Nostalgia—By A "Hanger-On"

Queen's Birthday weekend and I was to go on tour with Extrav. to New Plymouth. I tossed a few essentials into a small suitcase but was soon distracted by the memory of a heated argument in which I had participated in the Common Common Room that night. I looked up the list of 34 Dishonest methods of arguing in a text-book "Straight and Crooked Thinking"—concluded that my opponents had used all 34, and then enjoyed two hours of fitful slumber—little did I know it was to be my last till the next Tuesday night . . . 3.30 a.m. Let it be recorded that for the first time in my life I arose at this uncivilised hour. We had been warned the bus would leave 5 a.m. Sharp. So of course I waited shivering till 5.20 for those less scrupulously punctual. Finally, however, I was comfortably (?) esconced in that jolting jalopy but my fond illusion that I would catch up on a few hours sleep was soon shattered.

As from 5.20 a.m. the alcoholics of Extrav., started functioning. I mean that—the first comfort stop was about 10 minutes after we left. Never shall I forget a certain celebrity singing bitterly "Driver, Driver—we want a . . . " with full jazz accompaniment while the more retiring female listeners endeavoured to look prim, sophisticated and stone-deaf all at once. However do not be misled. Our full-time male choir was not solely concerned with low-level limericks—negro spirituals, old-timers and even a most harmonious rendering of "The Lord is my Shepherd" were also offered for our entertainment. Certain incidents stand out in my memory:———'s comment to a poor crazy mixed-up adolescent or) his way to school when he blushed scarlet at the sight of approx. 15 in a queue outside the "Ladies" at Hawera, Tony pouring beer into the pocket of Roger's jeans——Roger's eloquent comments on same and his amazing ape-man efforts from the luggage rack to rid himself of the offending liquid. Roger's interminable racecourse imitation——in fact, Roger!

Finally we arrived and staged an exuberant, vociferous procession through New Plymouth to apprise the locals of this crucial event. This was the beginning of a weekend to remember. What we would have done without the Fitzroy motel I don't know for we enjoyed its hospitality night after night with hilarious orgies till page 11 morning. A few outstanding recollections: John waking up in the motel after an all-night party to find his hair skilfully trimmed (considering a Yul Brynner was originally planned you would have thought he'd have been more grateful), Tony as Big Chief Diarrhoea (closely akin to Running Water) up-staging everybody on the last night, the two Daves singing, singing—and singing. Margot in a prima donna fury "'Aver Cathy and Cathy at her most elusive, the cast being slowly and surely replaced by the stage-crazed backstage who begged, borrowed or stole costumes in a last-minute bid for the limelight, the abortive trip to Mt. Egmont in pouring rain and the resulting comments left in the visitors' book in the tearooms there. Jeff, complete with buxom bust and a headscarf that fell off, as a sweet young thing in the opera scene, and the tear-jerking sob-speech to our last night audience by our J.C. host: "in spite of how these poor students have laboured, the show has been a (dead) loss ... let us give three rousing cheers—Hip, Hip . . . when we are snugly tucked up in our comfortable beds (snigger from stage) these poor students (endeavouring to look self-righteous and succeeding in looking smug) will be travelling all night in the bus (enthusiasm registered on stage) and won't arrive till 6 a.m. . . . (that's another story—I'd never realised before what a god-forsaken dump Wellington actually was until then-no transport, no food, no warmth, no one—nothing!)"

The trip back represented (for me anyway) the epitome of discomfort. After trying every possible physical combination to the last decimal point, I resigned myself to sitting bolt upright, chain-smoking, morbidly meditating, freezing cold, dead-tired, etc., with the one meagre consolation that I was better off than some people, e.g. Roger sleeping in the luggage rack, Jenny sleeping on the floor, and Peter loudly proclaiming from the back seat that he'd never have thought two women could be so uncomfortable.

And now it's Tuesday, and life's hell again, and I'm moping around like a zombie with 'flu. and everybody looks like bleary-eyed owls with a hang-over, from caf. to common-room, common-room to caf., and there's an exam, on Thursday, and I haven't the dough to pay my exam.-fees and what the hell anyway.

Oh yes—it was a great Extrav., was Extrav. '61—even if nobody liked us! We Will Remember.

"And what about—

. . . the boat races on the lake in Pukekura Park

. . . with Gil and Liz "in the swim" accidentally-on-purpose;

. . . the drinking horns contest where the legendary Mitch at last met an equal;

. . . the "sightseeing" ride in a closed-in furniture van (to the detriment of New Plymouth verandah poles);

. . . the 4 a.m. no-togs swim at Fitzroy (girls only);

. . . Sunday night at the White Hart with the cops circling the block outside;

... the bus which happened quite by accident to

. . . the "Phantom Viper" denouement;

. . . seven parties in three night—

in fact—Extrav. tour '61."

—J.