Graffiti

By Cynic

In the pungent phraseology of that doyenne of children's writers, Enid Blyton, "Hullo readers!"

The brilliant ones among you will readily come to the realisation this is the most important column in Salient.

In fact it was only my innate good breeding and lack of desire to become embroiled in a petty newspaper dispute that kept this column from the centre of the front page.

Not only will you find, as you read on, the biting satire to be expected of a person of my wit and years but also the odd jolly little anecdote.

So let my rapier-like thrusts commence in the anus mirabilis 1968.

Most amusing tale heard during the vacation was one which factually originated in Whangamata but which has since been considerably embellished. Here it is in its true form.

A shark warning has been sounded at a beach up that way but scarcely half an hour later two hardy and hungry souls entered the water again to cull some pipis for their evening repast.

They were waist deep when one of them submerged and sank his dentures into the calf of his comrade, a particularly tough young fellow.

The tough one screamed and dashed from the water.

He shook for about five hours afterwards. Some of us are not quite as tough as we imagine.

Perceptive students such as myself will have noticed a small worn patch on the floor of the Executive Officers' Room.

This office, popularly known as 'The Room with the Porthole", was once, in the fabled past of the Sub, the holy of holies of front man Ian Boyd.

And the bare patch is exactly where his feet used to rest under his desk. Seems Ian, while maintaining a perfectly bland expression on his physiognomy, used to shuffle his feet a weeny bit much when slithering out of the many sticky situations he found himself in.

Those of you who take an interest in the English political situation must have been wondering how on earth Gorgeous George Brown ever became Foreign Secretary.

Well, just after the elections were over George decided perhaps Harold Wilson might give him a minor cabinet position.

So George lurched into the PM's office where Harold was frantically busy behind mountains of paper, jingling telephones, and sycophantic aides.

"Whatsh in it for me, Harold?" asked George. Harold did not look up.

"For, George," he said.

A parting word of advice for freshers. Most of you, as is wont with your breed, will be trying desperately to look as if you've been here for years.

Well, the easiest way to pick a fresher out is the way he tries desperately to look as if he's been here for years.