily led into joining him - as per usual.
The front yard - a desolate and forbidding expanse of midget grass tougher than yer old grannie's boots, and twice as prickly. Being the second generation of growth in the backdune area of the beach, it wasn't surprising that only the odd macro-plant managed to raise it's stunted appendages (ooer!!) toward Ra's glowing sky-ball (oo-er!!!), the Flax Bush being chief amongst them. It was one such night about which the core of our ever-lengthening story is formed...
"Dog" Millar and I were playing at ninjas again; running, jumping, flying through the air and succulent serrated green leaves, to land and roll majestically out the other side of the Flax Bush. Over and over we did do this - a madness upon our souls, compelling us to fling our broken flesh through that most unforgiving of god's creations, the mighty Phormium tenax. Only 1.5m high did it stand, but as wide again at its base. Bristling with spiny protrusions, this was one dwarf that would not be tossed. Finally our madness fled us, and panting with our exertions we retreated into the safety of the bach in search of more liquid energy for further escapades. All the while, the Flax Bush mocking in its chlorophyllic silence...
(cue transition from darkness to sunrise over the Waitakeres, backlighting the beach and casting a lightening orange glow over the east face of Lion Rock, rapid activity of beach-comers driving the main drag, dogs pooping and kiddies vomiting - or even a mixture of the two - as morning gives way to afternoon...)
Slowly, carcasses dragged themselves from haphazard and contorted sleeping positions - erected in haste as the befuddled minds to which they belonged finally succumbed to the abuses of the evening. Many went in search of emergency sustenance for their ailing bodies, turning aside torn and sauce-bloodied remnants of bread in favour of air-staled chips and congealed dip. Water was drunk as though God himself was pissing from the cold tap, each mouth seeking a miracle in its flow but finding small comfort in doing so.
One by twos and threes the revellers left the bach, filtering past the stoic Flax Bush in the front lawn and disappearing past the gaggles of sun-lovers, accumulated since daybreak. Only a heroic three were left in the end - our protagonists in all their shattered glory, for once letting their collective guards' down and appearing mortal for all to see.
Brendan: "Damn! Look at all these nasty cuts and scratches all over my arms and legs!"
Unkle: "Pussy. What the fuck?"
Ben: (unconscious) "Groan"
Brendan: "Hey - you've got some too, you big gay fag - look"
Unkle: "Oh those? Those came from all the wimmins I was looking after last night, you dirty cum-bucket - after we'd been proving our hardness leaping through that filthy diseased Flax Bush"
.....
Unkle and Brendan: "THE FILTHY FLAX BUSH!!!"
It was then we realised that Brendan is a mingin' penis-dock, and Unkle Bazlord a true hero of the revolution. We also realised that our wounds were swimming in festering bacterial matter from that bastard Flax Bush out the front, and that if we didn't treat ourselves immediately, we'd soon be nothing more than devastatingly good-looking petri dishes for these compassionless prokaryotes.
Luckily, long years of watching war films and playing ultra-violent shooting games had taught the ginger terror and I the value of a good makeshift antiseptic. Searching our immediate environs, we happened upon a glowing bottle of liquor, marked on the outside: "Lithuanian Vodka - General Spirit, 40%", and then in small print : "consume in a well ventilated area - do not ingest. If any product comes in contact with grey matter, prepare to embolism. Not to be taken by the weak - children, the elderly, animals, epileptics or Australians".
Perfect!!
I went first. I took the top from the plastic bottle, inverted it, and ever so gently poured a small quantity of the steaming liquid into the cap. Cautiously I placed the open bottle back on the table, turned to face my inferior, and braced myself for the coming apocalypse.
Unkle: "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHmy GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDfuck me fuck me fuck me FAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKen HELL!!"
Brendan: "Aaaahahahaaaa!! Haaaahahahahahahahaaaa!!!"
Ben: "Snore....What? What the hell? Barry - what the fuck are you doing?"
I screamed loudly. My body was rapidly organising itself to eject the mind that had led to this torture, and I wasn't sure I wanted to stop it. My intense disappointment at the results of our little experiment was plain to see, but in a typical moment of mental confusion, that rodent-abusing ringmaster Millar somehow thought I must've been performing, and yellow-carded me:
Brendan: "It can't hurt that much, you pussy! Give me a go"
.....
Brendan: "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHmy GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDfuck me fuck me fuck me FAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKen HELL!! HOLY JEEEEEEESUS FUCK MY CHRIST!!!"
Unkle (in Morpheus tones): "Yeees."
As Millar had similar issues with his body searing in white-hot agony, I had just recovered my decorum enough to notice that Ben was looking on in wonder. Wonder gave way to curiosity. Curiosity was smothered by stupidity. Stupidity was amplified by desire, and then his mind was made up:
Ben: "Hey you guys - I want to try that!"
Unkle: "But you haven't got any cuts on you man - me and Millar were only doing it because we had cuts from last night. It wouldn't work on you"
Brendan: "Unless....."
Unkle: "Yeah, unless..."
Ben: "Unless what? I'll do it, I'll do anything!"
Unkle: "Anything?"
Ben: "Yes, anything!"
Brendan: "Okay - you grab his arms and I'll take the legs!"
With this cry we two leapt into action, laying Ben out on the carpeted hallway floor - plush, new, fibrous, rough carpet - face down and in his boxer shorts. Taking a firm grip of Ben's hands and arms, we dragged him the length of the hallway, hoping that divine friction would separate Ben and his epidermis before long. Alas, upon reaching the end of the hall and inspecting his wounds, we found only a wee pink patch on each knee - barely rosy enough to distract Santa from his little elves...
Brendan: "Fuck! Alright - this time you drag him Barry, and I'll stand on the backs of his knees"
Unkle: "Oooohh, shit..."
Ben: "Ohhhhh SHIIIIIT!!!"
That did it. Back the other way down the hall, Brendan surfing the legs of the Forrest Hill giant as I put all my might into hauling his bulk back to the living room. So much downforce was there on Ben's pinny little knees that I swear I could see ripples forming in the surface of the carpet as the immasculine little tacks holding it down were subjected to the worst trauma of their professional lives. But this was as nothing when compared to the abject punishment received by the O'Connor's patellae.
Raw. Red. Inflamed. Glistening. Too fresh yet to bleed, but fairly weeping clear plasmic fluid in an attempt to seal over the trauma suffered by his flesh, the O'Connor lurched to the nearest chair, flinging his mass into it with abandon. I retrieved a sample of the tortuous medicine from the table and approached Ben slowly, not wanting to spook the beast and have it rampage through the flimsy structure.
Unkle: "Come on buddy - it's time. It's what you wanted, remember?"
Brendan: "Yeah baby!!"
The O'Connor took the thimbleful of clear death, slowly lowered it to his knee, and gingerly began to unlevel the cap towards the gaping hole where his flesh had once been.
Time slowed. Ages passed. Children grew old and died. Planets imploded. Geese migrated, all in the time it took for us to witness the single most wretchedly hilarious moment of my young-ish life. As the distillate drew level with the lip of the cap, the surface tension stalled it - the liquid built up behind, increasing its pressure, threatening to blow at any time. And then it happened - the vodka spilled out across the raw skin of Ben's knee.
All at once the world exploded - Ben moved quicker than a blind lesbian at a fish factory, leaping up and falling down all in the same instant, writhing on the floor, kicking like a loose-end prop who's been a bit careless with the Deep Heat on his groin strain, mouthing obscenities vehement and colourful enough to make a navvy with Turet's Syndrome hang up his hat, swearing oaths of revenge most vile upon Millar and myself and all our descendents for centuries to come. Never will I forget that moment. Nor the one that followed shortly afterwards...
Ben: "Holy Jesus! That shit really really hurts!"
Brendan: "Yeah, and you were actually drinking it last night"
Unkle "Hey Beeeee-en..."
As I addressed the wounded one, his eyes spied in my hand the meagre amount of liquid death within reach of his tender dermis. What a sane human being would've thought an innocent and insignificant drink, Ben knew now to fear with all his ungodly soul. His eyes widened in a fascinating melange of horror and demonic rage. His body reacted instinctively, rearing up off his seat to charge me as I sat at mine, spittle drooling from his shrieking mouth, gangled arms swinging wildly like those of gibbons, only with twisted and knotted claws at the end seeking to end my life before I got the chance to exact more comedic value from his suffering body.
I knew I had only one chance to save myself from the madness the O'Connor had become. I took my arm back across my chest and gathered my strength - he was nearly at me now! I released the spring, swinging my arm across the path of the wild beast and releasing my deadly cargo in an arc towards the mad one. As Lithuania's best flew through the space between Ben and I, I had an angelic moment of clarity - I of all people knew what it was David felt that day he bested Goliath in the Valley of Elah, but had he used former Soviet bloc vodka to dispatch his rival, he surely could not have had a more satisfying reaction than that which greeted my eyes as the faux acid hit home its target - Ben's knobblies.
A direct hit! As the drink lashed home on the raw seepages of Ben's knees, he instantly crumpled in a heap. Slow motion again ensued. His visage transformed from one of utter contempt and bestial rage, to one of almost child-like questioning and incomprehension. Pain softened his features. The venom in his eyes dulled as the mind behind them finally said "Fuck this: you're on your own", and his talons grasped nothing but stale air as his bulk reduced itself to ground level mere inches from my own. Result.
In essence, the story endeth here. After more hilarity than any two people deserve to eke from the misfortunes of another, Millar and I helped Ben gather his wits, promising to find him some valium for the pain once we got back to civilisation (he didn't take our offer of a saltwater dip very well). We three tidied what remained of the bach, loaded ourselves into the mighty ZX, and drove into the hills as the waning light of day again cast its rich pastel shadows over the unspoiled perfection of our adolescence...
Our story starts one summer’s day many years ago now, as yet another great exodus to the bach at Piha was winding up - most of the delinquents making their meek ways back to social propriety at something approaching 50kmh. Only the hardcore remained - the unemployed, apathetic, and just plain bad - Ben O'Connor, Unkle Bazlord, and the quasi-caretaker of the magnificent venue, Brendan Millar.
For those unfamiliar with the goings-on at the Piha bach, I suggest that we all take pains to ensure that as many stories as possible make their way onto this website - those were happy days, like the kind Bryan Adams and Don Henley sang about because they knew all the fun that was left in their lives would come exclusively from expensive spirits and cheap whores, or sometimes the reverse.
Ahhhh, Piha. What can I say? Probably quite a lot... The usual practice there was to get blindly drunk in the evenings and then laze and sunbathe in the afternoons. Little bit of swimming, little bit of chilling, and then a whole lot of craziness. It would happen a lot that some of the more restless youths would find themselves compelled to fling their bodies over and through a particular Flax Bush in the front yard, Millar of course being the prime exponent of this endeavour, with myself being easily led into joining him - as per usual.
The front yard - a desolate and forbidding expanse of midget grass tougher than yer old grannie's boots, and twice as prickly. Being the second generation of growth in the backdune area of the beach, it wasn't surprising that only the odd macro-plant managed to raise it's stunted appendages (ooer!!) toward Ra's glowing sky-ball (oo-er!!!), the Flax Bush being chief amongst them. It was one such night about which the core of our ever-lengthening story is formed...
"Dog" Millar and I were playing at ninjas again; running, jumping, flying through the air and succulent serrated green leaves, to land and roll majestically out the other side of the Flax Bush. Over and over we did do this - a madness upon our souls, compelling us to fling our broken flesh through that most unforgiving of god's creations, the mighty Phormium tenax. Only 1.5m high did it stand, but as wide again at its base. Bristling with spiny protrusions, this was one dwarf that would not be tossed. Finally our madness fled us, and panting with our exertions we retreated into the safety of the bach in search of more liquid energy for further escapades. All the while, the Flax Bush mocking in its chlorophyllic silence...
(cue transition from darkness to sunrise over the Waitakeres, backlighting the beach and casting a lightening orange glow over the east face of Lion Rock, rapid activity of beach-comers driving the main drag, dogs pooping and kiddies vomiting - or even a mixture of the two - as morning gives way to afternoon...)
Slowly, carcasses dragged themselves from haphazard and contorted sleeping positions - erected in haste as the befuddled minds to which they belonged finally succumbed to the abuses of the evening. Many went in search of emergency sustenance for their ailing bodies, turning aside torn and sauce-bloodied remnants of bread in favour of air-staled chips and congealed dip. Water was drunk as though God himself was pissing from the cold tap, each mouth seeking a miracle in its flow but finding small comfort in doing so.
One by twos and threes the revellers left the bach, filtering past the stoic Flax Bush in the front lawn and disappearing past the gaggles of sun-lovers, accumulated since daybreak. Only a heroic three were left in the end - our protagonists in all their shattered glory, for once letting their collective guards' down and appearing mortal for all to see.
Brendan: "Damn! Look at all these nasty cuts and scratches all over my arms and legs!"
Unkle: "Pussy. What the fuck?"
Ben: (unconscious) "Groan"
Brendan: "Hey - you've got some too, you big gay fag - look"
Unkle: "Oh those? Those came from all the wimmins I was looking after last night, you dirty cum-bucket - after we'd been proving our hardness leaping through that filthy diseased Flax Bush"
.....
Unkle and Brendan: "THE FILTHY FLAX BUSH!!!"
It was then we realised that Brendan is a mingin' penis-dock, and Unkle Bazlord a true hero of the revolution. We also realised that our wounds were swimming in festering bacterial matter from that bastard Flax Bush out the front, and that if we didn't treat ourselves immediately, we'd soon be nothing more than devastatingly good-looking petri dishes for these compassionless prokaryotes.
Luckily, long years of watching war films and playing ultra-violent shooting games had taught the ginger terror and I the value of a good makeshift antiseptic. Searching our immediate environs, we happened upon a glowing bottle of liquor, marked on the outside: "Lithuanian Vodka - General Spirit, 40%", and then in small print : "consume in a well ventilated area - do not ingest. If any product comes in contact with grey matter, prepare to embolism. Not to be taken by the weak - children, the elderly, animals, epileptics or Australians".
Perfect!!
I went first. I took the top from the plastic bottle, inverted it, and ever so gently poured a small quantity of the steaming liquid into the cap. Cautiously I placed the open bottle back on the table, turned to face my inferior, and braced myself for the coming apocalypse.
Unkle: "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHmy GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDfuck me fuck me fuck me FAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKen HELL!!"
Brendan: "Aaaahahahaaaa!! Haaaahahahahahahahaaaa!!!"
Ben: "Snore....What? What the hell? Barry - what the fuck are you doing?"
I screamed loudly. My body was rapidly organising itself to eject the mind that had led to this torture, and I wasn't sure I wanted to stop it. My intense disappointment at the results of our little experiment was plain to see, but in a typical moment of mental confusion, that rodent-abusing ringmaster Millar somehow thought I must've been performing, and yellow-carded me:
Brendan: "It can't hurt that much, you pussy! Give me a go"
.....
Brendan: "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHmy GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDfuck me fuck me fuck me FAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKen HELL!! HOLY JEEEEEEESUS FUCK MY CHRIST!!!"
Unkle (in Morpheus tones): "Yeees."
As Millar had similar issues with his body searing in white-hot agony, I had just recovered my decorum enough to notice that Ben was looking on in wonder. Wonder gave way to curiosity. Curiosity was smothered by stupidity. Stupidity was amplified by desire, and then his mind was made up:
Ben: "Hey you guys - I want to try that!"
Unkle: "But you haven't got any cuts on you man - me and Millar were only doing it because we had cuts from last night. It wouldn't work on you"
Brendan: "Unless....."
Unkle: "Yeah, unless..."
Ben: "Unless what? I'll do it, I'll do anything!"
Unkle: "Anything?"
Ben: "Yes, anything!"
Brendan: "Okay - you grab his arms and I'll take the legs!"
With this cry we two leapt into action, laying Ben out on the carpeted hallway floor - plush, new, fibrous, rough carpet - face down and in his boxer shorts. Taking a firm grip of Ben's hands and arms, we dragged him the length of the hallway, hoping that divine friction would separate Ben and his epidermis before long. Alas, upon reaching the end of the hall and inspecting his wounds, we found only a wee pink patch on each knee - barely rosy enough to distract Santa from his little elves...
Brendan: "Fuck! Alright - this time you drag him Barry, and I'll stand on the backs of his knees"
Unkle: "Oooohh, shit..."
Ben: "Ohhhhh SHIIIIIT!!!"
That did it. Back the other way down the hall, Brendan surfing the legs of the Forrest Hill giant as I put all my might into hauling his bulk back to the living room. So much downforce was there on Ben's pinny little knees that I swear I could see ripples forming in the surface of the carpet as the immasculine little tacks holding it down were subjected to the worst trauma of their professional lives. But this was as nothing when compared to the abject punishment received by the O'Connor's patellae.
Raw. Red. Inflamed. Glistening. Too fresh yet to bleed, but fairly weeping clear plasmic fluid in an attempt to seal over the trauma suffered by his flesh, the O'Connor lurched to the nearest chair, flinging his mass into it with abandon. I retrieved a sample of the tortuous medicine from the table and approached Ben slowly, not wanting to spook the beast and have it rampage through the flimsy structure.
Unkle: "Come on buddy - it's time. It's what you wanted, remember?"
Brendan: "Yeah baby!!"
The O'Connor took the thimbleful of clear death, slowly lowered it to his knee, and gingerly began to unlevel the cap towards the gaping hole where his flesh had once been.
Time slowed. Ages passed. Children grew old and died. Planets imploded. Geese migrated, all in the time it took for us to witness the single most wretchedly hilarious moment of my young-ish life. As the distillate drew level with the lip of the cap, the surface tension stalled it - the liquid built up behind, increasing its pressure, threatening to blow at any time. And then it happened - the vodka spilled out across the raw skin of Ben's knee.
All at once the world exploded - Ben moved quicker than a blind lesbian at a fish factory, leaping up and falling down all in the same instant, writhing on the floor, kicking like a loose-end prop who's been a bit careless with the Deep Heat on his groin strain, mouthing obscenities vehement and colourful enough to make a navvy with Turet's Syndrome hang up his hat, swearing oaths of revenge most vile upon Millar and myself and all our descendents for centuries to come. Never will I forget that moment. Nor the one that followed shortly afterwards...
Ben: "Holy Jesus! That shit really really hurts!"
Brendan: "Yeah, and you were actually drinking it last night"
Unkle "Hey Beeeee-en..."
As I addressed the wounded one, his eyes spied in my hand the meagre amount of liquid death within reach of his tender dermis. What a sane human being would've thought an innocent and insignificant drink, Ben knew now to fear with all his ungodly soul. His eyes widened in a fascinating melange of horror and demonic rage. His body reacted instinctively, rearing up off his seat to charge me as I sat at mine, spittle drooling from his shrieking mouth, gangled arms swinging wildly like those of gibbons, only with twisted and knotted claws at the end seeking to end my life before I got the chance to exact more comedic value from his suffering body.
I knew I had only one chance to save myself from the madness the O'Connor had become. I took my arm back across my chest and gathered my strength - he was nearly at me now! I released the spring, swinging my arm across the path of the wild beast and releasing my deadly cargo in an arc towards the mad one. As Lithuania's best flew through the space between Ben and I, I had an angelic moment of clarity - I of all people knew what it was David felt that day he bested Goliath in the Valley of Elah, but had he used former Soviet bloc vodka to dispatch his rival, he surely could not have had a more satisfying reaction than that which greeted my eyes as the faux acid hit home its target - Ben's knobblies.
A direct hit! As the drink lashed home on the raw seepages of Ben's knees, he instantly crumpled in a heap. Slow motion again ensued. His visage transformed from one of utter contempt and bestial rage, to one of almost child-like questioning and incomprehension. Pain softened his features. The venom in his eyes dulled as the mind behind them finally said "Fuck this: you're on your own", and his talons grasped nothing but stale air as his bulk reduced itself to ground level mere inches from my own. Result.
In essence, the story endeth here. After more hilarity than any two people deserve to eke from the misfortunes of another, Millar and I helped Ben gather his wits, promising to find him some valium for the pain once we got back to civilisation (he didn't take our offer of a saltwater dip very well). We three tidied what remained of the bach, loaded ourselves into the mighty ZX, and drove into the hills as the waning light of day again cast its rich pastel shadows over the unspoiled perfection of our adolescence...
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Bazza wanks lyrical
This post is actually attributable to Bazza, but I'm posting it 'cause he's shit lazy.
Dear Tipsy - I'm glad you got the gist of that last email, but really! I'm offended that you think I send you wanky material over the fibre optic lines! I shall endeavour to make it up to you. Peruse the three fine specimens of male manhoodliness below and rate them for me so that I may know the type you prefer, and thusly better serve your needs.
*******************************
And sadly Bill "I will rule the world" Gates doesn't even get a mention. You cruel woman - geeks have feelings too!
I think tho that you gave the best possible answer, all things considered. We're both well-versed in my opinion of Pinocchio Reeves, and he and Brad are just two of those guys that all heterosexual women have to lust after. It's a rule. Kinda like Angelina for guys... So can't begrudge you that, especially after you qualified the limitations of your lust for Keanu. That just shows what an intelligent and discerning woman you are. And that you're over 16.
However, your lack of desire for MammyBoy not only maps out the iciness of your heart, but it reveals a lack of pity towards malekind that I can only find reprehensible (wordscore!!). Of course he looks frightened!! That's his appeal! He just wants you to hold him, comfort him. He's vulnerable. He wants you to be his mummy... And what man doesn't want that from a woman, hmmm??
Erik Estrada. Sorry - you're just wrong. Show that pic to any gay man and study their reaction - that's what you need to be like for Erik. Because, as we all know, gay men have impeccable taste when it comes to men in uniform, e.g. The Village People. Nuff said.
And as for Frank? Good choice. There's just something about a gender-ambivalent she-man that causes a bit of confusion, that leading to a sense of excitement at the unknown. Or fear. But then fear is just excitement coupled with the uncertainty of the unknown, and so it becomes a circular situation, where circles are made up of curves and curves are a basic and timeworn trigger in the subconscious of the male mind to hint at reproductive suitability in a female of the species, thusly today are men to be forgiven for being attracted to lovely soft rounded fleshy bits like bums and breasts and full Angelina-lips and J-Lo asses (though not the rest of J-Lo, except as she appeared in that film with George Clooney and was incredibly hot in because she wasn't J-Lo then and was still Jenny from the block and was keeping her attitude in check for the screen and managed it really well but then got together with Ben Af-suck and hasn't done a damn thing since). So that explains why men are to be attracted to Frank-n-Furter, but why the woman?? Such as yourself. That's a matter for a mind more elastic than mine, one able to comprehend the vagaries of the feminine psyche and distill from the myriad streams of dis-logic the true nature of the dark, possessive, negative womanly yin (not my words - http://www.holistic-online.com/Acupuncture/acp_yin_yang.htm). As the Great street poet Barryster once remarked - upon one of his many dealings with a Mercurial wimmins - "Where's my money, Bitch!?", thusly illustrating with alarming brevity and to destructively scintillating effect the basic dilemma in residence between man and woman, parting the seas of their passion as surely as if Moses himself had found Cupid where he lay and molested the poor cherub into submission, before assuming the diminutive aspect of the now fallen and bleeding angel of desire and letting loose his own piercing shafts of division into our hearts. Who could close this gap? Who could bridge this chasm, bring the two sides of the Sea of Man and the crashing back together to find themselves again cresting one another in white-misted moistness?? Only one engendered of each gender - only one such as Frank-n-Furter.
And so it is clear that while the male attraction in this Crying Game arises purely from his infallible concern for the continuation of the human species, it is equally clear that the female attraction to Lady Boys stems from her desire to find a mate with whom she can trade hosiery and with whom she can discuss - ad nauseum - the delicacies of ingrown leg-hairs.
Dear Tipsy - I'm glad you got the gist of that last email, but really! I'm offended that you think I send you wanky material over the fibre optic lines! I shall endeavour to make it up to you. Peruse the three fine specimens of male manhoodliness below and rate them for me so that I may know the type you prefer, and thusly better serve your needs.
*******************************
And sadly Bill "I will rule the world" Gates doesn't even get a mention. You cruel woman - geeks have feelings too!
I think tho that you gave the best possible answer, all things considered. We're both well-versed in my opinion of Pinocchio Reeves, and he and Brad are just two of those guys that all heterosexual women have to lust after. It's a rule. Kinda like Angelina for guys... So can't begrudge you that, especially after you qualified the limitations of your lust for Keanu. That just shows what an intelligent and discerning woman you are. And that you're over 16.
However, your lack of desire for MammyBoy not only maps out the iciness of your heart, but it reveals a lack of pity towards malekind that I can only find reprehensible (wordscore!!). Of course he looks frightened!! That's his appeal! He just wants you to hold him, comfort him. He's vulnerable. He wants you to be his mummy... And what man doesn't want that from a woman, hmmm??
Erik Estrada. Sorry - you're just wrong. Show that pic to any gay man and study their reaction - that's what you need to be like for Erik. Because, as we all know, gay men have impeccable taste when it comes to men in uniform, e.g. The Village People. Nuff said.
And as for Frank? Good choice. There's just something about a gender-ambivalent she-man that causes a bit of confusion, that leading to a sense of excitement at the unknown. Or fear. But then fear is just excitement coupled with the uncertainty of the unknown, and so it becomes a circular situation, where circles are made up of curves and curves are a basic and timeworn trigger in the subconscious of the male mind to hint at reproductive suitability in a female of the species, thusly today are men to be forgiven for being attracted to lovely soft rounded fleshy bits like bums and breasts and full Angelina-lips and J-Lo asses (though not the rest of J-Lo, except as she appeared in that film with George Clooney and was incredibly hot in because she wasn't J-Lo then and was still Jenny from the block and was keeping her attitude in check for the screen and managed it really well but then got together with Ben Af-suck and hasn't done a damn thing since). So that explains why men are to be attracted to Frank-n-Furter, but why the woman?? Such as yourself. That's a matter for a mind more elastic than mine, one able to comprehend the vagaries of the feminine psyche and distill from the myriad streams of dis-logic the true nature of the dark, possessive, negative womanly yin (not my words - http://www.holistic-online.com/Acupuncture/acp_yin_yang.htm). As the Great street poet Barryster once remarked - upon one of his many dealings with a Mercurial wimmins - "Where's my money, Bitch!?", thusly illustrating with alarming brevity and to destructively scintillating effect the basic dilemma in residence between man and woman, parting the seas of their passion as surely as if Moses himself had found Cupid where he lay and molested the poor cherub into submission, before assuming the diminutive aspect of the now fallen and bleeding angel of desire and letting loose his own piercing shafts of division into our hearts. Who could close this gap? Who could bridge this chasm, bring the two sides of the Sea of Man and the crashing back together to find themselves again cresting one another in white-misted moistness?? Only one engendered of each gender - only one such as Frank-n-Furter.
And so it is clear that while the male attraction in this Crying Game arises purely from his infallible concern for the continuation of the human species, it is equally clear that the female attraction to Lady Boys stems from her desire to find a mate with whom she can trade hosiery and with whom she can discuss - ad nauseum - the delicacies of ingrown leg-hairs.
Friday, October 14, 2005
So a whole bunch of the boys decided to go out for a night on the town. Being poor students, we had to buy up bulk amounts of beer beforehand, and drink it on the way to the bar.
Somehow I let Ben convince me to split a dozen "Victory" beer with him, a locally produced concoction so foul that it sold for less than a dollar per unit of canned happiness. Before even reaching the bottom of the third can, I already felt the ill effects of whatever vile ritual passed as a brewing technique making themselves known to my stomach.
Cue a debaucherous night out at the bar. Followed by going home to my parents place, and Ben crashing out on a mattress on the floor of my bedroom.
Darkness.
I wake up to a rather unwelcome sight. No, not the naked form of Ben, but something nearly as mind-bending. The side of my desk is covered in puke.
"Oh God, what the hell happened".
Moving causes my head to hurt. Glancing over the edge of my bed, I notice that Ben appears to have vanished. But there is a clear outline of his former prone position, surrounded by a fine spray of vomit debris.
I also notice that my door leading directly to the backyard from my bedroom is half open.
Stumbling to my feet, I fully open the door and appraise the small pile of regurgitated mass on the path directly outside my door.
Next to catch my attention is Ben's pile of clothes still hanging over the back of the chair as he left them.
Interesting.
Tottering out of my bedroom and into the rumpus room, I encounter a slumbering mound, which on closer inspection turns out to be Barry. He struggles to wakefulness, and while staggering about the room in his beer patterned boxers, assists me in thinking of what has become of Ben.
The only scenario we come up with is summarised neatly by:
"Damn, I vomited on him and he ran home! Naked! Awesome!"
Our soggy minds are satisfied by this entertaining explanation, though the additional mass outside my door is still unexplained. Approximately 3 hours later Ben appears, only in his undies and covered in small chunks of puke, and with an open cut on his forehead. Apparently he's not aware that the former contents of my stomach are still clinging to his hair and body.
"Hi guys! I just woke up outside on the deck upstairs".
Eventually a run-through of the night's escapades pieces together the following chain of events:
1. I drink horrible cheap beer, under coercion from Ben.
2. I throw up on Ben. And my desk.
3. Ben wakes up, and immediately feels ill (who wouldn't?).
4. Ben claims he's going to throw up, I yell at him to get the hell out of my room first (somewhat ironic), and he yanks open the door, trips on the sill, cracks his head on the brick wall outside, and pukes violently on the path.
5. Ben decides he can't sleep on the floor of my room anymore, despite the patch that his body managed to keep clean, and heads upstairs to sleep. Why he ended up outside on the deck is anyone's guess.
The moral of the story is - don't trick people into drinking horrible cheap beer by saying "no, it really tastes good, honest".
Somehow I let Ben convince me to split a dozen "Victory" beer with him, a locally produced concoction so foul that it sold for less than a dollar per unit of canned happiness. Before even reaching the bottom of the third can, I already felt the ill effects of whatever vile ritual passed as a brewing technique making themselves known to my stomach.
Cue a debaucherous night out at the bar. Followed by going home to my parents place, and Ben crashing out on a mattress on the floor of my bedroom.
Darkness.
I wake up to a rather unwelcome sight. No, not the naked form of Ben, but something nearly as mind-bending. The side of my desk is covered in puke.
"Oh God, what the hell happened".
Moving causes my head to hurt. Glancing over the edge of my bed, I notice that Ben appears to have vanished. But there is a clear outline of his former prone position, surrounded by a fine spray of vomit debris.
I also notice that my door leading directly to the backyard from my bedroom is half open.
Stumbling to my feet, I fully open the door and appraise the small pile of regurgitated mass on the path directly outside my door.
Next to catch my attention is Ben's pile of clothes still hanging over the back of the chair as he left them.
Interesting.
Tottering out of my bedroom and into the rumpus room, I encounter a slumbering mound, which on closer inspection turns out to be Barry. He struggles to wakefulness, and while staggering about the room in his beer patterned boxers, assists me in thinking of what has become of Ben.
The only scenario we come up with is summarised neatly by:
"Damn, I vomited on him and he ran home! Naked! Awesome!"
Our soggy minds are satisfied by this entertaining explanation, though the additional mass outside my door is still unexplained. Approximately 3 hours later Ben appears, only in his undies and covered in small chunks of puke, and with an open cut on his forehead. Apparently he's not aware that the former contents of my stomach are still clinging to his hair and body.
"Hi guys! I just woke up outside on the deck upstairs".
Eventually a run-through of the night's escapades pieces together the following chain of events:
1. I drink horrible cheap beer, under coercion from Ben.
2. I throw up on Ben. And my desk.
3. Ben wakes up, and immediately feels ill (who wouldn't?).
4. Ben claims he's going to throw up, I yell at him to get the hell out of my room first (somewhat ironic), and he yanks open the door, trips on the sill, cracks his head on the brick wall outside, and pukes violently on the path.
5. Ben decides he can't sleep on the floor of my room anymore, despite the patch that his body managed to keep clean, and heads upstairs to sleep. Why he ended up outside on the deck is anyone's guess.
The moral of the story is - don't trick people into drinking horrible cheap beer by saying "no, it really tastes good, honest".
Cleanliness is next to Godliness
Well it's pretty clear that my flatmate ain't in danger of toppling that pedestal, lack of the ability to create an entire planet within 7 days notwithstanding.
Which reminds me, Wiggie is planning to move into Buckley end Dec. Faye's major concern is that Andrew doesn't eat the kitten(?).
Anyway, in order to get the ball rolling (and since my creative juices are drier than the now crisp interior of Barry's sleeping bag), I'm going to shamelessly regurgitate an email covering that most hallowed of topics - er, regurgitation. Followed by an excellent rant by everyone's favourite Uncle.
Which reminds me, Wiggie is planning to move into Buckley end Dec. Faye's major concern is that Andrew doesn't eat the kitten(?).
Anyway, in order to get the ball rolling (and since my creative juices are drier than the now crisp interior of Barry's sleeping bag), I'm going to shamelessly regurgitate an email covering that most hallowed of topics - er, regurgitation. Followed by an excellent rant by everyone's favourite Uncle.
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