Around The Campus

By El Crud

I am writing the column again this week as the first draft earned me so much abuse from such literary slobs as Kiwi Peters, Shot Boldt, Click Clark, Red Osborne and that famous son of Nelson College (see Truth and Lord Rutherford), that my supreme confidence in my ability faltered for a moment. The aura with which I had surrounded myself vanished temporarily like a courting couple at a party. What is wrong? I asked myself. Where is the old joie de vivre, the witty puns, the brilliant shafts that built for El Crud the devotion of so many? This, I must admit, is a rhetorical question and I shall take refugre in the fact that Kiwis are rapidly becoming as rare as a pork sausage in an Arab restaurant.

John Jensen went for a stroll around Kelburn in the pouring rain the other night for a bet. He not only won the bet but bludged a cup of coffee from the girlfriend of the other party and Jacked her up for the following weekend.

Was in the cafe with the Physics 111 boys the other day. I don't take Physics 111 on account of not having passed Physics 11, but I often sit with them during their long sojourns in the cafe. They were all a bit hot under the collar because the Chemistry bods had come in, in their resplendent lab coats. Resentment seethed amongst the men of nuclear magnetic resonance. "Look at them," said John Elliot, "they've probably got two coats; one for the lab and one for here." I laughed, but secretly I sympathised with them; the Physics boys have no badge of office, nothing to tell they are not doing Psychology. Their lot is hard.

Even bought a copy of "Spectrum": One of the contributors kindly explained the finer points of form and how his poem represented three moods, each clearly distinguished by a change in form. I'm afraid this sailed unimpeded over my head and although it sounded way in, I was forced to comment that the only poem I liked was the one by Marrea Stokwitz.

I hear the cops had a blitz of the Midland the other night, threw some of the boys out and told them things are going to get tougher. Maybe the days of The Old Mid are passing; Mac Hamilton's cherubic face will no longer be gazed upon by all and sundry. It's to the Tramways men, drink with the working classes.

So the cafe prices have at last gone up. I'd been expecting it for some time really; it's just one of those small tragedies of which life is full. My pockets are weighted with pennies and I have had to buy a stronger belt. The size of the doughnuts represents a monotone decreasing sequence with no lower bound (Apologies to the Maths Dept.).

That well known character Bruce McFlagon, fresh from his conquest of Kelbum Fountain, lost the annual Weir stakes by seven yards. His alcohol powered locomotion found the heavy going of Kelburn Park too much and he faded badly after a promising start.

Sid Hurlburt writes from Rhode Island, where he is head of the A.P. In fact he is the only A P. man in Rhode Island, has a bottle of Red Band for the first New Zealander who turns up.

Had several offers from people who said they'd write the column this week. Sue Gabriel, one of that fiery four who live at 60 Salamanca Road, said that people only read the column to see who is mentioned, and that one could get by, by printing a list of names.

Datta, Dhayadvam. Damyatta.