Utopia - the return of Swervin' Mervyn

Capital.

I now have the pictures taken of me when I was playing the role of a First Life Guard [in the non-speedo edition].

Due to my trim taut and terrific waistline, the belt was a little too large to fit over my waist, so I incorporated a bit of stomach stuffing so I could truly resemble the might of Australian pace bowling. At times with the moustache, uniform, helmet and large stomach I thought I was fasttracked to gout-town.

Re-enacting the might of the British Colonial Empire, shooting natives and nicking their land (whilst wearing flowers around one's neck).

The guns we were given were authenic enough, old deactivated rifles, one of which was still cockable - that's right, it is a word.

The goal now is to build up a series of fast bowler moustaches over my years here and then start a tribute band - Merv Aid, or something similar.

Good times.

Utopia Limited

The posts are back, they never left but took a place right on the rear of the stove - along with everything else - during these last few weeks when the termly Gilbert and Sullivan yacht dropped anchor and docked in the harbour... the harbour of my life... well that was going somewhere but ran ashore - I won't do that again... well hardly ever.

I will laugh at that last comment again and again and inform you as to its cleverness in due course.




We had a run of 6 performances (5 evening and the dreaded matinee for which an extra large dose of Auchetnoshan whisky was required to man up) and of course the turbulent rehearsal schedule in the weeks before.

Ever so briefly: there is a small island in the south Pacific called UTOPIA - hence the grass skirts and barechestedness. They have heard that the British Empire is the best thing since a 5-0 Ashes victory (see what I did there?) and have imported these 5 'Flowers of Progress': men from England (from the army, the navy, the courts, a county councilor and an economic imperator) to make their island as good as the UK. There are some villianous characters around who remind everyone that all these reforms to the land are not so good - if we abolish crime then the lawyers will starve, if we are too strong militarily then we can't ravage the local nations for a bit of biffo, etc. And then, and here is the coup de grace, they introduce government by party - one party will block the other's motions, the nation will be at a standstill and all will be made well. Curtain.

But in reality it is better than that.... oh yes.

I played CAPTAIN CORCORAN K.C.B - imported to Utopia to flaunt some naval supremecy. After I had gone through my first flask of an evening I would undoubtedly refer to this character as 'The Skipper' and try to speak in nautical analogies to pass the time - belay that, hoist the anchor, three sheets to the wind and so forth. I think that I thought myself a lot funnier and cleverer than I actually was.

Anyway, as some may have remembered, Captain Corcoran is the name of the captain in the HMS Pinafore, and to milk that success as much as he could, Gilbert reintroduces the Skipper in Utopia. I finish my little song with, 'I will never run a ship ashore', the penny begins to drop when the cast ask, 'What never?' and I say... you know what is coming, with 'No never!'. Just incase the gag hasn't caught on they respond with a pause... 'What nevvveeer?' And all the old switcheroo between operas is made complete when I admit, 'Well... hardly ever.' And they give me three cheers... and one cheer more.... as they bloody well should.

Some of the other characters who inhabited the lower dressing room: Left is Rachael who looked like Mrs Doyle from FATHER TED in that dress. I kept on offering her some whisky saying: 'Go on go on, it's got cocaine in it... no, not cocaine, what's the other one... oh yes, Raisins.' The two birds in the centre played the princesses who were prim and proper and all things English. The chap who looks like he will conduct the Sydney Philharmonic played the imported lawyer BAILLEY BARRE - whom I referred to as Baz throughout most of the performance.

The role of the skipper is a short one, an impact player if you will, and so to bolster my injection of antipodean mavericity I was given a small role on the side of a FIRST LIFE GUARD. Originnaly I thought this meant Zinc Cream, Speedos and strutting around looking manly, but alas it was just the third of these as in this sense the Life Guard is a soldier in the cavalry, like the ones outside Buckingham Palace who are not allowed to move.

There are some photos of this coming around - I requested another Boonie-an moustache, and got it by gum! I plan to build up a collection of amusing theatrical facial hair to remind me of times of yore when my face didn't freeze during the evening.

Snow in Oxford

Early this morning there was a carpet of snow outside my window, apparently a storm had come across from Ireland, picking potatoes along the way and depositing them in the form of snowflakes on our scholarly lawns.


Another view from my room, winter had descended.

I had to run the gauntlet to get into the dining hall at lunch. The undergraduates at college had a field day with the throwing of the snow - as did I. On walking about half way to the hall one bloke hit me in the back with a sphere of snow.... 'Oh, you did not want to do that dear boy...' and my javelin arm, although not as lethal as WR Usher's harpoon, came into deadly effect.

To show how deep the snow was, and to see if my shoes need a shine.

So I decided, on recommendation from my supervisor, to build a snowman. It is tough work. I went down to the University Parks, found a space and began. I couldn't get the hang of rolling snow together into spheres, so I built a column instead. It was a mammoth column, in all seriousness taller than I, I named it Gregor. The goal was to build this column then reshape it to have features, Gregor was quite androgynous at this point. Then... oh then... disaster struck. A group of students came over and were having snowball fights and general merriment.

I laughed and smiled at their jollility and walked away a few steps to gather some more snow. When I turned around to walk back I saw someone rushing at my snowman. He had the look of a scurvy ridden maverick from Macedonia and charged full speed towards Gregor. Then he...

fly kicked Gregor...

That's right, he launched into a full blown Bruce Lee Fly-Kick and hit Gregor about two thirds the way up. The snow fell to the ground, as did he. I was speechless, literally so. I had a pile of snow in my gloves and a look on my face partially composed of snock, anger and wonder. Why, why? He got up from the ground said: 'It is all a bit of fun,' and ran off. Normally I would reach under my jacket, pull out the handy crowbar and remove him from the species gene pool. But today... speechless.

When he left I thought of trying to rebuild my creation, but no amount of CPR would bring Gregor back from the dead. He is now in Valhalla with all the other heroes...

I kicked the stump in disgust and left, disenfranchised by the whole experience.

On the way back though I saw THE SNOWMAN. It would have been at least three metres tall. It was composed of three spheres and the constructors had built two subsiduary snowballs around it to STAND on so they could reach the top. It was quite an experience...

Quote of the Day (remember that old chestnut?): George, colleague of mine in the Maths Institute, was told the story and responded, "You really should carry a knife for such occasions, there is no need for that man to stay alive."

The Host

Well I have been waiting until I posted again, mainly because I thought I would have some photos sent in by the admiring hordes, but it was not to be. So this promises to be a rather text heavy monograph, if I get to a thousand words then it is the same as including a picture, no?

So to make up for the Amsterdam debaucle (where accommodation was forfeit and some deposits not refundable) I decided to host Ross and Richo here at the Manor and show them the sights and sounds of Oxford.

They arrived 3 hours late on a bus, which was a good start as they had to pick their way through town to get to Balliol after I had long given up on them at the bus station. After walking them down to the Manor I showed them the guest room, which is the sort of set up I would like to have once I finish my DPhil: a sitting room, large bedroom, ensuit, comfortable lounges and chairs and books on '300 Years of Academic Dress'.

I took them to the Oxford Story, which is a 'theme park ride' for want of a better phrase which aims to educate the intellect and enlighten the senses or some such bollocks. That was my third time there and I daresay if the two lads had their time again they would want to ride it several more times... or perhaps zero more times.

That night there was a read/sing-through of The HMS Pinafore with the Gilbert and Sullivan Society in a pub in north Oxford. Normally I attend these for the good times and took the chaps along. After a slow start on the fringes of the group, several beers and a steak dinner induced the best of good times and everyone (including my two Australian imports) were getting into the finale and indeed delivering the ALL lines in the libretto with gusto. Admittedly the ALL lines were 'Yes, No,' or 'Belay' and inevitably we had diverted attention to the beer and thus were out of synch with the rest, but it provided a nice delayed Dolby stereo effect (where available).

There were much cards and whisky and wine in the Guest Room, with tales of their travels weaving amongst the reminiscence of the ANU. But without a doubt the highlight was the Saturday evening when the college celebrated Burns' Night.

To set the scene ever so briefly: Robert Burns = the Scots' national poet and they [the Scots] honour him with a dinner each year - haggis, whisky, bagpipes [which you don't eat I am told] and the like. Now as Balliol was founded by a Scotsman we hold a dinner each year, formal black tie, same old story. So, the night consists of eating, drinking and being merry but with speeches and toasts and graces galore. Now there is a toast from the men to the women [traditionally thanking the hostess for cooking, but now for a a bit of a laugh] and then a response from the lasses to the lads. I was asked to give the toast 'To the Lasses' and as such was offered a seat at the High Table. After pulling some strings I managed to get Ross and Richo seats there as well to complete the Oxford experience.

Well, the night was a success. There were about 6 bottles of whisky on the high table for 24 people, including women and people who weren't fans of the 'water of life'. That made for jolly times, infact after I was explaining to someone about the benefits to taste of single as opposed to mixed malts I began to use the adjective 'Single Malt' to describe everything: whisky, wine, the salmon entree. After the entree the haggis was 'piped in' - the bagpiper stood up at the High Table and played his ditty while the Haggis was marched in by the chef. As we were eating the Praefectus [head of the MAnor] who was sitting beside me remarked that it would have been better if the piper piped from up in the organ loft.

To explain: the dining hall is thus:
-----

I I I
I I I
I I I

OL

With the --- being the high table the Is being the normal tables and the OL being the organ loft which is raised about a storey and a half about the ground.

Right, so as the whisky and haggis [which was great] were dancing the flavour-two-step I was thinking, 'I think it would be good if I was to get up there for ye olde speech.'

And so I did, asking the MC if I could speak from up there. She wasn't sure and said, "I don't think the microphone will work from up there." I assured her that I could manage without.

And so it came to pass, that after dessert I bolted up to the organ loft and began hiding in the shadows while the concluding grace was said. The MC asked the diners to turn around and look up and then, Phantom of the Opera esque I revealed myself from the shadows. I thought that a speech on Latin Grammar would get some laughs and so I opened with a piece on the Ancient Romans.

I said, "It shouldn't come as a suprise to us that the following sentences are all feminine, at least grammatically speaking:

orbis logicae - circular logic
insana cura soleis - an insane obsession with shoes, and my favourite
Latrina sedes depone, tu stulte. Non credo habito cum porco. (Put the toilet seat down, you oaf: I can’t believe that I live with a pig– here though… oaf and pig are both masculine… those clever Romans.)

Ah yes, good times all round.

There were more toasts drunk throughout the night, more 'single malt' descriptions and general merriment with Ross, Richo and the rest.

After giving them an action packed tour of Oxford I packed them into a bus on Sunday to send them onto London and the rest of their journey. They kindly bought me a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year old whisky as a thankyou, indeed this was 'single malt' in every sense of the term.... well both senses really.

This weekend I will update with the rest of the caperings from the recent weeks. Stay tuned, same blog time, same blog channel.