Summer is a bitch. It’s hot, it’s uncomfortable … also public nudity is still frowned upon.

It’s that time of year again, where Wellington has two sun-drenched days and a ‘state of summer’ is unanimously declared. Never mind that it’s only just October, never mind exams are looming like a guillotine, it’s freaking summer! Get outside, you pasty git.

Perhaps I’m getting off on the wrong foot here.

But summer does have a tendency to announce itself unexpectedly, generally by burning poor unfortunate souls as they go about their business. You know the one, that tingling sensation you can’t quite find, the uncomfortable warmth on the back of your legs. (But is it a burn? It’s a burn, right? It’s pink enough, do I use cream? Where’s the fucking aloe vera!?) But after the initial panic of the Virgin Burn summer delivers
in small, secret doses to her victims, the novelty wears off. So much so that people forget they were burnt. Until they shower.

Ohai, summer! Didn’t see you thar!

It wasn’t always like this, feeling as if summer was more of a chore than a state of mind. During our earlier years, the first week of October simply meant there were a few last days of freedom before Term Four commenced and summer dreams were unceremoniously crushed by ‘no hat no play’. You’d try bargaining your 24-pack of Faber-Castell pencils, a delectable item of your packed lunch, or even help with cheating on the Basic Facts test, all just to borrow some kid’s measly spare hat for 45 minutes. You know you
shouldn’t—your mother keeps warning you this child is a breeding ground for cooties. But the little snot doesn’t relent. Even though you assure him it’s not possible to wear two hats at once, he does so. Just to prove a point, the bastard. And so you’re left sitting awkwardly on the concrete, adjusting your backside because it’s gone numb.

At high school, ‘no hat no play’ is a thing of the past; an ancient relic dug up to name and shame your friends. But summer did mean exams, a fact that transformed into an ominous feeling of dread, despair, and hopelessness… which continued into tertiary study. Where tiny children run free on beaches and begin to draft the all-important annual letter to Sandy Claws, fractious students from ages 15 and up are scurrying about libraries and crying in computer laboratories. Surfacing for air and food, students are often blinded by how unnaturally bright summer is, furiously blinking to avoid the glaring sun.

Students are often victims of the Virgin Burn.

When you get down to it, summer can be quite an awkward three months, filled with discomfort and pity-filled glances at pregnant women waddling around Wellington. I saw one in Farmers over Christmas, mere days from celebrating the miracle of life. Doting husband frolicked about the store in airy shorts and a singlet, prancing like a tit in front of the revolving fan. Hair sticking up, eyes wild with irritation, dear wife calmly explained if he did not stop, she would shove the fan up his arse and force their unborn son to
play netball.

I think she knew about ‘no hat no play’ too.

So this puberty thing lasts about a week right?

Standing at Mobil late one winter evening hopping about with my hands stuffed in my pockets, I noticed a crowd was starting to gather. I had just told the attendant via intercom quite loudly that I was in dire need of a four-pack of Cottonsofts. Avoiding eye contact with other patrons, the man returned with four—FOUR—bags of toilet rolls, off-loading them into my arms as I stood flabbergasted at his stupidity.

Christ, it was like suffering sex education all over again.

The introduction to the ‘birds and the bees’ is a moment none of us can bleach from our mind. For me, it all began in the summer of 1999. One fateful afternoon, Mum called me inside from the backyard as I was busy somersaulting on the trampoline, resembling some form of crippled gymnast. Sitting down on the couch next to Mum, she matter-of-factly began the ins and outs of baby-making and bed-shaking, which she calmly referred to as ‘intercourse’, a phrase which rocketed to Number One on my list of ‘words that shouldn’t be said aloud’. After a millennium, brain comfortably numb with new information, I stumbled in a daze back outside, assuring Mum that “yeah, I’m okay. I’m just… you know… going out here now…”

I was not okay.

Compared to other stories, my introduction to reproduction wasn’t that bad. Considering Mum literally opened with the phrase “when a man and woman love each other very much,” I did pretty well. Sadly, after the wide-eyed initial realisation I was not the Immaculate Conception, I zoned out before I learned about the specifics of sex and had to muster up the courage to sheepishly ask Mum three months later where babies came from.

Relax, it only gets worse. For children, discovering how you came to exist isn’t bad enough—parents also have the nerve to quietly pull you aside and mention your body is going to change: “oh, that’s nice, I always wanted to be a bit taller.” But what parents don’t realise is that no amount of pep-talks or wise words of encouragement can prepare a kid for the reality of puberty. Because let’s face it, the wonderment of adulthood aside, puberty was a miserable and degrading experience. Nothing ever worked out for us, even our desired growth spurts backfired. Limbs grew as if independent from our own body so we ended up resembling gangly, gawky monkeys. Why? Because there’s SO much hair, why is there hair? This makes no sense. I’m only going to spend the rest of my life waxing it to death.

Like most teenagers, I spent my days in a frump, willing puberty to simply do its thing and fuck off. Much like the Mobil attendant who handed me four bags of toilet rolls and smiled. Don’t smile at me, you dick. The awkwardness of sex education aside, I learnt valuable lessons amidst my misery, such as never underestimating the importance of an emergency tampon. The male equivalent I am led to believe is the trick of hiding a sneaky boner. But still, back to the matter at hand: how the fuck do I walk away with my dignity intact while carrying four bags of toilet rolls?

I think you should come over to Myspace so I can Twitter your Facebook

Since the dawn of Windows 95, students have found themselves scrambling at the eleventh hour to deliver their assignments on time. Sneaking along the corridor, mentally kicking themselves for not doing this earlier, students question how exactly they woke up, prepared to write a research essay, but ended up killing six hours on Facebook?

Perhaps the blame lies with Generation X. Doomed by the Baby Boomers to be the generation that would never amount to anything except plaid shirts, MTV, and a sense of entitlement, Gen X just had to prove everyone wrong and capitalise on the development of the World Wide Web. This has cursed Generation Y with the power to reduce grade averages with a few simple clicks.

Like most of Gen Y, I don’t remember spending a great deal of the nineties trawling various web pages. Grades for primary school assignments were hinged on actually visiting the school library, which always smelt like stale bread, wet dog, and socks. The first decade of my life was internet-free. I want to say it was a peaceful time but I don’t remember much of how I spent my spare moments, except that I dedicated several afternoons of my school week to softball, netball, cricket, and running.

This is no longer the case.

Instead of pretending to be athletic, the internet was heavily abused by Gen Y in high school for Wikipedia and social networking sites—an anti-social means of communication and ridicule. Furious after school conversations over MSN, where hotgurrrrl13 mercilessly flirted with sexcboiiii16, were replaced with Myspace and its inbred cousin, Bebo. Already plagued by acne, puberty, and life in general, teenagers were subjected on both sites to the cruel practice of ‘Top Friends’, being tagged in photo albums of drunken exploits, and the soul-crushing Bebo experience of being dumped as ‘The Other Half’.

Poor unfortunate souls.

Now we have Facebook! It’s slightly nicer, better looking, and often the perfect Austen gentleman until it explains “Oops! Something went wrong!” It’s also easier to watch the lives of your friends, frienemies, relatives, and one-night-stands fall apart dramatically through status updates. While Facebook does paint society in a lovely shade of schadenfreude, it has an annoying knack of eating up all our time, time I am sure we used better before the World Wide Web became a black hole of grades, assignments, and lives.

Facebook aside, I recently tallied my internet ‘most-visited-sites’ and came back with Facebook (shocking), YouTube, Overheard in New York, The Oatmeal, and Lamebook, which is like Facebook (again, shocking), only it focuses on the most spectacular of awkward social fails. But with several assignments due in a week and exams fast-approaching, I’m boycotting Facebook. Lying on my couch, I can’t imagine how on Earth I wasted six hours on this website…

Ooh! A witty page with an amusing title I can relate to: ‘when sluts hate other sluts for being sluts’. I must like this.

Shut up J.K. Rowling, just shut up!

Ten years ago, making any attempt to disrespect the House of J.K. Rowling and her fantastical world of wizards, Quidditch, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a move towards a public flagellation. Sure, there were children who disliked the books, but I remember that at the time, most would rather shrivel up and be swallowed by the earth than read any book. Talks of a movie flitted about the place soon after the publication of the first novel, adding to the excitement of kids across the globe. But as the final film approaches release, is anyone else getting bored?

Like most children, it was my teacher who introduced my class to the intriguing realm of Harry Potter. Dedicating an entire afternoon to reading the first chapter to a squabble of grotty nine-year-olds, my teacher only had to read one page before we were hooked on diabetus Uncle Vernon, paunchy Dudley, and Aunt Petunia, who I imagined looked like a Skeksis in human form. But then there was Harry—scrawny, scruffy, the weediest of kids. You just know he was picked last for everything but his scar. J.K. Rowling was good, you have to admit. From the beginning, you wanted to know more about the Boy who Lived.

The first novel ended with the spectacular introduction to Lord Voldemort and a hint that perhaps in future, these novels could be darker. This was the case with the Chamber of Secrets and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Major characters already well-established, Rowling had more of a free range with how they interacted and what horrid situations Harry Potter got his poor pal Ron Weasley into. Hermione Granger appeared to loosen up by the third novel, even punching greasy Draco Malfoy in the face. Introduced to such things as Dementors, Bertie Botts, and even Dobby the House Elf, there was so much promise, so much we still had to learn about Tom Riddle, Slytherin, and oh-so-awesome Professor Snape.

Then she had to write the fourth novel and ruin my life.

I was sitting at my desk one afternoon when She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named spied my copy of the Goblet of Fire. I was several chapters from the end. Suddenly she blurted, “Cedric Diggory dies!” It was in this brief moment that Harry Potter became a little less magical. Life over, I dragged myself through the fifth and sixth novels (you know, the one where Harry became an emo kid because he defeated Voldemort, still wasn’t a prefect, and Won-won was getting it on with Lavender Brown?), I reluctantly read the seventh novel over the summer of 2008, and promptly felt like writing a polite letter to Rowling asking for my decade back.

Over the years, parents have been subjected to countless Harry Potter-themed parties, consoled children after the traumatic death of Dumbledore, and dealt with the fact it took seven novels, eight films, and seven Horcruxes for Rowling to explain that Voldemort simply became an unholy shit storm of dark magic because he wasn’t loved as a child. I’ll see the final film (probably) but only in tribute to the first three instalments, where the magic of Harry Potter really came into its own.

It could be worse, I suppose, Stephanie Meyer has way more to answer for.

This is like my last supper; let’s have McDonalds!

At an early age, I decided my mother gave the best hugs in the entire history of mankind. Not that I was a promiscuous child, but I have hugged a fair few people, enough to know that their hugging styles paled in comparison. But as I watch her being prepped for a gastric bypass, I can’t help but think that following the dramatic weight loss expected over the coming 12 months I will be cruelly robbed of ‘mum cuddles’.

Being about as graceful and delicate as an overweight rhinoceros during my younger years, it was not unusual for me to get into tricky situations, like dangling by my overalls from a tree while gathering pine cones. My arse, back, and head served primarily as means of breaking my fall. But, no matter what I scraped, where I fell, or how I done goofed, a hug from Mum sorted everything. One day, I remember sitting in a small classroom after my knee somehow made it through a school window. I was scolded by a teacher and mortified that it was my bloody knee that managed to break a window five feet above the ground; then mum arrived and simply looked at me like the moron I was before giving me a damn hug. See? Problem solved.

But she’s sitting now, getting blood tests and arranging her dinner for this evening. For anyone who has ever been in hospital, the food is akin to shite on toast. Forced to suffer the degrading practise of nil-by-mouth, mum is given the option of lentil soup or broth, which draws us to the hard, cold facts of a gastric bypass: you never get to eat like your average tubby git ever again.

After years of spontaneous noms and between-meal smackerels, mum will never again stomach Mars Bars, Tunnocks Tea Cakes, or cheesecakes. She often mentions that one of her favourite moments in life was waddling, heavily pregnant with me, through Liverpool to Marks & Spencer, purchasing Fruitfuls and full-fat cream to mix and scoff before throwing up like all normal pregnant women. So when stuck with lentil soup or broth for her Last Supper, you can imagine she’s a bit miffed.

We’ve been here an hour now, meeting nurses, dieticians and physiotherapists and while the lentil soup is an ongoing issue, the team is marvellous. A buzz of excitement is in the air as she goes down to x-rays and an ECG, where mum explains “they’re going to squeeze all my wobbly bits”. This is the first day of the rest of her life and with a nervous smile she tells me we’re going shopping in Melbourne. She’s happy and for that, I don’t mind sacrificing my mum cuddles.

But with a room to herself and a television screening Cartoon Network (“Is there Invader Zim? I like that one?”), Atticus and I agree the physiotherapy might be more challenging. Sitting nervously in an armchair while a physiotherapist details ways in which she could “get fit” post-mangled stomach, mum was politely asked what her current exercise routine was like:

“I don’t.”

Relax. I’ll just cut a bit here and … Oh shit.

Birthdays seem to go hand in hand with relatives trotting out photographs of your younger self you wish did not exist. Forced to relive those mortifying moments when your parents were still the dictators of your wardrobe, you notice an unsightly trend as each image flips before you.

Who the fuck has been cutting your hair?

I have never got on with my hair and its constant mockery of my life began as a baby, when I would lie on my back and roll around the floor in an attempt to be athletic. This act was to have a severe impact on my dignity because, on the joyous day of Baby’s First Hair Cut, the hairdresser was met with an unsightly bald patch on the back of my bulbous noggin. Funnily enough, I have only ever seen this phenomena one other time—a local stray cat rubbing his ass on concrete. Said cat was bald in three days.

It seems hair only exists to scorn us. At age six, I retaliated to its misgivings by strategically placing a wad of gum in the curls behind my left ear as we drove around one Saturday afternoon. Sticking it to the man, as it would seem. My feeling of sheer triumph was short-lived, replaced with trepidation once it became clear that no, the gum was not going to cooperate. And, as my mum went to the kitchen drawer to retrieve a pair of scissors, it dawned on me that my hair had won. Again.

After that unfortunate incident, I spent three months growing out a kinky scrap of hair that stuck out in all directions. On purpose, I’m sure. So at age 12, I took drastic measures and opted for the pixie cut. After a month, once the novelty of mohawks and liberty spikes wore off, I was left with a curly mop of hair that refused to cooperate. Too lazy to blow dry or brush it, I spent my early adolescence looking like a hobbit. Clearly I had forgotten how much this irritated me because I cut it all off again at the arrogant age of 17. As I restyled it back into a mohawk, a skill that comes in handy, I jokingly thought I would make an excellent Harry Potter.

To date, I have dressed as Harry Potter three times.

It was clear something needed to be done about Hair before it turned me into a walking shrine to J.K Rowling. I made a vow to grow it out, wash it, tend to it, and whisper sweet nothings between brushings in the hopes it would stop being such a raging bitch and sit right for once. It’s a battle, I’ll admit, growing out hair. Hair’s latest trick is getting caught in car doors but looking back on the recent photo albums, I’m glad A-Typical Nineties Hair has been laid to rest.

But whatever you do, don’t mention The Bob. I’m yet to forgive my four-year-old self for wanting that one.

It is understood that once you are in a reasonable state of consciousness in the morning, you check your emails. While most of them are updates from Facebook or spam suggesting herbal enhancers, occasionally an email with an innovative subject line will find its way through to your account. Last Tuesday was such a morning and I found myself staring at a message titled ‘holy fuck shit’.

With an overactive imagination, and still half asleep, ‘holy fuck shit’ led my brain to the extremes of zombie apocalypse, or the ability to clone dinosaurs—which will happen one
day, mark my words. But after reading the linked article and learning the Triceratops never existed, I ascertained ‘holy fuck shit’ was an acceptable lead-in.

As it turns out, Triceratops is an immature form of a Torosaurus, which is ‘palaeontology’ for some dinosaur we couldn’t give a rat’s ass about. Seriously, Torosaurus sounds like a dance move combining arm flailing and ghetto stomping, reserved for tragic spinsters at their cousins’ wedding. But scientists have realised the Triceratops’ skull shape shifts, or for all you Poké-masters out there, ‘evolves’, into the skull of an adult Torosaurus, a three-horned less-than-amazing Triceratops. Scientists are basing this knowledge on the fact no juvenile fossils of Torosaurus have been uncovered.

Dear palaeontologist, a word of advice: might I suggest digging deeper before taking my Triceratops? It was a pretty crappy thing to do. Even Microsoft Word doesn’t recognise
‘Torosaurus’. I think you may have your facts wrong. Windows XP aside, Bill Gates is nothing if thorough… Sort of. Also, I imagine you look like Ross Geller so if you’re ‘on a break’, don’t take it out on Triceratops.

A glorious, prehistoric beast, the Triceratops was best known to children as that arrogant jaundice three-horn ‘Cera’ from The Land Before Time. You know, that one that acted as the fun police and crushed the dreams of her fellow adventurers en route to the Great Valley. Despite Littlefoot’s mother saving her ass, Cera was still a righteous mole. After sitting through umpti-billion Land Before Time sequels, prequels, and tragic spin-offs, I take great pleasure in the fact she no longer exists. Shame Spielberg, that’s what you get for failing to clone dinosaurs after Jurassic Park. You’ve had over a decade. We want some action here, pal.

But like so many other items ripped away from us by science, evolution, and all things politically correct, the Triceratops is the latest casualty in what I am convinced is a war against our childhood. It starts small, the first casualty being red-tipped cigarette Spaceman Candy Sticks. But oh no, this wasn’t enough and soon escalated with some ass-tronomist just having to snatch away Pluto.

Let’s look on the bright side though, dinosaurs evolve like Pokémon and Littlefoot, the Brontosaurus that could, has finally his revenge on Spielberg.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, the Brontosaurus isn’t real either!?

Attempting to blend in with four-year-olds is difficult on most days, but trying to achieve this feat in Toyworld is next to impossible. For one, they tend to cry more. Moving away to play ‘kill, boff, marry’ with the limited retro editions of Barbie, the latest tea party accessories catch my eye. They do not include the Easy Bake Oven.

Furrowing my brows together to make a serious face, I thought about the lack of Easy Bake Ovens. I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever seen one in Toyworld. Or New Zealand. On the three playdates I was invited to, no excited child ever squealed “let’s bake with my Easy Bake Oven!” Fun times surely would have followed, but the sad fact is, aside from Google image and YouTube, I’ve never actually seen an Easy Bake Oven.

An icon of childhood, the Easy Bake Oven has its own history page on the Hasbro website. The first thing you notice is that it now resembles a microwave more than a miniature industrial oven from the 1960s. After spending the coming decades changing the appearance of the Easy Bake from a pea-green cube with a faux stovetop to a state-of-the-art kitchen appliance, Hasbro introduced more recipes for children to cook, such as poptarts, french fries and sandwiches.

See, here’s where the confusion sets in. Turns out the Easy Bake Oven is actually an oven, not a Playskool Kitchen Set with plastic cooking utensils and bacon strips. Until quite recently I was under the impression the Easy Bake Oven ‘cooked’ pishy cake mix with a 60W light bulb. Shockingly, I was not interested in getting such a lame excuse for a toy. But apparently, this is not what happens, and the oven actually cooks cakes, desserts and biscuits with a high-powered heating element.

The last reason—the fact it cooks food with a heating device—probably meant I was never going to get an Easy Bake Oven as a child. The amount of times I either burn dinner, undercook pancakes or set the element on fire by accidently spilling cat food on it mean should I ever get my hands on an Easy Bake Oven, I could probably turn my home into Chernobyl. With a definite health hazard attached to the oven, this means I only want it more.

I can’t help but feel I have missed out on something truly incredible by waking up each Christmas and birthday without an Easy Bake Oven. I blame my culinary shortfalls and tendency to bring fire—literally—to the kitchen on the fact I was unable to flex my little chef hands during the nineties. Forever doomed to nuke my food in a microwave, I realise I have made the ultimate Easy Bake sacrifice, but I have not burnt down my house.

Yet.

New Zealand’s favourite family, the Wests, have descended on Mount Street Bar with screenings of Outrageous Fortune scheduled each Tuesday.

Starting last week, students made their way to the bar for their weekly West dosage, with a pull-out projection screen bringing the show to life.

Mount Street Bar Manager Pax Rattenbury said that despite little advertising, there was a positive atmosphere in the bar.

“There were about 30 students here to watch it so we’ll probably put up posters around campus more this week. A couple of people went out to order fish and chips before it started and it was just a really good night.”

Outrageous Fortune will be screening weekly at Mount Street Bar. All students are welcome.

Where in the world is Alan Young?

Voting for the upcoming VUWSA by-election opened last week and those standing were given the opportunity to speak at a Candidates Forum at Mount Street Bar on Wednesday.

However, only four of the nine candidates running in the by-election showed up to speak to an audience of just six students. No microphone was provided.

Advertising for the forum has been minimal. An advertisement featured in last week’s Salient was provided shortly before deadline and featured a significant typo.

“Candidates Forum. Here what they have to say!” read the promotion.

Missing in action from the forum were Bridie Hood, candidate for Vice-President Education; Kerry Brown, candidate for Queer Rights Officer; Paul Zhong, candidate for International Officer; Timothy Parker, candidate for Publications Committee Representative; and Alan Young, candidate for Vice-President Administration.

Speaking at the bar for the position of Queer Rights Officer, Cruz Johnson said he was concerned with making Victoria a safer community for people who identify within the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community. Fellow candidate Tom Reed argued subliminal homophobia would not be tolerated at Victoria should he be elected.

Both nominees for the Queer Rights Officer felt that should the VSM Bill pass, the future of groups like UniQ would be jeopardised.

Running for Vice-President of Administration, Richard Carr reiterated the need for a sustainable VUWSA and, after explaining the organisation shares the same birthday as Tui beer, felt students would be bereft without alcohol.

“The VSM Bill is currently in parliament. Is it going to pass? We don’t know. But imagine no more beer. Students would think it was horrible if VSM happened to Tui.”

After dedicating himself to ridding computer labs of Facebook lurkers, Carr agreed there was a need to reassess the current spending of VUWSA.

“The current spending isn’t working. It’s important to look at the services VUWSA currently offers students and ask ourselves if they’re economical. We want things to be more cost-effective. For example, Campus Angels employs volunteers on-call. To cut back costs, I propose taking Victoria Plus volunteers and redirecting them to Victoria-related services, rather than outside organisations.”

His opponent Thomas Horrobin pushed for VSM to pass, arguing it would make Victoria a financially sound environment.

“I think cutting funding to the New Zealand University Students’ Associations is also a good idea. It’s just a waste of money. If we cut back on the less useful students’ services it would be better for the more important ones.”

When asked about specific examples, Horrobin referred to Carr’s previous notion of Campus Angels.

“There are some more, but I’ve just lost them in my brain.”

Staring at the ownership papers of my new car, I find myself briefly entertaining the sting of guilt; I don’t miss my Nissan. A trusty and reliable steed, it was the butt of most jokes among my friends:

“Bro, is that your car?”

“NO! … Actually, yeah. Sorry. But look, the dashboard’s digital! … Points for effort?”

As it turns out, a fender bender is akin to a death sentence for all vehicles born prior to 1994. But with a generous settlement from my insurance company, the search for a replacement began. It was not easy, and involved Mrs Bennet taking my money to Turners where she was drawn into a crazed bidding frenzy with the locals. After spending nine days exhausting every possible excuse to avoid public transport, I got desperate and purchased a Mazda from TradeMe. The purchase was purely methodological; it consisted of me staring at its picture for three minutes, wondering what I would look like behind the wheel. The jury is still open on whether this is the most irresponsible thing I’ve done but with four doors and a tape deck? Ladies and gentlemen, we have upgraded.

While the Mazda has a CD player, it’s living on life support. Jammed until quite recently, I went medieval and shoved bits of plastic cutlery in its stupid face. After a high-pitched screech from the electronics, and a heartfelt apology from me, the hostage CD slowly slipped out. 3 Doors Down? Oh, seriously? I replaced it with a mix CD, but being useless, the stereo only works sporadically, starting at an undetermined point anywhere on the CD. I learned this after turning up the volume during peak hour traffic only to forget and be rudely awakened six minutes later on the Terrace off-ramp… by Rammstein.

Scheiße.

It was halfway through a miniature cardiac arrest when I realised I had been blessed with a tape deck. The Nissan just had a hole, so the tape deck feels like a gift from the Almighty. That afternoon I searched my room for old tapes, only finding Rum, Sodomy, & the Lash, which I quickly determined was probably not purchased for me. But being a child of the nineties, I know this problem is easily solved; two bits of cellotape and you can record tracks direct from the radio.

I don’t know about anyone else, but from the floor of my room on a lazy afternoon, I felt like a spy on a covert operation as I pressed ‘Rec’ and ‘Play’ at the same time, dubbing most of the tracks from Channel Z. Like a player in the game of espionage, I huddled up next to the speaker and kept track of upcoming playlists for several radio stations. But I was a twitchy kid, not Rob Fleming, so naturally I got bored and went to get food… In actual fact, I missed most of the tracks I wanted to dub. My nineties tapes were largely uneventful affairs.

Kind of wish I hadn’t chucked out Hanson now….

Plants new vege garden, mucks more shit up

After pledging to support a more sustainable community at Victoria University, VUWSA has recently re-planted their vegetable garden.

A recent addition to the VUWSA Constitution, the notion of a sustainability goal at Vic was generally welcomed by the student body at a recent IGM. While the VUWSA vege garden was developed many years ago by a former environmental officer, its recent changes were aimed at making students think about growing their own produce.

With winter weather hampering gardening efforts across Wellington, VUWSA Environmental Officer Zachary Dorner remained positive about their initiative despite concerns for the amount of produce the garden could deliver.

“Ideally the VUWSA vege garden will get people thinking about gardening. It’s a cheap, healthy and very local way for students to feed themselves.
Students are of course welcome to pick the rosemary and a few lettuce leaves. We may give it away with food bank packages or for free in the quad.”

The VUWSA garden is located outside their former offices in the Student Union Building. Suggestions for developments and ideas on distributing the food are welcomed.

As a former dog person, a fair amount of my childhood was dedicated to laughing at the misfortune of my neighbours’ portly feline, particularly when it attempted anything akin to running. But now sitting comfortably on the settee with three overweight balls of kitty squeezed onto the one cushion beside me, I can’t help but wonder—how the fuck did this happen?

Adjusting from athletic canine owner to apathetic cat minder was a bit of a culture shock. When I was 14, Mrs Bennet decided, without proper consultation, to rescue a timid kitten from the Cats Protection League. Adding insult to injury, a then-12-year-old Atticus decided to name the ridiculous creature ‘Princess Tinkerbell’. For the next six weeks, we spent hours attempting to coax Princess Tinkerbell, or my no-nonsense moniker of ‘Kitty’, out from under beds, in cupboards, and behind drawers. Clearly, like a first-born child, your first cat is an experiment. A second cat was needed to ensure we were not failures as parents.

‘Princess Mittens of the Cabbage Patch’ was a welcomed addition to the household, even if Atticus was trusted to name it. Again. Another rescued animal, Cabbage, hails from the Maori Focus Unit at Rimutaka Prison and spends most of her time attempting to escape out of windows at home. Ha! Irony! But after an unfortunate encounter with an SUV, Cabbage became that ‘three-legged cat from down the road’. Sure, we still love the adorable little moron, but let’s face it; she’s not exactly a ‘real’ cat.

In the years that followed, Mrs Bennet added ‘Daisy’, ‘Thackeray Binx’, ‘Gizmo’, ‘Annie’, and ‘Princess Alice from the Palace’ to our itty bitty kitty committee. Daisy and Gizmo both have a strong aversion for plastic bags while Binx is our intellectually stunted uncle we don’t talk about. Annie’s my clever little protégée and has an obsession with putting red McDonalds straws in her water bowl. And Alice from the Palace? Well, I took one look at the little bastard and informed Mrs Bennet Alice was actually an ‘Alex’. It wasn’t until I pointed out his testicles that Mrs Bennet sat back with a decided “Oh, shit.”

He now leads a comfortable life under the name ‘Mr Bingley’.

But looking back, it wasn’t enough to label us crazy cat ladies. Certainly we don’t use the cats as missiles or let them roam free. No sir, they are lazy house cats who expect regular feedings and affection. Sigh. Geoffrey, however, was the tipping point. A scraggly stray who hung around the property, Mrs Bennet began feeding him a little over two years ago. His weight improved but his behaviour was atrocious, often swiping our delicate female felines with his dirty paws. After explaining to my mother that “No! Thou shalt not neuter the resident stray!” I returned home one evening to find poor Geoffrey had sneakily undergone the procedure. To make matters worse, his owners gave him a hot pink collar. Yes, owners.

You know, I’m willing to bet a dog person doesn’t have to deal this kind of shit.

“Sometimes I half-expect to see George Clooney in scrubs…”

Monday mornings in winter never fail to garner a collective groan from audiences. Why? Well, perhaps it’s the difficult task of getting from your bed to your shower, perhaps it’s strategically getting on underwear without toppling, or perhaps it’s that panicked five minute couch dive as you search for your elusive car keys. Whatever the reason, society still manages to maintain a scrap of dignity as they stride into their lectures, clutching an extra shot of latte as they furiously try to remember if they turned off their headlights.

This is not the case if you manage to land yourself in hospital by 9.53am.

Maintaining a sense of decorum in a crisis has never been my forte. I excel at making an ass of myself which is why, at 9.27am on a Monday, I found myself immobilised and slightly doped in the back of a Wellington Free Ambulance. Staring at the virginally white ceiling of the station wagon, I sunk into the black abyss of misery; “Why me?” I thought, “Why is this always happening?”

For the record, I don’t make a habit of getting myself into car accidents for the thrills. Actually, it wasn’t even my fault, which pleased both the police and but more importantly, my insurance company. But as I turned off a roundabout I came face-to-face with a car going the wrong way. Moving over to the left, my car was jolted forward as the vehicle behind became more acquainted with my bumper. Noooo! Body lurching forward in my seat, my seatbelt abruptly stopped, sending my early-morning brain nestled in my skull firing back into my headrest. This was only hours after I watched my England crushed unfairly by Germany and that Miroslav Klose. Bloody Wunderkind.

So I did what any other sleep-deprived female would do: cried. After exchanging numbers with both drivers, I had calmed down enough to realise I didn’t have my cellphone, I’d hit my head, and I was wearing yellow pyjamas with green turtle prints. By the time the ambulance arrived, I wished I’d stayed in bed. And when the fire brigade got there, I wished I was dead. Turns out there is nothing more mortifying than wearing turtle pyjamas, a neck collar, and a head brace while being strapped (literally) onto a wooden board to be hoisted onto a stretcher. Adding insult to injury, it was right about now I had to politely ask a paramedic to itch my nose for me.

After receiving a charity dose of morphine en route to Accident and Emergency, I decided sleep was the best course of action. Stumbling my way through giving my personal details, I lay paralysed on a bed. Then I realised I also wasn’t wearing a bra or underwear and I desperately needed to pee. I cried. After Mrs Bennet arrived late (because apparently feeding the cats still remains a priority) and the x-rays were checked out, I went home where the rest of my day consisted of sleep, broken every two hours by Mrs Bennet graciously making sure I was not dead or comatose.

Dignity is a funny thing. I’m not sure I ever had it. But life is so much more satisfying if you can strike fear in the hearts of Lexus owners when you park a fender bender near them.

“I’m only playing if I can be the banker…” “But you cheat!

Wandering aimlessly around Courtenay Central is a dangerous pastime. Last Thursday, as Reading Cinemas staff finished scuffing the renegade popcorn kernels under the seats, I found myself engaged in conversation with a valiant fanboy, my companion, about the ins and outs of hand-painted, ever-popular, never-beaten Lord of the Rings board games.

And I spent 20 minutes desperately wanting to ask if he was good at snakes and ladders.

Because when it comes down to it, that’s as far as my knowledge of board games goes. A child’s sport, kept aside for a rainy day, I can assure you Hasbro and Milton Bradley only ever graced my lounge floor if I became frustrated with children’s programming and was unable to sneak outside to frolic in the rain. Align this fact with the honest truth I am terrible at board games and you have a child who saw rainy days here, there, and everywhere as the bane of her existence.

Skill, they say, leads to becoming the master of draughts. Patience if one wants to succeed in the lost art of Jenga, or perhaps sheer dumb luck in the mystery of winning snakes and ladders. Actually, I always liked Jenga, but snakes and ladders only served one purpose in childhood; the valuable lesson, ‘life isn’t fair’. I think we’ve all been smacked on the arse by that arrogant snake on square 99.

Jenga aside, my dwindling talent for board games puts me to shame. One birthday, and I really would love to know who did this to me, I became the proud owner of ‘KerPlunk’. Similar to Jenga, but with marbles and sticks (hence the louder cacophony of fail when you eventually lost), KerPlunk quickly joined the growing pile of games titled ‘Do Not Want’.

Over the years, the collection grew: Connect Four, Mouse Trap, Ludo, Guess Who, Monopoly, Candy Land, and of course, Hungry Hungry Hippos, which was all fun and games until it got violent. The hippo food doubles as BB gun pellets, did you know? I tried the games of skill: Go, Backgammon… and Battleship. I’m not entirely sure whether Battleship is a game of skill but I never quite understood its purpose. It was in the school ‘rainy day’ cupboard I only wanted to play so I could exclaim, “You sunk my battleship!” To this date, I am yet to utter this line in its correct context.

There may be hope just yet. After diligently abandoning his friends to talk with two none-the-wiser women about the art of Lord of the Rings and intergalactic models for board games, the fanboy explained there are workshops…Workshops!? So, fervent Wellingtonians pay to learn how to hand-paint models and assemble Helms Deep for a board game about the one ring to rule them all, and in the darkness, bind them?

God. You can understand now why we must suffer so many Middle Earth jokes.

Non-traditional sports get traditional awards

Six students at Victoria University of Wellington are the latest recipients of the coveted New Zealand Universities Blues awards for sporting achievements.

Victoria University students Phillip Drew and Aiken Hakes received the NZU Blue for outstanding achievements in croquet, while Lizzie Ingham was recognised for her performances in orienteering. Ella Edginton, Polly Higbee, and Stephen Whittington were rewarded for debating.

Winners were revealed last week by University Sport New Zealand, acknowledging the triumphs of university athletes in 2009.

From the 60 students across New Zealand who will receive the awards, 16 represented the country at the Beijing Olympics, while a further 28 have been granted a Prime Minister Scholarship for 2010.

University Sport New Zealand Executive Director Louise Burns says receiving a New Zealand Universities Blue is one of the greatest honours a student athlete can achieve.

“Since 1919 just over 2500 NZU Blues have been awarded. Previous recipients include All Blacks captain Richie McCaw, Olympic gold medallist Danyon Loader and 2009 Halberg recipient, rower Hamish Bond, so this year’s recipients are certainly amongst good company.”

VUWSA Clubs and Events Manager Melissa Barnard was understandably pleased with Victoria’s performance.

With attentions turned to professionalising the realm of sport, Barnard admitted winning an NZU Blue is a demanding feat.

“The selection criteria for winning an award for sports such as rugby are difficult.

“While there is a strong focus on their athletic performances, students must meet academic requirements. Players must be at the top of their game, which is the case for Drew and Hakes who have represented New Zealand.”

New Zealand Debating Champion Stephen Whittington agreed the selection process was tough but felt Victoria provides the debating society with a great deal of support, including sponsorship for international competitions.

“Our speakers are internationally respected and certainly debating is a strong sport at Victoria University.

“I understand criteria for selecting debating award winners in the NZU Blues are being reviewed, but young people are often interested in the debating society when they start here.”

“What the hell is this? I ordered vodka, not ICE!”

Student night. Isn’t it beautiful?

Actually, it probably isn’t. Close to midnight on a Wednesday I can be found eating an amalgam of lunch, mid-afternoon snackage, and dinner after work at Wellington’s best kept Chinese food takeout. Between inhaling what I would term ‘questionable meat’ and wolfing down a vanilla coke, a gross spectacle of human behaviour plays out before me. With dinner and a free show, it’s no wonder I keep going back.

The first week of dinner at the Chinese holy land was during the semester break. Wide-eyed first years began toddling through around midnight, mascara running and boyfriends lacking, in search of greasy food. Unnecessary Maccas has nothing on this place. A friend and I watched in amazement as they spent ten minutes ordering their food. In the end, the smallest of the group removed her shoes in an effort to increase her ordering capabilities. I’m still wondering how this helped. Encased in sheer pantyhose, her mission of leaving the establishment was hindered as she crossed the floor, slipping near my table. I stifled a giggle.

“Oy! Watch out for this floor!” she called to her friends, “It’s like, dangerous. A health hazard!”

So perhaps student night isn’t all it was cracked up to be. The following week, as I ate something I wasn’t entirely sure of, a young man staggered in, possibly unaware he was even in a Chinese takeout. He sat down at our table and inquired as to whether my friend was going to eat her food. I cupped mine protectively, slowly drawing it back towards me. After explaining that yes, she did intend to eat her combination fried rice, he appeared deflated… Only to ask if he could watch her eat it. That night I learned a valuable lesson; watching food consumption is just as effective as eating it for a man with a serious case of the munchies.

My views of student night I had before I started at Victoria were diminishing. One week, a shaggy man waltzed in with his skateboard, screaming about how fucking awesome he was and how great all the food looked. I couldn’t disagree with him; questionable meat has become my favourite dish. But he was acting rather strangely, and after an intense discussion about what illicit substances this man could be on, we decided we probably knew too much and avoided eye contact with him.

During my first year, I spent Wednesdays crawling from bar to bar and dragging my sorry arse into STAT193 on a Thursday afternoon. On Wednesdays, I rejoiced at my pay cheque hitting my account at midnight, allowing me to race around Wellington and purchase all manner of terrible vodka-fruity mixed concoctions for a reasonable price. But after seeing the other side of student night, with its drunken antics and washed-out make-out, Wednesday just means one thing:

“Hi! Can I grab two choices of noodles… Aaaaand two of the questionable meat at the front?”

“Just relax now, it’ll feel like a bee sting…”
“Nooooo! I hate bee stings!”

Phobias. Let’s face it, they’ve run away from us. It’s possible today to harbour an irrational fear of anything in existence. I’ll admit there are phobias out there that cover the obscure and the ridiculous; fear of old people, bridges, being out of mobile range. But c’mon, surely we can justify our inadequacies and tiny fears. For example, I think it is perfectly rational to be petrified of bees.

I wasn’t always afraid of bees. In fact, bees and I were the best of friends… Or as much as one can be friends with an insect. But Freud, who isn’t even a psychiatrist, explained that any adult fear can be traced back to some traumatic experience in childhood. Delving into my subconscious, I remember the first time I revealed a friendship between myself and a fuzzy, fat bumblebee to my family. Aged two-and-a-half, I toddled into the lounge, carrying on my out-stretched chubby hand, my rather rotund friend, the bumblebee. I approached Grandma.

“Look Gramma!” I squealed, “I’ve got a fwend!!”

The bumblebee remained calm in my palm. It obviously enjoyed being friends with me, much to my delight. Grandma thought otherwise and proceeded to, as Mum explains, “lightly tap my hand” to get the bumblebee to fly away. I’d like to point out, up until this moment, both the bee and I were muddling along quite well in our strange relationship. But after Grandma ‘lightly’ tapped my hand? Well, the bumblebee was not amused and flew away, after stinging the living bejesus out of my thumb.

The bumblebee and I were no more.

I really want to say it ended there. But I never do things half-arse, so guess what happened? Allergy! My poor thumb became so swollen in fact that I had to be taken to the doctors for an injection, which I have been told many times feels like a tiny bee sting. Yes, what an excellent analogy to make when a person is receiving an injection because of a bee sting. Over the years, I have had several encounters with aggressive bumblebees, honey bees and wasps. And I remain convinced they are after me.

It’s a bold statement to make; that non-sentient critters are more concerned with wiping you off the face of the earth than cross-pollinating Mum’s lavender plants. But without fail, every time I step onto the deck, the bastard bees fly near me, at me and around me. Dignity aside, there is only so much I can do to protect my wellbeing, such as punching the air, squatting and running for cover as I shout, “argh motherfucker!” For the record, Mortein is ineffectual on plump wee buzzy bees.

So there you have it: a perfectly legitimate phobia of bees, linking back to a traumatic childhood experience. Being frightened of a tiny devil creature that can both fly and sting is by no means irrational.

But try as you might, you could never justify Bogyphobia, a fear of bogeyman. At least the bees are real.

Ever seen those little children in stores who aim themselves at anything ceramic, and think “would it be too barbaric to put you on a leash?” Well, not in England. Hello, my name is Rebekah. And I was a Harness Baby.

Alternatively called a child tether or walking reins (because apparently small children are some strange form of equine), the baby harness is worn by toddlers as a safety precaution. Taking child degradation a bit further, the parent or guardian then attaches some form of leash to the back of the harshness, allowing the child to walk freely. Freely my arse. Reading between the lines here, I understand the following: over-active child wears lead, parent holds lead, and child becomes a puppy. Why in God’s name do parents put kids in these devices that were so obviously derived from some form of medieval torture?

Apparently, they were all the rage in England.

Often accused of being emotionally repressed, the Brits have really out-done themselves with this Baby Harness shenanigan. Born in Liverpool in the late eighties, I’m shocked to think other children in the area were kept on leashes. I can see it now: Mrs Bennet taking me to play-group and all the Liscard mothers going down the Cherry Tree Shopping Centre, accompanied by miniature versions of themselves who scrabble ahead, wheezing and panting as their respective leads hold them back. Our chubby little legs raced on but it was always followed by a gasp of shock as we pinged back towards our mummies. Baby Harnesses, for the record, market themselves just over a metre in length.

It wasn’t until we moved to New Zealand that the use of the Baby Harness became more of an issue. We passed through LAX (Americans obviously weren’t fussed at seeing an imprisoned child) but it was avid shoppers in Wellington who weren’t ready to see a small person who was more man’s-best-friend than whole-lotta-baby. Mum only used the harness once in New Zealand. Still at that age where I was saying ‘hello’ quite loudly to every shopper until they replied, passers-by in the Mall looked at me with pity and my mum with disdain.
I’m pretty sure we down-graded to ‘holding Mummy’s hand’ after that incident.

The issue of the Baby Harness wasn’t brought up again until high school, when Mrs Bennet informed a friend of mine I was one of those unfortunate tubby creatures who wore a glorified dog leash as a toddler. Said friend occasionally finds ways to bring it up in conversations (you wonder how, right?) but it was Atticus’ comment the other day, mocking me for being a Harness Baby, that finally set the record straight. For years I thought Mum was ashamed of being seen as a bad parent and simply kept my younger sister off the lead so as to avoid CYF intervention… But the real reason?

“Hate to break it to you kiddo, but you were too fat to fit Rebekah’s Baby Harness.”

“Hannah Montana isn’t making another season? Thank you God!”

Procrastinating turned to panic this morning when I found myself twitching at the table, furiously scribbling lecture notes from March ahead of an afternoon test. It was 6am and after an hour, I abandoned my attempt at studying for children’s television programming. And what a waste of time that was. Where did all my beloved animated series go? Here’s a few select children’s series from the nineties you won’t find on TVNZ:

The Magic School Bus:
Let’s start with Ms Frizzle and her pet Iguana, Liz. The Magic School Bus went everywhere, from the prehistoric ages to inside a scab on that whiney kid Arnold’s knee. Children were immersed in an age where science ruled. Jesus, that horrible sitcom Friends has screened on TV2 endlessly for over a decade. And they axe the School Bus? Not cool, TVNZ, not cool at all.

He-Man and the Masters of the Universe:
I almost had the power over the summer when I contemplated buying the DVD box set. Think about it: He-Man and Battle Cat versus Skeletor and Beastman at Castle Grayskull? Why would you ever want to leave your house? Your life will pale in comparison to their awesomeness. Give up… Just give up.

Captain Planet:
Earth, Viiiind, Fire, Water, and ‘Heart’ (honestly, was he really that important?) all combined to bring us a large blue man who, according to Wikipedia, had the ability to control the elements, telepathically speak to his minions, and was “nearly invincible”. That’s right, children. Captain Planet is God. Let’s be proud at least one of our childhood heroes has achieved deity status.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
No really, where the fuck is she? Thanks to DOSBox, I’m now cursing the fact I can’t find her! As a gumshoe at the ACME Detective Agency, her gang of misfit criminals have spent the last half an hour running me all over Hong Kong, Berlin, and some other place I forgot existed. While the television series Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego? has most of us hooked, for a lot of kids it was the computer game we yelled at.

Sesame Street:
When I was your age, Cookie Monster actually ate cookies, Oscar the Grouch was still a nasty bastard, and 12 was the highest number we could count to thanks to a pinball machine. What have you got? A vegetarian cookie monster and a muppet who is HIV-positive. Please, don’t tell me how to get to Sesame Street.

Of course, it goes without saying that several shows have been missed. The nineties was a fairly epic decade for children’s television, we can hardly do it justice. But sit yourself down one morning and take a look at the CGI Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the latest wave of the anime invasion, and those squeaky-voiced child actors who must be related to someone famous to have landed that role. Now look closer…

Because Carmen Sandiego is probably in there somewhere.

Police ask for reports

Tranz Metro’s safety policies are being questioned by a Victoria University student after a man exposed himself to passengers on the Upper Hutt service.

The 18-year-old female says once she realised the man was exposing himself, she informed a Tranz Metro staff member, who appeared unconcerned.

“The train started to slow down and I told her there was a man near me with his pants down touching his penis. As I left, she asked me if he was off the train. When I said he’s just gone, she closed the train doors and moved on.

“I felt like Tranz Metro didn’t care. Here I was, explaining there was a man on her train touching himself, and she just leaves me at the station with him?”

Kiwirail General Manager of Public Affairs Kevin Ramshaw explained that as the offender had left Taita Station, it was a police matter.

“Our Security Manager has been made aware of this incident and is now working with police. The ticket collector was placed in a difficult position as the train needed to move on.

The man was no longer at the station and wasn’t an immediate threat to the student.”

Ramshaw was unsure whether the ticket collector had later reported the incident.

“We encourage staff to intervene if there is an immediate danger to passengers, but for staff safety, they shouldn’t intervene if there isn’t a threat to travellers.”

Kiwirail Marketing Communications Manager Nigel Parry stated this type of incident was extremely rare and Tranz Metro is treating it seriously.

“It is not possible to write a specific procedure for every circumstance. However, our general procedures involve taking matters seriously and using a common sense approach to any situation.”

With the attempted rape of a female student at Pomare Station several weeks ago, Constable Baz Murfin of the Wellington Community Engagement team did not believe the conductors acted accordingly.

“It’s important for people to be forceful when asking for help. This student asked for help and didn’t get the correct response. People need to know it’s okay to be loud and vocal about what you need. Once other passengers realise what is happening, the offender could be apprehended much quicker.”

People are advised to profile the offender to increase the chances of an arrest.

“We try to encourage people to map out what the offender looks like, including scars, a tattoo, and any kind of marking that identifies them. Certainly our primary concern is your safety, but with a good description, it is much easier to catch them on CCTV footage. If at all possible, try taking a picture on a cellphone.”

Murfin emphasised students in this situation should contact police as soon as possible.

“We understand that it can be embarrassing for people who witness this kind of inappropriate behaviour, but we encourage them to come forth. Police will listen and are interested in these kinds of cases. They’re far from being insignificant.”

Students with any information or who wish to report an offence are encouraged to contact Murfin:

Constable Baz Murfin, Wellington Community Engagement team
Phone: (04) 381 2001
Email: Barry.Murfin@police.govt.nz

—“Quick! Jesus is coming! Look busy!”

Anyone else noticed the male and female signs for the library bathrooms have been switched on several floors? Yeah, me neither. It took walking in on a semi-decent Neanderthal to figure it out. But we Catholic school girls can’t be blamed for absent-minded bathroom lurking. At our schools, there are no such things as urinals.

With half my family Irish Catholic and the other Presbyterian, two things were bound to happen to me in my life: baptism and three million cousins. So when Mrs Bennet sat Atticus and I down in 1995 and promptly informed us we were going to learn about ‘Jesus’, I agreed. Imagine my surprise when I learned that in order to visit Jesus’ house I had to dress up in a little blue kilt and get dunked in a bowl of water by an elderly man in a white dressing gown. Dazed, confused, and convinced that man tried to drown me, I toddled into my new school the next day, only to realise everyone else was wearing the same thing.

As the years passed, I was to discover Religious Education only seemed to involved intense discussions about the beatitudes, colouring in Jesus of Nazareth, and bitching about that useless prick Judas. Terrible kisser, apparently. But after a brief stint in Girls’ Brigade (Girl Guides for holy folk) and Christmas Mass ruining my Christmas Eve television specials, I became quite impatient and tired of the whole charade. Turns out, after five years of informing both my parents they were for sure not invited to The Rapture, I wasn’t the only one.

It wasn’t until last week that my love for Catholic schooling returned… and in full force. Sacred Heart College serves as a reality check for students where 99.9 per cent of the time, Catholic school girl no longer means ‘Free Ticket to Heaven’ but ‘Family Planning Regular’ and knowing all the naughty bits of the bible. After spending years hating the institution with a passion, a Facebook group titled ‘You Know You Go To Sacred Heart College When…’ has left myself and over 500 other SHC students religiously typing their anecdotes for all to read. Pun intended.

In the space of six hours, over 200 students had joined. And we weren’t shy of sharing our experiences. Turns out, we all know that Sacred Heart College boasts the highest pregnancy rate and we all love a certain Soprano nun with a perm and grandma jumpers. We ‘le gasped!’ at the furtive same-sex relations in those infamous Euphrasie corridor bathrooms and were hysterical when our principal couldn’t quite work the intercom system, ever. I have never ‘liked’ so many wallposts before and it feels amazing.

It’s slightly ironic, really. We’ve spent 13 years of Catholic schooling outwardly complaining about mass taking too long, singing practice, and heinous uniforms only to find ourselves with an innate sense of belonging and camaraderie between strangers in a place where most of us feared to tread. We can’t escape, but as Facebook tells me, I don’t think we want to.

But more importantly, why was there a semi-naked man in my female Rankine Brown bathroom?

“Hold still, I can’t hit you while you’re moving.”

There is some satisfaction to be had in fighting with one’s siblings. There is even more in retelling stories of your little victories, with no effort to hide the smirk dripping with schadenfreude. Still, one day the shocking, all-true realisation hits you; you’re adults now. Is maiming your sister for the sake of Complete Remote Control Ownership still acceptable?

Last Friday, a 20-year-old woman faced a New South Wales Supreme Court charged with the manslaughter of her 18-year-old sister. Why, you ask? Well, apparently the two worked themselves into a heated brawl over a pair of hair straighteners. After learning of the attack one night last December, I awoke the following morning to find my 18-year-old sister religiously straightening her blonde hair. In a moment of panic, I quietly inquired as to whether Atticus would kill me over a hair straightener. Silence. Slowly, she turned and said, “Is it a GHD?”
Thanks.

Atticus and I actually get on quite well. Most of the time… I like to think so. Honestly, it’s up for debate. As a younger child, I revelled in the fact I had three inches on the tiny blonde. Now, she has four inches on me. You can see our relationship has improved considerably. But my conquests over her remain numerous. She has lost two front teeth in my presence (one tooth I’ll admit, the second is debateable), and when she broke her foot in the frozen vege section of Woolworths, I wet my pants laughing.

So, it should come as no shock that a little part of my unconscious self is devoted to the impending wrath of Atticus. I wonder how it would end, how she would finally snuff the bitch. Atticus is convinced she is Jedi, maybe I’ll go by Force Choke. But her options are endless. Last week a woman in the United States used the lid of a toilet tank to assault her sister. Her charming mug shot only sought to remind me that anything and everything in my home could be used to end my life in what would look like a tragic accident. I’m a renowned klutz; the notion I misjudged the distance between myself and a sharp, pointy object isn’t too farfetched.

But we’re adults now. Silly displays of aggression between siblings are few and far between. Thankfully, whenever Atticus and I get out of control, there is a mediator on hand. Always the diplomat, Mrs Bennet acts as a liaison between my sister and I during our spectacular displays of sibling rivalry. As she (morbidly) puts it, “One day, I will be dead. And you will have no one except your sister.” While her faith in my social skills never ceases to amaze me, I can’t help but seek to correct her:

“Once upon a time, in a land across the Tasman, there lived two sisters with one hair straightener…”

Women dislike sexist comments

Many amazed

Research conducted by Stephenie Chaudoir and Diane Quinn of the University of Connecticut in the United States has revealed that men who harass women with sexual comments are harming women’s perception of the male gender.

Apparently, these findings were a revelation to some.

The study asked a group of female students to view a video clip and imagine themselves as bystanders to a situation where a man either made a sexist remark toward a women or simply greeted her.

The subjects were then asked to rate their feelings of anger or depression and their desire to move away from or against men.

Astoundingly, the study showed that women were actually more likely to take a sexist remark as an insult to their gender, as well as more likely to feel anger or resentment towards men in general.

Flamenco Fuels Fury

FUCK!

Student journalists slaving over computers to bring you the award-winning magazine you now hold in your hands were left frustrated after flamenco guitarists attempted to serenade them once again.

A group of flamenco enthusiasts gathered under the balcony outside the Salient office in what appears to be a cheesy seduction attempt, or some kind of Romeo and Juliet Spain edition moment.

While some in the office can appreciate the talent involved in the playing, it was the constant repetition of passages that started dreams of other things that guitar strings could be used for. Rising fury was calmed after the guitarists decided to move on.

Salient suggests that a great time to attempt future serenades is on Fridays when we will all be in the office, willing to listen. Yup.

Prostitute gets nailed; unable to perform duties

Boyfriend pissed she can’t make him sandwiches

A prostitute sentenced to community service has been jailed after claiming her broken nails stopped her from completing court orders.

The Taranaki Daily News reported that Tala Jepsen, 19, was sentenced to 60 hours community services for charges relating to her stealing cheques from a man’s chequebook in 2009.

As a result, Jepsen had her fines of $1820 remitted and was sentenced to 21 days in prison for failing to complete her work at Wanganui primary school.

Scientists invent invisibility cloak

Harry Potter can suck it!

A three-dimensional invisibility cloak has been developed by German Muggle Scientists.

The cloak, made up of special lenses that bend light waves, is able to not only make small objects invisible, but hide the bump they would normally create. However, making large objects vanish before our very sights is still light-years away. Ha! Light-years, get it?

Tolga Ergin of the Karlsruhe Institute of Technology spoke with Reuters during a telephone interview to explain the impact of the device.

“This is very exciting, because mankind has always thought about being invisible or having invisibility cloaks.”

In your face, J.K. Rowling!

Man fined after using his penis as a weapon

Lightsabers on short supply

A man who used his penis to assault a policewoman was slapped with a fine of £600 (NZ$1300) last week in the Aberdeen Sheriff Court.

Police were called to a disturbance at the flat of Marium Varinauskas last November where it was alleged he drunkenly attempted to hit a female officer on the head with his penis.
The officer managed to evade the swinging member and Varinauskas pleaded guilty to assault.

Former Banker blows $3.4 million on prostitutes

Prostitutes blow back

A former ASB banker was found to have spent $3.4 million of the $18 million he stole from wealthy clients on prostitutes.

It was revealed that for almost a decade, Stephen Gerard Versalko paid $3.4 million to two female Auckland prostitutes.

Versalko extorted $18 million from clients through a classic ponzi scheme. An investor became suspicious of his actions after watching a documentary that followed the highly publicised case of US stockbroker Bernie Madoff, who ran the largest ponzi scheme in history.

Versalko has been sentenced to six years imprisonment.

Leprechaun shot dead on St Patrick’s Day

Not so lucky after all
An armed holdup at the First State Bank in Nashville, Tennessee ended with police shooting and killing two bank robbers, one of whom was dressed as a Leprechaun.

Witnesses say the man—who wore a fake beard, green top hat, vest and shorts, and a wig—entered the bank during the lunchtime rush with an accomplice, carrying a gun. After stealing an undisclosed amount of money, the two men sped away from police in their paddywagon.

They eventually ditched the car and ran into a nearby field where they were shot and killed by police as they tried to find the end of the rainbow.

The money has since been recovered and returned to the bank. Police efforts to identify the men continue.

Sister uses toilet lid as weapon

Parents flushed with shame

Sibling rivalry went down the shitter last weekend when a woman allegedly reached for the lid of a toilet tank to beat the crap out of her sister.

Nitasha Johnson has since been arrested by Iowa City Police and charged with domestic assault causing injury.

With a bond of $1500, she remains in jail. Officials are unsure whether she has employed an attorney.

Surfing Peruvian Alpaca…

Do we really need to say any more?

Over the past ten years, Peruvian surfer Domingo Pianezzi has taught a dog, a parrot, a cat, and a hamster how to surf, but has defied the odds again by teaching his pet alpaca how to hang ten.

The alpaca named Pisco wore his own life jacket last Tuesday as he took to the waves with Pianezzi in Lima, capital of Peru. The trip was short-lived, however, as Pisco, who was crouched on the front of the three-metre board, freaked out and proceeded to leap into the water after catching the first few seconds of each wave.

Experts say this is good hang time for an alpaca.

Man in wheelchair escapes police custody

Facepalm

A Perth man arrested in connection with a series of car jackings and a high speed police chase has evaded them yet again, this time escaping from a wheelchair.

Colin Bradley Little, 27, was admitted to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital last week under police surveillance for injuries sustained in the car chase.

As police escorted Little, unstrained and in a wheelchair out of the hospital on Thursday morning, he simply jumped up and ran away.

Over 100 police officers spent the day looking for Little… Haha.ha. Shame.

SPR SWEET 16 CMS 2 NW ZEALND!

0mg fuk ths iz aws0m! –x Becky G x– <3

s0 lyk MTV gt ths c0mpetishn atm 4 Spr Sweet 16 in NZ n fuk bro itz guna b mean az!

Al u gota do iz tel thm y u shuld hav a Spr Sweet 16 n yea… U go in tha draw 2 win shit. Im fukn hapi ae, I alwyz wantd a real expensif par-t wif ma m8s n thos hott guyz from ma lowa hutt sko0l bus… 0oh yea, skux bro! Uz kno hu iz talkn bowt! We got wsted wif dem on scrumpi… SCRUMPIIIII!!! xox lolz i luff uz guys so0o0o0 much!

Newayz, fukn rite MTV a letta, biatch. I wana win sum shit ae. N dnt 4get 2 vote coz uz mite…

Holy fuck up a lamp post, how do people write like this?

Mufti Day at a Catholic Primary School is a rare occurrence that allows usually uniformed children to show off their latest threads. At such a young age, their sense of style tends to revolve around what their older siblings no longer fit or worse: what their parents feel is ‘age-appropriate’. It’s not a child’s fault if they look hideous; should all pre-adolescent fashion disasters be forgiven?

Held on the final Friday of each August, Daffodil Day allows Catholic pupils to abandon their miniature business suits and wear whatevs. Most of us had the day etched into our minds long before it rolled around. I had the good fortune as a child to be born towards the end of August, which guaranteed me the opportunity to wear my annual birthday apparel before the novelty wore off.

In 1998, Daffodil Day came at a time when Hanson featured prominently on the airwaves. Awash with adoration for these long-haired, effeminate brothers from Tulsa, I pleaded with Mrs Bennet for an official Hanson t-shirt. My wish was granted and that year, I wore the first band t-shirt I ever owned to Mufti Day.

It was a fucking disaster.

Looking back, I should have known I was in for the long haul when a disgustingly obnoxious boy with the intelligence quota of a grape informed me in the cloak bay that Hanson ate shit. Being nine years old, I was unaware of this shit-eating business Hanson were employed in, so I simply stared at him, no doubt doing a remarkable impression of a guppy. As the day progressed, I discovered Hanson worked in many colourful industries such as mother-fucking, ass-kissing, and ball-sucking.

By the end of the day, my fragile innocent world was crumbling. I knew things about Hanson that no fan should have to endure, and my heroes were no more. Luckily, Hanson fizzled off the mainstream radio and by 1999 were forgotten. The letter I tragically wrote to Taylor Hanson unanswered, I outgrew the t-shirt, and eventually, the Daffodil Day nightmares stopped. I had moved on.

That was until I came across a familiar song on iTunes. As the song began to filter through the speakers those knees buckled from a long forgotten infatuation, my hands flailed, and a shrill squeal escaped my throat, a noise so high-pitched I almost matched the song’s singer.

It was ‘MMMBop’.

Secretly, for the next three to six days, I relived my childhood, pre-Daffodil Day. There are many bands from the nineties that nowadays are socially acceptable to enjoy. Well, almost. We blame our twitterpated response on a sense of nostalgia when a track from a squeaky-voiced heart throb slithers through the stereo. Let’s be honest though; it’s safe to like these shameful bands now.

Still, we’re not brave enough to wear official merchandise.

Shamu adds New Zealand to dinner menu

The New Zealand Government has agreed to a proposal that would see the restart of commercial whaling providing the catchment is reduced within the next 10 years.

In an effort to reach a compromise, nations of the International Whaling Commission met in the United States, but diplomatic efforts were unsuccessful. Reports have suggested the meeting presented a proposal that would allow Japan, Iceland, and Norway to hunt whales on the grounds that they lower their catch over the coming decade.

Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has made it clear he would not support a policy that, despite preventing Japan from hunting under the heading ‘scientific whaling’, would see the restart of commercial whaling. Furthermore, legal action is still planned against Japanese whalers in the Southern Ocean if they fail to cease activities by November of this year.

The decision by the New Zealand Government to support diplomatic efforts aimed at reducing whaling may harm the international reputation of New Zealand as an ‘environmentally friendly’ nation.

International Relations Professor Xiaoming Huang of Victoria University believes the opposite and commended the New Zealand Foreign Minister for choosing to take the diplomatic channel.

“This decision shows that New Zealand has a different way of addressing the issue of whaling. If anything, it could separate New Zealand from Australia in terms of their diplomatic policy.”

In response to the government’s decision, the Labour party has launched a petition against the move to restart commercial whaling. Huang does not feel this will gain much momentum.

“It is fair to say that Labour would oppose their decision, but the proposal to legitimise commercial whaling by creating a framework which either ends or reduces whaling numbers would be a positive initiative.”

No final decision has been made about what course of action the International Whaling Council will take.

“Hey look, I wrote 80085 on my calculator!”

My breasts. My ample bosom. My lovely Lady Pillows. Whatever you call them, I am stuck with them. And so is every other female on earth.

Without my assets, life was simple. Everyday tasks such as wearing a seatbelt, running, and holding a conversation with a male sales assistant were less than exhausting. The Boob Punch was also an ineffective form of torture. Every so often, I make the mistake of violently wrenching open the door to my shower box, thwacking myself square in the left bosom. I grabble at myself and whimper like a kicked puppy, reciting a colourful list of obscenities that would make any drunken sailor proud. But amidst my pain it always comes back to the fact that life was safer without my fun-bags.

I don’t proclaim to be well-endowed or possess a chest that can make grown men cry, but when my singlet falls particularly low, I get scolded for looking like a harlot. Apparently my jiggly bits aren’t appreciated at the cafe table. So I frown and adjust myself, knowing that they’re sizeable enough to make life more difficult. Not that I want to have them removed to aid my plight for a carefree existence, but I can understand the long-told story of Amazonian women slicing off their right gazonga to make breast use of their bow and arrows.

It’s not something I sit around and actively ponder, what life would be like without Bonnie and Clyde. But as the temperature begins to soar and the sun glares down on Wellington, scolding the city like a spoilt child, I envy those agonisingly attractive men who use any excuse near a beach to remove their shirt in an effort to cool off. Bitch please, I used to be able to do that.

With Wellington City Council relaxing their laws about public nudity on beaches, I probably still could. Just think about that—removing your clothes and basking in all your natural glory on Oriental Parade. Are you uncomfortable yet? Now, aged 20, I cringe and curl up in a ball at the thought of having to remove my top in public. But it wasn’t always so, and 14 years ago, I lacked certain endowments that allowed me to run wild and rampant along Days Bay.

I’ve told it only gets worse from here on in, and I shouldn’t take my melons for granted. One day, as Mrs Bennet warns me, my Egg McMuffins are going to form an exploration party and head south. Already petrified, television campaigns advise me of free mammogram services for women over 45 years of age. Now I know why gravity will ruin my life; my Tata Twins will need to dangle as if independent from my body before I make the insane decision to place them in a glorified sandwich press.

Christ. I think I’m going to stick to self-searching in my shower after the weekly Boob Punch for now.

The ongoing saga involving Japanese Whalers and Sea Shepherd activists in the Southern Ocean took a sharp turn last week with intervention from the Australian Government.

A proposal was presented to the International Whaling Council seeking an end to whaling in the Southern Ocean within the next five years, including an end to ‘scientific’ whaling.

Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has since threatened Japan with legal action should they fail to cease all whaling activities in the Southern Ocean by November.

In early January, the conflict between Japanese Whalers and Sea Shepherd activists became violent when Sea Shepherd trimaran, the Ady Gil, was in pursuit of whalers. Activists on board the Ady Gil reported they were deliberately rammed by the Japanese whaling vessel Shonan Maru 2.

Following the incident, Sea Shepherd filed piracy charges against Shonan Maru 2 in the Dutch Court, using video footage of the collision as evidence the ramming was a premeditated action.

On 15 February, Ady Gil Captain Pete Bethune climbed aboard the Shonan Maru 2 and issued a citizen’s arrest warrant to their captain, along with a $3 million bill for damage to the Ady Gil. The same week Japanese Foreign Minister Katsuya Okada travelled to Australia and met with Rudd to discuss, among other things, the issue of whaling in the Southern Ocean.

Victoria University International Relations Professors Xiaoming Huang says that should Australia and Japan decide to act on legal threats, many factors need to be considered.

“For Japan, whaling is an important economic resource, making the issue both legal and cultural for the international community. For Australia, the difficulty lies in an International Court where they would need to prove they’re more concerned with attacks on environmentalists rather than the practice of whaling itself.”

Huang says that the threat of legal action from Rudd needed to be more ‘action-based’.

“Rather than threaten legal action against the whalers for a political audience, Rudd needs to be more specific in what he plans to do. The Australian Government is more environmentally aware than previous governments, but having whaling remain an environmental issue makes creating a political alliance more difficult.”

Huang says that Bethune, a New Zealand citizen, has forced the New Zealand Government into the issue of whaling in the Southern Ocean. He says while whaling remains a diplomatic issue for New Zealand, forming a political alliance with Australia may help the cause.

“New Zealand by itself is a small nation with little influence on the international community. Whaling does not affect every country, so mobilising political support is tough.

“Australia is in a better position to push the issue with New Zealand.

“Whatever they decide, there needs to be an emphasis on effective measures to stop whaling and a list potential consequences for Japan should they continue.”

Members of the Corrections Association of New Zealand (CANZ) marched to Parliament on February 9 to speak out against Corrections Minister Judith Collin’s proposal to privatise New Zealand’s prison.

The protest followed a gathering at Pipitea Marae to discuss the proposal that would see at least 450 workers stand to lose their job effective immediately should Auckland Central Remand Prison and Mt Eden be sold.

With the prison population increasing in Correctional Facilities across New Zealand, there is increased pressure on the government to look into privatising prisons.

CANZ Advocate Ken Johnson spoke briefly at the rally, explaining that changes in government policy have caused the rising prison population.

“The prison population continues to rise and yet the allowances to cover our muster do not.”

In an effort to curb the growing numbers in prisons, a double bunking system was introduced last year. Documents from the Department of Corrections briefings with Collins reveal that the sharing of cells was to be a temporary arrangement due to a predicted number crisis.

CANZ President Beven Hanlon explained to union members that when the Prison Service entered discussions with CANZ, they were told there was no extra funding to cover the costs of building new units, leaving only the option of double bunking or private sale, a statement questioned by Hanlon.

“In the 2009 Budget there was a 7 percent increase in the level of funding to the Department of Corrections, but they continue to tell us is there is no money to cover the cost of new facilities.”

The push to send New Zealand prisons into the private sector is backed by the belief that privately owned prisons operate at a lower cost to the tax payer, increasing competition and accountability in the private sector.

Hanlon claimed that while under private ownership, the administration of Auckland Central Remand Prison came at a greater cost.

“When ACRP was no longer under the ownership of the Labour Government, it cost $7,000 more per year to operate, with officers working on capped salaries.”

As members called on National Government representatives to speak with them, Leader of the Progressive Coalition Jim Anderton explained that his party, like the Greens, oppose the sale of New Zealand Prisons.

“There is no empirical evidence to justify the sale of these prisons. Statistics show that it does not prevent crime, it does not lower costs, and the prisons do not operate better.”

Unlike private prisons overseas, the cultural aspect of rehabilitation in Correctional Facilities is unique to New Zealand. Hanlon claimed that if sold, it is likely this component will be phased out.

“GEO [a worldwide private prison management company] have been taken around the prisons in New Zealand so it would seem they are interested running one. But it’s a business and the Maori Focus units don’t turn a profit.”

With the future of Correctional Facilities in New Zealand up in the air, CANZ are appealing the decision to double bunk the four new Prisons; Spring Hill, Ngawha, Auckland Women’s and Otago. A court date has not been set.

8:02am—“I just moved here from Africa…”

Oh my God! You’re, like, totally not from around here! Welcome to Wellington! What’s it like to live here? Well, our mascot is a naked man in a blanket, Cuba Mall is the cultural epicentre, and after three shots on a Wednesday, we’re all merry. Call me!

8:43am—“Surely there’s a dress code!”

No shoes, no shirt, don’t care. But if you wish to avoid being ridiculed, you eager-beaver little firstie, don’t wear your High School Leavers Jersey ’09. We’re not Ben Affleck; we don’t care why you are called ‘Fingercuffs’.

9:21am—“Go Fuck The Train!”

The train is a pretty expensive contraption. Simply find a less-costly Child Ten Trip. You won’t believe how satisfying it is to hit someone with your $145.90 Prescribed Book you will never use.

9:53am—“This is the Driveway/ Mt Kilimanjaro…”

Avoid.

10:43am—“Oscar Wilde got it goin’ on!”

As Wildebeest once said, “Punctuality is a virtue of the bored.” So do not hover outside KK303, waiting for your lecture to start. Go to Mount Street Bar in the Student Union Building.

Lunchtime—“Is butter a carb…?”

The Freshman Fifteen: An American phenomenon where a first year student gains 15 pounds during their first year, also seen in New Zealand. So if you don’t want to be a chubba-chubba, pack yourself a healthy alternative: nothing.

Mid afternoon—“Just put it on your Course unRelated Costs.”

Cha-Ching! See your older sibling or their drunken friends.

Anytime after 2pm—“We’ve got alcohol, alcohol, and more alcohol…”

After your first day at Victoria, it’s time to broaden your alcoholic horizons, abandon the vodka mixers, and stop taking salt and lemon with your tequila, you dirty philistine.

And once you awaken on Tuesday morning, in someone else’s room in some random hall, there’s only one thing you need:

9:00am—Salient:

It’s like What Not To Wear had three whiskey sours and made sweet yet animalistic love to The Onion… Or at least a distant cousin of Stephen Colbert. Salient is the voice of the O-pressed and the D-pressed, while retaining all the wit and artistic integrity one gets from a Bunny Suicides book novel. Each issue is jam-packed with all the news, features, and colour pages you need to read to survive here.

And just so you know, we’re on Facebook.

Fans are suing New Zealand news website Stuff.co.nz after being led to believe Da-vid Bo-wie, or simply ‘Package’, would headline Big Day Out 2010.

Last Tuesday, die-hard fans opened their email inboxes to find the first announcement did not contain the words “Bowie, David” and have since decided to sue the fuck out of those lying cheating stuff.co.nz bastards. Fans sent a clear message last week when photos of faecal matter, tagged ‘stuff.co.nz’ surfaced on several Facebook profiles. Fans of Bowie say that Stuff is very much like Wikipedia.

“If Stuff says it, it is fucking true!” yelled one enraged groupie.

Because of such disappointment, Counselling Services at Victoria are overwhelmed with a large proportion of the student body suffering from what they call “Acute Bowie Anxiety Disorder”.

Early symptoms include dressing up in tights, stuffing socks down your crotch, and singing ‘Dance Magic’ around Campus while trying to morph into an owl. More serious cases include individuals painting their faces to reassemble Ziggy Stardust with vocabulary being reduced to “Ziggy played… Guitaaaaaaaaaaar!”

“We’re doing what we can,” says a representative of Victoria Counselling Services, “But there are only so many times we can screen Labyrinth in one day!”

Accusing Stuff.co.nz of lying to the nation, infuriated fans formed the Bowie Brigade and enlisted the help of top attorney Harold Whitman at the initial hearing in Wellington’s High Court last Friday afternoon. Whitman arrived and sought out the free snacks, spending more of his time deciding between a blueberry or apple muffin than overlooking case notes.

“I just think everyone deserves a chance to get what they want. I wanted a muffin and let me tell you, this is a tasty muffin. Try the apple,” Whitman continues, “The point is stuff.co.nz said Bowie would be coming. But is he…? No seriously, is he? I have no idea. Shit, let me check my notes… Nope, he’s not.”

As far as Whitman was concerned, this was an open and shut case in favour of the Bowie Brigade, but when neither party bothered to show up in court, the case was thrown out just before teatime.

The Bowie Brigade nor stuff.co.nz were available for comment. 

Students were given the opportunity to vote for their choice of candidate in the VUWSA 2010 Election.

However, VUWSA 2010 Election results have revealed a little more than next year’s electives, showing no more than 1500 students made the effort to vote and, on average, 45% selected a vote of ‘no confidence’ when available.

When Salient spoke to students, their opinion was unanimous. They do not feel well informed about the VUWSA Elections. A staggering average of three students in a class of 20, voted.

While most students could name the current President of VUWSA, students felt little information was available to them about the running candidates.

“I would arrive in class to find their voting information scribbled on,” says one student “How am I meant to know what they are saying?”

One voter explained he had read their online blogs when deciding to cast his vote.

“I was just looking for someone who knew what they were talking about,” he says.

While some students investigated their candidates before casting a ‘wise’ vote, other students based their vote on the sound of their candidates names, the ‘coolness’ of their poster or their level of attractiveness.

“I think it’s harder to dislike a hot guy, I’d probably trust his judgement more,” retorts one voter.

As for the VUWSA Candidates Election Campaigns, many students felt they were left uninformed and clueless, divulging into lecture visits by candidates, some who simply asked students to vote for them because their mom would.

“I didn’t vote for her,” one student quickly replied.

Most students voted online from the link provided in a mass email, sent to all students enrolled at Victoria University, but many conceded had it not been for the email, they would not have bothered at all.

“I think it’s just down to our own laziness,” an honest student replied.

Rumours had surfaced across internet forums months before citing Muse, Kasabian, Groove Armada, Placebo, and David Bowie as hot favourites for the summer festival, held next January in Auckland.

While David Bowie will not be in attendance (thanks Stuff.co.nz, you suck), Lily Allen, who has recently announced her retirement from the music industry, will grace Auckland with her presence. Allen previously played at Big Day Out 2007.

Muse, who also played Big Day Out 2007 alongside the likes of The Killers and Tool, will headline next January’s music festival, no doubt playing some of the highlights of their new studio album ‘The Resistance’.

Alongside Lily Allen and Muse, Australian rockers Powderfinger are set to play. Salient is also happy to report Kasabian, Groove Armada and the Mars Volta will also rock Mt Smart Stadium along with those metal bands who receive the lunchtime slot on the Orange Stage. The Boiler Room will host Dizzee Rascal, who appeared at Big Day Out 2008.

It’s a bit of a reunion of sorts this year, innit? Well, there’s some new blood thrown into the mix.

The Decemberists, a five-piece indie-folk band hailing from Oregon released their new album The Hazards of Love earlier this year. After listening to the album for several months, Salient hopes for big things from this band.

Other highlights include British indie rockers The Horrors, but spotlight is on Melbourne band The Temper Trap, who are newcomers to the Big Day Out family. Their single ‘Sweet Disposition’ can be heard on the official soundtrack for the recently released film 500 Days of Summer.

Unlike last year’s festival there has been little moaning and groaning about the initial lineup. While the choice of Neil Young for Big Day Out 2009 left many young’uns scratching their head, older generations joined the fun. Salient recalls an unusually large balding male population enjoying this year’s festivities.

The full list containing the bands released in the initial lineup is available at the official Big Day Out website. As usual, two more line up announcements will be made before the show kicks off Friday 15 January at Mt Smarts Stadium, Auckland. Tickets go on sale Wednesday 7 October.

University Council members had to duck for cover as protesters threw fruit and eggs at them at a meeting where fees and the student services levy were raised last Monday.

VUWSA President Jasmine Freemantle was hit in the head by an orange, but Chancellor Tim Beaglehole and Vice Chancellor Pat Walsh survived unscathed.

Official VUWSA Protest leader, Education Vice-President Freya Eng said the poultry-produce pillory was not supported by VUWSA, and no executive members threw items.

The group of about 25 protesters, largely made up of Workers’ Party members, marched from the quad to the Hunter Building Council Chambers shortly after 4pm.

Almost 20 students gathered in the quad last Monday afternoon, outraged at the university’s decision to raise fees and combine the Students Services Levy and close to double it.

Workers’ Party activists who no longer attend Victoria University took control of the protest, shouting for students to disrupt the Victoria Council Meeting.

“Education shouldn’t be a privilege, it’s a right!” called a representative of the Workers’ Party.

During a speech by Victoria Broadcasting Club managing co-director Matthew Davis on why fees and the levy should not be raised, Reith, fellow Workers’ Party member and former VUWSA Campaigns Officer Sam Oldham and perennial student Kerry Tankard began yelling and chanting.

As Vice-Chancellor Professor Pat Walsh moved to report on the increase in fees, protestors shouted obscenities at Council members who for the most part received free education.

Chancellor Emeritus Professor Timothy Beaglehole issued a formal warning to protestors, stating any further interruptions would result in their removal.

Beaglehole read a second warning and took a vote to vacate the council chambers as the protesters began to throw eggs and fruit.

The Council was then moved from the Council Chambers to a smaller room in the Kirk Building under a heavy Campus Care presence, where the meeting continued.

With a spring of violent attacks around the Wellington region, student safety is quickly becoming a top priority.

Within the last month, a young female has been sexually assaulted and several youths have found themselves beaten and robbed on city streets. The recent spout of attacks has targeted intoxicated young people who are by themselves on city streets.

However, it isn’t all doom and gloom. Students in town have a range of sources to tap into in order to keep themselves safe. Bars around the city take responsibility as hosts when serving patrons. Salient spoke to Jonno Huntington, owner of The Big Kumara, a popular bar among Wellington students.

“Host responsibility is an issue we take quite seriously here,” said Huntington, “For us the responsibility ends when the person reaches home safely.”

Measures are put in place to ensure that no one is drinking to excess in the bar.

“We encourage people to eat food and we don’t charge for water. It’s little things like this, offering food and free water that we don’t have a problem with. If it’s keeping people safe, we’ll keep doing it.”

Since becoming the owner of The Big Kumara in January 2009, there have been no incidents of violence or assaults within the bar.

Regarding the double standards in drinking between men and women, Huntington believes that while there is a focus on youth and female drinking, there is more than meets the eye with the current situation.

“It’s purely methodological. For example, men will drink beer while women ask for spirits,” Huntington told Salient, “It’s not the drinking, it’s how they’re drinking, and there’s a big difference between the sexes.”

With the spotlight securely on the youth and female drinkers, Huntington notes that recent articles presented the cold, hard facts.

“The truth is, young people and women are drinking to excess, they arrive intoxicated in town and can’t get into bars. This leaves them on the streets where they get into trouble.”

Community Constable Rachel Shore spoke with Salient regarding the portrayal of young drinkers in the media.

“There has been a steady increase in the amount of alcohol being consumed by young people aged from 18 to 25. Also, anecdotally, Police and A&E do notice an increase or decrease in arrests and hospital admissions depending on the student calendar.”

Police are often seen patrolling the inner city during busy nights, some areas more than others.

“One of these areas is the Blair Street and Courtenay Place intersection, where violence can occur,” Shore told Salient, “Police have been working together with the Wellington City Council and the lighting has been improved which has resulted in the street not being as troublesome as in the past.”

Community Constable Rachel Shore argues that there needs to be more focus on the safety of young people in the city.

Campaigns such as ‘Safe in the City’ target females in particular, urging young women to have a plan in place when in town. ‘Safe in the City’ draws attention to details such as making better use of Wellington’s taxi services while promoting the notion of ‘safety in numbers’.

The campaign appeals to young women, showing that while there is still fun to be had in town, the safety and wellbeing of young people should come first.

Students last week were stopped in their tracks by a small group of protestors in the quad.

Armed with plastic rifles, the Free Palestine Group constructed a makeshift blockade from traffic cones across an accessway to the quad.

The group said they wanted to raise awareness of Israel’s oppression of Palestinians in occupied territories.

“We want to promote Palestinian freedoms and rights to a homeland while highlighting the atrocities of the Israeli War,” one protester told Salient.

“Some Palestinians are held at checkpoints for hours, some are given arbitrary detention and some are even shot.”

Protestors asked students to produce identification as they passed through the blockade.

As questioning continued, some students became agitated with the demonstration.

The Free Palestine Group had previously set up a mock blockade at another location in the quad, before they were asked to leave by CampusCare.

The protestors briefly retreated to the Student Union Building, before moving back to the Quad, setting up the blockade on the main stairs leading down to the driveway.

By the time Salient arrived on the scene, the Free Palestine Group had been interrogating “suspected terrorists” at this location for almost twenty minutes.

There was a mixed response among the student body regarding the nature of the protest.

While many students smiled quizzically and presented ID cards, others simply jumped the blockade and continued walking.

“Most of the students are quite supportive,” a representative of the Free Palestine Group told Salient.

“A few are a bit irritated, but for the most part we’ve got a light-hearted response.”

Campus Care told the protesters to remove themselves from the area, after a complaint was lodged by a student.

Neither protestors nor Campus Care moved to vacate the stairwell.

Tensions peaked when Campus Care took possession of a traffic cone used to make the blockade.

“It’s every student’s free right to be able to travel in all areas of campus without disruption,” a representative of Campus Care told Salient at the protest.

“They are obstructing access, preventing students from being able to walk about and blocking a stairwell, which could lead to safety issues.”

Campus Care said that they felt the manner in which the Free Palestine Group had brought attention to their cause was inappropriate and disruptive.

Fighting a losing battle with Campus Care, the Free Palestine Group quietly gathered their traffic cones and moved off site.

A copy of Article13 of the International Declaration of Human Rights left behind at the protest was taken by Salient as a souvenir.

President Jasmine Freemantle opened the meeting with a pressing matter; correct format of Executive Reports. Previous work reports submitted probed no questions from the peanut gallery, except for “Who’s Seamus?” as the newbies had not been properly introduced to anyone.

Clubs Officer Mariya Kupriyenko’s work report was incorrectly formatted AND written in another font, breaking sacred VUWSA doctrine. Kupriyenko, who had a couple of lectures, couldn’t find a suitable computer and chose to submit the work report as is, being that it was a “top priority”.

President Jasmine Freemantle suggested planning a schedule and pointed out that the impending death threats due the heinous use of font and format would be directed at her, not Kupriyenko. Kupriyenko then bowed and apologised for sacrilegious use of such a font and would submit her new-and-improved work report the following day.

Sam Oldham’s report had spelt “Vic” incorrectly. After putting up a fight, explaining “no, that’s really how it is meant to be spelled!”  Sam conceded it was in fact a typo and heartedly apologised.

Freya Eng also noted that Education Officer Tim Wang’s work report detailed a large number of activities that were more ‘Welfare’ based and did not relate to his Education portfolio. The issue, deferred to next week, may be related to the fact the Welfare Officer was Robert Latimer… However, one can never be sure about these things.

After finally introducing the newbies to everyone else, President Freemantle moved on to discuss the accounts, which are sitting better than previously thought. As for legal expenses, these have been absorbed through decrease in other areas, in particular salaries. President Freemantle has been covering several staff portfolios for the past few months due to resignations. This has resulted in a considerable amount of savings.

At this point in the meeting, President Freemantle took the time to highlight that at the end of each year, exec members tend to get a little excited as extra funds can be seen sitting inconspicuously around VUWSA offices, quietly whispering, “Spend me… Spend meeeeeee!” President Freemantle explained that exec members should only spend money when necessary. This attitude did not extend to the $25,000 pimp-out of the VUWSA van in 2007. WIN!

Discussion then moved to the Aug/Sept NZUSA Conference to be held at Lincoln University. President Freemantle will attend as Chief Delegate and Victor Manawatu as Assistant Chief Delegate. Max Hardy will also be attending. Freya Eng has been asked to speak at the NZUSA Conference, but as budget did not allow her to go, NZUSA will be covering her flights for the day.

Le gasp! Free bread! Currently, no one is available to pick up said free nom-noms. Robert Latimer has offered to retrieve the bread (giggle) but President Freemantle was uncertain about this. Exec members then went around the table trying to find someone who isn’t not on their learners and owns a car.

President Freemantle then opened up about the resignation of Robert Latimer. Last Thursday Latimer put himself forward as President at the Can-Do AGM. President Freemantle advised against this, as it would be inappropriate to be an exec member as well as be President of Can-Do, rep group for students with disabilities. Robert Latimer resigned verbally then sent a formal resignation to Freemantle and a memo to fellow exec members on Tuesday, effective of 31 July.

Exec members discussed the potential of co-opting his position now or later, at the VUWSA elections. Freya Eng suggested that should someone be interested in co-opting they should at least want to continue to next year, otherwise co-opting now only to finish in 7 weeks would be a waste of resources. President Freemantle moved to put an official notice on the VUWSA board and liaise with others around campus.

The meeting closed on a brighter note; Pulp Culture Expo, 12–3 on 19 August. An epic nerd-alert, this expo is an ingenious way to expose and glorify g33k culture and includes comics, games and all things sci-fi. Kupriyenko appealed for other exec members to get on board and help with Pulp Expo Propaganda.

Exec members agreed to help, but only if The Doctor let them have a spin on the TARDIS. 

The suburb of Mt Cook, home to a number of Victoria University students, has seen an increase in the number of intruder burglaries recently.

The increase in burglaries has local police urging residents to improve their home security. The majority of homes targeted have had no security systems in place, allowing intruders to easily slip in through unlocked doors and windows.

Community Constable Rachel Shore explained that these burglaries were taking place predominantly at night, generally while the people are home in bed.

“Our main concern is that home owners could confront the intruders and the situation has the potential to escalate,” Constable Shore said.

Student pockets are also taking a beating as iPods, laptops and game consoles are among the items targeted by the offenders. With cellphones, wallets and even alcohol on the agenda, these items are portable and not easily identified, making sale of these stolen goods quick and simple for thieves.

Concerning the reasons behind such an increase in night-time theft, Constable Baz Murfin said that police were collating evidence on suspects in relation to the recent intruder burglaries but are advising residents to boost their home security regardless.

“It’s as simple as locking your doors,” Constable Shore said.

When it comes to keeping property safe, storing items away from view and drawing the curtains reduces the temptation of theft. Recording serial numbers and marking items such as iPods by engraving or using an invisible marker allows tracking the item much easier for police.

“If the serial number is recorded, we can run it through our system. Places like Cash Converters have a similar system to us, and it makes tracking the offender easier,” says Constable Shore.

Simple actions such as introducing yourself to neighbours and, if living in an apartment complex, collecting your guests from outside are also encouraged by police to prevent strangers from becoming familiar to the area.

Residents are also encouraged to get proactive and are invited to join a Neighbourhood Support Group, which receives assistance from local police.

Students who see anything suspicious or are interested in setting up a Neighbourhood Support Group can contact Rachel Shore at Wellington Police for more information on (04) 381 2000 or Rachel.Shore@police.govt.nz.

A student beleaguered by two men at Wellington Railway Station last week has been told by station officials that user safety was not part of their jurisdiction.

Richard Law, a student at Victoria University, was standing in the station’s west wing near Pipitea Campus at 5.30pm last Monday when he noticed two Polynesian men acting suspiciously near the escalators.

The two men approached a duo of buskers and attempted to extort money from them.

The men talked briefly with the buskers before abruptly grabbing their instruments, a didgeridoo and bongo drums and playing with them.

One of the buskers was forced to hand over some money to get the men to leave.

Law, who was standing opposite, became the next target as the men approached him from different angles, effectively blocking him against the wall. One of the men began to intimidate the student.

“I felt really threatened. I thought he was going to burn my face. When I told them I didn’t have any money, they asked to search my wallet.”

When raising his voice didn’t seem to grasp the attention of people passing by, Law cautiously slipped past the two men and darted in-between the crowds, heading directly for the Inquiries Desk in the Station.

Meanwhile, the two men had accosted a young woman in her early twenties who promptly handed over an unknown sum of money from her wallet.

Expecting the two men to be reprimanded for coercing train-users into handing over their money, Law was stunned when told that this was out of their jurisdiction.

“They basically told me it wasn’t their problem, that the station was run by Wellington City Council, and that I had a cell-phone so I should call the police.”

While Law was writing out a complaints form, the staff member at the enquiries desk radioed for a security worker to scout the area.

The enquiries desk called Law moments after he left his complaint form, reiterating the point that aggressive behaviour in the Station was not their concern and was a matter for Wellington City Council.

When Salient spoke to the inquiries desk at Wellington Train Station, staff explained that the subway, where the incident had occurred, was part of the Wellington Council’s jurisdiction.