You Are What You Shit

A lot of boob heads refer to the big blue hunk of concrete up on Crawford as the "University". I'm buggared if I can see the connection myself. Varsity produces magistrates, businessmen, school teachers and other degree strait jacketed perpetrators of capitalism, plus a smaller group of "radicals" who do an equally good job of making Marxism look ridiculous by jealously confining it to lifelong study groups and factions. Crawford turns out a crowd of dedicated cop haters and active anarchists who lack only unity in their untiring struggle against private property, the vagrancy laws, police, conformity and surplus capital. Crawford graduates also make good use of refresher courses, in many cases throughout their lives, while the average student applies his Philosophy and Oral French only at the moment of examination. However both institutions arc centres of learning, and both have their quaint customs, which happens to be quite similar in at least one peculiar instance.

While displaying excellent spelling and adroit use of the pun, the fragment also has a deeper meaning.

It recognises that the receptacle of human faeces is not the most comfortable place for sexual activity, but is aware of the fact that in an institution not providing more suitable accommodation it must be so used. An admirable work all round; immediate impact, humour, accurate reportage of social history and a touch of wistfulness.

Now, at the other so called centre of culture and in the same facility, what do we find? The artist in this case has expressed himself with a different medium, that of a mobile sculpture. A great ugly box on the wall, you can't help but be struck by it. And on pressing a button (after the insertion of a fee, naturally), Lo and Behold!, a purple and white packet of french letters tumbles out - a masterpiece, some would say of student freedom and culture.

In fact its a step backwards, and makes one wonder whether it might not be better to assault a constable than pay $24 as the price of education. The sculpture says in essence that sex is a furtive sneaky thing that involves money and begins in the toilet. No cough, cough s'cuse me pakita durex please ta when all the customers have left the shop anymore. Segregated too, in case Joe Muryfuka sees his liberated chick buying some for possible use with someone else or Jesus freak Jim is overlooked making the first move towards mortal sin.

Now if some enterprising joker set up a hamburger stand in the bog, why there'd be more outcry than if Terry Auld joined the Communist Party of New Zealand. And if Hart tried peddling their badges in there or if all the Salients sat there to be collected people would say that it was beyond a joke and not only eccentric but dirty. Because basically people go to the can to piss, shit, comb their hair and nothing else. Except of course to masturbate if there's no better posy which is not true of Varsity. People who know do it at 1p.m. on Wednesdays in the main lounge.

However, maybe Varsity students only feel randy in the shit house and probably feel proud of their sneuve server. They must do, as its still there, and a radical activist wouldn't leave it so if he didn't like it.

But if you're still at school and reading this - Please - choose your university with care.

— Don Franks.