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Beer Blokes - August 2006

university holidaze

August 31st 2006 10:15
I write a column in the Queensland University of Technology magazine, called the queensland university of blokery. Here is the latest one I've done. It'll be published in about 6 weeks, just before uni finishes for the year. Check it out. If you like it, let me know and I'll post the other ones I've done.

QUB # 5

The university year is coming to close and that means a dearth of academic stimulations and challenges. For a demographic of people used to asking questions and being questioned every day, this could tear a gaping chasm in the deepest fabric of our souls… or at least leave us with a bit of time on our hands.


Here are some questions to keep you busy over the break, just random thoughts from the bloke’s locker room to think about. I’ll add that these thoughts, whilst blokey, are open to consideration by females also. I am aware that girls also have trouble with housework, enjoy drinking and like to perv.

First up is laundry. Fitted sheets are fantastic because they cut down work tucking-in wise, but there is one obstacle – how the hell do you fold them? I saw a girl do it once, but didn’t pay attention as I was busy thinking about getting her to do the rest of my laundry.
As for ironing, forget about it. It takes me ages, and when I’m done my shirt looks like dirty hankies. I just try to claim that the iron and ironing boards don’t work properly because I’m left-handed.

The next issue is flies. Not winged insects, they can’t be studied on paper, only in practical research situations like BBQs and outdoor toilet use. I’m talking about zippered or buttoned openings in one’s pants. We’ve all been caught in public with our fly open and the first reaction, after closing it, is to think back to the last time it was opened legitimately. 99% of the time it was 30 to 60 minutes earlier when you had a wee-wee, but sometimes ALOT longer. This raises questions – who saw? Where did they see? But mainly, why didn’t they say anything? I think they’re either too embarrassed or enjoying your embarrassment too much. For me it’s definitely the latter.


If you watch channel 10, you’re probably familiar with Sandra Sully. Her voice contains the rich, authoritative and seductive timbre that makes her a channel 10 figurehead of Bert Newton-like proportions. Now, I ask you to follow me into the minefield of political correct-ness by considering (very quietly and in a plain brown paper bag) the question - would she be a good phone sex worker and how much would you pay to hear it? Now let’s move on incredibly quickly…

It always happens and I don’t know why, but I get disappointed to read the profile of a supermodel/hot celebrity/barmaid of the month etc in a magazine and discover that she has a boyfriend. I know I’m never going to even meet these girls, let alone have the chance of an amorous encounter, but I still feel cheated. Psychology students are welcome to explain why I react like this and any other students are welcome to tell me that it’s only a matter of time before I do have a supermodel girlfriend.

Finally some quick-fire questions/topics to discuss, ask yourself and maybe do some research on in your holidays.

1. Pint, Schooner, pot or stubby – which is the most comfortable, cost-effective, labour-saving and debonair drinking vessel/fashion accessory?
2. Why are female swimmers more buff than me?
3. Which hot dog is better – 7-11 or Niteowl?
4. No matter how late you stay up, you’ll never see any decent amount of nudity on free-to-air TV.
5. Emos – gas chamber or lethal injection?
6. Is it worthwhile learning a few key Norwegian phrases to use on attractive exchange students next semester?
7. “All Out of Love” by Air Supply is better than anything by Wolfmother.
8. Wash your sheets when they start smelling like ass-crust and shoe or when they crack as you lie down?
9. One day, the frying pan will wash itself.
10. Will you earn more money working a casual holiday job or picking up loose change on the floors of the pubs you drink at?


If you feel the need, you can email your thoughts via cirQUTry, to ojwypych@hotmail.com , or just close the magazine and use it as a coaster.
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Travel hell

August 18th 2006 11:38
TRAVELLING IS THE END OF THE EARTH

It’s 1.30am and the glare of the brutal fluorescent lights burning down on the tired, dazed travelers crammed into the customs area of Wellington international airport is vicious. At the moment I’m relaxed and patiently determined, like a low-security prisoner, to bide my time and enjoy the freedom beckoning on the other side of the desks in front when it comes to me. I’ve been through this all over the world and I know that getting worked up is pointless. Hey, I’ve got no particularly pressing engagements for at least another 12 hours anyway. I know this could be a lot worse. As always, I try to make myself feel better by thinking of the more trying airport experiences I’ve had.

Los Angeles airport was memorable for two things. Firstly, the startling sight of the wall that stretches the length of the moving footpath to the arrival lounge, and secondly, the customs officers. The former is a strange swirling, nauseating affair, made up by thousands of tiny, differently coloured tiles. It’s pure porno movie carpet pattern, must have taken an exceptionally long time to put together and will take twice as long to banish from my memory.

The customs officers are armed heavily and dress so similarly to the local police force that the almost violent aura they carry is quite unnerving. The man that processed me had no time for greetings and demanded not only my passport, but to see my cash, credit cards, the contents of my pockets and my shoes. I was about to declare with confidence, borne from the benefit of having packed them myself, that the contents of my shoes consisted of only my feet, but the expression on his face froze the words in my throat. I received no hello or goodbye and I was shattered. I thought all Americans were legally obliged to say “Have a nice day” to everyone they met. I then realised that the date was September the 10th, so I decided to just be happy that I couldn’t see rubber gloves among his armoury.

Another memorable experience was Arizona. The airport is the size of a modest bus station and so dreary that I cheered myself up by reading a newspaper story about drive-by shootings at an L.A high school. Despite the airport’s apparent lack of significance, security is tight and in addition to all the usual procedures, I was asked to remove my belt and footwear. My belt was for looks only and sewn into my shorts when I bought them. The fact I was wearing thongs made no difference either. And so I came to be standing at the metal detector of Phoenix Sky Harbour airport, barefoot and in my undies.

The first time I went through customs at Heathrow, the shock almost stopped my heart. The massive cattle shed of a room is the size of several football fields and crammed with roped off lines. These barricades snake up and back, up and back, up and back until they reach the raised throne-like customs booths whose occupants we travelers, the scum of the airports, worship, and which look to be several kilometres away from the entrance. The one thing that really stuck with me though was the height of the ceiling. It seems to reach the Heavens and a freedom that is just as unattainable. The ubiquitous fluorescent lights also add to the general feeling of despair, whilst the hideous brown and tan interior is the icing on the cake. It appears the English approach to anti terrorism is to simply break the bad guys’ spirits before they get into the country. The grumpy, moustachioed woman that stamped my passport will also continue to haunt my dreams.

Back in Wellington there’s only two customs officers processing us at the moment, but that’s only to be expected at this time of morning. The line is moving like molasses through a funnel and my patience is crumbling away. I’m a calm person and I don’t get upset about things I can do nothing about, but some people just cross the line. Idiots that step up to the customs desk with their passport still buried in the depths of their hand luggage or without having filled in their arrival form, causes an urge to beat them, until they agree to travel in the future exclusively by boat or donkey, grow inside me like a bushfire engulfing a parched hillside.

When I do get to the desk, I’m processed in about 12 seconds, leaving me with a profound feeling of not having got my moneys worth. The officer is so cheerful and polite that I want to tell him his uniform is silly and he has too much gel in his hair, two things that I couldn’t help noticing over and over again in as I was in line, a sure sign that I was standing in the same place for far too long.

What can we do to protect ourselves from these airport criminals? Sadly, nothing. Just be glad when you don’t have to sit next to them on the plane. If you do however, don’t be afraid to take matters into your own hands. No juror that’s experienced air travel would convict you.
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Wendell Wrestles With His Career

August 17th 2006 11:42
The well- documented troubles of Wendell Sailor need no further explanation. All those with even a passing interest in sport know that ‘Dell was a footballer who had it all, then blew it all away. Or should we say, sniffed it all away.
Depending on who you listen to, Wendell is a drug-using boofhead with an ego bigger than his over-inflated pay packet, or a guy who did the wrong thing, took some drugs but they weren’t performance-enhancing so give him a break and let him play again.

Personally, I think he’s a serial idiot who wasted his talent, set a terrible example to the public and generally acted like a complete cretin for most of his career. Good riddance to the guy, he was an over-rated poseur and lets face it, performance enhancing or not – he’s a drug user and a criminal.

Some argue that, “yeah, he’s been naughty but he wasn’t cheating so punish him, but don’t take away his right to earn a living.”

The basis of this argument is that although the ARU don’t want to employ him anymore, he shouldn’t be stopped from working for anyone else, and a two year, worldwide ban is over the top.

Well Wendell, I’m here to help you. I don’t want to see you playing rugby again because you’re an egotistical, drug-using, show-boater and you’re annoying. So ‘Dell – join the WWF. The World Wrestling Federation loves a bad guy and Wendell Sailor is ideal.

He’s a big guy and a great athlete, no-one can argue against that and it would stand him in good stead as a pro-wrestler. More importantly, he’s got a lake of moronic thoughts and a mouth like broken dam, so his words gush forth without the benefit of an idiot filter to keep him quiet.
Being Australian, Wendell would be an exotic change for the beer-guzzling, overweight, intellectual midgets of rural America to hiss and boo at each weekend. I’m sure they’d love to hate his diamond ear-rings too.

I’ve got a great script idea for him. He could start off as a good guy, the new boy on the scene backing up some local hero. Then, when he and his partner get outnumbered in a fight, he could switch allegiances and join the bad guys in beating up on his former team-mate.

It just might work.

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If the first half of the Tri Nations test match between Australia and South Africa in Sydney on the weekend was an advertisement for rugby union, it would have been a late-night infomercial that nobody wanted to see. Although the second half saw a marked improvement in the quality of play there is no denying that this was a truly terrible game of football.

Aside from a free flowing and attacking final ten minutes, this was an ugly, error-ridden game of rugby and the South African's near victory was based upon a basic and crude approach as both 'Bok forwards and backs concentrated on brute strength and simple through-the-hands passing to inch forward. The Wallabies, whilst the better team, were like a bunch of fat kids at McDonalds, unsure of what to choose and ultimately ending up confused and unhappy. The Australians couldn't decide on a style of play, unsure of their own game, and were sucked into the swamp of South African style rugby. It was almost painful to watch one of the best backlines in world rugby being strangled out of the game as the Wallabies chose to ignore Giteau, Tuqiri, Gerrard and Latham in favour of an aimless kicking game. This strategy was made to look all the more foolish as many of the kicks failed to find touch and when they did, the South African lineout predictably dominated


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Who is the Greatest?

August 17th 2006 10:40
The Super 14 Rugby Championship has been decided and in theory the Crusaders are the champs. But is this really the case? In the terrible fog obscuring the final anything could have happened and we can’t be sure that the best team won. From Timaru to Timbuktu and Lake Macquarie to Loch Ness, from Mount Everest to the Grand Canyon, there’s only one question on everyone’s lips. Which team is the greatest? We can’t replay the game but we can find out the answer and fog be damned. For the first time ever the two heavyweights of provincial rugby go head to head in the most demanding examination ever seen in the history of the game. For one team, glory. The other, despair. Watch now as the Crusaders and the Hurricanes decide…

WHO IS THE GREATEST


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He Who Wears Wins

August 17th 2006 10:35
During last year’s NRL grand final between the Wests Tigers and North Queensland Cowboys in Sydney two of the most shocking uniforms in Australian sport were put on display. Wiggles, lines, strange pictures and colours of dubious combination clashed almost as fiercely as the players themselves. In the end the Tigers, whose jumpers look like an unholy alliance between Grandma’s curtains and a relief map of the Southern Alps, won the battle to become NRL premiers. They also won the title of worst dressed men in Australia, from a committed group of over 50‘s representing the Rooty Hill RSL pokie room. Is this a sign for those teams accomplished in the dressing room but starved of success on the field?

In New Zealand, rugby union provides plenty of evidence to support the case for a smart look on the field. Canterbury and Auckland, undoubtedly the two dominant teams of the NPC in recent times, wear jerseys of uncomplicated beauty. The sight of the simple two-colour hoops of yesteryear signals to the other blokes that their opposition won’t be reluctant to tackle lest their jumpers get stained. Northland on the other hand, wearing jumpers like three-tone tablecloths, haven’t won an NPC match in almost three whole seasons. Colin Meads never wore a jumper with multiple stripes and it didn’t hurt his career. For New Zealand black has always been the new black


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The kick-off

August 17th 2006 10:22
Hi readers, it's time to kick off this thing and to start off I'm going to post a couple of sports based articls I wrote a while ago. The first comments on the lamentable state of football uniforms, the second is a true and accurate assessment of the two 2006 Super 14 rugby finalists. These two are meant to be funny and the third is a standard match report from the South Africa - Australia rugby test match on the fifth of August this year.
I realise it's all sports based so far, but they'll be plenty more variety as time goes on. Enjoy.
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