» Protest!

Protesting with Gershwin
As a student I went along on a few protests against government funding cuts to Universities. Among the many inane chants was one that went thus:

"You say cutback we say fightback!
You say cutback we say fightback!
Cutback!
Fightback!
Cutback!
Fightback!"

I couldn't resist adding my own final line:

"Let's call the whole thing off!"
(Fri 12th Nov 2010, 21:18, More)

» Nights Out Gone Wrong

Lost in Canada
A friend, Mark, was off on his first big overseas trip, a season snowboarding in Canada. Upon arrival in Vancouver, he checks in to his backpackers and proceeds to get utterly shitfaced in town. At the end of the night, he finds himself inexplicably unable to get back into the backpackers. So, the only logical course of action is to break in. Some local must have seen this and called the cops, as they soon turned up shining torches in his eyes. The conversation, he recounts, went like this:

Cop: "What are you doing?"
Mark: "Trying to get into my backpackers.
Cop: "This isn't a backpackers. It's somebody's house."
Mark, after looking up and realising that rather than a multi-story inner city backpackers, he is trying to get into a suburban bungalow: "Oh, yeah."
Cop (pointing down): "Where are your shoes?"
Mark (realising he has no shoes on): "Hey, what happened to my shoes?!?"
Cop: "Do you know where you are?"
Mark mulls this over, mentally retracing his steps as far as he can remember, and answers: "Canada?"

Amazingly, they found out where he was staying, and dropped him off without charges.
(Mon 28th Mar 2011, 22:04, More)

» Nightclubs

Pissed it up against the wall
On holiday in Rio, we got to experience the "real" Brazilian nightclub scene -- not the flash touristy clubs, the gritty ones where the not-so-rich locals go. Basically a giant conrete-floored warehouse with a bar erected on one side. Accepted form seems to be that once you've finished your can of Brazil's finest, cheapest mass-produced metallic-tasting beer, you crush the can and toss it on the floor. As the night wears on, the floor becomes covered in a layer of liquid that presumably has seeped out of the mostly-empty cans strewn all over the floor. I'm wearing my jandals (translation:flip-flops/Havianas) so my feet become exposed to the beery liquid on the floor as the level rises to ever-higher levels.

We had managed to befriend an English-speaking local (mainly because he wanted to cop off with our female friend), who helped us out with how to best skip the beer queues and other such practical matters. After several tins I eventually felt the need to "break the seal". I scanned around but couldn't immediately locate the toilets, so asked our local friend where to find them.

He grimaced, then said "I will show you." He lead on, and I followed as we weaved through the crowd to a non-descript door. When we got in, I looked around. The gutter-style urinal was packed, as were the cubicles. And several guys were pissing against the walls next to the sinks.

"Just use the wall," shrugged my friend, and proceeded to do so himself. So, I followed suit, and started pissing away. I then noticed that the floor, of course, was covered in piss, not just from those of us using the wall but from the overflowing proper urinal. And the piss was streaming like a river out of the door, and onto the floor of the main area of the club. My toes had been sloshing around the whole night in what ended up being a several-centimetres deep layer of mostly other men's urine.

I had a thorough shower when I got back to our room.
(Mon 13th Apr 2009, 0:10, More)

» Sporting Woe

Molten metal
It was announced that to save time, the school middle distance running reps for the local champs would be open to whoever volunteered. "Sweet," thinks 14 year old I, "a day off school, and all I have to do is run 800m!"

Thus I found myself on a proper athletics track in front of a huge audience of school children about to run against proper athletes. I was only slightly behind after the first half lap. Just keep somewhere close, I told myself. Then the burn started setting in. It felt like I was inhaling molten metal, only it was scorchingly cold. I was going to die. I looked up; only half a lap to go. But ... everyone else had already finished. Beaten by half a lap, in a two lap race. I somehow managed to push through to the end, but the officials didn't even bother recording my time. I think they thought I was just warming up for the next race, because how could anyone be so far behind?

I slunk back into the stands and spent the rest of the day fighting for breath like a 90 year old asthmatic chain smoker. I should've gone to school that day. The triathlons were a different story. I'd be on a team with a crappy swimmer and a crappy cyclist. I'd get the day off school to lounge about on the beach while they took an age to complete their legs, then I'd casually jog the 5km course with no pressure on as we were already way behind.
(Thu 26th Apr 2012, 4:52, More)