Around The Campus

By El Crud

Horrible to admit. I have enjoyed tournament, even though I have abstained from parties and all other nefarious activities. Sorry, almost forgot that shabby affair, the Rowing Club Smoko! And what a shabby performance it was and all. I have been to four Weir stag parties but none could compete for sheer wantonness. Some fool brought along some women, but that didn't stop the boys singing "Angeline." "Old King Cole" and many other masculine favourites. One Lincoln bod had a repertoire the like of which I have never heard before; would have been a great pal of Rabelais.

I got around quite a bit over the weekend: I saw Osborne's great run at the Basin, the shocking decision that cost Vic victory against Canterbury in the cricket and the writhing mass of humanity at the hop on Saturday, but the event that will linger the longest in my memory was the Novice Fours at Petone. After the artistry of the provincial eights the crowd was presented with a superb demonstration of precision rowing by those scions of Weir House. Iupeli, Andersen. Finch and Peters. Coxed elegantly by Jensen, who tried in vain to ram the judge's launch, they proved to be the most novice team present. Apparently. Jensen's main use was to provide the team with smokes.

You know, an enjoyable party is so rare these days that when one comes along one has to make the most of it. Actually, the last two have been really good. At one the gendarmerie paid us a social call and offered us all free board and lodging for the night, while at the other the host amused everyone by flaking on his garage roof and a bevy of footballers did a bottle dance on the lawn. Other attractions included a broken water main and four characters from the New Brunswick.

I had a traumatic experience the other clay. It was my shout and I remonstrated with the barman over the superfluity of gaseous froth on my ale, whereupon he said in disrespectful tone that when I was old enough to be in a bar I could have a full glass. Briefly, my visions crumbled; I was no longer the hard-drinking intellectual, but a tenderfoot, a boy caught in a Man's world.

A particular Helen Lowry female of some note, referred to me as El Crood. This worries me. I like to think of myself as Chaucerian in a James Bondish sort of way but not crude. Next, they'll be saying I'm lood or even a sood. Please. Hlh, get the pronunciation right!

Miss S. Chadwick would like a mention in this column. Her wish is granted.