Fifteen will get you Twenty.

As those who have known will probably know, I sombrely celebrated the death of my youth on Saturday, reaching the Methuselian age of 27. What Melbourne friends I have that are still alive, having not yet chosen to paddle out into the mists of the River Styx, and whose bums still point true to the ground, all got together for a couple of drinks. Firstly, we went down to Thang Phong in Victoria St, Richmond, to get some springers and a number twenty-nine. For those poor saps who've either never "Phonged it" or reached Zen enlightenment, this is spring rolls followed by pork chop with the lot. I had a raging case of springer fever due to my "controlled eating" (don't say diet), and set upon the springers like a man posessed. During this time, Choco and his entourage were, of all bloody places, watching the new Harry Potter fillum. In anticipatory revenge, last week I dug up several very wrong images of the heads of Harry, Snape, and Malfoy, photochopped onto gay porn, and sent them to Chris, frying his retinas like so much bacon. When it came around to watching the film, I was informed that he weeped like a grieving widow who just banged her shin on a towbar.

Ok, drinking story time. After dinner, our humble posse had some drinks, which was all very nice. On the whole, an unremarkable evening. Some friendly banter, the presence of some moderately attractive lay-dies, and the smug satisfaction from hanging out in trendy Melbourne bars (namely, the comfortable chair, which Chris, at the height of wit, dubbed the uncomfortable chair). We smuggled about a bottle of some dark rum (i.e., Darwin Diesel) and tried not to grimace too much whilst drinking it. At the end of the evening, however, there was about half a bottle left. Steve, in a fit of bravado, insisted that he was able to scull the entire amount. After some protestations, he reluctantly agreed to only scull about a third of a bottle, which he did with an appropriate amount of fanfare. Within about ten minutes, Steve was showing everyone how he can do one handed handstands. In the middle of the road. Then got all ninja and attempted to fight Adam, with mixed success but definitely won on enthusiasm. In all of that malarkey, Steve was running about, and punched me in the face without any provocation as he ran past at one point. Chris also copped an unprovoked attack. Basically, for about half an hour, he was quite hilarious and insane. Steve was quite insistent that we head to one of the the nastiest 24 hour pokie pubs in Melbourne: the Tankerville. Choco and Fleabag wisely chose this moment to go home. Which left Steve, Adam, Ada and I to take a taxi.

Something happened in that taxi. Riding shotgun, I recall looking into the rear-view mirror at one point and noticing that Steve's head was on his chest, lolling about hither and yon. By the time we arrived, Steve got out of the taxi, hung onto a parking sign, moaned, and began slowly slumping down onto the footpath. Adam and I tried to hold him up and walk him to the pub, but the bouncer was astrally projecting a big "eff off" from across the road. We shunted Steve across, sat him down, and attempted to give him some lung candy to straighten him up, with no luck. After some effort, we sent Ada off down the road to hail a cab (the sight of Steve was scaring off the flighty cabbies). I dragged Steve across to the cab, and desperately tried to persuade the cabbie to take us home, forcing my credit card into his hand, and swearing on every deity I knew that Steve was not going to vomit. Why was I so sure? Why, because Steve had informed us only hours earlier "I have not thrown up from alcohol in THREE YEARS." (that quote is verbatim). Quite an astounding feat, really, to have current statistics like that at hand. The taxi driver had a look at the semi-comatose, bedraggled figure that we were holding upright, and uttered those insightful words: "He doesn't need a taxi, he needs a friggen ambulance." However, in a grand testament to the power of empathy, he let us aboard, and Steve began vomiting about 50 metres up the road. I saw the first heave, and let out a plaintive cry. The taxi driver screeched to a halt. I cunningly caught the majority of the first payload with my right hand, simultaneously reaching over with my left to open the door while pushing Steve out of the taxi with my hip and knees. Adam leapt from the front seat with the speed of a startled gazelle, and dragged the offender out onto the gutter to fully expunge the Darwin Diesel Demon which wracked his frail frame. The taxi driver swore his complete vocabulary of expletives in some godless heathen language, while scrambling for water and a cloth. We helped him clean his vehicle, pressed a 50 dollar note into his trembling hands, and bid him farewell.

Steve had moved house recently, and we were ignorant of his new address. I dug Steve's mobile from his pocket with my warm acidic hands and called his lady friend. Smashing. We've got about 4 blocks to walk, er, carry Steve home. Adam got under one arm, and I got under the other, we hoisted his elfin carcass up so that his legs just scraped along the ground, and carried. At one point, we came across a shopping trolley out the front of Saint Vinnies, which we emptied of its charity and replaced with our insensate patient. The only words muttered by him in this whole ordeal were the odd half-hearted effin' cees. The shopping trolley worked a treat, but seemed to set off further bouts of technicolour yawning. After this arduous journey, we made our way into his house to find his bedroom up a perilous set of stairs, up which he was lifted by the armpits and legs. We stripped him down to his pantaloons (pantaloons!?!), and did the only fair thing. Took photographs of him with dirty magazines.



Moyston is going well. We have baby emus, baby chickens, and I've shot a few baby rabbits. Also managed to execute a couple of Hares that are accused of nibbling the plants in Mum's garden. A fitting punishment for such an heinous crime.

Choco, Steve, and Fleabag have set off on the first evening of their dive course this evening. I was informed via an electronic mail (e-mail) that Steve had failed his dive medical, which may be loosely correlated to the pack of Marlboro Reds he sucks down every day. The last I heard, he was being driven by a large black man to a shonkier doctor. Back to me, I'm going for my boat license next Friday, which will be kickin' rad.