Chasing The Dragon-A Peculiar Tale of College Life at the Uni-

versity of Brisbane-

Dear University of Brisbane college faggots,

I'm a third year engineering student, I can't help but notice that somehow, living in a place that

promotes ridiculous levels of alcoholism - to the point where it essentially makes getting alcohol poi-

soning some strange honour or right of passage - seems to make the majority of you believe you are

better than everyone else who attends this university.

Most of you seem to be of the belief that because we either already live in Brisbane, or do not wish to

spend the ridiculous amount of money you waste on living in what is essentially a box, you are su-

perior and we are nothing.

I do not understand, to any degree whatsoever, the basis of your view that everyone else in this uni-

versity who does not wish to spend their Sunday nights vomiting on the pavement next to the RE

and their Monday morning with the hangover of a lifetime, is a loser in comparison to the glorious

college students. The only underlying factor I could think of is a lack of intelligence (probably due to

ridiculous levels of alcohol consumption) or the consuming nature of the colleges' "mob mentality"

You have a strange, collective, warped view of the world, and your exclusive culture is the cancer

that is killing this university.

tl;dr, you guys are hardly as awesome as you think you are.

Sincerely, a "day rat"

keep anon pls.

-University of Brisbane Confessions on Facebook-May 7, 2013. 125 “likes“.

Dayrats.

Don't be hating just because we're the elite, and you're yet to finish your first beer. Learn your

place (i.e. below f.reshers), and stay the fuck away from our hallowed halls.

Not only do we spend the majority of our nights making the Hangover movies look like a quiet

night in, we also keep GPAs higher than most of you motherfuckers; mostly through all-nighters

pulled the day before the assessment's due.

You could not handle the amount of sex, booze and balling that happens at college so suck my well-

endowed dick and bowdown to the 3% who actually run this motherfucking place. Bitch.

anon as fuck.

-”University of Brisbane Confessions“ on Facebook-May 8, 2013-May 8, 2013. 572 “likes“.

Every time a day rat confesses their hatred for UQ college elitism, I drain a goon sack and make a

Faith College girl climax. Not because I enjoy it, but on principle.

anon as balls, please

-”University of Brisbane Confessions“ on Facebook-May 8, 2013. 248 “likes“.

“first time sitting under a tree in the great court as a day rat. god i feel dirty“-

Facebook post by 2012 Imperial College Student Cub Vice President James Mullholland-

May 3, 2013. 50 “likes”.

Chapter 1-Psycadelic Mushrooms and College-

If you do illegal drugs, you are a mug-Extract from a speech by James Grazier, President of

the Imperial College Old Boys‘ Association. February 2010.

The Imperial College at the University of Brisbane, Australia, is an oddly mismatched

structure. Located five minutes walk from the University of Brisbane proper, it is an im-

posing and strange building. Upon the exterior of the building is a facade of sandstone, a

coat and an artificial skin. This sandstone exterior is embellished with various venerable

inscriptions in Latin and multiple grotesques of the college’s universal and timeless sym-

bol, a Dragon. The building’s interior and halls form an immediately and almost complete

contrast to the sandstone skin of the college. Basically, they are fucking drab. The interiors

of Imperial College largely consist of red bricked and blue carpeted halls. A smell of disin-

fectant pervades these halls during the off season, the heights of the Australian summer

and winter respectively. During the “On Season“, the time when the men of the college

reside in the sandstone exterior-red brick interior halls, an equally pungent smell of vomit

and spilt alcohol combines noxiously with the ever-present chemical odour of cleaning

liquids. It is this strange contrast between a shallow but presentable facade and a less then

flattering but ever present and pervasive reality that defines the lifestyle and culture of

Imperial College.

Basically, a shallow veneer of respectability hides the often brutal and vicious nature of

life at the prestigious institution of The Imperial College at the University of Brisbane. Su-

perficially, Imperial College appears to be one of the finest establishments of the universi-

ty. It is the home of the “Optimates“, The Best Men, of the Queensland university system

when the doors are open to the general public. However, when the doors close and the

lights go out, a more unsettling reality becomes apparent. Excess of wealth and general

bastardry predominate and become the norm. Men devolve to drunken apes. All manner

of hell breaks loose. Hence, delusion and illusion dominate. False realities become the

norm. Young men, often vulnerable and impressionable, spend their first few years of

adulthood in a fantasy land. The more naive, unprepared, and delusional among them of-
ten believe wholeheartedly that they are invincible mad dawgs destined to be lords of the

universe and everything existent within it. Oh, the gimpishness.

My stay at The Imperial College at The University of Brisbane ended over one year ago.

However, for all intensive purposes, my College life began in earnest around three years

ago. Though I didn’t know it at the time, College and “College life“ were elements des-

tined to be one of the defining influences in my later life and beliefs. This would become

apparent as the next two years unfolded and events, people, and chaging beliefs made

their assault upon the basic structure of my personality. Who was Lucas Jones? This is the

story of my stay at Imperial College, a tale of a surreal and somewhat strange pair of

formative years.

This story of my College life, I supposse, begins at my mate John’s farewell party in Feb-

ruary 2010. It was a sweltering but somewhat familiar summer night on the New South

Wales North Coast. I was sitting on the grass outside at a mate's place on the ridge I was

raised on, McEllens Ridge. McEllen’s Ridge is a beautiful place discovered by a great and

pioneering man, McEllen, whom no one quite remembers. It was John's going away party

and I was tripping like a motherfucker. A bunch of blokes from Lismore had picked an of-

fice bin full of shrooms before they came to the party. Everyone had had a quick look then

swiftly dropped in to see what condition their condition was in.

I was positioned slightly away from everyone else, I couldn't handle the pounding music

and heat of the party and I needed a rest. As I sat there, February night sweat soaking my

black Rage Against The Machine shirt, I was looking at the swirling patterns in the grass

and had reached a period of extreme introspection. What had I really done with my life so

far? Sure, I'd gone to school and got a reasonably good pass, I'd kept a decent extracurricu-

lar record, and I'd got accepted into a relatively decent uni. But other than that, what had I

really done with any of my time? I was fucking overweight and useless as shit talking to

anyone with a vagina. Well, this year I was going to college. Imperial College at the Uni-

versity of Brisbane. An all men's college that prided itself on it's website for almost one
hundred years of illustrious history. Things could, no things would, be different. Maybe I'd

have a chance there to prove something of myself and let people know that I wasn't a

completely useless piece of shit. A clean slate. Tabula rasa. My thoughts continued to spiral

towards hatred of what I was and corresponding ideas of what I could become. However,

I couldn't handle the negativity and general self criticism of this thought. I focused back on

the grass around me and it's intricate swirling patterns. Then I heard a voice from behind-

"Hey Lucas, want a bong?"

I obliged, headed over, and grabbed the glassie. I pulled that bad boy in one go. As the

weed hit my brain and chemically combined with the mushrooms and the beer, my mind

flipped back to a discussion I'd had a few weeks back. One of my mates, Mick, had a

brother who went to Imperial College for six months around five years ago. We were

walking through the summer rain in my home town of Ashtonville, Northern New South

Wales, Australia. Ashtonville is a wierd place. It has an unusual number of churches per

capita, two retirement homes, and a large community of moody retirees to match. Ashton-

ville is a refuge of conservatism in the left wing stronghold of Northern New South Wales.

This strange combination is reflected in Ashtonvilian geography. The town is structured

like a suburb in a big city, but it is set amidst the rolling hills and farmland of the New

South Wales North Coast. Suburbia in the countryside. A strange place indeed. Ashton-

ville as a town is unique and paradoxically mundane at the same time.

In addition to the huge retiree communitty of Ashtonville is an equally large population of

young families. This is due to the fact that two primary schools and a high school are lo-

cated in the town. Needless to say, the combination of bored old people and bored teenag-

ers makes for an interesting dynamic in this grand old country settlement.

Ashtonville could pretty much be considered the teen drinking hysteria capital of the

North Coast due to the co-existence of different cultures within it’s town limits. As a size-

able population of youngsters is set amidst a huge population of retirees in the town, "shit"
goes down on a regular basis in Ashtonville AKA Actionville. Shit, in this sense, basically

meaning people making a bigger deal out of things than is strictly necessary. Ashtonville

was built in an older time and place. It's population consists in no small part of the aged

and dying. Most of the town's services reflect the needs and worldview of this decrepit

and derelict demography. Ashtonville is a sequence of churches, parks, and butcher shops.

Golly gosh, that’s not much to occuppy an adventurous and youthful soul. Without much

else to entertain themselves, Ashtonville's teenagers congregate around the weekly bond-

ing ritual of goon wine and weed smoked through milk bottle bongs in one of any number

of parks around town. The object of such a ritual is to get loud and noisy in order to

demonstrate just how young and intoxicated one actually is. Generally, these groups of

disruly youths have the police called on them by the concerned and responsible older res-

idents of the village. But this is half the fun. Ashtonville's teenagers' arguably predomi-

nant joy in life is to get chased by the po po whilst drunk and stoned. It's a strange process

that reflects the equally strange mentality and mindset of Ashtonville as a town.

Anyway, back to what Mick was saying. He was drunk and I was drunk and stoned at the

time so I didn't put too much capital to it. Mick essentially said that the Imperial College

was not for me. The guys there were apparently a bunch of private school rugger fuckers

with no respect for women and a bad attitude about basically everything else. His brother

had gone to private school and had only lasted six months in the place. I was a public

school student and wouldn't stand a chance. Of course, I believed he had an ulterior mo-

tive at the time. He was getting a shared house together and was looking to recruit mem-

bers for his residence. Whatever. Fuck it, I thought. I'd gotten into college. Once in a life-

time opportunity and I wasn't going to waste it.

"Nah, thanks mate, I'll still be heading to Imperial" I said to Mick as I walked across a

squelchy sports field saturated by the almost torrential rain of January 2010. Then my

mind flipped back again. I was at John's party on the ridge and was still tripping heavily. I

could handle the music now, even feel it in my bloodstream. So I went into the house to

soak in the vibes.

I arrived at Imperial College a couple of weeks later. In essence, I had no idea what to ex-

pect. My gold Toyota 98 Camry sedan pulled into a bunch of sandstone laced brick build-

ings. Fronting this was a basic looking chapel, somewhat of a nod to the college's historical

links with the Uniting Church. Walking around the buildings were the strangest looking

group of young men I had ever seen. They sported orange and purple singlets and had

their hair dyed to an almost blinding shade of orange. I knew that these would be the

dudes leading "O Week". I learnt about „O Week“ from my step-sister Jess who went to

The Ladies‘ College, a self evidently all female college on the University of Brisbane’s St

Lucia campus. According to Jess, O Week is basically an entire week of drinking, parties,

and fun. But as Jess warned me, I should watch out. Traditional all male colleges such as

Imperial often do O Week in a weird and unpredictable manner. Jess had told me that

there was “hazing“, strange rituals, and strange activites that apparently take place during

the Imperial College O Week.

First, I officially signed it to the College. Registration was at the Chapel, a dodgy and

somewhat basic prayer house built back in the 1950’s when the Uniting Church and their

ascetic form of protestantism still played a dominant part in the life of Imperial College. I

signed a self evidently revered leather bound tome listing all the “Imperial Men“ with my

name and the date. Then I picked up my “O Week“ supplies including a T-shirt and some

information booklets. Next, I began the arduous task of setting up my room. It was a hot

summer day in Australia. Me and my little brother unpacked my stuff and place it in a

room in Z flat, a hidden hall of rooms that was crammed under the dining hall of Imperial

College like somewhat of a sudden afterthought. At this stage my room was laced with

metal posters. I was still in that phase, my heavy metal phase, I guess. The heat of the

summer and the brick structure of the main college building ensured that I was half

drenched in sweat following the process of unpacking.

After preparing the room, there was apparently an "informal luncheon" in the dining hall.

It was a pretty decent feed of lamb roast and pork roast. In the dining hall, my Mum and
Dad and their respective partners, Paul and Anne, observed the surroundings. Mum re-

marked that it looked like a smaller version of the dining hall in Harry Potter. Dad didn't

like some of the rugby cunts in the surrounding vicinity. He's generally uncomfortable

round private school types. These guys don’t look too bad. Maybe overly fond of polo

shirts, but not evil. Geezus Dad, why judge?

Sitting across from me on this first day of college is a bloke that will eventually hate every

fibre of my being, and his Mum and Dad. His name is Tim and he has come to the Univer-

sity of Brisbane direct from the Sunshine Coast to study business management or econom-

ics or something similarily boring. I’m a more interesting kind of dude. Interesting bloke

that I am, I’m here to study journalism and political science. Tim is kind of fat, fatter then

me but not obese. It sort of makes me feel better about things, knowing that there are fatter

dudes then me at college. These sporty, mucsled looking fuckers I observe eveywhere else

in the hall do look like the dickheads back at high school who always had it in for me on

some strange primordial level.

As we have this fist lunch at college, there are a series of speeches. These include speeches

from the Master, the Deaputy Master, and the President of the Imperial College Student’s

Club. Generally the speeches tell us of how we have chosen to become men of distinction

through coming to Imperial College. Every young lad that has chosen to come here will

become a man of distinction. Every man who has come here will be an Imperial old boy,

the Emperor of his own respective universe. The years of college will be the greatest of our

lives. We will make mates and memories to last a lifetime. Now, to continue this fabulous

journey that will last a lifetime, will every young college lad please join your groups of

newly found mates for a lifetime in the College’s central quad in half an hour?

Well for me, the answer was no. I had booked a ticket to Soundwave, Australia’s premiere

heavy metal, punk, and rock music festival. There was no way I was missing Soundwave

for a crappy college orientation day. Faith No More was at Soundwave for fuck’s sake. So I
snuck back to my room, grabbed my ticket, some weed, and a pipe, and walked out the

front of the college to Dad’s car. Dad drove me and my little brother to Soundwave.

All in all, Soundwave was a great day. I spent the day in the metal tent moshing like a

mad cunt to heavy metal bands like DevilDriver, Meshuggah, and Anthrax. Then, when

the night came on, I got stoned with a hippie in the circle ring around mainstage and

moshed some more (and like an equally mad cunt) to Faith No More. Overall, Soundwave

was a pretty alright time. Admittedly, I am a kind of easier to please dude back then. De-

spite my half stoned-half natural hapiness on this night, what I am about to see when I

got back to College is something that will shock and confound me. I will spend the next

two years attempting to reconcile such shock and confusion in my own unusual way, be-

fore giving up.

I walked up the sandstone steps of the College around 11pm after Soundwave. It was late

at night by then and the place seemed pretty quiet. Manning the front desk was a lonely

and grumpy looking Italian security guard named Luigi. The bloke looked like, and prob-

ably once was, a mafia bouncer. As we walk up the stairs, Dad asks Luigi “What’s going

on?

“Just Orientation“ replies Luigi.

Me, my brother, and Dad walked to a large windowed wall overlooking the college quad.

We looked out and gazed upon what was definitively the stragest spectacle I had ever

seen in my life up until then.

The Imperial College student “Executive“, clad in aviators and purple polos, their hair

spiked and fearsomely orange, had devolved from the group of men I saw earlier today

into an unmistakable group of beasts. In their hands were water hoses, pumping water

freely despite the dryness of the Queensland summer, and on their faces was a look of ar-

rogance and venom. The thirty or so of them yelled, in a millitary like unison-
“DRAGON!“

Below them, crawling along a muddied ground self evidently made so by the hoses wield-

ed by these strange gentlemen, were the two hundred or so young men I had shared the

dining hall with earlier that day. These were two hundred or so young men, seventeen or

eighteen years of age, covered in mud from head to toe. The young men replied with a co-

hesion almost as well practiced as their self proclaimed superiors-

“ALL HAIL THE GREAT DRAGON!“

A solitary figure amongst the older men, clad in a purple shirt and orange spiked hair like

everyone else but holding a megaphone as a form of disinguishment, stepped forward

from the pack. He yelled out-

“I DIDN’T HEAR YOU, YOU USELESS PACK OF FRESHER SHIT CUNTS!“

The young guys crawlng through mud responded in turn and with a greater degree of

unision-

“ALL HAIL THE GREAT DRAGON!“

The solitary figure put the megaphone to his mouth again-

“That’s better, cunts“.

Dad gave me an amused look and said “are you sure you want to stay here while you are

at uni?“

“Yeah“ I reply “Should be interesting. Doubt I’d fall for this wanker bullshit anyway“.
Dad gave another amused look “Suit yourself. I reckon you’ll be the one yelling Dragon

the loudest by the end of the first week.“

“Not likely“ I laughed.

I went to bed soon afterwards, but not before unintentionally making a dick of myself at

College for the first time.

The next day I awoke to screaming sirens followed by generic and shitty metal riffs. It was

5.30am and the college leadership group had decided to blast a little of the generic nu

metal pushed and trafficked by Slipknot to wake everyone up. Next thing I knew, I heard

a series of three loud knocks on my door.

“GET THE FUCK UP FRESHER!“

I threw on a t-shirt and started walking out of my room to the college quad with a bunch

of equally confused and dazed looking young dudes. One of them, and it is not in my

memory who, told me.

“Hey dude, not that shirt, you have to wear your Imperial shirt.“

“Thanks“ I reply. I jog slowly back to my room. I discard my current shirt and throw on a

grey shirt with the word “IMPERIAL“ written on it in big bold purple letters. Then I pro-

ceeded to jog back towards the College quad. I’ve been told that I was up for some form

of “Official College O-Week“ punishment on that bright February morn. The previous

night I had arrived at the College after the initial day of “hazing“. I had come down to the

quad with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a “shot gun“ (a gun for hard drinking mad dawgs

that dispenses shots of liquor) because I expected there to be some kind of partying occur-

ing after the older guys had proved their inherent superiority through spraying the shit
cunt freshers with hoses. Fuck, I was fucking confused. Purple shirted with orange spiked

hair thrown in all different directions like his all of his homeboys, a young guy had come

to me and told me what was what the night before.

“Yo, I’ve been to Soundwave today, is there any drinking after you guys are done with the

hoses and the mud and the yelling and stuff?“ I had asked.

“No fresher. Get to bed fresher. Tommorow you are up for official punishment. Missing

your first day of College for Soundwave is a shit cunt manouvere. Metal is shit anyway“.

Then I had slunk of to bed and wondered what was in store. Official punishment? I’d just

have to see what that meant. That’s what my thoughts centred upon as I entered the Col-

lege quad on the second morning. The air was fresh and cool. It was 5.30 am. Like all early

mornings in the Australian February, this would later give way to a hot and intense day. I

was calm and unassuming as I walked out to the quad. But what lay before me was an on-

ly slightly less unusual site than the strange Guantanmo excercises I had witnessed the

night before. The college Executive men stood staunchly once more. Their arms were

crossed, aviator sunglasses were fixed across their eyes, their faces were set to smirk, their

hair was once more orange and spiky. Marshalled before them were the fresher scum, two

hundred or so dazed and confused looking seventeen and eighteen year old men in gray

shirts.

“FRESHER!“ yelled one of the executive in my direction “YOU ARE FUCKING LATE!“

He gestured me in the direction of a group of around ten isolated freshers. Directing them

were two members of the student executive, simulating excercises that they needed to

complete for their lack of good timing. I began doing star jumps as directed and listened to

the student club president make his announcements on the hill at one end of the quad.
“FRESHER SCUM. I SWEAR YOU PIECES OF SHIT ARE THE SHITTEST FUCKING

CUNTS I HAVE EVER MET IN MY FUCKING LIFE! POOR EFFORT YESTERDAY YOU

FUCKWITS!“

The two hundred or so young men in the pit below yelled in reply “YES SIR! LA GRAND

EMPEROR SIR HERPES!“

“NOW TODAY IS A BIG DAY BOYS. TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY ON YOUR PATH TO

BECOMING IMPERIAL MEN. IMPERIAL MEN ARE MEN OF DISTINCTION, THE FIN-

EST MEN THIS UNIVERSITY, STATE, AND COUNTRY HAS TO OFFER. BUT FIRST WE

HAVE SOME SHIT TO DEAL WITH. ROLL CALL TIME.“

The roll call began and had a dynamic unlike any roll call I had participated in at school.

One of the lower ranking members of the executive took the roll call on that day.

“Fresher Skitzoid?“

“YES SIR NUMCHUCKS!“

„Fresher Brain Drain?“

“YES SIR NUMCHUCKS!“

“FRESHER MONGORIAN...FRESHER MONGORIAN....STEVEN CHIN?“

“YES SIR NUMCHUCKS?!“

“SHIT EFFORT FRESHER MONGORIAN! FRESHER CHILD?“

„YES SIR NUMCHUCKS!“

It went on like this for roughly five minutes until my name was called, roughly halfway

down the list.

“Fresher Texta? Fresher Texta? Lucas Jones?“

“YES SIR NUMCHUCKS?!“

“MISSED THE FIRST DAY YESTERDAY FRESHER TEXTA. SHIT EFFORT. MAKE SURE

YOU MAKE A BETTER EFFORT THROUGH THE WEEK SHIT CUNT!“

For some reason or another, my official punishment was forgotten about or abandoned.

But from that point, my first week of college, as well as my two years there in general, be-

gan full steam ahead. Drinking with a sudden accquaitance around a year after I left col-

lege, I heard college O Week at a New South Wales university described as somewhat like

“a high school camp, but with drinking“. I guess you could describe O Week at Imperial

College as somewhat like that. Kind of. Imperial College could be described as arguably

one of the most “fratty“ Australian colleges. The college has persisted as one of only four

remaining all male colleges in Australia amidst a culture generally shifting towards co-

education in both university colleges and high schools. American frat boys, generally op-

possed to and uncomfortable with a co-educational arrangement within their university

social organizations, have generally began to gravitate towards all male colleges like Im-

perial during their exchange program stays in Australia.

All male colleges like Imperial College have consequentely developed a very American

and fraternity-like culture in recent years. The other all male college at the University of

Brisbane, St. Anthony’s College, and the two all male colleges still existent in Sydney have

also developed this hybrid American-Australian subculture in the early 21st century.
Despite a somewhat “American“ flavour to Imperial College, a sarcasticially insulting atti-

tude towards American exchange students existed at Imperial College back in 2010, and

perhaps in many other Australian colleges as well. American students were reffered to as

“sepos“, a shortened version of the phrase “septic tank“, at Imperial College. Such an

identifying name also existed for American exchange students at at least another few col-

leges at the University of Brisbane. Regardless, American exchange students seemed to be

a permanent and almost integral part of college life at the University of Brisbane. They

gave definition to what it means to be an “Imperial College Man“ as well as how “Imperi-

al College Men“ acted back then. This was evident at Imperial College through the popu-

larity of American drinking games such as beer pong as well as through the prevalence of

hazing at Imperial College’s O Week.

But back to the essential point, there was a definitively “American“ flavour to the O Week

activities of Imperial College. Hazing was an accepted and given part of the process of be-

coming righteously Imperial. Hazing activities were numerous on the Imperial College O

Week. One of the most notable elements of Imperial College hazing was a duty meted out

to four dudes at the start of O Week. Namely, carrying around La Grand Emperor Sir

Herpes on a makeshift throne like he was an Aztec Emperor. Sir Herpes-Montezuma

would sit atop his purple and orange lacquer painted wooden throne, looking hella colle-

gial and yelling commands at the fresher scum below him while four young dudes hauled

his royal heighness across the University of Brisbane campus. Another interesting O Week

activity was “Father Jehovah“. This basically involved a makeshift dance of flailing arms

and legs, followed by a full bodied fall to the ground. The dance could be instigated by the

Imperial College executive at any moment and place. At one point, the “Father Jeho-

vah“ dance was instigated on the freeezing floors of a ice skating rink. Every fresher col-

lapsed to the freezing ground below. At another stage, the fresher group was called upon

to do the dance on the hot stone pavers of Brisbane’s Queen Street Mall. Every fresher

there, around forty of us to the eight Imperial exec present, fell onto the tiles as the exec

looked on. Our hands literally burned on the tiles, baking in the February heat. But no one

moved until the exec uttered the command to. Power works in mysterious ways.
Similar kinds of forms of strange and unusual initiation rituals and demonstrations of

power occurred throughout O Week. When a fresher talked to a chick who an exec mem-

ber wanted he was told to “STAND DOWN FRESHER“. Every morning was accompan-

nied by a speech on what supreme shit cunts freshers indeed were. Punishments were de-

livered to freshers who displayed the most exceptionally “shit“ behaviour. “Shit“ behav-

iour could be getting too drunk, refusing to “stand down“ when an exec wanted to talk to

a chick, fucking a fat chick, or any number of other things. Punishments as they were de-

livered definetly and unquestionably fell under the UN definition of “strange and unusu-

al“. On day three, one dude had pieces of wood tied to each side of his arms with sticky

tape, and was unable to move them for an entire day. That same day, another fresher was

tied to a fire hydrant in the quad and left there to sunbake for the day in thirty eight de-

gree celsius heat. Br00tal.

Heirarchy and structure, the essential elements of the old European order, were elements

in full swing on O Week. Our Roman generals led us on forced marches through the wilds

known as the University of Brisbane. There were encoutered our enemies; daykids, hip-

sters, St. Anthony’s boys, and imported hordes of Asians and Indians. But, through our

trials and tribulations, we were told one thing. We were Imperial Men. We were better

then the mass of barbarian scum surrounding us. And that was that.

O Week had it’s flaws, with all the imported American crap. However, interlaced with the

evident bullshit of hazing, commands, and forced marches were nightly parties and drink-

ing sessions. O Week was therefore a fun but often confounding process. I remember the

week as a blur of hazing activities, other recreational activities, morning excercise, and

parties. The mornings would start at 5.30 am with forced jogs and other excercices. Break-

fast would then take place at 7am, usually a pretty decent feed of bacon and eggs. The day

would then progress to a combination of activities such as bowling and paintball. This was

thrown in with a series of lectures on how to succeed, be successful, and be a successful

and affluent person from older, successful, and affluent old boys. Lunch in some form or
another, college or takeaway food, took place at some point through the day. At night,

everyone would shower and then have dinner. Then was arguably the best part. Parties

with 3 or 4 dollar cans of beer and occassionally jelly shots. The boys from Imperial Col-

lege spent the days bonding with one another and the evenings associatting and “interdig-

itating“ with the “lovely ladies“ of Faith, Ladies, and Joan of Arc Colleges. Hence, “O

Week“ passed in somewhat of a haze and blur for most men of the college, myself includ-

ed.

When I woke up from the fast paced blur of my first week at university, it was a sunny

Saturday morning. I got up, ate a breakfast of Kiwi fruit and coffee, and read The Australi-

an, a mainstay of the college dining hall’s newspaper collection alongside the Brisbane

based Courier Mail. I was alone and solitary in my thought at this time. My thoughts were

somewhat centred. I remember thinking that College was a great opportunitty. Something

I could definitely and definitively take advantage of. I could become something at college. I

could be something. Maybe I could even make college my bitch.

Dad had always told me to watch out for private school kids. They were bad news. They

were not like us kids raised in public schools. But honestly, after O Week at college, pri-

vate school kids didn’t seem that dreadful to me anymore. These kids liked to drink, like

me. They liked the gals, like me. They liked to party, like me. I’d even met one or two kids

who liked to puff the reefer, like me.

Anyway, the blokes at college seemed alright and the kinds of guys you could have as ma-

tes. My hall at college, Z Flat, presented a fairly diverse group of dudes. I had first spoken

to them and got to know them on a superficial level on the second night of college making

fake paper flowers to present to the girls of Faith College, Imperial College’s then sister

college, for the third morning of O Week. There was Alvin, or “Shotgun“ as his fresher

name went. He was a tall, olive skinned, and confident looking bloke from Kingaroy,

Queensland. I got the impression he was kind of “country“, a bit of a jock, communitty

minded, and somewhat of a big deal around his high school and local town. Then there
was David, also known as “Anal“. David was from Dalby, Queensland, but never quite

seemed like it. He was perpetually well dressed and I found him a generally interesting

kind of a dude. We’d smoke a fair bit of weed together in my first year of college. Marky,

or “Bloods“, was from New York. Of Vietnamese descent, he was the resident exchange

student in Z Flat for the first semester of 2010. The college Executive had given him the

name “Bloods“ because he was from New York and the Bloods were an American gang,

although anyone who has listened to a decent amount of Ice Cube would know that those

gangsta niggas are from LA. Bloods seemed like a cool dude. To boot, he had a unique and

kind of mixed vibe combining his Vietnamese cultural identity with that of a New York

hipster.

Tom, or “Slash“ was the dude in Z Flat that year who I simultaneously had the most and

least in common with. Tom had the same first name as my little brother, Tom. He was a

long haired surfer from Byron Bay with an interest in hardcore punk music and a “chilled

out“ persona that he projected towards the outside world. Our shared North Coast herit-

age marked me and Tom as somewhat similar. However, we were both also very different

in many ways. Tom had a vibe that kind of suited the college universe. He looked like a

“Byron dude“. He surfed. He wore the kind of clothes that were fashionable while casual.

I, on the other hand, represented the other side of the North Coast coin. On the coastal

plains of the North Coast, a culture of surfing and looking like a dude, or a lad, has devel-

oped. However, in the hinterland of the region, a culture of savage hill men has emerged.

Raised on and roaming round the hills, North Coast hinterland boys are very different

from the beach types. On the beaches of the North Coast is a culture of beer drinkers, mad

lads, and surfers. This contrasts sharply to what exists elsewhere in the region. Hidden

deep in the hills is a sem-derelict teenage communitty of weed smokers, mushroom eaters,

and acid droppers. I was raised in the North Coast hills and definitely fit the tripper pro-

file. Many kids from the hinterland eventually fall into that particular category. My scruffy

hair and penchant for metal T shits at the time made such a fact obvious. Oblivious to my

visual distinctivness at the time, I wandered round without a care for the first few weeks

of my residence at Imperial. However, my difference was apparent to all others. Some-

thing about me did not fundamentally fit the college jigsaw and this fact, while apparent

to almost everyone else initially, would only become apparent to me personally at a much

later stage.

Shotgun, Bloods, Slash, and Anal were the guys who I spent most of my “fresher

year“ with. However, these four guys were the only occupants of Z Flat that year. Along-

side these blokes were a bunch of dudes more transient to my experience of college and

college life. There was Benjamin or “Triumph“, a generally alright private school guy from

the Southport School on the Gold Coast; Steven or “Cocaine“, a quiet rugby type from the

Sunshine Coast; and Richard or “Picker“, another Sunny Coast guy who seemed to always

be in a good mood and was using college more as a year’s easy accomodation than any-

thing else. They all had their own vibe and mood which formed part of the tapestry that

was Z Flat that year.

Yeah, generally these guys didn’t seem so bad. I could get on alright in this place. But for

the fact I morphed into an opportunistic scum-cunt during my stay at college.

Chapter 2-Being Rich-

I always hate people who talk about “classless social systems” and “taxing the upper class.” That’s

fucking Commie bullshit. People are just fucking jealous of all we’ve accomplished. And don’t even

get me started about how “society is stacked against poor people.” Give me a fucking break – how

can you honestly sit there and say society is worse for lower classes than it is for bros? When was

the last time a homeless person got kicked out of school for forcing pledges to spend a week in a cof-

fin? Uhh, try never.

-The Bros Like This Site, Septmeber 23, 2010.

The next few weeks of College proceeded in conjunction with getting to know and learn

the University of Brisbane a bit more. I’d joined two university clubs on O Week, the An-

cient History Society and the Labor Left Club. The Ancient History Society appealled to

me because I had an interest in the ancient world. The club also had trivia and drinking

nights, which seemed like a bit of fun. I could hopefully get drunk, bond with some nerdy

history chicks on facts about the ancient world, and with any luck fuck one of these said

chicks. I’d joined the Labor Left Club because I was heavily into politics at the time and

held strong leftist viewpoints throughout high school. This left wing viewpoint would be

challenged somewhat at college. I would become a committed champion of the political

right and libertarianism during my stay at Imperial, then slowly drift leftwards again in a

humbled and embarassed manner after I left.

Though I had joined these two university clubs, the Labour Left and the Ancient History

Society, I ended up having basically nothing to do with either. College and the allure of

college life pulled me in, arguably becoming my whole life over the next two years. Col-

lege made me forget that anything really existed outside it’s tall and imposing walls or

equally encompassing ideological screening mechanisms. My gimpishness was supreme.

I did nothing at all with the Ancient History Society and attended none of their meetings.

My commitment to the Labor Left Club followed a roughly similar pattern. I attended one

Labor Left meeting at the start of 2010 and never attended another. I still remember that

meeting quite well, it was a somewhat important juncture in my life. Namely, a point

where expedience and the self exceeded charity and others. A start of a two year cycle

where I would eventually become Emperor Shit Cunt Supremo.

The Labor Left meeting was on the roof of the Queensland Parliament House around mid-

March. I had caught the 412 bus into Brisbane city, something I was not used to doing, and

arrived in the Brisbane CBD half an hour late for the meeting. It was 8pm and the meeting

was at 7.30pm. I initially walked into the Treasury Casino, Brisbane’s sole and somewhat

dodgy major gambling venue. I had mistaken The Treasury for the Queensland Parlia-
ment House as The Treasury has a somewhat impressive neo-classical exterior. As such, I

had mistaken the Brisbane gambling house for the Brisbane Parliament. Around 8.15, I

walked up the steps of The Treasury Casino to attend a Labor Left Student Club meeting. I

looked confused and suprised as they checked my ID and told me I was free to go through

and drink and gamble.

“Dude, is this Queensland Parliament House?“ I asked the security guard.

He looked quite amused. Obviously I’d gone to the wrong venue. Fuck! Ditching that, I

left and wandered round the Brisbane CBD looking for Parliment House. It was about for-

ty five minutes till I found the place, ajacent to Brisbane’s botanical gardens. It was anoth-

er ten till I got to the top floor. By the time I arrived, the invited guest, some guy who was

Deaputy Premier of Queensland at the time, had already left. What predominantly re-

mained was a ramshackle and rather small crew of Labor supporters drinking cans of

XXXX Gold beer and plastic cups of wine on the half lit balcony overlooking the Brisbane

botanical gardens. I had two beers, red cans of XXXX Bitter, and a chat to the university

Labor crew.

Apparently 2010 was noot a good year for the Queensland left. Queensland Labour was

on it’s way out. Premier Anna Bligh’s state asset sales had pissed off the entire state of

Queensland. Queenslanders were going to vote Labor , a centre left party, out and the Lib-

eral-Nationals, a centre right party.

“Fuck Labor and their selling of the state assets, mate. Let’s vote in the Liberals. They have

a fat chubby for welfare“

The Left was losing government for slashing and dividing government owned property?

Queensland was proving to be a strange and somewhat disconserting place for a New

South Welshmen such as myself.

I chatted with most of the Labor crew there. They were a standard mix of leftie personali-

ties-nerds, hipsters, and the over serious and self righteous. But after being around the col-

lege crowd for a couple of weeks, I found this crew a bit boring and, well, dorky. I decided

that whatever crowd I decided to later chill with, this one would definitely not be mine.

It’s not that they were bad people. They just didn’t seem as cool or with it as the college

kids. College, for me at the time, represted the perfect opportunity to accquire Sex Sex

$$ Swag Motherfucker.

I stayed at the Labor Left Meeting for a while, discussing general political stuff and aspects

of university life. The more positive and receptive of the Labor Left guys said they were

glad to have a resident of Imperial College amongst them and willing to work for them.

Imperial College men were typically of an extreme right wing persuasion. It would be

good to have a leftie working within that old and venerable institution for the cause of the

greater good. On the other end of the spectrum, I was eyed with a bit of mistrust from a

fair few of the young and passionate advocates of the Labor cause present that night. Who

the fuck was this guy? Why on Lenin’s red earth had an Imperial College man come to a La-

bour Left meeting? Was this Lucas dude really a right wing secret agent?

Neither of these sentiments towards me really suprised me. Who was this Lucas Jones

cat? Potentially, I could be a committed Labor man and a useful spy for the university left

faction within the college communitty. Equally, I could just as easily, and perhaps even

more likely, be a spy sent by the conservatives to undermine and destroy the fucking leftie

scum. It didn’t really matter to me what these guys believed anyway. I’d make a commit-

ted decision to not get involved in university politics around half an hour into my arrival

at the rooftop that night. There was no chance I was hanging around these dorks, these lep-

ers. College had proved more interesting than university politics. The people at college

were kind of cooler than these guys. I wanted to explore that side of the world a bit more.
After the meeting, I walked along the city centre of Brisbane with the Labor Left guys.

They said they were going to some student bar or another in Queen Street Mall and asked

me if I wanted to join them. I politely declined.

At the time, I didn’t know how Brisbane City and it’s public transport system really func-

tioned. Really, I still don’t. Public transport is fucked and I usually prefer to get around

Brisbane in a car, even to this day. I needed two of the young leftist bucks to show me how

to get on the correct bus from Brisbane city to the university. They were both obliging, but

somewhat passive aggressive.

“This is a real tight crew man, you’re gonna have to work hard to get in“ announced one.

“Yeah, you’ll have to work real hard man“ echoed his sidekick.

“I Will, I’ll get to know you guys well“ I replied.

That was the last time I ever saw those dudes and their crew. Getting on the 412 bus to the

University of Brisbane I decided I would give university politics a break, at least for a

while. Maybe even political talk in general. I remember that throughout high school, all I

used to think about in regards to uni was uni politics. In my older memories, I recall being

wholehertedly determined that I would join the Young Labor ranks when I got to univer-

sity, wherever I ended up. I would follow that dream and charge into and through the La-

bor ranks, fighting for the opressed and working Australians. I would be a political super-

star, a great orator, a great Labor man. But this night, under the passing streetlights on the

back of the 412, I gave that teenage dream up. Fuck that. All I wanted now was the dream

of college. Beer, bitches, glory, and status. Fuck the ALP, bro. All hail the Dragon. I want

Dragon!

To a large degree, my abandonment of “Labor man” values was understandable to me

personally at the time. Imperial College was full of guys who apparently had everything.
Many of the guys at the college appeared to be essentially selfish and very egotistical to

me in the first few weeks at College. Yet they always seemed to get every fucking thing

they ever desired. Women, parties, holidays to any location in the world that one could

concieve. One rainy St. Patrick’s Day, when I’d consumed far too much guiness, I saw this

selfish and egotistical behaviour in full swing. I had been drinking, a fair bit admittedly, at

a college “exchange“ event with the University of Brisbane Ladies‘ College. I caught a cab

with a bunch of Southport School old boys at the Royal Exchange Hotel in Toowong. I’d

taken the back centre seat while they had taken the left and right in the back as well as the

front. I was in a good mood. Maggot drunk, but happy nonetheless. When the cab pulled

into a stop across the road from the Royal Exchange, commonly known as the RE amongst

the Brisbane student crowd, all manner of shit cuntness broke loose. The other three guys

broke out of the cab and fucking bolted. I was left alone to pay the entirety of the cab fare

to the Indian bloke driving the car. These dudes were definetly richer then me, but they

had bolted rather than pay the cab? Was this the underlying mentality of the “governing

classes“ as Lenin would have termed it?

I sat in that car feeling my mood crash like a deck of cards. Grudgingly, I payed the cabbie

the 20 dollars he was owed then stumbled across the road. But my mind seemed else-

where and abstractive for the first time in my life. I’d been fucked over by my suppossed

college “bros“ and homeboys for no good reason at all. Distracted as I was, I was com-

pletely unable to look or appear sober to the Indian security guard at the door of the RE. I

was denied entry. Pissed off, I stormed right back to the cab rank out the front of the pub. I

took the first cab in the rank, driven by another Indian, and asked him to ferry me back to

Imperial College. Indian slaves. I was seething with rage as the cabbie drove me back to

the sandstone buildings of Imperial. Anger and hatred continued to seethe through me as

I walked past the sandstone facade, through the red brick and blue carpet interior, and in-

to my room. Resentment was my last thought as I drifted into a maggot drunk slumber.

When I awoke, still drunk and my head pounding, I dragged myself to the college dining

hall for breakfast. It was 8am and I needed to make my 10am lecture. Eating my egg and
bacon sandwhich and drinking a coffee, I glanced at the guys who had fucked me over the

night before. They were sitting a few tables across. They seemed happy, they were laugh-

ing and smiling as they ate their breakfasts. Seemingly, they didn’t give the slightest fuck

about what they had done. As a result, a strange and profound thought began to form and

crystallize in my mind that morning. If I wanted to succeed in the world, if I wanted to

have everything I had missed at high school-girls, popularity, power-maybe the key was

to be more like those guys and less like myself. If I could destroy myself, if I could elimi-

nate my old personality, maybe success, fame, power, and all that would come my way. I

resolved at that moment that I would put my best effort into being an Imperial Man. Fuck

the Australian Labour Party and Labour politics. The path to success appeared to be in col-

lege and the college world. I would ride out that path to success through making myself

all I could be in the college world. I would do this no matter the consequences, results, or

repercussions. I would be an Imperial Man whole and supreme.

Despite such a strange and slowly building focus shift, my drift away from Labor and left-

ist politics wasn’t completely based on wanting to be a collegial mad cunt. I’d also began

to have my first tastes of political literature. Like a first taste of anything that gives a sense

of genuine pleasure-women, power, alcohol, speed, wealth, LSD-one’s first taste of genu-

ine political literature is empowering and intoxicating. I had read vaugely political books

before coming to university. I admired the general humanistic viewpoints expressed in the

works of George Orwell and Harper Lee. I had agreed with the general assumptions of

both of these authors. Totalitarianism, dictatorships, racism, and rednecks are all generally

pretty shit things.

But no work of political literature would capture my mind to the extent of an author I read

early into my first semester of university. A medieval Italian political genius. The 16th cen-

tury champion of the modern and analytical way of viewing the world, in preference to

the spiritual God bullshit trafficked and trumpeted by the Catholic Church for the last two

thousand years. A true pioneer, a true legend. The one and only Niccolo Machiavelli.
Machiavelli wrote a great book back in 1513 called The Prince. The Prince basically centres

on the fundamental assumption that all human beings, in the quest for power, are de-

based, selfish, and shit. Do what you have to do to achieve power and glory-

“He who neglects what is done for what ought to be done,

sooner effects his ruin than his preservation. “

-Machiavelli, Mad Cunt Italian Political Theorist, 1492.

To rise to the peak of the principality one must, out of nessecity, use underhanded, evil,

and nefarious methods. It was this fundamental assumption that would define how I

largely viewed people and the world in my time at Imperial College. People were shit.

People acted shit. So act shit back in a calculated manner, without thinking of the conse-

quences, and you should be able to secure and attain whatever you want. Or at least that’s

how the Machiavellian storybook would have it. Fuck the others. If they opposse you, they

are your enemies and must be destroyed, crushed, or fought in any way possible. Right

wing ideology down to its most pure and distilled form.

College seemed like a legitimate avenue to righteous Machiavellian power while I was

there. Seeking to immerse myself in the college world and the college culture, I’d tried to

seek areas of advancement in college similar to those I pursued in school. As such, I’d

tried out for the college debating team. I’d also secured myself a position as junior editor

of the college’s annual student magazine, The Imperial Man. Unlike previous efforts at high

school, my efforts to secure extra-curricular positions at college were met with mixed suc-

cess. Gee whiz Horatio-my sense of importance and righteousness was really being fucked

with!

I had secured the position of junior editor of The Imperial Man by apparent default. No one

else had applied for the position and the Deaputy Master of the college had given me the

job. I didn’t get on the Imperial College debating team, which honestly shocked me. At
school, I had been succcessful and reacognized as a debater and public speaker. I was part

of the high school debating team, which had made the regional debating finals on two oc-

cassions and the state finals once. Additionally, I had won my high school’s public speak-

ing competition in one year and been a finalist in another. High school taught me that I

was a fucking important human being and that this was something that needed to be real-

ized by everyone else around me. Yes, I was a good public speaker. Yes, I would make the

Imperial College debating team. That was my attitude as I went into the place. Fuck all

eventuated in the end though. I couldn’t really put my finger on why this occurred at the

time. But I guess I didn’t have the right conservative and private school pedigree, and the

selector for the debating team that year was a dude with a fierce boner for preppiness and

properness as he perceived it. Or maybe it was because I was a full of myself egotistical

cunt myself back then, a person who could not drag his head out off his own arse. Proba-

bly a combination of both.

Debating and public speaking were some of the things I most genuinely looked forward to

and desired to do when I first entered Imperial College in February 2010. It was actually

the state debating finals back in New South Wales that had made me intent on attending a

college like Imperial. In Year 8, 2005 if I recollect properly, Ashtonville High School had

made the finals of New South Wales state debating. The debates were hosted at The Wom-

en's College at the University of Sydney. I remember debating at that place and being

amazed and astounded at it. Ashtonville High School was a very standard, almost cut

copy, version of an Australian secondary school. It was red brick buildings, often without

air conditioning. It was shoddy demountables, often hotter and seldom air conditioned. I

had done my Year 12 legal studies final exam in a baking 35 degree celsius science room,

sweat dripping onto the exam paper and my head spinning. Those kind of conditions

would have been considered disgraceful at places like Brisbane Grammar or The South-

port School. Ashtonville was a very, and often despressingly, stock standard high school.

My time at Imperial College made me appreciatte the truly pathetic plebishness of my up-

bringing.
The University of Sydney Women’s College was a complete contrast to my high school. In

Year 8, after spending two years at Ashtonville High School, I remember being amazed by

the place when I visited it for state debating in 2005. In contrast to the baking red brick of

Ashtonville, the Usyd Women’s College was visually amazing. The building was com-

posed of carved and stylized Victorian and Gothic hallways. They were beautiful and

elaborate. Unlike Ashtonville High School, the Usyd Women’s College was even air con-

ditioned in most places. I remember many things about that place in my brief visit to it

back in 2005. I remember the neatness and clean odours of the hallways. I remember the

amazing spread of different foods laid before us at every meal, a complete contrast to the

pies, chicken burgers, and bottles of chocolate milk offered by the Ashtonville High School

canteen. I remember the beautiful surrounds of the campus of the University of Sydney.

Trees, gothic architecture, and sports fields. In general, I had a great week during state de-

bating at the University of Sydney Women’s College. The place arguably was what moti-

vated me to go to Imperial College in the first place.

However, an important fact about the Usyd Women’s College in that week back in 2005

was that I visited it in December. The Women’s College, at that time, was unpopulated

save for the Year 8 state debaters. I therefore had absoloutely no idea of the breed of hu-

man beings that populated colleges. And, in retrospect, the kinds of people that occupy

more conservative colleges such as The Imperial College and the Usyd Women’s College

were a different species from me entirely. I was on a different planet to most of the Impe-

rial College guys. Public school and public school people were my world before college.

Private school properness and respectability defined many Imperial dudes. Masturbation

to the preposphere was in full swing at Imperial in 2010.

And the person at Imperial College who best represented this divergent and hyper-prep

mentality, or argubly best tried to represent this mindset, was Fredrick “Hoisin“ Farkley,

the captain of the Imperial College debating team.

Fredrick Farkley had migrated to Imperial College from Hong Kong, hence the fresher

name “Hoisin“ for the Asian sauce. He was the exemplification of everything it meant to

be an “Imperial Man“, or at least he wished to apply that ego construct to himself. To be

an “Imperial Man“, Hoisin basically acted like a piece of shit. Essentially, that’s the exact

same thing I did in my time at Imperial. On a surface level, Mr. Farkley was always

charming. He seemed confident, intelligent, and on the ball. But beneath his charming ex-

terior, Fredrick Farkley concealed a raw and ruthless lust for power. Power whatever the

cost, and status whatever the risks. He was a Machiavellian and Nieztchean superman su-

preme. Shakespeare once said that “the whole world is a stage, and all men upon it are but

actors“. The charming Mr. Farkley exemplified this statement. He was self aware that he

was an actor and that Imperial College was but his stage, or screen, or arena, or stadium,

or whatever. Sure, he had interests, but they all seemed to follow an ultra-preppy pattern.

He was into politics, but always of the acceptably neoliberal strand trumpeted by the ad-

ministrative staff of Imperial College. He was into sports, with rugby union, rowing, boat-

ing, and skiing defining his very respectable upper class tastes. He was everything it

meant to be preppy and upper class. Ironically, this ensured he possessed no sense of dis-

tinguishable personality whatsoever. I saw the young and ambitious Farkley stud six

months after I left college. He was at university, wearing a costume consisting of rugby

gear from his Hong Kong private school. Shit dude, what is it? Four, five years since you

were at school? Eshays.

The start of the end of my college life began in 2010. Namely, my failure to get on the de-

bating team started a gradual and grand domino effect. This failure as I perceived it would

instigate a slow but ultimately inevitable process and ignite my tendency towards self de-

struction that would largely define my two years at college. I have gone over the reasons

why that occurred in my head numerous times, but it can essentially be distilled to what

follows. Hoisin wanted gentlemen of proper attitudes and respectability on the Imperial

College debating team. I was simply not of the pedigree and life experiences that marked

me out as a member of that elite team. And I was also a bit of an egotistical young cunt

myself back when. Hoisin set the topic of the first debate as-
“Cannabis should be Legalized“

Guess he was trying to weed out the stoners. I got the affirmative side of the debate. I had

to argue that weed should be made legal. Zing! Winning! I would definetly make the Im-

perial College debating team arguing this point. Smoking weed had been my summer be-

fore college. Definetly over confident of my own knowledge on the issue and my own

natural superiority in debating, I somewhat slave drove my team on the debate at hand

rather than being a team member encouraging input. After all, I surely had much more

knowledge on this topic than the other dudes. None of them looked like they even had

blazed dem Rasta herbs. Weed was my thang G. In the debate preparation, I instructed ra-

ther than opened up discussion, as if a teacher in the Chinese rathern than Western tradi-

tion.Weed sensei Lucas Jones. I thought I was a fucking genius. So I did not make the

team.

The team was a good one, and did win intercollege debating that year. Most of the guys in

it were good debaters and decent guys. Broken, Smart Dude, Sprinkles, and Talkalot all

seemed like they had a decent amount of skill and talent to make a college debating team.

I didn’t really believe they were all better then me at debating, but I could handle them be-

ing selected instead of me for whatever reason. However, there was one choice I didn’t

understand at the time but more then understand now-the selection of Fresher Child.

Fresher Child’s real name was Steven Chin. He was a portly and academically arrogant

Asian Australian who had attended the quasi-public Brisbane State High School. General-

ly, he had a refined ability to get on people’s nerves in the first few months of college. I

remember sitting with him once in the college dining hall and recall him announcing, be-

tween mouthfuls of sugary danishes stuffed through his chubby lips-

“Now I’m doing Law. Which is a VERY hard degree. I got into Law AND medicine. And I

AM a pretty SMART GUY. I’ve realized this. But I’ve decided JUST to do medicine be-

cause, you know, I want to REALLY EXCEL in one field rather than just doing a few“.
Fresher Child generally competed to make an arse of himself in other respects in the first

few months of college. On O Week he had been compelled, like everyone, to engage in a

few retarded activities for the amusment and benefit of the O Week Executive. His special-

ity was being called on to play piano for the entertainment of da boiz in the dining hall

during O Week mealtimes. Everyone was called upon to do retarded and self depreciating

things on O Week, but Child continued it, for some fucking reason or another, well be-

yond the confines of that isolated period of time. He would get up, during mealtimes at

college, to continue the O Week activity of spontaneously and degradingly playing the

oddly and mysterously placed dining hall piano. In this way, as his fingers danced across

the keys of ebony and ivory, he slowly but assuredly earned a degree of hate and emnity

from almost every guy at college.

On the day of debating selection, Child gave a somewhat mediocre speech. Weed should

not be legal because that’s the law. Weed is bad because why would you smoke it when

there is alcohol to buy anyway? Weed is bad because stoners are stoned and getting

stoned is naughty. Weed is bad because Nice Mr. Policeman said so. Say what Child?! It

therefore mindfucked me as to see Child selected for the Imperial College deabting team.

However, a year after college, and with a reflective mind, it occurred to me why he had

been selected. Child, like many guys at college (myself included) were or became during

their stays at Imperial, was a walking, talking joke.

His Fresher name even suggested this. “Child“ was a name the College executive had se-

lected for Tim Chin because, coming into Imperial College at the age of 16, he was literally

a Child. Though this name was the subject of laughter and ridicule behind Child’s back, to

his face he was told he had been given the name “Child“ because “Women found him as

adorable as a child“. Women may go as nuts for chubby sixteen year old Asian boys as

they do for cute two year old children, but I fucking doubt it. Child walked into Imperial

College a joke amongst the mad lads. His odd temprament, combining arrogance and self

assurance with naivety and childlike misunderstanding, would ensure he was regarded in
the same way throughout his stay at Imperial College and would continue to be a walking

gag at the place right up until the day he left Imperial. Unlike others targeted and singled

out at Imperial College, Child never seemed to notice how despised he often was at col-

lege. Rather, he walked around blissfully unaware and comfortable in his psychologically

constructed cucoon of arrogance and self belief. I guess I did that for a while. Things

change though.

Mr. Hoisin Farkley had selected Child for the debating team because Hoisin was a human

being defined almost completely by ego. What he needed, realistically, was someone in-

credibly pathetic in the Imperial College debating team to sate and feed his self esteem.

Child’s portly Asian appearance, oblivious naivety, and obvious flaws were the direct

counterpoint to the shell Mr. Hoisin Farley created around himself-that of the perfectly

raised and proper private school man. Child was therefore selected for the Imperial Col-

lege debating team, not for any skill or ability, but to boost the Captain Hoisin‘s ego and

make the Captain look the image of the collegial mad dawg. The world functions through

often strange mechanisms, or maybe I am just too strange to adapt to the mechanisms.

Though not getting selected shocked me at the time, it was my first awakening to a harsh

and grave reality of life. My father always told me to make my motto “the next thing I do,

is the best thing I do“. Apparently, if you follow such a philosophical recipie, you are des-

tined for general success. However, in many places and situations this self affirmation

simply dosen’t work. Mundane aspects of one’s background, such as what school you

have attended or what suburb you have lived in, can often define your success just as sig-

nificantly as the hard work you put in or the skills you have developed. Even more ran-

dom and intolerable elements can also make their mark just as significantly. Control,

something we percieve as having over our lives, is an essential and fundamental illusion.

Hoisin Farkley’s shallow and egomaniacal personality at the time, like my own I guess,

was the main defining elements of who made the Imperial College debating team, and

who wasn’t going to get in. Well, that was my view anyhow. This was exemplified in
Hoisin’s speeches introducing Child during the intercollege debates. Child would be

trumpeted and touted by the sociopathic Hoisin as a star debater and star compeditor. He

was introduced by titles such as the “Child Genius“, the “Asian Sensation“, and the “Best

boy from the East“ by Hosin. However Hoisin, like everyone else, only ever viewed Child

as a walking comedy routine.

With his round and moony Asian face and plump body, Child struck a bleak contrast to

the trim, tall, laddishly handsome, and dark haired Caucasian male that was Hoisin. Visu-

ally, Child was a pathetic example of masculinity and Hoisin Farkley was an impressive

one. Child boosted Hoisin’s ego like a session snorting cocaine with Tony Montana and

Charlie Sheen.

Ego was the reason Child made the Imperial College debating team. Ego, at least from

2010 to 2011, was the sole element of Mr. Hoisin Farkley’s personality. Ego, in a sense, was

the sole intensive purpose of the institution of Imperial College, the mad, venerable,

revered, and obviously glorious place that it was. Imperial College was the refined institu-

tional version of the conservative male ego. I simply hadn’t come to that realization yet.

Chapter 3-Fuck You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me-

Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!

Fuck You I won’t do what you tell me!

Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!

Motherfucker!

-Rage Against The Machine, Killing In The Name of, 1992.

From not making the Imperial College debating team onwards, I guess I started to give

less of a shit about things in general. I smoked weed with increasing regularity with two of

the Z Flat guys, Bloods and Anal, in various areas in and around the central hall of the Z

Flat. We smoked in the college bathroom and in our rooms a few times before migrating to

a construction site ajacent to our hall on the advice of our Residential Assistant.

In a way, smoking herbal in the construction site seemed like a perfectly fitting, but in ret-

rospect amusingly pathetic, rebellion against the hypocrisy I was begginning to witness

amongst the Imperial College establishment. One of the reasons I had originally chosen

Imperial College as my place of residence in 2010 was the fact that the place had a pool. I

loved swimming, so picking the only college with a pool seemed like a logical choice.

However, the first day I arrived at college disaster struck in that respect.

Imperial College had no pool for the entire year of 2010. Instead, there was a construction

site for some apparent “centenary building“ that was to commemorate one hundred

proud years of the college’s existence. Rather than a refreshing and relaxing swim after

uni, my first year of college was characterized by having to listen to the inane babble of the

quasi-primeval tradies who were resonsible for erecting the Centenary Building. Grunts of

“fuck“, “cunt“, “fishing“, and “bundy“ formed what seemed to be a looped piece of

broadcasted background dialouge. These semi-neolithic background chants, replete with

other Queensland buzzwords such as “XXXX“, “footy“, and “cricket“, became an almost

inavoidable part of life in Z Flat in my first year. Combined with this, the inevitable

sounds of construction rang throughout everyone in Z Flat’s ears throughout the year of

2010. Buzzsaws, chainsaws, axle grinders, hammers, and the general clang of metal on

metal most heavily define my memories of that first year at uni. These sounds of tradies

swearing and banging their tools on pieces of metal rang throughout my ears and would

drive me half insane throughout that year. So much for a fucking pool.
Consequentely, to righteously and hedonistically protest the Imperial College’s executive

decision to replace a pool with a construction site and not tell me until I got to the college

proper on O Week, I frequently smoked bud in the construction zone for the entirety of

2010. Anal and Bloods, my Z Flat “brothers“, were my frequent associattes when this oc-

curred. I had a nice and hand blown glass pipe back then. I remember smoking out of it at

the end of my day most days back then, and finding a release from stresses both real and

imagined. Looking back, it was one of my fondest memories of my college years. Weed is

still like that for me I guess. A great way to unwind and relax.

I attended one official college debate in 2010, and remember being somewhat frustrated

that I wasn’t part of the Imperial College team. Bloody hell, half these guys couldn’t even

confidently speak in front of crowds. But what was even more fucked up was the spectacle

I was witnessing on stage.

Hong Kong white boy and all round neoliberal mad dawg Hoisin Farkley continued to

make a fool of the Asian Brisbanite Child on stage. The poor, fat Asian fool. Child wasn’t

even close to realizing he was being made a dick of. I remember Hoisin, beneath the mas-

sive bronze statue of a dragon that formed the college dining hall’s centrepiece, announc-

ing Child’s entrance to the debate and describing him under such flattering titles as-

“The oriental Boy Genius!“

“The Asian Sensation!“

“The fried rice afficianado of Imperial College!“

For someone who had lived in Hong Kong most of his life, Hoisin took a perverse and ex-

treme sense of pleasure in making borderline racist Asian jokes. On the other end, Child

remained completely oblivious to the shit he was copping. Instead, he seemed over eager
to participate in it. At Hoisin’s insistence and guidance, Child made jokes that made the

stomach turn.

“Confucius say beer is good“ Child would announce “I am Child, and I love Great Walls,

that’s why there should be barriers and regulations on the sale of alcohol“.

Yeah, watching debating as a spectator wasn’t for me. Imperial College was killing it,

winning it. But I didn’t want a part in it as a spectator. Instead of watching the debates, I

decided to focus my energy on geting drunk and/or stoned instead. I seemed reasonably

good at both of those things, and they were activities that were hard to really fail at.

My main days of uni in my first semester were Monday and Thursday. I was usually

hungover on Mondays and Thursdays. My Sunday nights were typically a drinking ses-

sion at the Royal Exchange Hotel in Toowong. My Wednesday nights were typically a

drinking session at the Royal Exchange Hotel in Toowong. The day after each, I would

trudge to uni with a sore head and vodka tinged sweat flowing down my forehead. There,

I would sit half vacant as my politics lecturers talked about Kevin Rudd’s revolutionary

use of social media to ensure dominance in Australian election campaigns or gave presen-

tations of the leadership style of Josef Stalin.

Journalism was even more of a blur. I listened to basically nothing in my journalism lec-

tures, focusing exclusively on nursing my frequent hangovers instead. University of Bris-

bane journalism lectures were rather depressing anyway. Journalism lectures at the pres-

tegious institution of The University of Brisbane in 2010 basically consisted of enlightening

anecdotes from former and failed journalists about how journalism was dying as a paid

proffession. Apparently, we had all chosen a bad course and career path. As our lecturers

repeatedly stated, the internet and online blogging would replace all paid journalism with-

in a matter of twenty or so years. We were all the worse for our choice in life. Why the hell

did we choose a course as stupid as journalism anyway? We should quit journalism and
become accountants. Talk about pride in a proffession. These journalism lecturers obvious-

ly loved their jobs.

But journalism could be a very special and engaging course at times. One time, we had the

special treat of recieving a lecture from Tara Brown, a journalist from that prestigious bas-

tion of investigative reporting, Channel 9’s glorious program 60 Minutes. Prestegious

amongst the tabloids anyway. But our very competent lecturers fucked up the entire elec-

tronics system and it took almost sixty minutes for Tara Brown to talk to the class. She was

very pissed off and short tempered by then. Another time one of my journalism tutors, an

honourable mad dawg of a journalist by the name of Jim Austen, basically gave his class a

tutorial in correct grammar and punctuation. Dickhead. I’ve attended my grammar and

punctuation lessons since Year One at school you arsehole. I left the journalism tutorial

halfway through.

As convential university wasn’t proving to be all I expected, I focused on the subject of

partying101 instead. Weed and beer began to form a regular part of my diet. Fuck the pre-

tentious journalism lecturers, ironically and unwittingly a group of high rollers and fail-

ures at the same time. Fuck a private school dominated debating team dictated more by

ego complex then genuine ability. Fuck being a good student anymore. Just get stoned or

drunk or both and forget this bullshit.

Though I was begginning to resent the things I thought I would love about uni, I was im-

proving myself in some ways. Whatever “improvement“ is anyway. I’d started jogging

and was gradually shedding the extra layers from my bulky figure. So despite my rejec-

tion of some things I had expected to love, I was beggining to improve myself in ways I

never anticipated. I wasn’t getting better or worse at that time, my personality and beliefs

were simply changing.

Accompanying my mad dawg self improving activity of regular excercise, I also had a job

in my first semester at the university. It was a shit job, but a job none the less. Pizza Hut
Toowong, my beer and butter for my first semester of uni. Pizza shops have been a place I

have worked in both regularly and infrequentely. I have been regularly hired for pizza

jobs due to my significant experience in the pizza industry. As such, I have worked for

many pizza shops. Employers specializing in pizza usually seem interested in my exten-

sive list of previous experiences in the pizza industry. But my employment in pizza ser-

vice has also been infrequent. This is because my actual ability at working in pizza provi-

sion, despite my experience, is significantly lacking. I have been frequently fired (gettit?)

from pizza delivery jobs due to the basic fact that I’m just not very good at them.

I didn’t get fired from Pizza Hut Toowong. Everyone else at the job was equally incompe-

tent and inefficent as oven operators or delivery drivers as I was. However, my Pizza Hut

Toowong job typified the general pizza job experience in many other ways regardless of

this. The main way this was manifested in Pizza Hut Toowong was through my boss.

Generally, employees in the pizza delivery industry have to tolerate shitty, foul tempered

bosses with an inflated ego for a typical minimum of three nights a week. Fast food bosses

are walking monuments to the rage and ego that defines the desperate scramble to attain

success, at any cost to dignity, in the 21st century materialist-capitalist sense. Their red

faces, protruding neck veins, and beads of rolling sweat are a monument to and a constant

physical reminder of this fact. Small business owners in general are largely a group of ego-

centric maniacs dedicated to establishing their own pathetic sense of power and fulfill-

ment in an empty century and millenium over populated with self proclaimed “winners“.

Craig Smith, the boss of Pizza Hut Toowong, had that exact mentality. A winner in his

own reality, but a loser in everyone else’s actuality. Craig Smith was the thirty year old

mirror image of me at twenty.

Despite my shitty job, I was still having fun in my first semester of college. Parties pro-

ceeded at a fast pace in my first few months at Imperial. There were enough parties to

convince me that the entirety of post high school life was going to be a massive and loose-

ly interconnected string of alcoholic drinks and good times. This fragile illussion would be

broken in time. But the blur of alcohol I remember pervading that time was memorable,
and mermorably enjoyable. Ironically, it also wiped a lot of my memory at the same time. I

was still pretty shit with girls in my first semester, being somewhat self-concious of my

declining spare fat reserves. But I was having a decent time of it, at least compared to how

I had been going back in the days of high school. Lucas Jones had hooked up with a few

bitches here and there, and even nearly fucked one once. Playya. My confidence was

building, I was losing weight and attaining a small amount of self esteem.

On the flipside, there were some embarassing moments in my first college semester. Gen-

erally these moments involved my attempts to get laid, or “sinking piss”. My worst expe-

rience in my first semester happened about a month and a half into college. The experi-

ence wasn’t that bad I guess, just the fallout.

For some reason, around a month into my stay at Imperial College, my fuck you finger

began to swell, probably from overuse due to my mad cunt, fuck you attitude at the time.

This had resulted in an almost comically red and swollen finger. A throbbing beast that

spewed white pus, that solidified into caked layers of yellow dried filth upon my nail. This

finger had caused immense pain. Indeed, the pain was so all consuming that I was com-

pletely unable to get to sleep without smoking green or eating some prescription painkill-

ers.

One Monday night, the pain from my finger had become particularly immense. As such, I

had taken two painkillers and smoked a cone to deal with it. It worked to kill the pain.

That and taking two painkillers and smoking a cone generally results in a pretty decent

buzz. I was enjoying the vibes, listening to gangsta beats, when I heard some noise from

the Z Flat hallway, The Z Flat guys were drinking! Holy fuck! I wasn’t gonna miss this op-

portunitty!

I got out of my chair, half floating, and drifted into the hallway. In the hall, I was greeted

by five guys, their faces red with boozy flush. All the boys were seated on the hallway

carpets around two bottles of vodka. They were yelling the repeditive chants of university
drinking games, which were almost a background noise at Imperial College. I looked at

them, glazed, dazed, stoned, and fucked up. Then came an invite from Shotgun, the tall

Greek motherfucker who had become the self appointed head and alpha male of the Z Flat

boys over the last few months-

“Hey Texta, have a drink cunt!“

I nodded my head, eyes glazing and blazing with a stoned longing. I had been in Z Flat for

just over a month and hadn’t really been a part of the crew there. Most of the other Z Flat

boys, Anal, Slash, Cocaine, and Bloods, had been a part of somewhat of a Z Flat group

over the last few weeks. Though I had smoked weed with Anal, the Dalby hipster, and

Bloods, the New York hipster Asian, I hadn’t really been accepted into an emerging group

of Z Flat boys. Basically, this was because I wasn’t really friends with Shotgun, the self ap-

pointed head of the boys.

In retrospect, it was because Shotgun was a respectable communitty mad cunt from

Kinaroy, outback Queensland. Lucas “Texta“ Jones was a crazy tripper cunt from Ashton-

ville, Northern New South Wales. Those two kinds of personalities rarely, if ever, coexist.

But here was Shotgun, the mad cunt top dawg alpha male offering me a drink. I was a pa-

thetic and desperate piece of shit back then. My oh my, what was I to fucking do?

I accepted. I would have been fucking crazy not to. Shotgun was top dog in his crew and I

wanted to be a part of his crew. It was as simple as that. Slash, the hardcore music and

surfer fella from Byron Bay, poured me the drink. It felt comforting, in my highly fucked

up state, that the noxious rotten potato drink was coming from someone who was some-

what like me. I smelt the vodka, it smelt strong, and sipped it from my glass. Fuck! That

shit tasted like the industrial strength liquor the Russians supposedly looted Berlin on way

back in 1945.
“What the fuck isn this shit?“ I asked, my eyes watering through droopy, glazed, blood-

shot, and dilated pupils.

“Pure vodka bro, ninety percent“ replied Shotgun, his olive face reddened by booze and

his faced fixed to a glazed smile “And you will have to drink a fuck tonne of it to prove

you are one of the boys!“

I laughed a little.

“Bro, I am a mad drinker, I can handle THIS shit!“

I woke up at 9am the next morning in my room wearing boxer shorts and a loose fitting In

Flames T shirt. To be honest, I felt completely fine. I flipped my doona over, and tumbled

and rolled out of bed. No headaches, no hallucinations, no stomach aches. There wasn’t

even one problem with my head. With no time for bullshitting, skylarking, fucktarding, or

gallavanting, I headed towards the Z Flat showers. As I headed towards the showers, I

looked in the mirrors of the communal Z Flat bathrooms. My black In Flames shirt had

picked up a few traces of vomit and my eyes shot through with vicious lines of bloodshot

red. Fuck it, I thought. I had passed out, vomited probably, and acted like a fuckabout. But

what do boys do? I dragged myself into the shower and began purging the remaining al-

cohol through a process of hot water, spit, and sweat. After about fifteen minutes, this

nessecary purifying process was over. I hopped out of the shower, got dressed, and

strolled and stumbled into the Z Flat hallway.

There, the imposing seven foot tall wog figurine that was Shotgun began striding my way.

“Hey Texta, you alright mate?“ asked Shotgun.

“Yeah, all good dude“ I replied with a husky, alcohol raped voice.
“Sweet“ he replied “Drinks some other time mate“

With that, I dragged myself past the reception of Imperial College. Once there, Suzie the

kinda hot forty year old reception chick spotted me. She was kinda hot, what with the

blonde hair and the sick figure for a forty year old chick.

“You alright Lucas?“ Sarah asked. Sarah always had a bit of motherly concern for the guys

at Imperial College, especially a physically and existentially unprepared dude such as my-

self. I gave her a silet nod and prepared to shuffle on down the sandstone steps of Imperial

College.

“Wait“ Sarah continued “Have you had breakfast?“

“Nah“ I replied.

“Here, take this“.

Sarah handed me two mandarins. I opened the mandarins up and began to eat them as I

trudged past the sandstone gates of Imperial College to the University of Brisbane. A

white hot autumn glare burned down upon me from an imposing and evil sun perched in

the morning sky above. Alcoholic beads of sweat, pungent with the odour of ninety per-

cent vodka, dripped off me. Alcoholic beads of sweat continued to drip off me as I passed

the sandstone buildings of Immanuel College, a somewhat expensive and exclusive co-ed

Baptist College. I continued to excrete alcohol as I walked by Federation College, a co-ed

college founded by The University of Brisbane student Federation. I held in a smirk as I

passed Federation College. That place wasn’t a “proper“ college. It was little more than an

ugly and exxageratted collection of halls and living spaces. Fuck Federation College, bro.

Past Federation College, I walked through the monumental sandstone gates that formed

the entrance to the “Great Court“ of the University of Brisbane. Populating the Great
Court, a wide expanse of grass and trees ringed by a jagged oval of sandstone paths and

buildings, were what college students at the University of Brisbane called “daykids“ or

“dayrats“. “Daykids“, “Daywalkers“, and “Dayrats“ were not like us college kids. They

were not elite mad dawgs like us. Daykids were scum. These university students, general-

ly Brisbane hipsters, imported Asians, and povo motherfuckers, came to university by the

day and went home at night. What bullshit. What disrespect. At the University of Brisbane

were the colleges, monuments to grand tradition and a life as old as Oxford and Cam-

bridge. And here, on the University of Brisbane campus, were dayrats who didn’t even

GO TO college. These daykids were scum, their very presence at the University of Bris-

bane subtly disrespected college life and everything it stood for. They were a dark night to

the bright day that was college.

But college, and it’s exclusive nature, ironically couldn’t exist as it did in 2010 Australia

without the presence of these daykids. The University of Brisbane had around forty thou-

sand students in the year 2010. Of these, around two thousand were college kids and the

other thirty eight thousand were daykid scum. The College system, as the proudest men of

Imperial College tended to regard it, formed isolated and shining beacons of civilization

amidst the restless barbarian hordes that populated the rest of the university. We were the

paladins, protectors of all that was good and holy against the pulsating and inconquerable

forces of dayrat leftie blasphemy that surrounded us.

With a head feeling like it had been hit by a bag of bricks and an unusually empty stom-

ach, I was in no mood to deal with dayrats. Typical daywalker activities got to me more

than usual today. I grimaced as they ate their packed lunches and morning teas. The fuck-

ers didn’t even have a dining hall! I looked cynically at those peculiar dayrats reading

books, throwing frisbees, and playing hackeysack on the grass of the University of Bris-

bane great court. They looked like they had stepped straight out of a corny 1960’s Ameri-

can drama about university. With a hangover, typical daykid activities pissed me of to no

quantifiable end. I mentally blanked the stocking cap sporting, fake glasses wearing, tight
jeans loving hipster fucks surrounding me as I dived for the shade of one of the sandstone

buildings and began heading towards my politics in the media class.

I walked into the class and sat next to Daniel. Daniel was a dude I had sort of befriended

in the politics in the media classes. He was a balding guy in his late 20’s with a moderate

lisp and an inclination to an equally moderate form of leftist politics. Daniel was a cool

and mild kind of dude, probably the kind of dude I would have befriended had I not been

such a fully sick frat boy mad dawg at the time. Daniel attempted to talk to me-

“So what’s up, Lucas?“

“Not much“ I replied “Don’t talk to me too much though. I’m hungover as fuck“.

“Okay Lucas“.

Daniel gave a nod and chuckled a little as I slumped my head down onto the table. I

nursed my pounding head and withstood silent, pulsating torrents of vodka sweat as the

lecturer, a gangly and bespecled but relitavely knowledgable dude, gave a lecture on the

success of Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s use of focus groups as well as his impeccable

management of journalistic media. Apprently, Kevin Rudd had touched on an almost un-

assilable recipie for success in media management in Australian politics. The key, as my

lecturer as well as K Rudd had apparently caught onto, was to simply excercise complete

control over all media and journalistic engagements with the government. And this is

what Kevin07 apparently did; dictate which journalists and which newspapers had access

to government meetings; only tell your selected journalists about government meetings,

press conferences, and official announcements about an hour before they happen. The

journalists will rush to the meeting, wanting to keep with their exclusive engagement. Yes,

as Kevin says, tell the journalists about EVERY political engagement on short notice. That

way those sneaky fucks from The Australian or Channel 9 News can‘t write any potentially

embarassing questions before they arrive. But even then, things CAN go a bit awry. So if
one renegade neoliberal hack manages to slip in some undermining or embarassing ques-

tion, shut the fucker out of all future press conferences. But don’t tell him or her that this is

happening, just silently blacklist the insubordinate shit. That particularly bold or particu-

larly right wing journalist will never get into another press conference, announcement,

school visit, construction site tour, or burger shop stop off ever again, so long as the

mighty K-Rudd was PM. In this way, the innovative Kevin Rudd, arguably a political ge-

nius, apparently had the media information flow wrapped up from 2008 to 2010. Only

positive information can come out of press conferences in the era of Kevin Rudd, or poli-

tics 2.0 as a particular University of Brisbane politics lecturer speaking in 2010 would have

it. Kevin Rudd had his shit tight, son. Shut the motherfuckers down. As in politics, as in

war. Machiavelli 101. Kevin Rudd was the 2010 manifestation.

After the lecture on the ascendant Kevin Rudd and his impeccable media management

strategies, I bidded my farewells to Daniel. I then lumbered back to Imperial College along

the same route that brought me to the university in the first place. Past the daykids

swarming about in the great court, past the sandstone gates of the University of Brisbane.

Then I walked past Federation College (fuck those quasi-college fucks), past the sandstone

gates of Immanuel College, and through the sandstone entrance of Imperial. I stopped at

the Imperial College dining hall for lunch. Fuck being a dayrat was my main thought as I

hungrily wolfed down a greasy burger and greasy chips. I’d much rather be a proud col-

lege kid, with a dining hall serving three cooked meals a day buffet style. Fuck dayrats.

After lunch, my hangover was almost gone. So I crawled back to my room and passed out

for the entirety of the afternoon. College was indeed a great life.

I awoke around three hours later. Throwing off my doona, I stumbled around in the

gloominess that was my room when the curtains were closed. I fumbled around in the

darkness until I found the light switch for my room. The light switched on after a series of

machine gun speed strobe light flashes. My hangover had gone by now, and I was feeling

generally pretty good physically and mentally. Dayrats and stomach cramps no longer

concerned me. My visibility increasing and the drowsiness decreasing, I sat on the chair in
my room and turned on my shitty five hundred dollar disposable laptop. As I waited for

the thing to start up, I looked around at the posters on my wall. There were plastic glazed

images of the metal bands I had loved and grown up with-Iron Maiden, In Flames, Lamb

of God, Pantera. I needed to take those posters down. Metal wasn’t cool at college and I

didn’t need another impediment to my prospects of getting bitches. Fuck those posters.

My piece of shit computer finally came on, the screen lighting up with a blue flash. I put

on some music, some beats by “genuine gangbangers“ I had found on the internet, “Nutty

Blocc, yelling NIGGA COMPTON, swagging out with my blue flag hanging out the

leftside“. Then I began to scroll the internet. I messed with Youtube for a bit. Then I looked

up “Ramses III“ on wikipedia so I could say I had looked at and examined a genuine polit-

ical leader in my political leadership tute the next day.

Next, I went onto Facebook. There are many things I could say about Facebook, and few of

them are really that positive. I had got a Facebook a week into college after avoiding the

site religiously throughout high school. Facebook is roughly like internet crack for me. I

don’t really enjoy using it, I have no idea why I accessed it in the first place, I don’t really

want to use it, but I hit the FacePipe three times a day on average regardless.

Looking at Facebook that late afternoon, I saw the usual assortment of self glorifying dec-

larations of wank that the social network is famous for. Pictures of sluts drinking colourful

drinks, some dork pretending that he was lifting a massive gold statue of Buddha in Thai-

land, a bunch of da boiz from Imperial College drinking with their cru of boiz. As I con-

tinued to scroll down, my eyes popped out of my skull. There was a video of me from the

night before. It read-

TEXTA LOLOLOLOLOL ROFLCOPTER LMAO LOLBLADES!!!

And there I fucking was in all my glory and at my finest. A video, posted by Shotgun

around two hours before, depicted me at arguably my most dignified. That is, slumped
over a sink in the bathroom of Z Flat. The sink in the video was filled to the brim with a

chunky, carrot tinged vomit. Fuck-McFucksticks. The video had fifteen “likes“ and

around eight comments already. One good country girl from Dalby, who was very con-

cious in her efforts to avoid any form of contact with Lucas “Texta“ Jones, had left the very

helpful comment “disgusting“.

I was fucking furious. Throwing my computer chair down to the floor, I stormed out of

the room and through the Z Flat hallway. I made my way two doors down to Shotgun’s

room and initiated three loud knocks. Shotgun opened the door, a cheesy wide grin upon

his face.

“What’s up dude?“ he shot off, holding in laughter.

“WHAT THE FUCK CUNT?!“ I yelled, anger seething through me “WHY THE FUCK

WOULD YOU DO THAT?“

“Dude“ replied Shotgun “It is what it is. You got drunk, you vomited, it filled the sink, so I

put it on Facebook. I don’t really get why you would make such a big deal out of this.“

“BIG DEAL?!“ I yelled back “THIS IS A BIG DEAL! YOU FUCKING...“

“Whatever dude“ replied Shotgun, slowly closing his door on me “Get over it you over-

sensitive dick“.

Shotgun’s door was closed on me. Anger seethed through me and rushed through my

veins like a fresh burst of adrenaline on a jogging course or the first line of speed on a big

night out.

“FUCK!“ I yelled, punching the wall as I stormed back to my room in a self righteous but

ultimately pointless and helpless rage.

Chapter 4-Smoke Two Joints-

I smoke two joints in the morning.

I smoke two joints at night.

I smoke two joints in the afternoon.

It makes me feel alright.

I smoke two joints in times of peace.

And two in times of war.

I smoke two joints before I smoke two joints.

And then I smoke some more.

-The Toyes, Smoke Two Joints, 1983. Often attributed to Bob Marley, who died in 1981.

Shotgun and I aren’t on as badder terms by April the 20th, or 420, AKA international

smoke weed day. I hadn’t heard of 420 before April 2010. Apparently it’s a raging day of

blazing Jah’s greenery. The resident Asian hipster of Z Flat, Bloods, says that at his college

in the USA, Brown or Harvard or whatever, 420 is a huge thing. Thousands of students of

Brown University apparently walk out into their great court and just light up blunts,

joints, spliffs, and pipes right then and there. Fuck authority, bro.

Weed is something I liked intensely when I was at Imperial College. These days, I would

probably say that I still love ganga with every fibre of my being, though it is a more oc-

cassional pleasure (only two bongs a day). Understandably, I am therefore prepared like

no one else at college for 420. I had met up with my high school mate Ned on the Saturday

before 420. We had met up in The Valley. The Valley is to Brisbane what King’s Cross is to

Sydney. Basically, it is the shitty, seedy clubbing district of Brisbane city. Me and Ned had

met in a normal club, and then proceeded onto a strip club as we got more and more shit-
faced off booze and it became clear that neither of us were getting laid that night. Amidst

the smell of sweat and bacardi and coke, amidst the site of tramp stamps and fake tits; me

and Ned had hatched a plan. In our own minds, such a plan made us regular Tony Mon-

tanas, everyday Tony Sopranos, down as fuck OG gangstas ready to take over this city of

Brisbane. In objective reality, we were two dumb kids fresh out of high school and plan-

ning to sell a bit of skunk to some rich private school kids who didn’t have the initiative or

connections to find decent recreational drugs. Basically, I was going to start selling weed

at Imperial College and Ned was going to source it for me.

Over ten dollar Heineken beers, me and Ned also arranged something more important for

my immeadiatte future. Ned would get me a fat hundred sack of hydroponic weed fresh

and ready for 420. I was therefore more than ready for 420. Bloods had roled some fat J’s

for the day, monster godzilla spliffs that I would be proud to smoke. I had even driven to

the valley and purchased a nice handblown glass pipe for the occassion. Me, Bloods, and

Anal were set and ready to partay.

I woke up early on the morning of 420, April 20th 2010, like it was fucking Christmas. I

was ready as fuck. I was keen to get stoned. My day began fairly regularly for one of my

days quite honestly. I spent around half an hour looking at Joe Rogan videos and mariju-

anna culture internet sites before I heard a knock on my door. Anal was standing in my

doorway. He had his perpetual half stoned, half naturally chilled look shooting through

his eyes.

“What’s up bro?“ he said in his croaky voice “You keen to start smoking?“

“Yeah bruz“ I replied, lifting up the backpack where my papers and weed had been stored

“Let’s a go Mario“.

I picked up my backpack and we began to head off. Anal and I walked through the 7am

gloom through the construction site hall of Z Flat, past the unmanned front desk of Impe-
rial College, out past the grotesques of dragons at the front gates, and out onto the streets

of St. Lucia. We navigated a few half lit backstreets until we reached the place where I had

parked my car. I had kept my gold Toyota 98 Camry sedan in Brisbane for the first few

months of college. Having grown up in the country, I couldn’t comprehend not having a

car when I moved to Brisbane. So despite not recieving a car park at Imperial College in

semester 1 2010, I had brought my car and parked it up the road in what I believed was a

parking allowable backstreet. Unfortunately Can Do Newman, the Lord Mayor/Emperor

of Brisbane, had declared the whole area around the University of Brisbane a 2 hour park-

ing zone about two weeks into my move to the Sunshine State. I had recieved around four

parking fines so far. Roughly around five hundred bucks worth. Whatever.

Me and Anal got into my car, turned on some Nas beats, and began driving down the

road. We found a nice spot along the Brisbane River around one kilometre from college. I

grabbed my backpack and we walked into an isolated river estuary. The sun was rising

above the water on the morning of April the 20th. The muddy browns of the Brisbane Riv-

er shot through with sunlight. As I looked at the river, I pulled out my glass blown pipe

and a bag of weed and Anal whipped out a J. We smoked in virtual silence, the early

morning drowsiness and the ganga smoke rendering us incapable of many words. Then

we headed in an elevated and elated state back to my car. I drove my car through the emp-

ty early morning back streets to a good parking spot, headed back to my room at college,

split with Anal, and began getting ready for my 9am journalism class.

I spent the next hour watching random shit on Youtube then headed to uni. My eyes were

obviously bloodshot, but I didn’t really give a shit. It was 420, the sun was out, and I was

in a state of sedated enjoyment. I headed into my journalism class without talking to a

soul. In the class, I sat there vacantly and pretended to listen as the lecturer told us for the

tenth time that the future of journalism was hopeless and fucked and that we’d all be bet-

ter off quitting the course and just doing another degree. Whatever, probably good advice.

After the class I walked back to college, ate two pies for lunch, then went to my room to

pass out for the rest of the afternoon.

I woke up to a knock on my door at 4pm. It was Anal and Bloods.

“Let’s roll some joints, Texta“ said Bloods.

We rolled two badass bigass spliffs and walked coolly out towards the central quad of the

college. Shotgun followed us. He didn’t smoke ganga. He just wanted to be a tourist into

the cannabis culture, just witness some people smoking weed. A debate ensued on where

to smoke the joints. Bloods wanted to smoke them in the college quad. In the US, people

smoked weed openly on 420. So many hundreds or thousands of people smoked bud on

April the 20th at US universities that a cloud of vegetable smoke pervaded the fields, the

US university administrations couldn’t do shit, and everyone more or less escaped pun-

ishment for their crimes. Bloods wanted to smoke weed in the quad, bring a little of Amer-

ica to Australia. I was more paranoid. Surely, someone would catch us if we smoked bud

in the college quad? In the end we settled for a reasonable compromise. We’d smoke the

J’s in the college carpark, avoid scrutiny whilst being badass public weed smokers.

We lit us a joint at 4.20 pm and the pungent smell of weed smoke drifted into the air

around us. Passing it around, we all began to feel that buzz where fear of the consequenc-

es is an essential part of the stone. The danger and the potential repercussions of doing

something illicit enhances the straight up high of the marijjuanna. I have smoked weed

probably thousands of times, and every time except one virtually nothing shit has hap-

pened. April 20th 2010 was the one time something shit has taken place while I smoked

weed. We all had broken that one golden rule, don’t be blatantly obvious.

While we were finishing the J, continuing to pass it around, Michael “The Dragon Slay-

er“ Shearman, Deaputy Headmaster of Imperial College, walked out of the main admin-

istration building of Imperial. Michael Shearman was a somewhat portly bloke with curly

black hair and glasses. He was publicly hated and reviled by the young men of Imperial

College, but he wasn’t essentially that badder bloke. Imported into Imperial College from
the Australian Catholic high school system around five years before I arrived at the place,

his role was to be the headcracker, punisher, and shitkicker for the Headmaster of Imperi-

al, Mr. Gerald Oebid.

Apparently when Headmaster Gerald Oebid had arrived at Imperial College around five

years before I got there, the place was out of control. The student club was going nuts,

wallowing out, breaking shit, and disrespecting everything. Honourable men were appar-

ently acting animalistic, apelike to an extent that made even my years in the place seem

somewhat tame. The Methodist Minister who had been appointed to run Imperial, Rever-

end John Smith, had completely lost control of the institution as well as his own sanity to

boot. Men ran wild. Authority was disrespected. During this time, some fat cunt called

Bundy even had a broomstick shoved up his arse by some rugby boys. I heard it was be-

cause he was a “gay cunt“. That shit got on A Current Affair in a report that followed the

classically over emotional and tabloid style of the program. These were “The Dragon

Years“, a time where the spirit of the college was free, unrestrained, and wild.

But complete freedom wasn’t exactly great for the college. Imperial College, an ancient

and venerable institution, was making up it’s numbers from rejected applications to other

colleges. All other colleges hated Imperial, which hadn’t really changed that much in 2010.

Imperial College remained a hated institution amongst other University of Brisbane col-

leges, a sentiment that had probably mellowed only slightly by the time I got to the place.

But shit was probably a bit out of control. There were dangerous conversations during the

Dragon Years about the college going co-ed, letting in girls to lower the testosterone levels.

There was even more dangerous talk of decommissioning Imperial College completely,

using the building as paid accomodation for academic postgraduate visitors to The Uni-

versity of Brisbane, and abandoning the college institution completely.

Mr. Gerald Oebid had been the apparent saviour of Imperial College in it’s sustained man-

ifestation as a traditional all male college. He had slowly worked on changing the culture

into one that was once wild and unrestrained into a form that was more somewhat re-
spectable. But to do his work, he needed a headcracker and a lightning rod. That was

where Michael “The Dragon Slayer“ Shearman had come in. Michael Shearman had shit

kicked at Imperial College to the extent of a proffessional soccer player stranded in a sew-

age treatment plant. He had booted the most spoilt and wild students straight out of col-

lege. He had set up a system of rules and regulations unkown at Imperial before his arri-

val. He had driven a lance through the heart of the unrestrained Dragon. “The Dragon

Years“ of Imperial College were over then and there. For these efforts, Michael Shearman

had become known as a shit cunt extraordinaire amongst the young men of Imperial

whilst Mr. Gerald Oebid enjoyed general esteem and a good reputation amongst the stu-

dent body.

Knowing all this about Mike “The Dragon Slayer“ Shearman, we all wigged the fuck out

upon the site of his somewhat chubby figure leaving the administration building. We

tossed the J under a car. Me, Bloods, Anal, and Shotgun the tourist left the carpark in a

rush, heads down. As we slunk back into Z Flat through the admin bulding of Imperial

College, I had a quick look back at Mike Shearman. An amused smile was on his face. He

looked half fucking stoned with enjoyment at the site he had just seen.

To forget about the possible shit I was in, I went out and got drunk on the night of 420.

Imperial College had arranged an “exchange“ with Faith College, our then sister college,

at the Down Under Bar, a sleazy inner city pub located in the centre of Brisbane. Of all the

main student bars in Brisbane, the Down Under Bar or the “Dunda“ as it is known

amongst University of Brisbane students, is unquestionably the most fucked up and biz-

zare pub to walk into unprepared. The place has a half price drinks policy for all girls on

Tuesday nights. Guys also get half price drinks, if they come to the place in a dress. The

place is therefore an odd spectacle featuring dudes and chicks hooking up, while both the

man and the bitch wear skirts. I wasn’t coming to the Dunda in a dress that night. I was

still too fucking metal for that. Instead, I showed up the place in a blue flanny and a black

Pantera shirt.
I managed to get drunk enough that night to forget my probably impending strife. It was a

good night, good enough to temporarily blank my mind from my problems. I had a good

rapport with the ladies that night, probably because I was so stoned and drunk. At one

point, I got kicked out for stumbling in front of a security guard. In response, I hightailed

to the Brisbane Casino with another Imperial College bloke for a little bit, drank two bour-

bon and cokes while he gambled, and then headed back to the Dunda. Around the corner

near the Dunda out front of a 711 convenience store I stuffed my blue flanny into my jeans

and removed my glasses. I walked up to the security guard at the Dunda and got let back

in. Then I drank my third jug of beer for the night and blocked the bullshit and stress from

my mind completely.

I was woken up at 11am the next morning by a phone call to my room. Throwing my

doona off, I got up in a groggy haze. Looking at my outside window, I could see that it

was now raining. A complete change from the bright sunshine of the day before. I picked

up my phone from the reciever “hello?“

“Hello Lucas, it’s Mike Shearman. Come to my office now.“

Fuck. I threw my jeans on and began walking to the office. Well, this was fucked. I was de-

finetly in the shit at Imperial, possibly even getting expelled. Walking up slowly as possi-

ble to the admin offices of Imperial College, I looked at what were possibly my last sights

of the place. I took in what were possibly my last whiffs of Imperial. Pictures of honour

students at Imperial on the stairway, honour students with a Distinction GPA or more.

They were playing tennis, throwing rugby balls, running on an athletics track; frozen

monuments of all it meant to be an Imperial Man. A strong smell of cleaning liquid and

freshener, for once not interposed with the typical Imperial College odours of alcohol and

alcoholic vomit, filled my nostrils in the halls of the top floor. As I walked down the eerily

empty halls of the top level that morning, the sound of rain on the roof pervasive, I was

surrounded by framed images of the proud young men who had lived at Imperial over the

last hundred years. They were the carriers and champions of a proud legacy I had evident-
ly disgraced. A fierce stabbing feeling, kind of like a knife right through my gut, shot

through my midsection as I opened the glass door that formed an extrance to the admin

offices.

Mike Shearman was sitting at his desk. His relaxed and calm look completely contrasted

with the worried one clearly evident on my own face. I opened another glass door that

formed the entrance to his office.

“Sit down“ he said. I obliged him immeadiatelly, taking one of the two chairs facing his

desk.

“Now Lucas Jones“ he continued “Why were you smoking pot in the quad?“

I was taken aback by the directness of his question.

“What?“

“Why were you smoking pot in the quad?“ he repeated.

“I wasn’t, I was smoking a cigarette“ I replied, in a desperate attempt to get out of it. Fuck,

I sound like one of those poor, overly obvious, and ultimately doomed idiots you see on

that TV show Cops.

“No, you weren’t. You were smoking weed“ he replied rather bluntly “I know what weed

smells like and I found the end of a joint in the carpark. I can show it to you if you keep

trying to get out of it.“

Shit, I thought, denying this was going to be no use.

“Okay“ I responded “Yeah I was smoking weed“.

“Well, something will have to be done about it“ replied Mike “How you respond from

now on will determine your punishment“.

Shit, I was going fucking down unless I co-operated.

“Now I noticed a few guys with you, if you tell me who they were your punishment won’t

be as severe. If you don’t tell me who they were, expulsion is a possibility.“

“Okay“ I nodded.

“There were three guys with you, I want to know who they were“ Mike continued “Now

the first guy was an Asian and the second guy had black hair. What are their names?“

“Anal and Bloods“ I reply.

“Who?“

I give Mike Shearman the real names of Anal and Bloods.

“I noticed there was one more guy, a tall guy, olive skin.“

“He wasn’t smoking“ I respond.

After a few more minutes of questioning about random stuff, I am told that I am free to go

and that I will get a call later. The painful feeling in my stomach, that sensation of worry

and paranoia, is gone. Replacing it, however, is a feeling of guilt. Why did I give up the

names of the other guys so quickly? Why the fuck would I do that? Lucas Jones you are a

gutless fucking cunt.

I wander back down the hall of the admin building, cleaning liquid remaining a reacog-

nisable odour in my nostrils. Looking down on me are the portraits of the “Great Old

Boys“ of Imperial College. Colored photos, tinged with the collegial orange and purple,

give way to black and white framed photos as I walk back in time and out of the admin-

istration hall. I walk down the stairs, that gut wrenching feeling remaining and screwing

and twisting at my innards. Half lifelessly, I walk back down to Z Flat and tell Anal and

Bloods what has happened. They are both pretty fucking pissed off. No wonder. I guess I

would be if I were them.

I spent the rest of the morning reading a book, but not really able to focus on it. My mind

was scattered, like a lazy Sunday feels after a Saturday night out on three MDMA pills. I

impatiently ate a lunch of fuck knows what, then read some other book that I took nothing

in of and couldn’t focus on. From about.1.50pm, I counted the final ten minutes until my

impending doom. At 2pm, me, Anal, and Bloods walked at a shuffle up the stairs of the

administration building. The same smell of potent disinfectant filled my nostrils and the

same images of glorious Imperial men surrounded me and my partners in crime.

When we reached the administration office, Mike Shearman Deaputy Sheriff was seated

next to Sherriff Gerald Oebid, Master of Imperial College. Gerald Oebid was a slimy look-

ing man. He had a head of silver hair, a cheesy smile that every one of his sons seemed to

replicate identically, a quasi-English accent, and a way of talking to people wherein no one

really knew what the fuck he was thinking. He was dressed in his standard attire, a suit

and tie that he perpetually wandered about in.

“Sit down boys“ he said in his peculiar English-Australian.

All three of us sat down in three seats arranged in front of his desk.

“Now guys, something has to be done about what has happened, but we’re not going to

be too harsh.“
Anal, Bloods, and I breathed a mutual and silent sigh of relief.

“You are all to be suspended from Imperial College for two weeks“ he continued “Effec-

tive tommorow afternoon at 5pm. This will give you all time to make arrangements and

find places to stay. Can you all organize something?“

We all nodded our heads in silence. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing or where I

was going to stay, but I nodded anyway.

“Good, now why were you guys doing what you were doing?“

“To get stoned?“ replied Bloods.

“Is that it?“ replied Headmaster Oebid.

“Yeah, that’s about it, that’s about all“ mumbled Anal and I in response.

“Well, as I said, you guys will have to leave college for around two weeks. That means

you can’t step foot inside the college, you can’t eat a meal at college, and you can’t attend

any college events for that time. Can you three do this?“

We all nodded our heads silently.

“Okay, you three are all good to go“ concluded Mr. Oebid in his English school boy voice.

Bloods, Anal, and I crept out of the administration office slowly and quietly. We dived

past the framed pictures of old Imperial Men of ages past, their faces seemed to be looking

down disapprovingly on the obnoxious and belligerent trio of ganga smoking rebels be-

low them. As we entered the lower hall and the smell of strong cleaning liquid once more
combined with a faint whiff of vomit, the tension lifted. We were all out of college for

around two weeks, but so what? Hopefully we’d learn a lesson and become good and no-

ble Imperial Men because of it. That’s what I think I may have thought at the time. But a

leapoard cannot really change his stripes. I wasn’t going to change for the sake of a build-

ing, permanently anyway.

Chapter 5-My Beds Are Foam Slabs On The Floor-

I've lived in 49 shared households in what seems like as many years. I've been ripped off, raided,

threatened, burned out, shot at, cheated on, scabbed in every one of those years. My beds are foam

slabs on the floor, my cupboards are stacks of stolen milk crates! I've lived with tent-dwelling bank

clerks, albino moon tanners, nitrous suckers, psycho fucking drama queens, ACID EATERS,

MUSHROOM FARMERS, FUCKING BROTHEL CRAWLERS, FRIDGE-PISSERS, HARD-

CORE SEPARATIST LESBIANS, AND AN OBSCURELY-TITLED JAPANESE GIRL!

-The character Danny (Noah Taylor) from the film He Died With A Felafel In His Hand

(2001), directed by Richard Lownstein.

That night, Anal and Bloods go and get maggot at The University of Brisbane uni bar,

Trotsky Square. I'm feeling a bit depressed, so I spend the night simply reading a book as

rain fell upon the buildings around Z Flat. Getting kicked out for two weeks is going to be

shit. Especially seeing as all my assignments fall due around that time. Fuck, I was plan-

ning to buckle down over the next two weeks, get some real work done. Guess that’s not

going to happen now. So I read, my mind slowly blanking, until I pass out.

Around 12.15am, I’m awoken by a sudden noise. Bloods and Anal have come back into Z

Flat screaming drunk. They stumbled into the hall with Anal carrying a Country Road

bag.
“Where’d you get that?“ I ask Anal.

“Lucas man, shoulda come. Stole it from some cunt at Trotsky Square. Fuck, we got pissed

there. It was sick, yo man check this“

He pulled a laptop out of the bag “Stole this from the faggot as well“.

“Shit, shouldn’t you like not steal shit?“ I responded awkwardly.

“No cunt“ replies Bloods, for an Asian American he really has taken a liking to the Aus-

tralian word cunt.

“If some cunt owns a Country Road bag then that cunt needs to have it stolen from him.

Because he’s a shit cunt.“

“Yeah, people who own Country Road bags are fucking shit cunts“ replies Anal, beg-

ginning to fiddle with the stolen laptop “Let’s see if I can’t get this fucking piece of shit

thing started“.

Anal fiddles around with the computer for a bit. I just loiter around, witnessing the exces-

sive drunkedness of Anal and Bloods as well as a few of the guys who got fucked up in

the Trotsky Sqaure with them. After around ten minutes of trying to start the laptop up,

Anal fucking loses it.

“FUCK!“ he yells, lifting up the laptop and smashing it against the plaster corner of a Z

Flat wall. Keys, screen, and bits of metal fragmented as if in slow motion and scattered in

all directions across the hall. A cloud of white plaster rises from the spot where the laptop

made it’s first point of contact with the wall. I’m pretty taken aback by this shit. I take a

few steps back and look a bit honestly shocked. FUCK, indeed.
“FUCK!“ yells Anal again as if to emphasize his first point “THE GUY WAS A SHIT

CUNT ANYWAY! HE OWNED A FUCKING COUNTRY ROAD BAG!“

Bloods and Anal both fell to the ground in a heap of laughter.

I left Imperial College for my two week vacation at around 4.50 pm the next afternoon. All

my shit is packed in a massive white sheet for the next two weeks as I forgot to bring a

travel bag with me to college. What the actual fuck. So I proceeded to leave the place with

my stuff in a jumbled mess. I dragged my white sheet full of clothes to my car, which had

been parked out the front of Imperial College. Then I took off.

My first port of call once I left Imperial was to drive directly to Fortitude Valley to buy half

an ounce of weed off Ned. It was a bright and sunny autumn afternoon, beams and rays of

sunlight reflecting of the windows and steel frames of the apartment buildings of lower

Fortitude Valley. I swapped the half ounce of dank hydro weed with Ned for one hundred

and forty bucks then began driving to South Brisbane. As the sun set, I began to get keen

for what the night ahead held. I was going to get soooo fucking stoned.

I crossed the bridge that led from the Brisbane CBD to the vast suburban sprawl of South

Brisbane. The sunlight shimmered reflectively on the waters of the Brisbane River as I

cruised across lanes, Nate Dogg imploring me through my stereo to “Smoke weed err-

ryday“. I was heading to my friend Mick’s house in Holland Park, a suburb located in the

far north of Brisbane’s south.

By the time I got to Mick’s, it was dark. Mick’s was located on a quiet suburban street

that’s tranquility seemed to be in complete opposition to the constant noise and action of

college. I picked up my sheet full of random clothes, books, hair gels, and other items then

walked up the front stairs of Mick’s unremarkable suburban house. Laughter was the pre-

dominant sound that rung in my ears as I approached Mick’s front door. Opening the

front door, I was greeted with the smell of bush weed and loud sounds of laughter. The
four occupants of the house, Mick, Richard, Richard, and Mario, were sitting around the

kitchen table smoking a bong made from a Powerade bottle. I dropped my white sheet full

of random stuff and my laptop bag on the floor and began to greet the guys.

My high school mates, Mick, Richard, Richard, and Mario, were a whole different kettle of

fish to the guys I had met at college. Mick nodded at me as I came in the kitchen where

everyone had gathered around the bong. Mick was and still is an interesting bloke. The

only tanned red head I have ever known, he is the kind of gutsy but ultra serious human

being I have always tended to generally get along with. Mick is the sort of guy who will

do extreme things, five hour surfs and epic binges on booze, but always with a serious and

hyper councious vibe regarding whatever activity he is taking part in. Richard and Rich-

ard had the same sense of seriousness but fun about them at that time. The Richards were

generally distinguished amongst my high school crowd as Regular Richard and Jewish

Richard. Regular Richard was far from regular, like all of my mates. A naturally born trip-

per, he was one of the first kids in our crew to explore the worlds of LSD and magic mush-

rooms. But Regular Richard looked regular, one of those smart tripper kids who go about

in a collared shirt and jeans so that the narcosphere will never have it’s radars activated.

Jewish Richard was and remains an atheist with black curly hair, tanned skin, and the last

name of Levenstein. A sporty bloke like most of the guys at college, he attended Griffith

University in South Brisbane. Humbled by being a student of what was supposedly Bris-

bane’s worst university, he was unlike an average Imperial Man. Namely, he was not a

creature of prentention and “reputation“. Back then, he was an angsty motherfucker. The

last of the guys circled around the powerade bong on the kitchen table was Mario. Mario

is your typical culturally displaced and somewhat disporic human being that the 21st cen-

tury has produced so consistently. An Italian raised in Calabria till he was eleven, he spent

his early teenage years in Albequerque, New Mexico. He migrated to Ashtonville of all

places when he was fifteen because his family was starting an Italian restaraunt there. A

cultural clusterfuck of a person when he first moved to Australia, he was a local celebrity

when he first moved to Ashtonville for his American accent and Italian mannerisms. But

in Brisbane, like every one there, he was ubiquitous, unnoticeable, and indistinguishable
from the seething masses moving to and fro about their business in the sweaty confines of

the capital of the Sunshine State.

So here I was, outcast from the glory of Imperial College for two weeks. Stranded in South

Brisbane somewhat anchorless and directionless. Fuck it, bonger time. I greeted all the

guys with quick exchanges of pleasantries and then packed a cone into the plastic bottle

bong. I hit it one go and then exhaled. My two weeks of exploring Brisbane student life

outside the collego-sphere had begun in earnest.

The first night of this extra-collegial period of observation and reflection was spent smok-

ing bongs and playing Age of Mythology with the guys through a LAN connection. Average

day kid life in Brisbane was an entirely different scene to college living. I spent a few days

in that South Brisbane house; hitting the powerade bottle bong, playing Age of Mythology,

eating sausage sandwiches, and attempting to shoot basketball hoops at the local state

high school, which was shut for the school holidays. I slept on a matress below the kitchen

table for my time there. Strangely, I wasn’t the only person catching z’s in the living area.

Mario literally lived in the back half of the living room, with his bed and desk obscured

from the rest of the living area only by a curtain. It was a shitty way to live, in the back of

that living room, especially seeing as the local possum communitty had taken to breaking

into the house and stealing food in the middle of the night. Other shit would have sucked

too, like having to put up with the guys getting up and making a noise around the living

area early in the morning. Or the awkwardness of trying to masturbate when you live be-

hind the house‘s communal couch.

After a few days, I had overstayed my welcome at the Holland Park house, so I migrated

to a hipster dwelling occupied by another of my high school mates, Daniel. This particular

student residence was located in Brisbane’s cultural mecca, the West End. Like the first

house, this house was somewhat filthy and squalid, though in a more refined and classy

manner. A whole assortment of people lived there, all with collective penchants and pre-
dispositions to underground music, tweed jackets, cafes, and faux poverty. Together they

occupied a ubiquitous Queenslander style house positioned on a West End backstreet.

Daniel is a wierd but righteous human being. For someone with doctors for parents, Dan-

iel is a suprisingly messy person with a correspondingly curious adaptability to squalid

living situations. A hipster kid inclined towards not cleaning shit up, his room‘s carpet

was therefore an assortment of hippie shirts, bandanas, pens, first year psychology text-

books, and occassional tomes of literature. I slept mostly amongst this random assortment

of items for the remainder of my two weeks out of college. Days at Dan’s were spent in a

variety of ways. Like attempting to complete two thousand word assignments with two

books to assist me. And smoking weed. Like watching the TV with full Austar Access and

no cricket jock there to ruin it through watching some ubiquitous game of American Foot-

ball. And smoking weed. Like doing the odd pizza shift for Pizza Hut Toowong, where I

was still employed. And smoking weed. Like chilling out and doing absoloutely nothing.

And smoking weed.

Though I enjoyed my two weeks out of college on some level, eventually it was time to re-

turn. My two weeks out of Imperial gave me something I did grow to appreciatte in a

sense. Namely, insight into student, or day kid, life beyond the confines of the college uni-

verse. For the most part at that point in time, I thought that the day walker life, the pedes-

trian student life of Brisbane, seemed bullshit. All the houses were squalid messes, you

always seemed to sleep on the floor, and a repetitious diet of sausage sandwiches and piz-

za seemed to be pretty much the norm. And where were the fucking parties? Where was

any fucking sense of excitement? At college there seemed to be at least three parties a

week, to pick and choose from more or less. Beyond that world, you were probably going

to be lucky for a Saturday night piss up. I came to be of the opinion that people who lived

out of college really didn’t know what they were missing out on. So there it was. I was go-

ing back to Imperial College and I was going to be a good and proper Imperial Man,

whatever that meant.

I arrived back at Imperial College on a bright and sunny autumn day, a complete opposit-

te of the windy and rainy conditions that had hailed my forced departure two weeks be-

fore. On the sandstone steps of Imperial stand the haughty Aussie-English Master Mr.

Oebid and his sidekick, Mike Shearman. As I hauled my bags out of the car, and begin

scaling the stairs, I get noticed by both of them.

“Oh, you’re back“ says Mr. Oebid in his high pictched Aussie-English voice “Has it been

two weeks already?“

I nod silently.

“Are you stoned?“ jokes Mr. Shearman.

“No“ I reply with a slight tone of amusement.

I unload my car for the next ten minutes or so. Then I spend the rest of the day watching

movies in my room in Z Flat. All my big assignments for the semester are done, my two

week exile from the hallowed halls of Imperial is over, and I’m back in a place where shit

is easy again. All is right with the universe, life is good.

Bloods and Anal arrive back in Z Flat later that day. They seemed contended with what

has happened and there was a generally calm vibe in Z Flat around that time. Later at

night, Anal shows me the front page of the most recent edition of The Dragon, Imperial

College’s weekly newsletter. On it, I see that we’ve all become college celebrities for our

petty crime. The front page of The Dragon reads-

“Three freshers were suspended from college this week on April the 21st, 2010. The three students

were caught smoking cannabis in the college quad. These Imperial Men will return, but on the con-

dition that if they are caught doing any significant misdeed in the future, they will be permantely
expelled from the college and it’s communitty...You all know the college’s attitude towards illegal

drug use. It is prohibited within Imperial College as it is prohibited within Australian law“.

Word. I honestly can’t help but smile at this kind of shit. For an institution where drinking

booze is an almost integral part of the culture and vibe, such a statement on smoking weed

seems tinged with irony. Getting suspened isn’t going to stop me from inhaling cannabis,

I’m just going to be a fuck tonne more cautious in future.

Somewhat strangely yet ironically predictably, the attitude of the other guys at college

towards me changes almost instantly as soon as I’m back. Getting caught for smoking a

joint humanizes me in the eyes of many of the dudes who call Imperial College home. Be-

fore, I was viewed as somewhat of a strange nerdy dude with a penchant for random

heavy metal shirts. I’m now viewed as somewhat of a strange nerdy dude with a penchant

for random heavy metal shirts, who smokes weed. And that was at least one point of

commonality. I find it easier to get on and around the place at Imperial after my suspen-

sion, I have that something that people can relate to.

I’m feeling like this place is finally starting to work for me.

Chapter 6-And She Seized And Held The Princedom of That City-

Agathocles, the Sicilian, became King of Syracuse not only from a private but from a low and abject

position. This man, the son of a potter, through all the changes in his fortunes always led an infa-

mous life. Nevertheless, he accompanied his infamies with so much ability of mind and body

that, having devoted himself to the military profession, he rose through its ranks to be Praetor of

Syracuse. Being established in that position, and having deliberately resolved to make himself

prince and to seize by violence, without obligation to others, that which had been conceded to him

by assent, he came to an understanding for this purpose with Hamilcar, the Carthaginian, who,

with his army, was fighting in Sicily. One morning he assembled the people and senate of Syracuse,
as if he had to discuss with them things relating to the Republic, and at a given signal the soldiers

killed all the senators and the richest of the people; these dead, he seized and held the princedom of

that city without any civil commotion.

-Machiavelli, The Prince, 1492.

The last few weeks of my first semester at Imperial are relitavely cruisy, at least in compar-

ison to how my over-amped and volatile brain chemistry generally percieves the world

around me. I quit my job at Pizza Hut because they want me to work on the first State of

Origin night. I pick up a new job washing dishes in the Imperial College kitchen. General-

ly, I spend a lot of my time just drinking and smoking weed and relaxing.

I become more resolved with the conventions and norms of life at Imperial in those last

weeks of my initial stay there. The men of the college percieve the world in an often brutal

and merciless way, but arguably that’s just how the world is and how you have to per-

cieve it if you want to succeed in it. I’m becoming more and more accustommed to what I

had previously percieved as a form of unstrung insanity dominating the institution of Im-

perial College.

I even begin to take on a more right wing political perspective. Maybe the free market, the

Liberal Party, and John Howard aren’t as corrupt and evil as I’ve been told my entire life.

The guys at college don’t seem to think so, and they seem all right. The newspapers sup-

plied to us every morning in the college dining hall, The Courier Mail and The Australian,

certainly don’t hold that opinion. Even the weekly Imperial College Dragon newsletter

suggests a sense of Liberal Party conservative normality. It seems right to stay detatched

from politics until I can form the correct opinion, whatever that really is.

One event, right towards the end of my first semester at Imperial, even triggers a shift

against my lifelong support of Australian Labor. Namely, the knifing of Labor PM K-Rudd
by Australia’s first red headed Prime Minister, the Honourable Julia Gillard. I’m studying

for the end of semester Politics in The Media exam with some classmates on the day that

the political assasination of Kevin Rudd, AKA Kevin07, occurs. It’s an event that I regard

at the time as a watershed moment in my future definition of how I will view the world.

I’m studying with Daniel, my Politics in the Media classmate who is highly distateful of

my frequent hangovers in the lectures of that course and another chubby chick from the

same class. We’re discussing the successful political and media campaiging strategies of

conservative opposition leader Tony Abbott when news of the rumblings within the Aus-

tralian Labour Party first reaches us on Google News. It’s the 23rd of June 2010 and the Aus-

tralian Left is about to prove itself just as Machiavellian, ruthless, and calculating as the

right wing Liberal-National coalition.

The first thing that pops up are news reports from the usual online news outlets with a

vested interest against Labour; The Australian, The Courier Mail, The Sun Herald, and other

staples of the Murdoch press. Then come reports from more centrist news outlets such as

The Sydney Morning Herald, Crikey.com, and ABC News. Though typically decried as “leftist

rags“ by Murdoch and co, the fact is that these are some of the few Australian news outlets

not espousing right wing dogma disguised as news. They are therefore “leftist“. Leftist

rags and biased publications do exist in Australia. But it has always seemed to me that de-

scribing The Sydney Morning Herald and ABC News as leftist is the result of either a warped

mind or a wicked imagination. I could say that is probably so because my mind is warped

and my imagination is rather wicked.

Whatever and enough ranting. The fact is, on this day, the left is acting with the pack ani-

mal mentality usually found amongst strident and moralistic right wingers. Such a con-

temptuous attitude shocks me, especially from politicians whom I thought believed in

something. As the day wears on, and I hear of more self justification from trade union

heavies, more intruige, and more deciet, I feel myself becoming increasingly detatched
from what I thought was a rock solid and unchallengable sense of personal political belief.

Maybe these ALP clowns are not where it’s at after all.

The two people studying with me, Daniel and the chubby chick, seem to be justifying

what’s going on in the ALP on that day with the very same rhetoric and langauge Labour

powerbrokers are using to explain what they are doing themselves. Kevin Rudd was a

slave driver! Kevin Rudd mistreated his staff! The Australian people are ignorant of the

internal fuctions of Australian political parties anyway! Labour is justified because people

vote for the party and not the leader! Kevin Rudd had to go!

In the end, all it is is the contemptuous and self righteous assasination of an elected Aus-

tralian political leader. There is no two bones about this event. Labour is just as fucked and

morally corrupt as the Liberals and Nationals on that day of knives. But maybe, again,

that’s just how the world works and how things function. Power is plainly a fucked up

thing. Machiavelli 101.

I study at the University of Brisbane library in the morning, work a shift in the Imperial

College kitchen in the early afternoon, then migrate back to the library to study more in

the late afternoon. Tectonic political shifts are evident by the time I’m back in the library.

The Prime Ministership of the great K-Rudd seems inevitably doomed.

The next morning, before my Politics In the Media exam, the three year reign of Kevin

Rudd is over. The mighty K-Rudd, who once presided over all, who ended the eleven year

of the conservative PM John Howard, who walked across Australia and jetsetted across

the world like a mighty nerdy collosus, is finished. Replacing him is Julia Gillard, a fiery

headed woman and the former Deaputy Prime Minister. Julia Gillard has the manner and

temprament of the angry young feminist student politicians common on the University of

Brisbane campus. She is the first woman PM of Australia. The news seems to mention that

a lot. She is also the first Australian PM with red hair and the first Australian PM born in

Wales. The news dosen’t seem to note that as much.

I walk into the Politics in the Media exam with my ideological mindset in a state of transi-

tion. Scrawling down my answers during the morning exam, I do so like a robot, an au-

tomata. Once I finish the exam, I walk back to Imperial College in the brisk sunlight of an

early July morning. I have officially finished my first semester of university. An odd feel-

ing of pride, confidence, and assurance fills me.

My gear is packed up from my room in Z Flat by midday. I actually don’t need to pack up

much stuff, the Z Flat boys are allowed to keep most of our items in our rooms as we have

to put up with the construction workers‘ tales of shit cunts, fishing, XXXX beer, Bundy

Rum, cricket, and shit wives. After I’ve packed my stuff, I load it into my camry sedan.

Mike Shearman, the chubby Alexander Downer looking Deaputy Master of Imperial Col-

lege, is standing on the sandstone front steps of the main building looking highly elite and

respectable. I ask him what he thinks of K-Rudd’s assaasination by the ranga. His response

is the typical conservative one-

“Same bullshit, different face to it“.

I drive down home to Ashtonville after this brief exchange of ideas. Mike Shearman is not

at all alone in his sentiments. The idea and the reality that a female has usurped the Prime

Ministership of the proud British colony of Australia seems to shock and enrage many of

the young conservative lads I have shared residency with at Imperial College over the se-

mester. As I monitor social media once I have driven the three hours down south that af-

ternoon, the proud online institution of Facebook explodes with vindictive declarations

centring around the political turmoil of an unmarried, atheistic female taking the crown of

Australia. A few notable comments I recorded from that time read as follows-

“I’m not sexist, but the possibility that we could have a CHICK for PM is fucked“-

College kid with hardcore punk music mosher vibe. 5 “likes“.

“What the fuck? Our Prime Minister is now an unmarried chick and an atheist?! Get back to the

kitchen“-Imperial College country lad from Dalby. 10 “likes“.

“I know, (Liberal Party Opposition Leader) Tony (Abbot) all the way. She’s like 50 and totally un-

married. What the hell?“-Response from conservative Catholic college girl from New England, New

South Wales, Australia. 3 “likes“

“I know, unmarried and 50, she’s probably a slut“-Response from the Imperial College country lad.

7 “likes“.

“What the fuck is this country coming to? Trade unionists are fucked. First the gays

then this shit“-Rugby boy from Cairns. 22 “likes“.

These are the instant reactions from the next generation of the Liberal old guard to the

emergence of a chick Prime Minister Down Under. The tories haven’t really softened their

rhetoric over the years either. On 23rd of September 2012 at a dinner hosted by the highly

conservative University of Sydney Liberal Club, right wing Australian radio broadcaster

Alan Jones had said that Julia Gillard’s recently deceased father had “died of shame“ be-

cause of his daughter’s supposedly highly immoral actions as Prime Minister.

To summarise the man and his personality briefly, Alan Jones‘ most notable attributes are

spreading hate speech via his popular breakfast radio show, and sucking dudes‘ cocks in

bathrooms in London. He is a cruel and vindictive closeted homosexual who has spent his

entire life hating and condemning other people because he cannot handle the fact that he

wants to fuck dudes up the arse. It makes sense in Alan Jones‘ personal context. Raised in

rural Queensland, Alan Jones went through the undoubtedly brutal experience of board-

ing school at Towoomba Grammar in the 1950’s, undoubtedly hiding his homosexual

tendencies at that institution. He went on to teach at all boys‘ schools (probably at his own

insistence) throughout Australia during the 1970‘s and then to produce a syndicated radio

show and spew right wing hate speech from 1985 onwards. Jones gave in to his ingrained
homosexual desires and most probably sucked a dude’s cock in a bathroom in London in

1988, but his largely conservative audience has conveniently ignored this fact for twenty

plus years. Go figure.

Alan Jones is a figure of hate and his comments about J Gillard’s Dad dying of shame in

2012 were somewhat mean to say the least. Jones‘ comments on Gillard were unpopular

amongst many people in the general Australian communitty. But the young bucks and

lasses I shared residency with in that first semester of university would unquestionably

give Jonesey the thumbs up for such a sentiment. I’d even put down a decent sum of mon-

ey on the possibility that they could say something about Julia G that would make Alan

Jones‘ statement look like a Mahatma Ghandi peace declaration.

My head is in a bit of a spin that Saturday afternoon. I have finished my first semester of

university, that’s true. But I don’t really know what to believe anymore, and that’s also

true. Well fuck it, rasta. My old mate John is having another party at McEllen’s Ridge that

night to celebrate the end of everyone from Ashtonville High‘s first semester at uni. I‘m

gonna get fucking stoned and just forget about my emerging internal conflict of ideals.

Shrooms probably aren’t the greatest idea tonight. Stick to a more mild form of nature.

Light a cone, son.

Mum had brought gourmet pizzas from the expensive Italian place in town that night. I’ve

spent my afternoon making cannabis pesto and I smear it on the pizza in generous help-

ings as I plough through dinner. I follow this by smoking two bongs after my meal, and

then drive out to John’s. John’s party is a shambled mix of people that night. There’s some

random chicks from Ballina, my old high school crew, and some more partial mates from

high school experiencing an MDMA high for the first time. It’s an eventful party. There’s a

jelly pit that renders you half frozen in the early July night, plenty of weed, and one dude

gets elbowed in the face by one of the MDMA crew for talking shit around half an hour

earlier. I’m there as the elbow slam happens, in a half stoned daze. One second I’m hear-

ing this dude continue to talk smack, the next I turn around to check the light displays on
show at the party, and by the third second Mr. Shit Talk is falling directly onto the hard

red earth ground around us.

The party is somewhat of a stoned blur after that. Next thing I remember significantly, I’m

waking up so stoned that I literally can’t move for a full half hour. And so began my first

semester break back home on the New South Wales North Coast.

Chapter 7-A Bare Home and an Empty Kitchen-

“She (Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard) has showcased a bare home and an empty kitchen as

badges of honour and commitment to her career. She has never had to make room for the frustrating

demands and magnificent responsibilities of caring for little babies, picking up sick children from

school, raising teenagers. Not to mention the needs of a husband or partner.”

-Janet Albrechtsen in The Australian. July 2010.

I spend my unevetful first semester break somehwat uneventfully. Most mornings start

with dropping my younger brother off at school in Byron Bay, then travelling to a beach

fifteen minutes out of Byron town. I jog on the beach most mornings, and usually have a

swim in the cold winter ocean afterwards. My semester break afternoons are usually spent

playing golf with my high school friends, or getting stoned at home and playing Grand

Theft Auto 4. There are few parties and virtually no girls back home, but I don’t care. My

existence is iddyllic and somewhat Zen. I don’t even bother to look for work on this break.

Why bother? So fucking what?

I’m in a good state of mind when I get back to uni. I feel prepared to involve myself more

readily and fully into college life. No more skulking in fucking corners. On the first night, I
guess that dosen’t go too well. I drink three shots of absinthe at once for a drinking chal-

lenge. Then I chase it with a bit of whiskey. Resulting from this is a vomit covered floor for

my first two nights back at college, and sand covering my floor for the two nights after

that. Usually, I would get concerned and hyper-ventilate over this shit. But now, I don’t

seem to. I’m more chilled, I’m more Zen, and I’m more centred. Jedi Knight Lucas Texta

Jones.

The first week back at Imperial College in second semester is great. Known as D Week, or

Disorientation Week, it is another blur of parties. Z Flat has also changed in composition.

We have all recieved room promotions, our RA has changed, and two American Sepos

have arrived to replace Bloods, who was only a one semester exchange student, and an-

other dude who didn’t like Imperial College and decided to leave after semester one. I for-

get that dude’s name. The new American guys are interesting. There’s a rugby enthusiast

from Arizona called Paulie and another dude, Jack Harrison. Jack is an eccentric, self con-

cious, and loyal fray boy. He models himself on the idea of a “bro“ in terms of mentality

and personality. “Bro“ meaning being an American college student who likes interesting

things such as polo shirts, live sport, beer kegs, hazing, and moist sluts. A Delta Tau

Whatever Brother from Yale, he is very self aware that Frat Boy culture is indeed a right-

eous thing and also self concious of the fact that he is in fact a complete and utter Bro. De-

spite being from Yale, he actually hails from Alabama. Jack takes his Alabama heritage in

it’s stride. He is proud to be a Bama boy and is even prouder that he is part of some ap-

parently latent Southern gentry. It’s a trip to chat to the dude, and I enjoy drinking exces-

sive amounts of goon cask wine with him while we swap our stories and life perspectives.

D Week is an interesting week amongst equally interesting and engaging events. I drink

most nights of the week, till my shit starts to turn to a potent smelling liquid black tar by

Saturday. I’m enjoying the company of the boys, joining in on all the chants and anthems

of worship to the Dragon. I feel like a playa boss nigga that week, and start to conform

more to the Imperial College goal of getting da bitches. I’m more easy and relaxed and

score the number of a relitavely good looking American sorority chick from UCLA at a
party hosted by one one the University of Brisbane co-ed colleges, Thomas Hobbes Col-

lege. She’s a hot blonde, except for the shitty mole at the side of her face. Plus she’s a film

student and I like movies. Wicked. Bet I can get with this slut and stick my tip in her cunt.

Things generally go at a slower pace in my second semster then in my first. I date the

American chick a few times, but things really go nowhere. I’ve dropped out of journalism

and traded it for History, which seems like a good move to me at the time. A lot of my

time is spent smoking weed and reading up on liberal philosophy. John Stuart Mill and

Jeremy Bentham seem like righteous dudes. A fair bit of the rest of my time is spent drink-

ing beer and goon wine with Jack H, hearing about stories of frats, classiness, American

universities, American politics, American fast food, and the debased cultures of the Ala-

bama rednecks and negroes. Jack H is an interesting dude. A southern Democrat, he man-

tains an air of southern USA elitism while viewing the Republican Party as a debased

cross section of various nutters; gun enthusiasts, crazed paranoia trippers who twitch at

the word “government“, and religious lunatics who genuinely believe that the universe

was created six thousand years ago and that the faggots should be stoned to death. Anal

and I still spend a lot of time smoking weed, usually climbing up the stairs of the under

construction Imperial College centenary building to smoke greenery out of my glass pipe.

The combined thrill of cannabis and the risk of getting caught for our deviancy is still a

wicked buzz for me.

I am enjoying college life, but it can seem somewaht limiting at times. Except when I’m

drinking, I rarely leave the University of Brisbane suburb of St. Lucia. I have my car and a

permanent car spot at Imperial now. However, I rarely leave Imperial unless I’m buying

booze or weed. College seems like a game to me now, and engaging in Jigsaw’s gig has

become my main focus. I spend my time drinking, talking shit with the Z Flat boys, sleep-

ing till 11AM, fucking around on the computer, and learning random concepts and all

kinds of shit off the internet.

At university, my courses vary. Roman history is the shit. Politics in film and literature is

rad. The introductory course to political science I forgot to take in first semester but have

decided to take now is aight. The disguised ultra feminist course I took, deceptively and

subtly called “Culture and Politics“, is fucking shit. It’s a bunch of ultra-leftist propoganda

bullshit run by a bunch of retrograde dyke bitches. I honestly don’t know how The Uni-

versity of Brisbane accepted this piece of shit course onto the curriculum. For the first four

weeks, these buzz cut haired, flanny wearing, deceptive harlequins presented a relitavely

balanced course on power structures within society. Then in week 5, when it was pretty

much too late to quit the course, they launched into their tirades about feminism and post-

imperialism. Bitches. The course basically suggests that if you are white and male, then

you are linked to corruption and are morally inferior. Well Lucas Texta Jones, a proud Im-

perial Man after all, is not inferior you feminista bitches. I’m going to take it you, you dirty

fucking sluts.

My “Culture and Politics“ courses therefore provide an interesting way for me to excercise

my newly found libertarian ideals, discovered while reading John Locke stoned. I insult

the feminists, strike down their radical views wherever possible, and clash with every

feminazi daybitch in the course. Fuck those buzzcutted, beard wearing sluts. I therefore

become the token right winger within the course, even though my views could be de-

scribed as moderate liberalism at best or worst, depending on your political affiliation.

Most weeks, I have to sit there as these stupid dyke harpies rant about “white male power

structures“ and hidden forces of “white male hetronormativity“. They dislike me for the

pure fact that I live at Imperial and don’t despise the place. What retrograde, bushy vaged

whores. So I have no choice but to rep Imperial and argue with them. DRAGON!

That said, I’m hardly the most notable student in this peculiar political science tutorial.

There’s one Canadian dude who talks about “heroin not being that bad, just the dirty shit

they use to cut it“. He’s a full on hard out trendy hipster cat. Expensive clothing and

slicked hair. He talks about his suppossed drug and alcohol addictions quite often. He‘s

gotta quit alcohol, he’s gotta quit speed. But he dosen’t think he can. Realistically, I don’t
know how much truth there is in his rants. Canadian expats to Australia always seem like

they exxageratte their lifestyles so as that they appear to be interesting and exciting peo-

ple. There’s a dude who lived at Imperial College back in 2010 who was pretty much like

that. A different vibe, but the same identical brag swag. Known as Tap for his Imperial

College Fresher name, he had an evengelical Christian girlfriend from Faith College. One

of Tap‘s favourite hobbies in his first year was to present himself as a nice, personable

dude to the young Godly Faith College lass and her family. But behind her back it was an

entirely different story. The guy loved fucking around and cheating on her, or so he was

apt to constantly boast. He’d fucked strippers, women in their thirties, girls from every

other University of Brisbane college, and one super model. Or so he claimed. I noticed a

few years later that Tap seemed to have given up the collegial mad cunt mission. He has

now drifted to the same kind of ultra-anglo, make money because it’s holy and demon-

strates your prosperity to God form of Christianity that his girlfriend and her family are

fans of. You know, that Superchurches with cafes, gyms, rock bands and swimming pools

kind of Christianity that seems enormously popular with very white, very middle class

people, and Asians. Funny thing is, it’s obvious he is a smart and somewhat intelligent

dude. I guess he’s just another confused young guy who found his heroin in a form of

complete and life encompassing ideology. Sometimes I wonder if Young Mr. Drugs And

Alcohol from “Politics and Culture“ shot himself up with the opiate filled needle of ideo-

logical submission that Tap did. Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares I guess.

Aside from that, there’s interesting people inhabiting the political science course other-

wise. Quite a few hot daygirls. A somewhat gumpy speaking but harmless fat, autistic

dude who has a penchant for stringing together buzzwords and jargon and attempting to

present it as a legitimate train of intelligent thought. And two guys from the Labor Right

who also challenge the tutor regularly and whom I attend to agree with on most issues.

The Paul Keating crew make a lot more sense then the Gough Whitlam throwbacks you

typically encounter amongst the ranks of student Labor at the University of Brisbane.

These guys reckon Imperial College has ruined me. That I’d be much more suited to the
Labor Party Right then the Liberal Party Left. Whatever, whatever. They are just lefties

with an agenda anyhow.

My second semester at college seems a lot calmer than my first. The turbulence and confu-

sion of my first six months at Imperial has vanished. I’m relaxed and living more or less

how I wish in my second sem. I’m discovering East Coast rap music on Youtube, discover-

ing liberal philosophy on Wikipedia, and drinking Alize and smoking weed like I’m Big-

gie Smalls on his mid-90’s mission towards boss playerdom. Things seem generally cool

and righteous at this time in my life. The sun shines brighter, food tastes better, my sur-

roundings seem generally benign and the Great Magnet that dictates the Karmic winds of

the universe seems to have geared the positive vibes in my general direction. Carpe Diem,

YOLO.

Second semester is also when some of the most self righteous celebrations of college, col-

lege life, and everything that “college“ represents take place. Namely, what is known at

the University of Brisbane colleges as Ball and Recovery. Every College has it’s own Ball

and Recovery. Imperial College, St. Anthony’s College, The Ladies College, St. Peter’s Col-

lege, Thomas More College, International Lodge, Faith College, and whoever else I missed

all do their own special college balls. Ball and recovery exemplify perfectly the contradic-

tion that defines Australian college life in the early 21st century. Namely, each College Ball

and Recovery is composed of two parts. Namely, a presentable facade of respectability

that masks a vaugely concealed culture of debauchery and fiendish happenings, at least in

the eyes of your stock standard God fearing Australian conservative. Each college ball was

also designed to represent the “distinct“ personalities of the many different University of

Brisbane colleges.

Hence, the girls of Faith College, pious Christian sluts that they are, usually had a college

ball without a Recovery. Their senile, multiple cat owning headmistress is said to not like

the idea of those good young Christian women drinking and fraternizing with young

bucks with dicks and balls. Other college balls and recoveries can be just as wierd, if not
wierder. St. Anthony’s is a college populated predominantly by wild Catholic schoolboys.

Hence, a St. Anthony’s Ball and Recovery is accompanied by strange traditions. The first

year “Freshers“ of St Anthony’s are forced to shave their heads into mohawks by the sec-

ond and third year guys of the college. Out of control Catholic lads that they are, the St.

Anthony’s boys typically go on a reckless and destructive rampage of drinking and wreck-

ing shit at their college balls. Windows, tables, toilet seats, lighting frames, and escelators

have all been said to have fallen victim to alcohol, ego, and testosterone at the Balls and

Recoveries of St. Anthony’s.

The Ladies College does Ball and Recovery just like the dirty, shameless but wealthy

young sluts that they supposedly all are. Thomas More College’s Ball is ubiquitous and

unremarkable in flavour as Thomas More College itself. However, it still mantains a little

sprinkiling af strange tradition. A formerly all male college, Thomas More went co-ed on

the condition that the men of Thomas More college owned the women about to come into

that college as ball dates. Hence, every year Thomas More men, in descending ranks of

senority, pick Thomas More girls as their ball dates. Das Victorian adlay. Every last college

Ball has it’s own brand of wierdness tattooed upon it. International Lodge is classier and

has college balls resembling a UN meeting, Joan of Arc College is more Catholic school

girl in it’s approach, Immanuel College is more laid back and informal than the rest.

One week before Imperial College Ball is Ladie’s College Ball. I haven’t got a date to it, of

fucking course, but it is interesting watching the shit that goes down before it. I’m sitting

at breakfast in The Imperial College dining hall. Above me sits the proud, shining, and

timeless emblem of Imperial College-the Dragon. The bronze figure of mateship, pride,

respect, and loyalty looks down upon me. As I’m sitting there eating my Saturday break-

fast of coffee and kiwi fruit, a pack of proud Imperial rugby boys storm in. They have been

to Ladie’s Ball the previous night and are going to Lady’s Recovery on that day. “Recov-

ery“ in this sense basically meaning a day of drinking canned beer and goon wine and

spitting it, mixed with muti-coloured food dye, onto other people. As in all Recoveries, the

boys are dressed in seemingly random, multi-colured items such as cut loose singlets,
trucker caps, bandanas, and leotards. Cups of goon wine are carried in the hands of each

individual one of the rugby lads entering the Imperial College dining hall. They are loud,

obnoxious, and proud. I sit a table across from them and their yells and (semi sarcastic)

shit talk pervades my ears.

“Fuck brah“.

“Yeah cunt, dicked her so good. The slut was fucking gushing.“

“Man, twelve beers last night, gonna be smashing tinnies and goon today. Slut sucked my

cock. Loose times ay boys“.

It’s a spectacle in itself seeing this shit. Before long, the gorilla alpha males across from me

start getting even more rowdy. Ten dollar cask wine tends to have that effect on them.

They begin yelling and laughing. Soon a napkin soaked in cheap vomit wine is tossed

from one Imperial College boy’s hand directly into the face of another of the dudes sitting

across from him. Then it’s on. Cups of juice, cups of goon, and cups of cordial are thrown

across the table at various targets. Pancakes and berries, staples of the college breakfast

most Saturday mornings, are thrown onto the floor, into people’s faces, and seven metres

into the air and onto the base of the ceiling of the dining hall. Cereal and milk are strewn

everywhere.

Then, the shit’s over as soon as it started. The old, decrepit lady who assists in running the

college dining hall comes out in a screaming rage against the dudes.

“What have you boys done?! I’m going to have to clean all this!!“ she screams hysterically.

“Fuck you Sharaon, you geriatric chain smoking cunt!“ one of them yells back.

The rugby crew all pick themseleves up and begin to leave.

“Get back here!“ Sharaon yells.

“No, you senile, stupid old fuck!“ another rugby boy yells back “We have more fucking

piss to sink cunt!“

Sharaon begins cleaning up the mess, muttering and swearing to herself. I’ve been sitting

across from this stuff, watching what is going on. And to be honest, this kind of shit

dosen’t even shock me anymore. Truthfully, I’ve come to regard it as just part of the scene

and part of the vibe when you are an Imperial Man. Sharaon is a bitch to work with in my

sessions in the college kitchen anyway. The senile old slut won’t shut up and stop com-

plaining. Fuck her. I silently snigger to myself as she mutters and mops.

I finish my breakfast watching Shazza clean up after her masters and superiors. Then I

head down to my room. It’s voting day in Australia, August 21st 2010. The University of

Brisbane college communitty is not to pleased about this to be honest. I’ve seen a few posts

on that great online communitty, Facebook, that indicate and demonstrate this extreme

sense of displeasure. Once again, eat your heart out Allan Jones, the University of Brisbane

college communitty takes the cake for right wing political incorrectness in the Fucked Up

Year of the Lord 2010. Featuring once more are some of the more extreme quotes exempli-

fying conservative dissatisfaction with the red pubed, demonic harpie known as Julia

Gillard-

“Gillard, you cocksucking slut, you and your hairdresser boyfriend can stop poisoning

the Prime Ministerial lodge as of tommorow!“-Generally respectable conservative

sporting lad from Imperial College. 8 ”likes“.

“I can’t believe that the Australian election is on the day of Ladies Recovery! Thanks for fucking

things up AGAIN, you red haired bitch!“-Slutty but popular Ladies College girl. 10 “likes“.
“Fuck Gillard, RECCCOVVVERRRYYYY!“-Imperial College rugby boy. 25 “likes“.

I’m voting that day, it’s compulsory for all adults to do so in Australia. So I get a lift with

Sunshine Coast rugby leauge boy Cocaine and another dude, Idiocracy, a relitavely arro-

gant swimming champ from Ipswich Grammar, to the voting centre. It’s a bright and sun-

ny morning. The air has the brightness and the sun the warmth characteristic of the transi-

tion from the Australian summer to the Australian spring. We walk out into the college

quad to get to the college’s carpark. Above us, on the balconies of the Rogerson Building,

are the student executive of Imperial College. They are dressed in all their finery, bright

clothes on and cups of goon wine in hand, surrounded by a squad of Ladies College girls.

Out of their stereo comes the sounds of Jason DeRulo or something vaugely similar. One

of Idiocracy’s mates from Ipswich Grammar, a fresher by the name of Titties, is drinking a

tinnie of XXXX Bitter up on the balcony.

Idiocracy yells out to him “Yo Matt, did you put your finger up Maddie‘s arsehole?“

Matt Titties shakes his head.

“Damn son“ replies Idiocracy.

We walk past the developing antics on the Rogerson Building and into the carpark. Co-

caine owns a shitty late 90’s Holden hatchback of some form. We drive to the nearest vot-

ing centre, which is located about five minutes down the road at the local state school.

Voting booths have been set up all across the place. Political hacks wander the premises in

the red shirts of Australian Labor, the blue shirts of the Liberal-Nationals, and the green

shirts of the Australian Greens. I probably have the most knowledge of politics of the three

of us, but even I have no idea who to vote for. It’s a pretty shitty choice of candidates to be

honest. There’s Australia’s first female Prime Minister, the Honourable Julia Gillard. Real-

istically, she’s just a ruthless and morally baseless career politician. Then, there’s the oppo-

sition leader, the Honourable Tony Abbott. He’s a crazy motherfucker. The mad monk of
Sydney, the unhinged and erratic loon of the Australian right. Tony Abbott leading the

centre right Australian Liberal Party is kind of the equivalent of some Tea Party loonie like

Rick Santorum capturing the leadership of the US Republican Party. Straight loonacy.

When I get to the ballot paper, I end up voting Labour. I can’t accept the idea of Tony Ab-

bott as Australia’s Prime Minister. To be honest, I would have voted for the Liberal Party

if they had a good leader. Malcolm Turnbull, the leader they had around a year ago,

would have been someone acceptable to vote for. A sensible, centrist sort of dude who

understood what “liberalism“ actually meant. Turnbull was respectable, decent, and

committed. As it is, I can’t really bring myself to vote for Abbott, the mad Catholic con-

servative that he is. I’ve been talking the right wing talk at the Imperial College dining

halls, my newfound appreciation for the free market system is profound. But a conserva-

tive? Fuck voting for a throwback 1950’s cunt who is anti-drugs and anti gay rights. I just

can’t bring myself to do it. If I’m going to switch sides, I’ll be a libertarian rather then a

conservative. And no sane libertarian would ever vote for Tony Abbott. I vote Gillard.

We all drive back after voting. I assume the other two dudes have voted Liberal, although

that’s not really mentioned. The rest of my Saturday is a pretty cruisy affair. I have a date

with the American sorority chick that afternoon, so I get prepared for that. We see that Le-

onardo DeCaprio movie Inception. Everyone at college has been ragging on about how

trippy and wierd Inception is. Well, it’s not really that strange. The Matrix was easily at that

level of complexity. Ten years can be amazing for humans in terms of their power to simp-

ly forget shit. Yes, Inception isn’t that wierder film. People have really forgotten The Matrix.

Besides, Inception has nothing on visual and psychological mindfucks like psycolin.

Me and Miss Sorority have a quick coffee after the film. I say goodbye to the American

chick at her house in St. Lucia around 7pm. I’m actually keen to ditch the date and get

back to college, watching the election results is like watching a football grand final for me.

I buy a six pack of beers from the local Liquorland, then pack a fat pipe full of greenery in

my room as I watch the polling results come in on ABC. I have a brief detour to the con-
struction site outside Z Flat, where I smoke the pipe. Then I go back into my room and

crack a few beers as the results come in.

Results of the 2010 Australian election are inconclusive. Hung parliament. Australia could

not really decide whether it wanted the Giant Douche or the Terd Sandwich to be our

Prime Minister. First hung Australian parliament since 1940. Cue sexual jokes revolving

around the word “hung“ all across Facebook. A momentuous political event, and sex jokes

become the inevitable result of it all. My first year of adulthood, the year 2010, is beg-

ginning to appear like a very strange place to exist and live in indeed. Or maybe it’s just as

trife and pedestrian as human life ever was. There was graffitti of dicks found on the walls

of Pompeii after all.

Chapter 8-College Balls and Speedballs-

Young Mula Baby!

Got money and you know it,

Take it out your pocket and show it,

Then throw it like

This a way, that a way

This a way, that a way

-Lil Wayne, Got Money, 2008.

Imperial College Ball takes place around a week after Ladie’s College Ball. There are many

stages to a college ball. The first is the long preparation. At Imperial College, this chiefly

involves finding a date for the ball. Arguably, this stage takes all year until the September

advent of ball. Some of the dudes at Imperial have about ten girls willing to date and fuck

them at Imperial College Ball. A greater number have about five girls who wish to go out

for drinks and a meal, followed by a period of vaginal penetration. Some dudes have three

chicks, some have one, some have none. I fell into that very last category in my first year.

I mean it wasn’t really for any lack of trying, or imagination. I’d asked that American so-

rority chick I’d seen a few times. The response was negative. I’d also asked a few girls I’d

met and hung with earlier that year. Once again, no, no, no. Consequentely, I’d accquired

my date while sitting depressed in my Z Flat room listening to death metal. She was a fat

private school chick from Towoomba. She didn’t even go to college. Her twin sister went

to Ladie’s though and hooked the date up. Lucas Jones, you are turning out to be one fuck-

ing useless Imperial Man. Fuck you, you chubby weed smoking cunt. Ah well, just spend

college ball getting maggot as fuck and observing the strange spectacle taking place all

around you. A fat, unfuckable date may prove to be a gift in disguise.

Ball week, the week before Imperial Ball happens, is a pretty big week in college. Most of

the guys are talking about the hot chick they are taking, their chances of getting their dicks

in, and how much piss they are going to fucking sink. I can’t really talk about any of that

except the last bit, getting drunk. But I don’t really give much of a fuck anymore. This

weekend would be sick, dawg. A celebration of all college meant for a lot of the guys, an

observation of all college meant for me.

Ball day comes and I’m keen to get my maggot on. I start drinking around 2pm, straight

after college lunch. I’m keen for the big event to come. Although I was looking forward to

Ball more then Recovery, not much can really be said of the thing. A bunch of dudes

drinking, playing boss of the universe. Standard college stuff really, but in nice suits. It’s

an acceptable image for what is after all suppossed to be one of the most prestegious
men’s institutions in Queensland. I get blind drunk whilst not really talking to my date.

This is the presentable facade that is the smokescreen for the debauchery of the next day.

Much more can be said of College Recovery, which occurs the following morning. The

morning starts with young Imperial Men yelling “REEEECCCOOVVVEERRRY“ in a tone

that somewhat resembles a rooster’s dawn crowing. Then, we all awake one by one, our

heads still pounding from the drinking the night before. The vibe in Z Flat is pretty chilled

and communal that early spring morning. We listen to Biggie Smalls, drink beer, and crack

jokes. Everyone is dressed in the multi-coloured garments of a college recovery; ripped V

necks, old shorts, discarded and re-appropriatted peices of clothing, and bottles of food

dye to spit at each other later on the side. There’s even a bit of the standard college loos-

ness and craziness of college that morning. Namely, one young dude from The Southport

School grabs a piece of plaster intended for the ceiling, and smashes it to pieces against the

wall. This results in general cheers and applause all round Z Flat.

After a few beers to get the motors going, we enter the Great Quad of Imperial College. It’s

a different vibe out here. Tough, bombastic cunts dominate and the best thing you can do

is to stay strapped in and keep your head down. It’s a sight to behold in the college quad.

Guys and gals spit blue, green, and yellow dye at each other. Above them, on the Rog-

erson Building, sit the exec in all their glory. Surrounded by pretty bitches and cans of

drink in hand, they are the glorious motherfuckers who dominate this particular corner of

the universe.

We are served a breakfast of steak and bacon burgers by the staff in the quad. Steak and

bacon burgers are fucking shit. The lazy arseholes this college employs cook them way too

much. I’m getting sick of this food. Imperial College chefs have as much variety up their

arsenal as Faith College girls have personality. Pieces of shit.

College is a mess by the time everyone decides to head off to the “mystery location“ of the

Recovery. Beer cans, goon sacks, vomit, food coloring, and all kinds of alcohol coat the
ground of the Imperial College quad. All the guys and the chicks who have selected to

throw themselves into a mid-Saturday gorilla pit walk onto three red buses set to depart to

fuck knows where. On board the bus, the holy anthems of the Imperial Boys were chanted

loudly and proudly in full view of the crowd of eager, hungry sluts-

I put my hand upon her toe. Yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her toe. Yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her toe, she said “Emperor, you’re far too low“. Yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her knee, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her knee, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put her knee, she said “Emperor, stop teasing me“. Yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her tit, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her tit, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her tit, she said “Emperor stop squeezing it“. Yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her twat, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her twat, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my hand upon her twat, she said “Emperor you’ve hit the spot“. I put my hand upon her twat,

yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my dick into her mouth, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my dick into her mouth, yo hoe, yo hoe.

I put my dick into her mouth. She didn’t say shit the fucking bitch! Yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

And now she lies in a wooden box, yo hoe, yo hoe.

And now she lies in a wooden box, yo hoe, yo hoe.

And now she lies in a wooden box, from sucking too many Imperial cocks. Yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

We put her in the incinerator, yo hoe, yo hoe.

We put her in the incincerator, yo hoe, yo hoe.

We put her in the incinerator, then took the ashes and fucked them later. Yo hoe, yo hoe, yo hoe.

The bitches and sluts around us don’t even look offended. Some of them even laugh. Im-

perial College is a weird place, but a cool place none the less. I’m loving this kind of shit.

Eventually, the bus reaches it’s destination-a random paddock in the middle of nowhere

just on the outskirts of Brisbane city. The crew of colourfully dressed young boys and lass-

es hops of the bus and begins on a dirt path towards the location of the recovery. Beside

me, I notice two dudes passing around weed in a cigar wrapping. Only this shit does not

smell like your standard, everyday blunt.

Anal whispers to me “They’ve laced that blunt with cocaine“ .

I nod and smile.

Ahead of us are the President and Vice President of the Imperial College student club for

2010, La Grand Emperor Kevin “Herpes“ McMillan and Vice President Bobby “Clari-

net“ James. The two strike a vicious contrast. Herpes is a vicious sporting private school

lad. His face is perpetually geared to smirk, he takes pleasure in calling things “shit“ , he

frequently uses the word “cunt“ with a gratified look upon his face, and he’s a genuine

tinnie smashing Queensland lad (word, nigga). Next to him is Clarinet, the 2010 Vice Pres.

I like Clarinet. He’s a cool dude, and genuinely dosen’t act like a piece of shit. Not all of

the time anyway. Atypical for a member of Imperial College, main interests seem to be

writing speeches, drama and acting, and transcendentalist philosophy. He’s a righteous

dude. He can give a speech, have a yarn, and dosen’t mind a beer or twenty. As I walk

past Clarinet, he grabs a olive wreath that he has on his head.

“Wear this Texta“ he says “remember that every Imperial Man is an Emperor in their own

right. You included bro“.

Aw, thanks bro. My first recovery at Imperial proves to be an interesting kind of a day.

Spectacle abounds. The Recovery is set by a lake with an attached mudpit. This makes for

a strange day indeed. There’s the usual shit one witnesses at a recovery. Boys and gals spit

multi-colured food dye at each other, there’s wrestling matches between a few of the more

questionably inclined Imperial guys, and dudes periodically smash full cans of beer

against their forheads in demonstrations of strength and masculinity. I’m not really into

too much of it, but get involved more or less involuntarily. Some jock or another, wishing

to prove alpha masculinity like a mad cunt, pushes me into a mud pit near the lake. I lose

my Dunlop Vollies. Those cost me twenty bucks, for fuck’s sake.

Other than the usual scenery, there’s some more interesting shit that occurs at Recovery

and becomes the stuff of conversation at Imperial College for the next three weeks. One

dude from the Sunny Coast passes out against the stump of a tree around 1pm, and has

empty cans of beer thrown at him for the remainder of the day. Two Imperial guys French
kiss for around twenty seconds for a dare. No homo. While one dude from Nudgee Col-

lege is hooking up with some Asian chick from Ladie’s College, another dude from

Towoomba Grammar gets his dick out and pisses all over the both of them. The Nudgee

boy didn’t end up getting laid. The crescendo of the merrymaking occurs around 3pm. At

this point, everyone is drunk beyond all recognition. A wild rich kid from Rockhampton is

getting kind of tired at this point in the afternoon, so he gets high on a speed and cocaine

mixture. A speedball yo. Winning to the degree of Charlie Sheen, he then proceeds to

climb a canopy that has been set up near the lake. He jumps of it, Tiger Blood in his veins.

Unfortunately, he lands directly on the back of one of Imperial College’s best rowers, who

goes by the fresher name of Kip. Kip’s back is broken in six places, rendering him out of

action for the rest of the year. Kip will sue Imperial College for this travesty, receiving a

position as an Imperial College residential assistant two years running in return.

Buses leave the lake location and head back to Imperial College around 4pm. At this point

everyone is soaked head to toe in food dye. Rotten smells of food dye mixed with cheap

alcohol pervade the air. Everyone has been drinking more or less solidly for around twen-

ty four hours now, but the party dosen’t really stop there. Spare cans of beer are brought

back from the Recovery by the college executive, and the boys drink them in the college

quad. By around 7pm the college quad is a mess, coated with toilet paper roles, discarded

plates of food, and half empty cans of Tooheys New and XXXX Bitter. The cleaners are go-

ing to have a field day with their bitching.

I finish the day by smoking weed out of my glass blown pipe in the college construction

site with Anal and Kangaroo, a Roma boy. We reflect on our experiences of the day and

night before calling it quits and retiring to our respective rooms. I pass out watching some

movie I have no recollection of whatsoever.

I wake up around 12.30am and decide to go to the kebab shop down the road from col-

lege. The kebab shop, Deno’s, must make a mint with all the drunk college kids wandering

around St. Lucia basically every night of the week during uni semesters. I get a pizza from
the kebab shop and return to my room in Z Flat. The rest of my night, around 7 hours, is

spent smoking weed and doing asignments until the college kitchen opens for breakfast at

7am. Weekend breakfasts at college are shit. Not even any bacon and eggs, only bullshit

like toast, cereal, and fruit. So I have a coffee, read The Australian, and hear stories of what

happened the night before.

Apparently the action didn’t end by any definition of the word once night fell. Wilson, the

wild Rockhampton son of millionaires, continued on his stimulant rampage. Feeling like

an evident sporting champion off booze as well as his cocaine and speed cocktail, he had

grabbed a cricket bat and knocked half of the plaster lining off the walls of his hallway at

the other side of college. Other than that, a few dudes had stolen fruit from the college

stores. They had then lobbed the fruit over the wall to Immanuel College’s residential

buildings. The pleabian cleaning staff from Immanuel would no doubt have a bitch about

that shit. As standard for a big event, a few guys from Imperial have chosen to shit in the

Imperial College quad, leaving piles of fetid brown mess all around the footpaths. The

working class peasants on the Imperial College cleaning staff unquestionably be whining

the next day. Fuck them.

Imperial College Ball and Recovery in 2010 was a triumphant salute to all it meant to be an

Imperial Man. We have wrecked shit. We have sunk piss, we have taken drugs, many of

us have stuck our dicks into sluts. Imperial College is righteous. A place to rep indeed,

motherfucker.

Chapter 9-Easy-

I wanna be high, so high

I wanna be free to know

The things I do are right

I wanna be free

Just me! Whoa, oh! Babe!

That's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning, yeah

That's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning, whoa

'Cause I'm easy

Easy like Sunday morning, yeah

'Cause I'm easy

Easy like Sunday morning.

-Easy, The Commodores, 1977.

From College Ball week onwards, life at college seems generally pretty cruisy. Colours

are brighter, summer is coming, and the trees are flowering. The University of Brisbane

campus has a glow to it. Life can be said to be one long ride or trip, and this point in my

ride or trip is definetly a high one. I’m chilled out and centred, happy that I am indeed an

Imperial Man and everything that entails.

I spend the last month or two at Imperial doing what I always do. Uni work, excercise,

smoking weed, and drinking, but I enjoy it all more intensely than previously. I’m even

seeing a bit of play with the ladies, something that hasn’t really happened before for a fat

cunt like me.

For once, I’m also feeling like I have a sense of identity. The 21st century is a confusing

place. In the past, people had a clear sense of who they were. They were Spartans, Ro-

mans, Christians, Muslims, and Australians at various times throughout history. But to-

day, people seem to have little sense of direction. We therefore spend much of our time
wandering aimlessly, searching for fuck knows what. My ubiquitous public high school in

Northern New South Wales, though high performing, had little sense of identity and di-

rection. Students were thrown into classrooms and given a lesson. That was that. In con-

trast, private schools and regional areas in Queensland seem to provide people with a

somewhat more defined sense of self. At Imperial College, there were Towoomba Gram-

mar boys, TSS boys, Roma boys, Roy boys, and countless other forms of predestined iden-

tity. Scotch College boys, proud neoliberal champs, rugby boys, sepo frat boys, country

jocks, surfer lads, and mad dawg freethinkers such as myself all existed together at Impe-

rial. But perhaps most importantly, all the guys who have come to Imperial College are

Imperial Men. It is this sense of identity that lets us know that we are indeed righteous.

We are Imperial Men, a moral and social elite within the great Australian state of Queens-

land.

Connected to my new found sense of identity is a willingness and desire to try and experi-

ence new things. My big chance for this comes when I’m back home in Northern New

South Wales. I’m hanging with some of the dudes from high school, who have become my

mates since I’ve become a more reacognisably loose cunt over the last year. We are trying

to score an ounce of weed in Lismore. To be honest, we are having a pretty shit time of it.

It’s a hot day in early November and our dealer isn’t home. He says he’s making some big

ganga scores up in the hills and highlands. So we pull dry bongs in a park in Lismore. A

“dry bong“ is essentially a bong pulled without water i.e. when you can’t access water.

Basically, it’s smoking a bong like it’s a pipe. Everyone in the park clearly notices we are

smoking weed, but we don’t give a shit. Fuck the haters.

It takes about an hour and a half till our dealer gets home. The heat and humidity of early

November is almost unbearable, but it is well worth it by the time our dealer finally ar-

rives home. At around 2pm, we pull into the dealer’s house. It’s a slum dwelling boosted

up by stilts like most houses located near the river in Lismore. Out the front is a chronical-

ly overgrown garden, which is filled with scattered and discarded objects such as bicycles,
ovens, and washing machines. We walk up to the door and do a coded series of rythmic

knocks on it’s pannelled wood.

Our dealer walks to the door. His eyes are glazed and bloodshot. He is a white dude with

a long black beard and a red, black, green, and yellow rasta cap on his head. We are beck-

oned with a nod and welcomed in. In the house is occuppied by the usual assortment of

hippies that congregate around the place, circled on two large couches around a large

glass bong on a wooden coffee table. A smell of weed pervades the whole place, and ran-

dom items such as DVD cases, empty chip packets, zip lock bags, and books are to be

found in almost every concievable location along the floors, desks, and couches.

We ask for an ounce of weed. As our dealer goes to bag up the white widow, we begin

discussing psychadelics as a random point of conversation. It is then that we hit on a good

score. Our dealer comes back with the weed and says “Hey dudes, I just picked up a big

sheet of acid. Do you wanna maybe buy some?“

We are as keen as a nympho fresh out of a year in a monastery. Fuck yes, show us the

goods bro. Our dealer walks to his fridge, and returns with a brown paper bag. Inside is a

harmless looking sheet of brightly and psychadelically painted cardboard. “How many

do you guys want?“

We have a discussion amongst ourselves and make a decision. Six tabs. Our dealer cuts a

small hexagon out of the big sheet. “Have you dudes ever tried this stuff before?“

We all shake our heads.

“Well I’d go a halfie and see how that goes, then if you are good with it go a full one the

next time“.

We all nod our heads.

Sick. Well we had to wait for around an hour and a half in the pituresque city of Lismore,

but we scored some fucking acid! Wicked. We drive back to my mate Ewan’s house at

McEllen’s Ridge and cut four of the acid tabs in half. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Afternoon

summer sun pierces the tree lines all around us. We pull two bongs each and then decide

to drop the acid.

Like psychadelic mushrooms, acid kicks in gradually and slowly. We have an hour before

it kicks into heavy gear. So around half an hour after first dropping the tabs, we decide to

drive around to my Dad’s house, five minutes down the road. Dad has a pretty big

Queenslander style house with a large pool located at the tip of McEllen’s Ridge. We begin

swimming and around ten minutes after jumping into the pool, the acid starts working.

The sun beams with a fierce intensity. Rays of yellow and red sunlight dance against each

other in an underwater theatre for the eyes. Constrasting physical sensations of being

above and below water amaze me in their sheer intensity. It’s like every sensation, every

feeling, and every emotion has been amped to one billion volts. This is a life experience

I’ve been looking for. LSD is an experience that seems like something completely out of

the depths of normal perception but directly linked to how we percieve and feel things

none the less. I feel like I am the Imperial Dragon in this moment and in this instant. A

pattern emerges around my life, and I know where I want to go and where I want to be

over the next year.

Around twenty minutes later, Dad comes home. We’ve all only had a half tab, so we can

pass as stoned. I talk to Dad breifly in the kitchen. I can tell he thinks I’m stoned. Fuck

him. He dosen’t know what’s up and he probably never will.Who cares if he finds out an-

yway? I don’t give a shit because YOLO. I’m cruising with the vibes anyhow. My mates

drive off around half an hour later. I manage to control the acid through mind surfing

techniques and spend the night watching some of Dad’s collection of Australian movies.

The films seem different to me this time, as if they are suggesting a form of conformity to

Australian cultural norms, especially in that conservative tradition of the tough and hard
drinking Aussie bloke. I ride out the acid till about 1am and then go to bed. Acid is by far

the best feeling I’ve had to that date. Immersive, pleasurable, and amazing. This is greater

than alcohol, much better then weed. Definetly better than any of the limited sexual expe-

riences I’ve had so far, hand jobs, blow jobs, eating pussy, shit sex. LSD is definetly some-

thing I want to know a lot more about. My mates and I have split the remaining four tabs

amongst us, so that is definetly happening at some point or another. Except double the in-

tensity of LSD test drive stage one.

The last bit of my first year at Imperial is like a sustained assault of enjoyable experiences.

Later in the week after my first acid trip, three high school mates and I travel down to the

Central Coast of New South Wales for a geographical trip. As is our ritual when travelling,

we periodically smoke joints for the eight hour drive down south. Me and another mate

have gone down to see Cypress Hill in Gosford, while the other two guys are visiting an-

other dude from the old high school crew in Sydney. Consequentely, we split in Newcastle

with plans to meet up again four days later. Two of my mates catch the train to Sydney

while me and my other mate drive down to the Central Coast.

I spend my last break from uni of the year surfing the sand dunes of the Central Coast,

smoking weed, drinking beer, and swimming in the cold oceans of central New South

Wales. The Cypress Hill concert is an interesting experience in it’s own right. I try estascy

for the first time, and smoke a joint to chase the MDMA. I’m in heavenly heights of chemi-

cal pleasure as Sen Dogg and the other dude from Cypress Hill rap about smoking bongs.

After the concert, we drive forty minutes to the beach town were my Grandad lives, roll-

ing on E. We dutch my car near the beach, the interior of the Camry Sedan becoming a lit-

eral smoke screen of cannabis fog. By the time we drive over to my Grandad’s house, the

weed has overpowered the pill. We pass for tired in Grandad’s eyes and all crash out at

his house.

I return to Brisbane a week later refreshed, charged and ready to tackle the final few

weeks of the year. There’s two assignments to hand in when I get back, and two exams. I
do alright there in all regards I reckon. As summer approaches, uni winds down for the

year but college parties become more frequent and remain just as bizzare. College kids on

Facebook begin making sick cunt jokes about “LOL, why does uni exist? It just gets in the

way of college! LOL!“.

Most notable amongst the concluding parties of the year is a party literally called “Imperi-

al Conclusion“. This party takes place at Imperial College and is an apparently righteous

celebration of all it means to be Imperial. Before the party, the Z Flat boys have an official

pre-function in Z Flat. It’s casual beers. We are all dressed in white or blood red for the

Heaven and Hell themed party.

Imperial Conclusion is a pretty cool night. I wander the party in a pretty good mood, hop-

ing to stick my dick into something. There’s a few hook ups that night, but nothing even-

tuates in the end. So I migrate to my stock standard, tried and tested ritual of smoking

bongs after the event. One metalhead from the Sunny Coast by the name of Aaraon, a

dropout after one semester at Imperial and a generally good dude, helps me fashion the

largest bong I have ever seen in my life. It comprises of a long piece of garden hose, half a

can of Toohey’s New as the cone piece, and a bottle of Lipton Ice Tea as the mainframe.

Aaraon calls himself the “Bongineer“. It’s a strongly deserving title. We take Aaraon’s

bong out to the construction site of Imperial. The construction site is coming along nicely.

Terraces and stairs and all that shit. It’s going to be a shame that this excellent site for

smoking weed is going to dissapear sometime next year. Oh well. I hear that the Imperial

College rowing jetty can be a great place to smoke bud.

Aaraon and I take two hits from the bong each. These are some of the largest cones I have

ever smoked. Real bad boys badman. About halfway through the smoking sesh, a rugby

boy called Pinko rocks up. Pinko hits a cone and coughs and splutters for around two

minutes, before hitting another. Me and Aaraon have a third cone, and then we call quits
on this particular sesh. We are all in a positively Nivarnic state at the conclusion of this

conclusive construction site sesh.

Afterwards, I migrate to an area known around Imperial College as “The Terrace“. The

Terrace is where the general drug crowd of Imperial College congregates. I’ve been recent-

ly inducted into the drug crowd, they are better then the conservative gimps that occupy a

lot of Imperial College. However, their vibe is still pretty different to mine. Queensland

and elite private schools produce a different kind of human being to New South Wales

and the public school system. More assured and butal kinds of people for sure. However,

we all smoke as comrades till pretty late in the night on The Terrace, probably around two

or three AM.

As we smoke and talk shit, girls who have rooted guys at Imperial that night attempt to

sneak out of college. This is generally termed at Imperial College as “the walk of shame“.

Any sluzza undertaking the “walk of shame“ is to be righteously ridiculed, abused, and

insulted. As loudly as humanly possible prefferably. We abuse every slut that exits Impe-

rial College with the loudest calls we can-

“WHORE!“

“FUCKING SLUT!“

“WALK OF SHAME YOU GAPING CUNT!“

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE SLURRY!“

Girls who fuck guys at Imperial College have generally come to accept that they will be

abused as they leave the institution. Indeed, they are dirty fucking whores and they need

to know it. I get particular pleasure out of abusing one particularly stuck up private school

slut from Brisbane Girls Grammar, who goes by the name of Madison. She has a hell of a
fucking attitude and needs to be told what for. The red haired whore passes The Terrace

around 2am, while I’m pulling a bong. Ten or so other guys remaining on The Terrace at

that hour begin yelling insults and I join the chorus, finishing up with the charming pick

up line-

“IS THAT CREAM OR CONDITIONER ON YOUR HEAD FIREPANTS?!“

Fuck her and her pretensions. Imperial College isn’t even that bad in terms of our rituals

that keep the sluts in their place. St. Anthony’s has an even more extreme tradition, called

bucketing. This ritual involves St. Anthony’s boys throwing buckets of icy water over any

sluts with the gall to have had sex at St. Anthony’s with the Catholic schoolboys. See, we

Imperial Men are gentlemen and not animals, after all.

I go to bed relitavely late after Imperial Conclusion, and wake up to something interesting

out the front of Imperial. The large Dragon grotesque out on the sandstone front of Impe-

rial has been sprayed in human shit. Word around college says it’s Wilson. Gerald Oebid,

the Master of Imperial, had apparently asked Wilson not to come back next year. Wilson

passed all his classes, but he spent most of the year smoking bongs on The Terrace. Addi-

tionally, he smashed up half his college hallway with a cricket bat after he snorted a

speedball at Imperial Recovery. I can honestly see both perspectives on this issue. Wilson

got expelled and had to mantain his dignity in some way, shape, or form. It’s kind of like

there’s a natural action-reaction physical momentum that eventuated in the sandstone gro-

tesque of the Dragon being covered in brown rotten faeces. It’s strange to admit, but I have

a strong ambivalence to the fact that that Dragon got sprayed in human shit and find the

fact that the college symbol has been covered in shit kind of perversly hilarious.

There’s another recovery the morning after Imperial Conclusion, involving all colleges this

time. Imperial College, forever the loose abode of the maddest cunts, has all the boys

drinking around 7am. All the Imperial guys are pretty drunk by 10 am, the time the Re-

covery starts. Imperial College has to share the bus to the Recovery destination with Im-
manel College and Federation College. Immanuel and Federation College both have sluts,

so the pack of Imperial College boys out the front of the college walls on the street are

armed and ready to abuse said sluts.

Girls are still exiting Imperial that morning, smelling of semen and alcohol. As each girl

exits the sandstone gates, a cheer goes up from the crowd of seventy or so Imperial Col-

lege boys. Occasionally, some of the Imperial College will run up on the departing sluts

and gyrate against them. I join in directly at some point. Some random whore is leaving

the gates of Imperial. The recovery that day has a vauge sci-fi theme. So I grab a toy

lightsaber I had brought for Recovery and shove it in the direction of the girls vag in an act

of faux penetration. While I do so, another guy pretends to penetrate the slut’s anus with a

pool noodle.

The arrival at the recovery beckons another day of Tooheys New cans and cups of goon

wine, as well as multicolured food dye spat at you out of people’s mouths. It’s a boiling

spring day in Queensland, and everyone ends up sunburnt and red. The St. Lucia Food-

mart completely runs out of alovera gel that afternoon.

Another interesting event from around that time is the Imperial-Ladie’s wedding ex-

change. In this event, a third year Ladie’s girl is”married“ off to an Imperial fresher. The

guys all wear collared shirts and the gals wear white T shirts that they use to write and

draw shit on each other’s shirts. The classy Ladie’s girls are artistes and they draw many

interesting and engaging art pieces on each other’s shirts such as pictures of dicks, the

word “slut“, the word “bitch“, and nipples around the tits. At the begginning of the event,

the guys and chicks meet up in a bar somewhere down on Caxton Street. I forget where

exactly. After that, the Imperial guys and Ladie’s girls migrate to seperate “bucks“ and

“hen’s“ parties. At the Imperial Buck’s party, there is a spectacle to behold. Two filthy slut

strippers armed with with a variety of multi-colured, multi-shaped, and mult-function vi-

brators and dildos penetrate themselves repeatedly with said devices. The boys cheer the

whores on through the whole performance. Unfortunately, around halfway through the
anatomy demonstration, the “groom“ who has been getting lapdances from the hoes vom-

its into a bag of dildos possessed by said sluts. Things go quiet for a while, then there is a

thunderous sound of laughter throughout the venue, followed by clapping and cheering.

No need to chant “get your tits out for the boys!“

The stripper sluts stop their show and all the boys ditch the pub where we watched them

shove glass dicks up their vaginas. Imperial College and The Ladie’s College reunite at the

Hotel LA on Caxton Street. I last about an hour there before I’m kicked out. Then I head

back to Imperial College to smoke bongs. I don’t really care, because there’s a tonne of

events coming up anyway. I spend a lot of my time towards the end of 2011 just smoking

bongs at Imperial. I’ve begun hanging with a bunch of rugby boys who are as keen on

cannabis as they are on rugby union. When I first got to Imperial it seemed like a some-

what strange place. I’ve never been into compeditive sport and have never hung around

jocks. But I was always somewhat into weed at high school. Cannabis is becoming my

point of commonality and connection with about half of Imperial College. I’m also making

a bit of money selling 20 bags of bud now and then.

The Imperial College student club has it’s Annual General Meeting, or AGM, round the

middle of November. At the AGM we elect the executive of Imperial College for the next

year. Basically, the guys who will lead the students of Imperial College next year as well

as recieving the honour of dying their hair orange and yelling at a group of seventeen and

eighteen year old dudes in February 2011. A fairly diverse group is elected to lead Imperi-

al College in 2011, the ninety ninth year of the college’s existence. Bobby “Clarinet“ James,

a generally good dude and the 2010 VP of Imperial, is elected President. The Vice Presi-

dent elect is Swingers, one of the Southport School guys. Hoisin Farkley, the egotistical

and properly neoliberal mad cunt Imperial College debating captain from Hong Kong, is

elected to some position or another. Other than that, those elected include another TSS

dude by the name of “Wyvern“, an Asian dude from the elite but public all boy‘s Mel-

bourne High School, a Muslim dude from Los Angeles, and a few less notable but still
properly collegial Queenslanders. The 2011 executive don’t seem like excessive nobs like

the 2010 executive, so I’m generally pleased with whose chosen.

It is worth noting that an Imperial College AGM is nothing like a strictly corporate AGM.

There is drinking, often to excess, at the event. The executive even buy themselves cartons

of Tooheys New for the monetuous occassion. Drinking and skulling competitions feature

frequently during the Imperial AGM. A lot of chanting, yelling, and laughter can be heard

at any point during the Meeting. Cans are thrown, dirty stories are told quite publicly, and

the testosterone is amped to fifty million volts.

One notable event during the Imperial AGM is the selection of the position of “perpetual

fresher“. The “perpetual fresher“ is generally regarded as the individual who has acted

like the “shittest cunt“ in their first year at college. Me, some jock from Inisfail, and some

metalhead who couldn’t give up the black band shirts soon enough are selected to be po-

tentially elected for the poisition of “perpetual fresher“.

The guy who was the 2009 to 2010 “perpetual freaher“ lived in Z Flat the year that I lived

there. He went by the Fresher name of Years, fuck knows why. Years was not a bad dude,

just someone grossly unsuited to the college lifestyle. Kind of like me in a way I guess. But

you could see why he was the “perpetual fresher“. His room smelled pretty bad most of

the time, like a mix of body odour, Mi Goreng, and Easy Mac, but he didn’t give a fuck. He

had a kind of strange hippie girlfriend and not a hot private school girlfriend, but he just

didn’t give a fuck. Furthermore, he was completely unlike your average Imperial dude.

His main interests were video games, science fiction novels, and going on drunken “pirate

walks“ dressed as a pirate with a bunch of hopeless dorks from QUT. He rocked a fierce

beard, and would otherwise wear nondescript T shirts and pairs of shorts as his standard

apparel. Years was indeed a far cry from your average mad cunt Imperial bloke with an

erection for rugby union, XXXX Gold, and polo shirts.

But I didn’t mind the dude. I couldn’t bring myself to hate him like a lot of the Imperial

dudes tended to anyway. I even hung with Years from time to time. And I would say it’s

hard to hate the guy who intoduces you to shit as good as Firefly and Japanese anime. It

can be said that Years was someone who just couldn’t adapt to Imperial College. Genet-

ically, he was a different breed of human being from the weathy Queensland neo-cowboy

types that tended to make up most of the population of Imperial. He continually and en-

thusiastically told and retold some boring story about how he got drunk at schoolies in

2008 and ended up in Utah. Well, the Australian town of Utah, New South Wales, any-

way. Years copped a lot of shit for just being who he was. In equal measure, he really

didn’t seem phased and appeared to genuinely not give a motherfuck. Like me I guess, he

“dropped out“ of the college scene and eventually became a mere memory amongst those

crowds.

But anyway, here I was in November 2010 on the precipice of being Years‘ spiritual and

ideological successor for the Year of the Lord 2011. I’m not looking forward to that possi-

bility. The secretary of the Imperial College student club for that year, a fat cunt by the

name of Jabba, gives reasons as to why all of us could be poentially chosen as “perpetual

fresher“. First there is Dyke, an arrogant and over-confident jock from Wherever The Fuck,

Queensland. Apparently he could be perpetual fresher because he’s just, well, like a total

shit cunt and fuck him and his shit. Dyke has an ego the size of the Grand Canyon and

needs to be taken down a peg or six. Tall poppy syndrome. After Dyke’s name is an-

nounced, Jabba encourages the two hundred or so guys to show their rage by throwing

empty beer cans and booing. A flurry of empty cans are thrown at Dyke, which he swats

down one by one with a smile.

Next is Lucifer, the over keen metal head reluctant to surrender the Killswitch Engage

shirts that defined his youth. Jabba gives the usual speel about how the cunt is a cunt and

why has the cunt not picked up on the fact that polos and cut loose singlets are the go yet?

What a cunt. Again, applause by booing is encouraged. A barrage of empty beer cans is
thrown towards Lucifer. Lucifer dosen’t really live up to his name, and responds my

meekly swatting an empty beer can or two that fly through the air towards his head.

I am up last. I’m wearing a white shirt and white Imperial College rugby shorts. Fuck, I

look like I’m on a cricket team or some shit. Jabba gives a pretty short line of reasoning as

to why I could be perpetual fresher-

“I am pretty sure he’s a rapist“.

With that, the booing and can throwing commences once more. I don’t want to look like a

faggot, so I keep up a smile even while being pissed off as a motherfucker. What gives

these enormous shit cunts the right to treat me like a gimp? I’ll get my revenge in time,

play these fuckwits at their own game. Machiavellic2011. Fortunately, the booing for me

and the cans thrown at me don’t match the volume and quantity of the barrage Dyke

withstood. Dyke is elected “Perpetual Fresher“ for the year of 2011. As I start to leave the

front of the seething mass of drunk college boys Clarinet, Imperial College Student Club

President for the Year of the Lord 2011 AD, gives me a reassuring nod. He’s a decent kind

of dude.

Imperial College has a strange ritual that typically follows the election of it’s executive.

The entire new executive, after the elections, depart the student common room where it all

goes down. They then head over to the Rogerson Building. At Rogerson, the leaders of the

Imperial men shave each other’s hair, ending up with a variety of strange haircuts and

styles, usually half shaven. I guess you could say they are fashion pioneers. Those boys

were rocking half shaved heads even before Skrillex made it cool in 2011. After they have

shaven their heads and hair into a variety of strange and peculiar forms, they strip naked

together and head down to the central quad of Imperial.

In the central quad, hundreds of righteous Imperial boys have gathered, ready to show the

executive what for with rotten milk, bread, and fruit stolen from the Imperial College
kitchens days before and then stored in hidden locations across the institution. Generally,

the guys waiting around the quad are drunk as fuck; yelling, swearing, sipping tinnies,

and pissing on the footpaths. Around 11pm, the time the executive have finished shaving

each others heads, around twelve naked dudes with retarded haircuts emerge from the

stairs leading up to the Rogerson Building. A yell goes up from the seething mass of

young men around them and items begin being thrown. Rotten food, empty beer cans,

binder folders, and artichokes are just some among the many items pegged at our new

student leaders.

After the new executive are given their belting, they retire to their rooms before going out

for the night. I think I just quit shit and went to smoke a J with two American frat boys.

The next day a bunch of photos show up on my Facebook newsfeed. The new exec dudes

are living it up and drinking at the Dunder, all in dresses. Their half shaved hair makes

them look fucking retarded honestly, but they are the kings of the party. Imperial College

student exec looks like a supremely glorious thing.

Chapter 10-Hippie Potheads Are Not Bros-

Bros fucking love weed. Much like #23 drinking and driving, bros love the fact that smoking is ille-

gal. This makes them rebels - and slam pieces fucking love that shit. Even though it is illegal, any

bro will argue with you for hours about how it should be legalized. Never challenge a bro to a debate

about smoking weed. You will lose, most likely because they will be so fucked up that they will start

a personal attack on you. Bros know everything there is to know about weed, however there is a dis-

tinct difference between weed smoking bros and hippie potheads. Hippie potheads are not bros. Hip-

pie potheads care about bullshit like the environment and the feelings of others. They also smoke

weed to "experience #57 nature" or "enhance music." Fuck that shit. Bros smoke weed for one rea-

son and one reason alone: to get fucked up. The only thing that smoking weed enhances for bros is

their stories about how fucked up they were the night before. Being able to add to the end of your

story that you came home and "smoked like 3 bowls after drinking for 10 hours straight" gives you
a fuckload of bro points. Additional bro points are awarded if you don't even remember smoking up-

The “Bros Like This Site“, September 9, 2009.

I have one a few exams including a take home one in my second last week at Imperial for

2010. The exams I do at uni are alright. I perform well in my political science and Roman

history exam. There’s another exam I have. It’s a “take home“ exam (essentially an essay)

derived from the course run by the mad angry feminazi whores in the UB Arts depart-

ment. I have a lot of fun with the exam, and stick it to those radical leftist sluts. Who are

they to dictate the terms of my thought anyway?

From what I remember of the paper, I gave a verbal finger to those bearded women. I

dissed feminists where possible, praised liberal philosophy where I could, and wrote a

paper that generally screamed the word COLLEGE. I pass the course for this paper, the

lovely feminist ladies couldn’t really fail me as I’ve done all that’s essentially required. But

I recieved a grudging pass, that’s for sure.

After my exams, my luck takes a second flip. Centrelink, the government agency dedicat-

ed to helping the disadvantaged and needy in Australia has just sent me five thousand

bucks. To celebrate, I take the bus to the Indooropilly Shopping Centre, purchasing a glass

bong and a Notorious BIG CD. I don’t know what I’ll do with th rest of the five thousand

bucks. Probably spend it on weed and booze.

My last week at Imperial in 2010 is the most heavy in terms of drinking so far in my stay. I

have nothing left to do for the year, so I go all out. Though there are many events through

that week, the one that I remember most clearly and vividly through the fog of six days of

alcohol is the “Dragon Walk“. The “Dragon Walk“ consists of The Terrace boys, the rugby

boys, and their associattes. Basically the more sarcastic, reckless, and/or confident mem-

bers of Imperial College form the cohort that undertakes the Dragon Walk.
The Dragon Walk is costumed, and everyone rocks up in unique outfits. Most of the boys

have selected rugby clothes, or the golfesque outfits popular on most pub crawls. I’ve cho-

sen to rock a white shirt covered in multiple skulls, sneakers, jeans, and a black academic

gown. Fuck convention yo.

The Dragon Walk starts at Trotsky Square, the University of Brisbane student bar. We

down two jugs of beer before catching the Brisbane city ferry. Brisbane city has a nice ferry

ride. It’s something I don’t do very often. It is cool to do shit like this, leave the comforta-

ble surroundings of Imperial College. I rarely left the University of Brisbane campus in my

first year of university, and when I did it was always to drink. I’m not really drunk on this

ferry trip to the Brisbane CBD, and I’m positively loving life as a result. The shimmering

waters and the shining skyscrapers of the Brisbane CBD strike a wonderful contrast in the

hot November afternoon.

We arrive in the Brisbane CBD around 2pm, and hit a pint at Irish Murphy’s immeadiatel-

ly after that. The afternoon is a succession of dirty inner city bars; The Victory, The Stocky,

The Embassy, The Dunder, and that random bar at the Roma Street train station. We are

positively loud and howling by the time we board the train to Toowong so we can contin-

ue drinking at the Royal Exchange Hotel. On the train, we terrorise the locals to demon-

strate our obvious superiority and mad cuntness. This includes yelling the proud songs of

Imperial College drunk and loudly, and generally acting out in a wild and seemingly un-

controllable manner.

There’s a lot of Asians on the train. The narrow eyed fucks look offended at our behaviour.

But fuck Asians, I mean the foreign ones of course. Not the Asian Australians, they are

normal. I have Asian Australian friends. But Asian Asians are like a cancer within The Uni-

versity of Brisbane, as well as the wider Brisbane community. You should see the Asian

Asians at The University of Brisbane. They are like fucking pigeons. The fuckers congre-

gate like pesty birds around every important building at UB, talking gibberish and blow-
ing ciggarette smoke in everyone’s faces. Fuck them. They should all get Nicotine patches

and learn to speak some fucking English.

Back to reality. At the height of our aviatistic alpha male demonstration, something truly

beautiful and amazing happens. One of the boys, named Derrick, a rugby boy from the

only public Queensland GPS school, Brisbane State High, demonstrates his extreme classi-

ness. He vomits pink and brown chunks all over a chair on the bus. All the boys cheer

loudly. The Asians at the back of the carriage look horrified, and begin to back down and

fuck right off. Every Imperial College boy who has just witnessed this urges Derrick to

throw up some more. He obliges. Derrick sticks his finger up his throat and vomits more.

A second spray of brown and pink spew shoots out of his mouth and soaks the seat in an-

other layer of fetid stomach acid. A second and louder cheer goes up from all the boys. I

remember being so drunk that I couldn’t even whiff the puke.

We get off the bus around five minutes later and stumble from the train station to the RE.

Somehow I get let in, we all get let in. We are all living it up at the RE, that night is one of

the peaks in my college experience. Me and a couple of the guys don’t even get any drinks

from the bar at the RE. Instead, we buy a four pack of Double Blacks and a 200ml bottle of

Jim Beam from the Liquorland next door to the fine establishment of the Royal Exchange

Hotel. We then take said drinks across the road and drain them on a park bench ajacent to

the RE. YOLO.

I catch a cab back to St. Lucia with two chicks, nothing really happens. They are daygirls,

pretty hot, and seem nice. They tell me I was saying I was a Law, History, and Politics

student. LOL. Did I tell them I was a law student?! Must have been one of those things you

say so you can get your dick wet. Texta you crack Lucas Jones up! The girls didn’t like my

claims apparently. They said that I sounded arrogant. Fuck them. None the less, they still

give me cash for their part of the fare. 10 bucks. I can’t say college girls would do that in

most circumstances. Day girls can be a better breed sometimes then the college crowd.
I arrive back at College at around 1AM. I’m positively howling drunk by the time I do so.

Stumbly, loud, and obnoxious, I do a mock gym sesh at that late point in the night as the

gym is abandoned anyway. This wakes up a few of the Z Flat boys. They find my workout

session amusing on some level. Jack Harrison, Democrat, frat boy, and Southern gentle-

man, takes a few photos that wind up on Facebook the next day. Loose.

My week around this rather interesting day is essentially the same. Lots of drinking, sleep-

ing, excercise, and doing nothing. By the end of the week, almost everyone has left Impe-

rial College and I am one of the last dudes left at the place in 2010. I have planned to go

drinking on the Sunshine Coast with my mate Mick from high school and another dude

called John, who went to school in Thailand and does law at QUT. We all meet up at Im-

perial near the vacant reception desk at 12pm in the afternoon. Jack Harrison, my Alabama

comrade, is round the reception desk at that time, accompannied by his Dad. His Dad,

who goes by the exact same name as Jack, is a fifty or so year old Democrat leaning lawyer

from Alabama. He has the same curious mixture of awkwardness, refinement, and intelli-

gence that defines his son’s personality. Me and Jack bid farewell, we have had a good

time drinking goon wine and talking shit over the last four months or so. His Dad says I

can visit if I ever decide to venture to Alabama. I promise to do so.

Matt, John, and I walk through the University of Brisbane campus. It seems oddly dead

and abandoned on this day in November 2010. The usual assortment of fake glasses wear-

ing hipsters, Asians chatting and smoking cigarettes, and other dickheads is entirely ab-

sent. We each drink a pint of pale ale at Totsky Square and all smoke a Dunhill ciggarette.

Then we catch a bus to South Brisbane, ending up at the same house in Holland Park that I

spent my suspension for smoking weed at in early 2010. We get in Mick’s car, a shitty

Holden sedan from the 1980’s, and head to the Sunshine Coast. Somewhere along the

highway, we grab a bucket of KFC and a bottle of Mountain Dew and consume that for

our dinner. We arrive on the Sunshine Coast at night, it’s a rainy and cool night north of

Brisbane. Somewhat like a precursor to the oncoming floods that will envelop Queensland

in the 2010 to 2011 summer. John, the QUT law dude, has some good news. We can proba-
bly score weed tonight. Excellent. I’ve had no weed over the last week and just spent it

getting drunk. I’m hanging out for a smoke.

We get the weed, some very strong bush, off a kind of hot blonde haired bogan chick. She

also asks if we want some speed as well, which we politely refuse. Mick, John, and I take

the weed to some random Sunny Coast park and begin smoking it out of my new glass

bong. This is the first and only time the cops have nearly caught me smoking weed.

Many of my friends could legitimately and easily classify me as a highly strung and very

paranoid motherfucker. I am. But when you have taken as many drugs as often and as

publicly as I have, paranoia is not really a bad thing to possess. Rather, it is an important

and inevitable animalistic defense mechanism. I have only been caught smoking weed

once by the figures of authority who represent the tentacles of that evil monster that I like

to refer to as The Main Cop (thanks and cred to Hunter S. Thompson for inventing that

term, the sick cunt). On April the 20th 2010 Mike Shearman was that Main Cop when he

caught Bloods, Anal, and I smoking a joint in the quad of Imperial College and handed us

a two week suspension as a result. And my suspension was largely the result of my forget-

ting my animal defense mechanisms. Don’t smoke a joint in the quad, Bloods. This is not

America, after all. Best to go down to the woods, smoke the joint there. The cops never like

the woods, forests are too far from civilization.

That’s why hippies like to have their settlements out in the woods, deserts, and rainforests.

Fuck the police. But in Queensland, hiding in the woods and forests often isn’t even suf-

ficent to escape the Main Cop. A bunch of hippies had a settlement out in the rainforest

near Cedar Bay, Far North Queensland, way back in 1976. In August 1976, that commune

was raided Apocalypse Now style by the honourable Queensland Police Force, who had

come equipped with infa red radar, machine guns, police dogs, helicopters, and toxic

nerve gas. The raid didn’t yield much, other than a pathetic personal amount of good bush

marijjuanna that the hippies were smoking. Nonetheless, the noble members of the QPF
burned the hippie commune to the ground and got drunk on XXXX Gold Beer and Bundy

Rum as they did so. Fuck those hippie cunts.

Sir Johannes Bjelke-Petersen, the honourable and long serving Queensland Premier, in the

middle of his reign at that time, defended the Queensland Police and their actions in the

raid. The honourable Sir Joh declared that the public outcry in response to the raid was

“all part of an orchestrated campaign to legalise marijjuanna and denigrate the police“.

Right on, Johannes.

Things have changed since 1976. Smoking weed is now a part of upper class patterns of

behaviour in Queensland. A bunch of Towoomba Grammar boys that I knew in 2011 even

stated that someone from that honourable GPS institution had used their ingenuity to es-

tablish a weed crop under the Towoomba Grammar gym. A leaking water tap under the

gym had fed the weed crop, and there was a decent amount of sunlight flowing in to en-

sure that the plants grew. If that plant was ever discovered, it would never have been re-

ported to the cops by the Headmaster of that school. Elite institutions have an incredible

talent at hiding the indiscretions and crimes of their members.

The police will bust you and fuck you up for weed in Queensland if you are too obvious

though. One hippie guy I knew, a bit awkward and strange but nothing more, got caught

by the cops stoned out of his brain at the Roma Street Station once. He was reluctant to an-

swer their questions. He showed them his ID but wouldn’t give them anything else. In re-

sponse, they honourable members of the Queensland Police had him locked up in a

Queensland mental institution for seven days of “observation“. There they fed him the

brutal pharmeceutical drugs that the government likes to shove down the throats of those

considered divergent. Valium, anti-psychotics, Xanax, anti-depressants, and anything and

everything in between. They released him after seven days, probably hoping he had got

their message. Follow our rules you hippie cunt, answer our questions, or fucking cop it.
Yes, you can smoke weed safely in Queensland in the 21st century. Just don’t do it any-

where obvious. Like a college quad or the Roma Street Station. But that November night

on the Sunshine Coast we were in the woods. I guess parks are civilized woods though,

humanity has put benches in these forests and trimmed them, so the Main Cop and his

zealous agents aren’t afraid of entering parks, parks are civilized forests after all. We are

hitting the bong in the park, when I notice two guys wearing two identical blue shirts and

riding two identical white bikes coming at us from the other side of the park. It’s a misty

night, so I’m not sure if they are cops at first. But how can two guys wearing identical

blue shirts and riding identical white bikes not be cops? It just dosen’t make any sense. So

I warn the boys.

“Fucking Cops at 12 O Clock!“

The guys are a bit mocking at first. I am an extremely twitchy and paranoid motherfucker,

to be fair. But then Mick and John take a second look. Their expressions change. COPS!

The cops seem to know we have noticed them and switch on their sirens. A high pitched

squeal sounds in the air and red and blue lights flash in our eyes. Time to bolt. We pick up

the bong, the weed, and our lighters and begin running through an area of thick woods

directly behind us.

We trudge through the woods and eventually reach the other side of the forest. I’m pretty

certain that the wolves have lost our scent by then. Eventually, we discover an empty gar-

age fronting one of those semi-mansions that the Sunshine Coast seems so renowned for.

The owners don’t appear to be home, so we set up shop in the abandoned garage and

smoke our weed there.

Once sufficently stoned, we decide to press on with our ill defined mission. Mick, John,

and I walk through the vaugely misty and rainy night and end up at some massive RSL

club. Out the front, we must look like the seediest cunts in existence, borne straight out of

Lucifer’s unholy vagina. Mick, John, and I smoke Dunhill cigarettes as a procession of
Year 12 kids on their high school formal walk past us. There is some fresh meat there, hot

sixteen and seventeen year old girls. I wonder if this is a Year 12 Formal. Will these fresh

sluts be entering college next year? Will they be willing to put their moist young lips

around my dirty dick? I hope so.

Once we have smoked off around two cigarettes each, we decide to enter the RSL. The

Mooloolooba or Noosa or Wherever RSL is an interesting place. Japanese weaponary, cap-

tured from World War Two, lines all the walls. The most impressive piece is a samurai

sword, stolen off a Japanese commando. It’s amazing to think that the Japanese went into

that 20th century war with an essentially medieval warrior mentality. Samurai champions.

Matt, John, and I spend our time at the RSL drinking vodka lemon, lime, and bitters. We

drink about five drinks each then start to nod off a bit. Too much weed and too much

booze. We make an executive decision to leave before we all get kicked out.

We leave the RSL and go to where Mick‘s car is parked. Mick drive the car around back-

streets as John guides him, wishing to avoid the main roads where the Queensland Police

could be waiting in ambush. We eventually reach the shoreline, and dutch Mick’s retro

80’s car near the beach. Smoke clouds abound. I’m higher then I have ever been in my en-

tire life by the end of this session.

We navigate back through the same backstreets to John’s house, a typical Sunshine Coast

quasi-mansion. John’s family has a wicked TV room with a sound system and a projector.

They also have an enormous DVD collection. We decide to watch Get Him to the Greek be-

fore we go to bed. It’s about 4am before we finish the movie.

Chapter 11-Man We Were Killin Time-

Back in the summer of '69

Man we were killin' time

We were young and restless

We needed to unwind

I guess nothin' can last forever, forever, no

And now the times are changin'

Look at everything that's come and gone

Sometimes when I play that old six-string

I think about you, wonder what went wrong

-Bryan Adams, The Summer of 69, 1984.

My last day at college for 2010 is pretty cruisy. I spend it packing up my room, though I

fail to do that properly. I was meant to get boxes and crates to clear out the room, but I

forgot to do so. Guess I’d spent the week drinking too much. So I buy some crates from the

Toowong shopping centre with Mum and her guy, Paul, who have driven up to Brisbane

to pick me up from college. Paul’s pretty pissed off about it, I can tell by the uptight strut

he puts on when he’s angry. He definitely has that style of walking as we buy the crates

from Kmart at Toowong. But you know, like, whatever. I had a good time over the last week.

So get over it dude.

Once we have finished packing my stuff, I’m left to loiter around college. There is a college

function that night. Kind of like a pre-Christmas black suit and tie thing for all the parents

of the Imperial College lads. Mum, Paul, and I are seated next to the parents of a dude I

vaugely and partially know. He’s a decent guy. His parents seem that way too.

The end of year function is pretty alright. We are served decent canapes and Crown La-

gers the entire night. Dinner is a fine steak and a rich chocolate mudcake. But me and
mum notice something about Paul that night. He is quiet, unusually so. We have no idea

why.

Around us, the neo-cowboys make bids and bets. There’s pieces of art, which they throw

money down to bid for. There’s rowing oars from the famous ICC rowing victory in 1992,

which people throw money down to bid for. The triumph of it all, the piece de resistance, is

a college rugby jersey from Imperial College’s victorious year in 1969. The rugby jersey

sells for ten thousand dollars. All the while, Paul drinks Crown Lagers in a brooding si-

lence. He drinks the beer like it‘s going out of fashion. No one knows why.

I chat to my Imperial College associatte’s parents while all this is going on. They are den-

tists, from Towoomba. Nice people. Salt of the earth. The woman, by the name of Janet,

attended the Women’s College at the University of Sydney. She tells me of the heady days

back in the 70’s, when the Women’s girls got maggot drunk off goblets of wine at formal

dinners. Back when Sancta Sophia and Women’s girls hated each other, playing twisted

pranks and competing for the attention of the St. John’s and St. Paul’s lads. Not much had

changed on the college scene by 2010 obviously.

Paul goes full throttle on the beers until he is drunk enough to join the conversation. There

is twenty minutes of the night left around that time. The night ends rather pleasantly be-

tween my old folks and the Towoomba dentists.

After dinner, I’m sitting at the glass windows ajacent to the Imperial College dining hall.

They overlook the Imperial College quad. I remember feeling proud at the idea that I’d

managed to find somewhat of a place at Imperial. As I sat there, looking through twilight

at the buildings that had been my home for the last year, I was joined by a bloke known as

Kicksy. Kicksy was an alright dude, very right wing, but an alright dude. He was drinking

a Crownie like me.

Kicksy began to talk. Described his world, Cairns, North Queensland, and all that. It

wasn’t Kicksy’s usual lunchtime bullshit about fighting Aboriginals at North Queensland

pubs or how he hated the faggots, we’re talking dudes who suck fucking dicks here, at QUT.

So I listened to kicksy’s sermon, a bit anyway. The guy had some good perspectives. Don’t

be phased by the ripped but dumb cunts all over Imperial, they are bullshitting. Forget

about the crowds you are associatting with, they are shit too. Well not all of them, but

those rugby union boys are usually full of crap.

His last perspective got me a bit though, I must admit. Stop smoking weed. Texta I know

you have had more freedom since you have come to college, moving away from your fam-

ily and all, but weed is well and truly for the weak. Well, I thought silently, all I can say

with all due respect of course, is that you must have absoloutely no idea about my friends

and family back home. Imperial College has been a place of restricted freedom for me, if

anything.

Kicksy and a mate of his, a big South African dude, catch a cab with me, Mum, and Paul

back to Toowong, where me and my relations were staying for the night. Those two were

“kicking on“ if you will, going out to Fortitude Valley. Mum, Paul, and I went into the

rental apartment. We all shared a joint. Then I watched the news for an hour before going

to bed.

“Water levels are rising in all areas of regional Queensland. Meteorologists fear that if the rain

keeps falling at its current rates then most of Queensland will be flooded within the next few

weeks...“

The summer after my first year of college is like a personal 1969. My summer of love. Not

really in any sexual sense. I fuck no girls that entire summer, except a whore. But it is one

of those uniquely righteous times anyone has in their life. One of those times where you

feel like you are righteous and what you are doing, whatever you are doing really, is right,
correct, and proper. No one’s opinion matters. Nothing matters, but in a good way. The

world is your oyster.

I drop the remainder of the acid I have about a week into the holiday, a solid tab that

leaves me dancing in my pool and loving life. The summer is a rainy one, so wet that most

of Queensland and the majority of the New South Wales North Coast manages to fall vic-

tim to Mother Nature’s wrath. Everywhere except the New South Wales Northern Rivers,

a region usually renowned for flooding. Maybe there is a Divine Creator after all. Maybe

He is working in my distinct favour?

It rains most of the summer, but that dosen’t matter. My mate Billy is with me. His cone

and his stem they comfort me. They prepare a table of munchies for me, in the presence of

my enemies. They anoint my hair with hash oil. And I shall dwell forever in the house of

the bong.

I don’t get up to much that summer. Dad suggests I should go north, help the Queens-

landers out in the floods. But fuck that, I’m having too much fun just chilling down here.

Though my memories of the summer of 2010 to 2011 are generally pretty vauge, I do have

two periods of the holiday that remain with me prominently. My visit to my Gradmother’s

house in Mosman, Sydney, in the last four days of 2010 and my four day bender around

Australia Day, or Straya Day as citizens of the Commonwealth of Australia with higher

levels of refinement would tend to term the event, from January the 24th until January the

27th.

My Grandmother, now deceased, used to live in Mosman, Sydney. In a way, her choice of

Mosman as a place to live exemplfied the conflicted and often heavily contradictory nature

of her personality. Mosman is one of the wealthy suburbs of Sydney. Wealth, swank, and

wank all abound in the suburb. You can walk down a street in Mosman for around ten

minutes and not find a single shop outfitted for any discernible practical day to day pur-

pose. Coffee shop, boutique children’s toy shop, dress shop, custom shoe shop, coffee
shop, dress shop, and so and so forth until you have a cereberal hemmorage resulting

from the fact that you can’t even find a bottle of fucking milk. Ex-private school girls driv-

ing oversized BMW’s and Lexuses clog and choke the Mosman streets. By the vote of the

local population, smoking tobbacco is not allowed in Mosman in any place except in the

outdoors privacy of one’s own home, or veranda, or terrace, or garden to phrase things

more accurately. Mosman is an odd suburb. What is even odder is my Grandma’s choice

of Mosman as a place to live. For my Grandma, despite a lifelong attachment to the trap-

pings and imagery of wealth, was also a lifelong Communist.

Active for many years in the Communist Party, my Grandma none the less retained a

strong attachment to forces of the conventional 20th century Western idea of normal.

Hence, she retained her childhood Catholicism despite Karl Marx’s rather clear and stern

words on the role of religion in society-

“Religion is the opiate of the masses“-Karl Marx, some time in the 19th century.

Grandma always termed herself a “Catholic Communist“. She would justify it in a some-

what strange way by saying that Karl Marx’s “opiate of the masses“ statement was not an

attack on religion nessecarily, but rather more of an assertion that religion helped people

find comfort and solace. I don’t know how much experience my Grandmother had of opi-

ates, physical or ideological. She probably was high on the ideological ones a lot of the

time. But there is one thing that must be known of opiates of both the chemical and

philosohical varieties, they are temporary and dopey escapes from the realities that the in-

dividual can percieve in the world. Opiates, both physical and mental, make one feel good

in a sort of blind and oblivious way. However, once you get off any kind of opiate, there is

a stage of withdrawl, pain, sickness, and existential fear at how much of reality you have

indeed missed in your slack, dopey bliss. I have never been addicted to physcial opiates of

any form, or even tried many for that matter, other than a few scattered experiments on

coedine. However, I have been addicted to ideological predispositions that I would in my

current incarnation regard as dangerous and dopey. Whether one’s opiate is Australian
Labour, oxycontin, Communism, heroin, Coedine, Islam, Baptist Christianity, morphine,

or Neoliberalism, these things are all forms of dope. You will get the hit, feel supremely

high and mighty, then crash like a motherfucker once the dope wears off. Cold sweats,

stomach cramps, pangs of guilt, and everything else imaginable colours these periods of

“becoming clean“. Fuck all opiates, whether delivered through a pill, a syringe, The Bible,

The Communist Manifesto, or an Ayn Rand book.

Yes, my Grandma’s internal ideological marriage of Communism and Catholicism was

strange, odd, and wacky. Another peculiar thing about my Grandmother was her love of

all the trappings of wealth and luxury, which completely contrasted with her Communist

beliefs and social justice view of Catholocism. She was a complicated woman, my Grand-

mother. That probably explained her choice to live in a suburb as strange and peculiar as

Mosman. Mosman, as a place, represents one of the more extreme frames within the col-

lage that is Australian society. People are in Mosman to be rich, represent how rich they

are, flaunt their riches, and laugh it up with other people as rich as themselves. Most

Mosmanites love to front up in everyone’s face with an odd and very white version of

swag usually consisting of BMW’s, boats, polo shirts, and expensive cardboard cups of

foamy hot latte. My Grandmother, for some reason and despite her strongly socialist and

egalitarian ideological leanings, never quite gave up on the idea and the image of wealth.

And that’s why, when my Grandfather carked it, she decided to pack up her bags and

move to one of Australia’s strangest and wealthiest suburbs.

When I was growing up through my teenage years, I often felt somewhat strange and un-

comfortable visiting my Grandma in Mosman. Freaky white rich swag motherfuckers, the

populace of Mosman, really used to get to me. However, after my first year at college, I

somewhat “got“ the swanky, wanky North Sydney suburb. Mosman made sense within

the strange Australian social diorama. This is where people came to live their own warped

version of the Neoliberal dream, one that involves all the classic tropes, imagery, and

trappings of being rich.

I went jogging down to Balmoral Beach every morning of that holiday to Mosman. I

would typically swim in the ocean, after the jog, then run back up the steep hill to Milli-

tary Road on Mosman. Most of my life, I had seen my enemies to be the Howardite social

Luddites that swarmed around Australia like pesky rabbits, who promoted policies such

as Workchoices AKA “let’s make Australia America cunt“ and other loving ideas such as

Mandatory Detention Policy, a piece of Australian policy so reliant on ethical arobatics

that it claimed that the confinement of children in prison like facilities was somehow an

ethically correct and righteous choice. Yes, these people were wierd. Yet, I was adjusting

to their wierdness somewhat more. I didn’t know it yet. But self awareness of my own glo-

rious ascent into the ideological world of the Australian financial masturbation crew came

when I was swimming at Balmoral Beach one morning.

I was chilling, wearing white Imperial College shorts with the word IMPERIAL printed

across them in big purple letters across the arse. I walked down the sands of Balmoral

Beach, proud of my newly accquirred private school pedigree. These rich motherfuckers

could never view themselves as superior to me anymore, they probably thought the Impe-

rial shorts meant that I used to go to the Imperial School in Sydney. Sweaty and self right-

eously exultant, I dived into the cold and flat waters of Balmoral Beach.

I swam along the waters of Balmoral Beach, lapping up the sun and the cold waters. Bal-

moral Beach is a nice place, despite the many Neolib narcs and nazis that can tend to in-

habit it’s foreshore. As I was swimming along, I encountered a strange woman. She was

your typical archetypal aged Sydney private school girl. Around sixty years old and de-

bauched in a way that only the extremely rich tend to get. You know the score. Caked

makeup and sunglasses adorned her face, even though she was in the ocean. As I swam

along, she spotted me, the purple print of IMPERIAL on my shorts clearly visible. She

made a remark, because I was clearly one of her people-

“What a lovely day. What a nice country“.

“Yes“ I concur “Australia is a fantastic place to live“.

“I agree“ replies the aged private school mannequin “Except our government“.

“Oh yes“ I agree “But they shouldn’t last too long“.

“Quite“ replies the strange woman beside me.

Indeed. I start freestyling along the cold flat saltwaters of Balmoral Beach and running

through what I just said. Well yes, Julia Gillard was a shit backstabbing bitch. And her

government were dreadful economic managers, at least compared to the previous admin-

istrations of John Howard and Paul Keating. And Tony Abbott, for his many flaws, was a

dude somewhat like me. I mean, had he not gone to St. John’s College in Sydney and be-

come the President of it’s student club?

These thoughts circulated in my head as I did the jog up from Balmoral Beach to Millitary

Road, Mosman. The “conservatives“ weren’t that bad and maybe there was a place for me

in their culture after all. On that trip to Sydney, I felt like I was finally becoming some-

thing I always wanted to be. I was becoming part of the Dragon and the Dragon was be-

coming part of me. Imperial college shirts and ruggers were becoming part of my appear-

ance and vibe. I was a college boy and damn proud of it too. Fuck, I felt fucking righteous

back then. Fuck, I was fucking stupid back then.

At one point in the trip, myself, my mother, and my grandmother visit the Art Gallery of

New South Wales. We are there to see the Terracotta Warriors from China constructed

under the reign of the first Emperor of China, Shi Hangdui (259-210 BCE), a few examples

of which are on display at the gallery. The terracotta warriors are an amazing testament to

the power and drive of the human ego. They perfectly represent the duality of human na-

ture and just how contradictory humans can be.

The man who ordered the Terrocotta army constructed, the Emperor Qin Shi Hangdui,

was an amazing ruler in terms of what he did for China. He united the various warring

kingdoms of China through sustained millitary and political campaigns. He set up the

Chinese Imperium, a political arrangement that lasted two thousand years until Mao and

the Commies took over in 1949. He began construction of the Great Wall of China, which

is one of the only human structures viewable from outer space. The Great Wall was only

breached once, when Ghengis Khan and the Mongols bribed the guards to open the gates

in 1210 CE.

But Shi Hangdui was a ruthless motherfucker through and through. He was like the result

of a warped genetic combination of the God of the Old Testament, Homeric heroes like

Achilles and Aggamennon, and Sun Tzu. And Shi Hangdui shared the ruthless and blood-

thirsty nature of these ancient quasi-fictional heroes and idols. Emperor Shi ordered schol-

ars and intellectuals to be buried alive during his reign, and had books burned if the writ-

ings commanded dissention against his ruling order. He sent thousands of workers to

their death in the construction of the Great Wall of China because, screw it, that wall need-

ed to be built to keep the fucking Mongol horse people out.

Clearly, Qin Shi Hangdui was aware of his own evil and ruthless nature. He built his

Grand Mausoleum complete with an army of Terracotta Warriors to protect him in death.

Apparently, the first Emperor of China feared hellish demons so much that he believed he

needed an army of ceramic warriors to protect him from righteous divine vengance after

his death. The Terracotta Warriors formed that protection. Of course, tigers always stay

true to their stripes. Shi Hangdui oversaw the deaths of thousands more Chinese peasant

workers during the construction of his enormous sarcophagus. But Shi Hangdui didn’t

give a shit, his army of thousands of warriors would protect him from the demon spawn.

Shi Hangdui’s coup de grace came when he died and was finally buried. Emperor Shi died

in 210 BCE. Apparently he ingested some mercury tablets brewed by a tripped out bunch

of ancient Chinese alchemists. Shi had been led to believe that the caps would deliver him
immortality. But the invincibility drugs were made of poisonous mercury, so they killed

him. My bet is that the alchemists who brewed the mercury tablets knew that they would

kill the Emperor. Shi Hangdui was an evil motherfucker who needed to die.

This fact was clearly highlighted by what the great Emperor did after his death. On post-

humous orders from their mighty Emperor, Shi Hangdui’s generals closed the tomb of the

late ruler with the craftsmen and labourers who built it entombed inside it’s subterranean

dome and left to suffocate. The many concubines and whores the Emperor kept in his pos-

session to fuck and suck him periodically were also buried alive. But Shi Hangdui, dying a

painful death from mercury poisoning, knew that he would be alright. He had an army of

thousands of terracotta warriors with him, and no Chinese dragon demons would be forc-

ing heated chopsticks up Qin Shi‘s arse in the depths of hell.

Emperor Qin Shi Hangdui is a perfect testament to the duality of power. Powerful people,

who achieve things, often have to do horrible things to cement their legacy. Sometimes

these acts of villiany are “nessecary evils“, sometimes they are unessecarry acts of fierce

and brutal egomania. Julius Caesar, Augustus Caesar, Charlemagne, and Winston Church-

ill all committed their acts of brutality in the cause of some “greater good“ or noble cause.

Caligula, Ivan the Terrible, and Hitler followed the pattern that Shi Hangdui followed.

That of committing evil acts because, fuck it, it’s fun to see people suffer. Fuck the cunts.

At the time, I don’t think of what I am seeing in such philosophical terms. Rather, I think

of myself as the perfect elite gentleman. Maybe my destiny is to be a mad cunt jet setter,

exploring the world like the refined and properly awesome knight of the elite that I am.

My life is path is set in my mind. In my mind’s eye I see myself looking at the terracotta

warriors in Sydney, followed by spontaneously travelling overland and over seas to see

Rome to tour the colliseum and forum, chased by riding a cruise ship to Peru to climb up

Machu Pichu, then topping it all off by flying over to Las Vegas first class in order to get

wild on LSD, expensive alcohol, and cocaine while engaged in an eight hooker-one man

gang bang. I am Tony Monatana. The world is mine.

One of my Grandma’s friends, William, is an upper class gentleman who has seen the

world as his in the stylings of a refined gentleman of the Australian colonial elite. I met

William the day after I saw Shi’s terracotta warriors at the art gallery of New South Wales.

Mum, Grandma, and I had morning tea with William, the representative of old Queens-

land. I drank coffee and everyone else drank coffee and ate Grandma’s fuit cake. My strat-

egy was to pretend I wasn’t hungry, but really I just hate fruit cake.

As I drank coffee and continued to protest my hunger so that I did not have to eat fruit

cake, I chatted to William about his glorious life and times. William was an old boy kind of

character in every way shape and form. He had been to The University of Brisbane in the

1940’s or some such, coming into the institution through Towoomba Grammar School. He

had gone to The University of Brisbane’s St. Peter’s College in the 1940’s. St. Peter’s was

founded by the Anglican Church, the establishment Christian Church of Australia. As

such it had been the elite college of The University of Brisbane throughout most of the

university’s history.

That elite status changed in the early 90’s, when St. Peter’s decided to go co-ed. Then it

was a free for all between Imperial College and St. Anthony’s College to see who could be

the most elite, most fully sick, and most hardcore bunch of dudes at the University of Bris-

bane. A too and fro ensued between The University of Brisbane’s two remaining all male

colleges. Fighting, drinking, fucking, rowing, rugby. The challenge was issued to see who

could become the best all male college and which all male college indeed had the members

with the biggest dicks. This competition swung back and forth throughout the 90’s, with

St. Anthony’s and Imperial periodically taking various crowns and belts that showed what

a tough group of alpha males they indeed were. Who was the best at drinking? Who was

the best at fucking? Who was the best at rugby?

By the time I arrived at college in 2010 most of these questions had been more or less an-

swered. Imperial College were the kings of rowing, fucking, and rugby. St. Anthony’s, ob-
viously angry and a bit frustrated, became fighting, drinking, and masturbating champi-

ons. But the intensity of the rivalry remained at one million psychic volts. When I first got

to Imperial I was told about how the Anthony’s boys were “cunts“ and the natural ene-

mies of all good Imperial men. At least in the speeches and commandments of the Imperi-

al College executive.

William and I chatted about various aspects of our respective college lives. We talk about

co-educational colleges and how the move towards co-education is destroying all that is

good and righteous about the college system. Men and women should be kept in different

institutions for their stays at university. For what are we without our traditions? And

keeping the men seperate from the sluts at university is certainly a righteous tradition.

William and I know that.

Not much seems to have changed about college life from the 1940’s to the 2010’s. There

were college exchanges in the 1940’s, William says that there were cheap drinks back then

and there obviously was the same measure of drunken debauchery as the contemporary

college scene. The colleges seemed more powerful within university life in the 1940’s, or so

William suggests. ICC sports and rugby competitions were around, but St. Peter’s domi-

nated it instead of Imperial back in the postwar years. How the worm turns. The Angli-

cans, then the Catholics, and now the Methodists have all in turn dominated university

sport at the University of Brisbane. But the essential features of college life don’t seem to

have changed much in seventy or so years. Beers were drunk, sluts were fucked, rowing

regattas were hosted, rugby balls were kicked. Life went on as generations and genera-

tions of kids passed through those halls.

William leaves about an hour after he arrives at my Grandmother’s. Grandma is more

honest about her feelings for the old chap after her departs. She likes William, but believes

him to be the product of an outdated elite. A group of people who never suffer or work for

what they recieve, who party and live it up arrogantly, who are completely oblivious to
people’s everyday struggles in the world around them, and who piss on working people

for the fuck of it. Righto Grandma, whatever.

I leave Mosman and Sydney at about 2pm on New Year’s eve. I don’t really do much for

the rest of the summer, except work out, smoke weed, go to the beach, and drink. I’m en-

joying myself enormously, but doing essentially nothing. Nothing that is, until Australia

Day on January the 26th.

Australia Day is the other big event in my summer calendar for 2010 to 2011. Australia

Day didn’t really become a big deal in Australia until the mid 2000’s. In the 80’s and 90’s,

it was more of a day to just chill, maybe have a few beers. Another public holiday, but

nothing really that special. Australian of the Year was awarded on that day. Aboriginal

groups usually had an under the radar protest on Australia Day. Maybe a game of cricket

or two was played. Yes, Australia Day, before the 21st century, really was nothing in Aus-

tralia. The advent of the government of conservative Australian Prime Minister John Win-

ston Howard changed all that. John Howard was a true blue, cricket watching, NRL lov-

ing Aussie bloke. He also lived in his Mum’s house until the age of thirty. What a battler.

Howard and his government, very heavy and assured on the idea of Straya, promoted

Australia Day like it had gone out of fashion. To be honest, Australia Day had gone com-

pletely and utterly out of fashion, if it was ever in fashion, by the time Johnny H got elect-

ed in 1996. So what I remember from those years were radio and TV ads, imploring people

to get out and celebrate being Australian, or Strayan if they so preffered it. You know, ma-

te. Have a BBQ. Have a beer. Have a sick one with the boys. Bottle a cunt if he deserves it.

Australia Day post the Howard years in Australia is an interesting spectacle. It is a day to

celebrate all is right in the Australian national spirit-basically getting blind drunk, having

BBQ’s, and listening to the quasi-alternative Triple J Hottest 100 countdown. However,

other less classically noble features of Australia’s culture have begun to cement themselves

as part of the Australia Day celebrations. Racism, a common underlying feature of Aus-
tralia’s culture, comes to an unquestionable fore on Australia Day. Minor and pathetic ra-

cial riots and instances of civil disobedience are common topics for Australian newspapers

on January the 27th of every year. Straya Day is indeed very Strayan. It is a day to drink

beer, let loose, and fly the Aussie flag. Or, rather, wear the Australian flag in any conciev-

able location. Wear the Australian flag on a Best And Less Singlet, wear a pair of boardies

consisting of the Australian flag, if your are a chick wear a bikini in Aussie colours, if you

are a mad Strayan warrior or just some dude out for a really good time drape the Australi-

an flag around your back like a medieval knight. get maggotted on beer and ampheta-

mines, then run around wild with a cricket bat pretending it’s a sword.

I’ve been drinking and smoking weed for two days when Australia Day starts. This means

that I am in the fucking zone when the day starts, chief. My mate Drew awakes me around

with a phone call around 9am on Australia Day. I pick up a Eureka Flag and throw it on

my back, grab a bottle of Crown Lager, grab my bong, and walk out to my back balcony in

Ashtonville.

As I walk to my bright and dewy backyard on that sunny January morning, I look at the

blue length of cloth draped over my back. The Eureka flag is one of my sources of pride on

Australia’s national day. Lucas Jones does not wear the Australian Flag on Australia Day,

Lucas Jones rocks the Eureka Flag. The reason for this is that the Australian flag has the

Union Jack, the symbol prominently displayed on the British flag in representation of the

British nation, is placed awkwardly in the top left corner of the Australian flag. There the

Union Jack sits strangely on the Aussie flag, skulking there in an unwanted manner like a

lone drunk hating life and sipping beer in the corner of the pub. I am an Australian, not an

Englishman. Therefore I wear a flag with no links to the English or the strange belief that

some family, the royal family of England, is better then me because of their blood and an-

cestry. Spare me that crap eternally. Half of the current royal family of England, the Wind-

sors (or the more notably Nordic , Saxe Coburg and Gotha clan if you so prefer), were Na-

zi supporters during World War Two. Today, the Windsors are debased attention whores.

Their continual wealth and fame is dependent on the continued intense focus of a rampant
and hungry British tabloid press who photograph them at every concievable opportunitty

and whom the noble Windsor family pretend to hate and fear purely for the sake of keep-

ing up appearances. But the Windsor family need the tabloid press. For without the pres-

ence of gossip columns and tabloid clippings, the English monarchy as we know it today

would cease to exist completely. Tabloid media whores and guardians of everything I am

against, the English royals are not heroes or people to be admired for any reason. One of

the most perverse things I have saw at Imperial in 2010 were actual monarchists. I still

have no idea how people supporting a latently medieval concept such as monarchy can

even exist in the 21st century. But those people exist. It’s a wierd world I guess.

I sit down and place the bong and bottle of beer on a shimering but dirty silver table on

my back balcony. It’s Australia Day, so I decide to take an early hit, start the party when-

ever brother. I pack the interlaced weed and tobbacco into the glass cone piece. Then I lift

my lighter, spark it up against the green and brown grass, and burn the weed and tobbac-

co mix until a significant amount of smoke has been generated. I release my finger from a

small hole on the side of the glass bong and a rush of weed smoke funnels into my mouth.

I inhale it, then exhale gloriously into the air of early morning. Shit, I love that whole pro-

cess. The smoke drifts of into the air and towards the sun that is rising in the east. I am

ready to celebrate this great country and everything it means to me.

As the weed hits my brain and I crack the golden top off a cold crownie, I think more

about the Eureka flag and just what it represents. Rather than just a silent protest against

the concept of monarchy in Australia, the Eureka flag is a symbol of rebellion and insur-

rection against the British monarchy and empire. In 1854, in the southern Australian state

of Victoria, a group of one hundred and twenty miners launched a rebellion against the

colonial authorities of the British Empire. From the city of Ballarat, Victoria, they built a

wooden stockade and barricaded themselves off against The Main Cop and his irrational

demands for tax, obedeience, and subservience. The Main Cop in this instance was the

British Empire and the tentacles of the Main Cop came in the form of two hundred and

seventy six colonial soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets. On 3rd December, 1854, Aus-
tralia’s closest thing to a civil war occurred. The two hundred and seventy six colonial

troopers stormed the Eureka Stockade and killed twenty two of the rebellious workers,

losing six righteous agents of the law to the rebellious criminals in the process. The Eureka

Stockade was torn down, the rebellious miners were jailed and all sent to court, and Her

Majesty’s order was restored over the disrespectful and naughty city of Ballarat within the

colony of Australia.

But the legacy of Eureka never died in Australia by any means. For every worker who

died at Ballarat, there was a ripple effect. For a spirit of 19th century revolution is alive

and well in Australia, and inflicts many of the nation‘s restless youth to this day. Wild kids

inhabit the hills of our countryside and streets of our cities in the 21st century, living life-

styles and holding beliefs that are an affront to proper Australian interpretations of life in-

volving England, Mum, the cricket, and lamb roast. They party at doofs and raves, smok-

ing weed, eating MDMA, snorting speed, and dropping acid. They are wonderful people.

And the Eureka flag is perhaps like a symbol for us confused kids, those who could never

do what they were told by the Main Cop. Upon the Eureka flag is that symbolism. The Un-

ion Jack, a symbol that makes me vomit subconciously, is absent from the Eureka flag. In-

stead, upon a dark blue background, lies the five stars of the southern cross. These stars

are linked by strong white lines, representing unity in defiance. Defiance to the monarchy,

defiance to abstract laws laid down by vicious and self righteous protestants in the 1950’s,

defiance to the Main Cop and the many tentacles that form his various agents.

I wear the Eureka Flag on Australia Day because, despite whatever else, I have always

been an Australian Republican through and through, no matter the weather. Australian

Republicanism runs in the blood of my family. Back in the day, when Australians were

still forced to sing the English national anthem in our schools, my father would proudly

sing the chant “God save our gracious Queen, she is a jelly bean“. He recieved the cane

across the fingers at school every day for it and was proud of it. My Grandad never pun-

ished Dad for calling Queen Liz a sugary colourful confectionary, but rather encouraged

him to sing that line every single day at school. Monarchy is a concept that makes the
Jones family, and my mother’s family for that matter, sick to the stomach. Especially if the

monarch is a decrepit and aeging English harpie.

Shit that’s a lot to think of. I’ve finished another bong and a crownie just processing those

ideas. Drew arrives around 9.20 am. I beckon him to my back verandah and he comes by

to pull a bong. As he smokes it, I reflect on something. His baseball cap, tattoos, and pierc-

ings are sites almost completely unseen at an institution such as Imperial College. Many

Imperial guys would look down upon people who choose to modify their bodies in such a

way. But I know these things to be a symbol of something different. A dissaffected class of

youth who, just because it is in their blood, find it impossible to follow the strange and of-

ten heavily arbitrary rules and regulations that are meant to engineer the shape and form

Australian society.

Drew drives me to the coastal town of Ballina, where we are meeting up with a couple of

mates for Straya day. The weed has rendered everything quite pretty, and I am relaxed

and chilled. We play “Juicy” by Biggie Smalls on the way into Ballina. We meet up with

our mates, Davo and Ned, in Ballina. The first stop is Dan Murphy’s, where we buy two

cartons of beer and one carton of pink vodka cruisers. All of us except Davo, who is driv-

ing, drink beer on the way to the Ballina Fair shopping centre. At Ballina Fair, Drew and

Davo make a quick detour into the local Best And Less. Drew and Davo emerge wearing

Australian flag bikinis. Me and Ned are congratjulatory, cheering on the boys for their

choice of apparel.

We get into Davo’s four wheel drive and begin driving an hour south to the Australia Day

party we are attending. The party is being hosted by a mutual friend, some chick named

Julia. We arrive in Broadwater around 11am and meet up with Julia and the crew. It’s a

hot and sunny summer day, almost a complete contrast to the torrential rain that has de-

fined the 2010 to 2011 Australian summer. Salt water bays surround the park and the salty

smell of the ocean is in the air. It’s an amazing day, representing all that is true and beauti-

ful about Australia.

Julia and the rest of the party are eating fish and chips in the park. It’s a mixed crew of dif-

ferent girls and guys. Me and the boys who have just arrived refuse the fish and chips and

choose to just lay back, soak in the sun rays, and drink beer and vodka cruisers. Davo and

Drew strut around the park in bikinis, they are enjoying pissing off the old people in im-

meadiatte vicinity to everyone. After about half an hour, everyone has finished eating, and

we decide to take a trip to the beach. What is more Australian than that?

We are all pretty drunk at the beach. Swimming in the waves with a head full of beer and

vodka is an amazing experience. The sun shines on the waves of the Pacific Ocean. We

quit the beach after our swim and decide to migrate to the location of the party, set in a

suburban street in Broadwater.

The location of the party is a perfect fit for Australia Day. A nice suburban backyard, es-

kies for beer, a tent in which bongs can be smoked, an above ground pool to swim in, a

mad stereo with radio connections so that the Triple J Hottest 100 can be played all day.

We spend most of the rest of the morning getting drunk, swimming, and listening to Tri-

ple J.

Around 3pm, I am invited into the bong tent to smoke bongs by Gavin and Reg, two

dudes I had known at high school but not really been friends with in my high school

years. We smoke two bongs out of a glassie each in the hot and sweaty bong tent. Then

Reg challenges me to a bong smoking contest. Well, shit yeah bro. Me and Reg initiate the

bong smoking contest, smoking bongs turn by turn and passing the bong back and forth.

We are about seven bongs in when I zombify. I go flat and become completely still. Gavin

and Richie are still live. I watch, like a living rock, as they whip out a bag of powedered

MDMA and take turns rubbing the white powder on their gums. They have a bit of a

laugh at the fact that I have phased out. Reg and Gavin leave the tent not too long after-

wards. Reg slaps me on the back as a sign of encouragement. I’m zoning out even further

and lie on the floor of the tent for about ten minutes.
Then I pick myself up. I unzip the flap on the tent and stumble and fall out onto the grass

outside. Slowly, I stumble and fall about ten metres away from the tent. It’s an Australian

summer afternoon and the sun is blazing hot. I get to my knees and feel a sudden surge in

my stomach. Then it comes. A spray of wicked bright pink vomit, obviously accquirring

it’s colour from the vodka cruisers I have been drinking alongside the beer, shoots out of

my mouth and sprays all over the wooden fence beside me. Wicked. Straya Day, fuck

yeah!

I make a recovery from my famished and vomit fucked state by eating an entire large bag

of chips, the flavour and brand of which I have no recollection whatsoever. Once I had re-

gathered myself, I was ready to re-engage with my personal celebration of my Strayan-

ness. Everyone continues drinking, swimming, and listening to the Hottest 100 till we all

crash out at fuck knows what time.

I come to from my four day Australia Day drinking and weed binge when I vomit a beery

pile of spew in my backyard in Ashtonville one sunny morning. This final bit of spew

leaves my stomach empty. I literally see stars while I vomit.

Chapter 12-A Shaming Award for Extreme Misogyny-

A case study in what not to do when confronted with a culture of sexism.

First, some history. In 1977, a group of St Paul's College students at Sydney University held an
awards ceremony in which a student who raped a woman was applauded for committing "the ani-
mal act of the year". Then last year St Paul's made headlines again after a Herald journalist, Ruth
Pollard, exposed a "Pro Rape/Anti Consent" Facebook group run by students at the college.

And last week, they received the Gold Ernie - a shaming award for extreme misogyny. The awards
organiser, Yvette Andrews, says St Paul's was the clear winner. ''There was a deep agreement that
misogyny and sexism is an entrenched and protected part of college culture," she says.
While the scandal has made the students more media cautious, it does not seem to have affected
their attitudes towards women. Earlier this year, a number of St Paul's students planned a musical
dance revue number titled Always look on the bright side of rape. The number was canned for fear
that it might invite media coverage.

In the end, the villain of the revue was called "Ruth Pollard" and students hissed, booed and threw
objects when the character appeared. Signs were posted stating the show was "private" and media
were not welcome.

These weak attempts to conceal their sexist culture combined with the petty revenge attempts indi-
cate a lack of remorse and unwillingness to address the problem. St Paul's is not the only institution
to be accused of a culture of sexism. In recent times David Jones and the NRL have also come un-
der fire. The different approaches are instructive, and St Paul's does not come out of it looking
good.

When individuals or groups repeatedly violate community standards, the public finds it difficult to
forgive. To do so, we expect contrition and genuine effort. If the accused is transparent about the
situation, admits the problem and demonstrates true penance, forgiveness may come.

When it was revealed that the former chief executive of David Jones, Mark McInnes, had allegedly
sexually harassed a female employee, he stood down, issuing a statement apologising for his "inap-
propriate behaviour" (leaving with a substantial golden handshake).

St Paul's offered no acknowledgement or compassionate apology over the Facebook group, or to

the victims who alleged they had been sexually assaulted or harassed by St Paul's students. Instead,
it suited up with a team of lawyers and spin doctors. Legal action was threatened against
the Herald, and a series of self-congratulatory press releases were crafted and then distributed by
an appointed public relations company.

In one, the warden, Ivan Head, wrote: "I am happy to go on the record and affirm that St Paul's
College in the university is one of the most exciting and stimulating places to live, brilliantly in the
heart of the university, fully engaged with every aspect of student life, punching above its weight,
moderated by wise and astute scholars."
Tokenistic concern was expressed over "any proven" incitement to rape, though Head then went on
to profess complete ignorance of the culture of sexism, harassment and intimidation embedded
within the institution.

The other Sydney University colleges did not follow suit. Wesley College said women were "seen as
meat" and that offenders regularly escaped discipline. The St Andrew's College warden began talks
with sexual-violence prevention experts. Women's College set up strategies to help protect female
students during O Week.

In 2004 the NRL came under fire after gang rape allegations were made against the Canterbury
Bulldogs. While the charges were eventually dropped, the chief executive, David Gallop, realised
that sexist attitudes did exist within the code.

Instead of denying or covering up the problem, he opened the doors to a team of sexual ethics ex-
perts and educators who interviewed players and management to assess the culture, subsequently
developing a comprehensive, long-term sexual ethics education program that is being introduced to
all players.

These same experts met St Paul's after the Facebook scandal broke, but Head ignored their advice,
instead electing to run a one-off ''tick-the-box'' workshop. He hosted a celebrity-studded, lavish ga-
la dinner for his students, where $10,000 was donated to the White Ribbon Foundation - a men's
organisation dedicated to ending violence against women.

But throwing money at a charity cannot buy absolution. These cases show when it comes to damage
control, transparency, contrition and action always trumps denials and cover-ups.

-Nina Funnell describing the student culture at St. Paul’s College at the University of Sydney in The
Sydney Morning Herald, September 22, 2010.

Around four days into my second year at Imperial College, a Faith College girl accussed

three rugby boys from Imperial College of raping her. Details on whatever happened on

that night in February 2011 will perpetually be sketchy to me and everyone else who

heard about the incident. Perhaps only the four people directly involved in the foursome,

as some would have it, or rape, as others may be inclined to term the occurence, will ever
know what went on in the disabled toilets and showers of Imperial College on that hot

and sticky February night.

I met the girl who made the rape accusations once. She went by the fresher name of Bond

at Faith College. I was with Jack Harrisson, my friend from Alabama, and Slash, the long

haired surfer dude from Byron Bay. It was three in the morning on a hot November night

and we were waiting outside the GPO in Fortitude Valley for a cab to take us back to Im-

perial. A crowd of college kids were outside the GPO intermingling and generally chilling

and chatting. It was the last night of college for the year. Everyone was relaxed and look-

ing forward to a well, or ill, deserved holiday.

Bond came to us from amongst the crowd. She was a little on the fat side, but not exces-

sively so. She had the hips that many private school girls pick up when they get to college

and live on a diet that essentially consists of protein and carbohydrates, and not much

else. She seemed bubbly and friendly, if a bit on the slutty side of things-

“Hey do you guys need someone to share a cab with?“ she asked us.

We all agreed and caught a cab back to St. Lucia with her. Bond did seem a bit skanky, I’ll

be honest. In the cab back to St. Lucia she ran through a list of Imperial dudes she had

screwed. When we got back to Imperial, she searched out an Imperial dude by the name of

Smithy so she could attempt to fuck him. Oh well, live and let live. This is college, any-

way. YOLO.

Bond seemed like a bit of a skank to me, so it didn’t really suprise me that she was the one

to get herself caught in a foursome-rape siuation. On the night in question in February

2011, when the rape or foursome had supposedly occured, there had been heavy drinking

and a lot of weed going round at Imperial. A lot of the ladies invited over to the college

had retired to rooms with the boys, so what occurred was nothing special in the scheme of

things really.
She had begun fucking one rugby boy in the Imperial College disabled showers sometime

through the course of the night. Not long into the rooting session, another rugby boy

showed up and joined in the sexual activity. A third dude, also a rugby player, heard what

was going on. He entered the bathroom where the threesome was taking place. Inadvert-

edly, the threesome became a foursome as the third dude decided to strip down and join

in. The foursome took place for an undisclosed amount of time before everyone decided to

call it quits and go their own separate ways.

I have no idea of what exactly happened that night. It is trife and presumptuous to assume

everything is known and certain when an allegation as serious as gang rape is made. What

I do remember, however, is the process that eventuated in an accusation of rape and the

reaction to the accusation of rape from amongst the Imperial College student body.

Like most processes that eventually entail damaging results and repercussions, the events

leading up to the early 2011 rape accusation tended to have a momentum of their own. I

heard about the foursome around four days after touching down at Imperial College for

my second year at the proud institution. It was a pretty funny and harmless story to begin

with. A bunch of boys had a foursome with that slut Bond from Faith College. Good on

them. This was college and college was fun. One of the guys involved even showed me a

text Bond had sent him telling him what an amazing time she had had fucking three

blokes in a single session. Another of the guys involved recieved massive props from eve-

ryone at Imperial for fisting Bond during the foursome.

Then things began to turn sour. Bond began recieving abusive texts. You know, the usual.

Texts calling her a slut. Texts explicitly mentioning her role in the foursome. Her name

was dirt at Imperial at the time. Imperial men began sending abusive Facebook messages

to Bond and called her from anonymous phone numbers to abuse and berate her for being

a whore. All hell broke loose at a college exchange between Imperial College and Faith

College. Bond left herself exposed and alone ordering drinks at the bar at the ex-
change.That’s when some of the boys saw their opportunitty to demonstrate to her what a

fucking slag she was. Three Imperial guys cornered Bond and threw their drinks all over

her. All the Imperial guys at the exchange that night found what happened simply hilari-

ous. There was laughter all around, from all the boys. Real good times and real funny shit.

Just how college is suppossed to be.

Apparently, Bond didn’t find what happened to her at the bar that night, or the torrent of

online and phone abuse she had been receiving, as hilarious as all the Imperial boys did.

And that’s when the rape accusations began to surface. Bond went to the Headmistress of

Faith College, a senile old bitch with a hatred of alcohol and a creepy quasi-sexual obses-

sion with cats, and complained that she had been raped by three Imperial men in the Im-

perial disabled showers. Faith College was Imperial College’s “sister college“ at the time,

so the potential rape of a Faith College girl by three Imperial men caused quite an uproar

amongst the student body of our partnered college.

Imperial College’s student body responded to Faith College’s concerns with an emphatic

Fuck You and two middle fingers in the air. Fuck Faith College, bro. Who were they to tell

us, Imperial College, what to do? Wasn’t Faith College a boring collection of two bit Chris-

tian bitches anyway? Fuck them and their shit. Imperial College’s student club had talked

about shifting the sister college status to the UQ Ladie’s College anyway. Ladie’s College

were the female version of Imperial College. They understood what it meant to be refined,

elite, and simply better then all the other motherfuckers out there.

The Imperial College student club’s attitude to Bond’s accusations was most readily ap-

parent in an impromptu meeting called by Bobby “Clarinet“ James, the 2011 student club

president of Imperial. Clarinet was a good dude, hard not to like. He always reminded me

of myself in a way, with his interests in arty shit generally considered faggy at Imperial

and his strong love of a beer. I probably would have ended up like Clarinet, had I had a

similar upbringing. Clarinet is someone I remember as a good dude, but from a complete-

ly different world to me.

Clarinet’s impromptu speech at an improptu meeting of the Imperial College student club

was an exemplification of the Imperial College student club’s attitude towards Bond’s ac-

cusations of gang rape at the time they occurred. It was a baking February afternoon. Eve-

ryone was throttling cold cans or bottles of beer. All the boys were thirsty for booze. Impe-

rial College had an exchange with the Ladie’s College that afternoon and everyone was

getting ready for it. A couple of goon sacks were even being passed around amongst the

boys to really get things going. Only second years upwards had been invited to the im-

promptu meeting. Freshers could not be trusted to handle and deal with the sensitive in-

formation that La Grand Emperor Sir Clarinet was about to divulge. The boys were getting

restless, drinking and waiting. We wanted to quit the common room and go drink beer

under the shade of trees in the Imperial College quad. After about ten minutes of waiting,

Clarinet came in decked out in standard 2011 Imperial College attire, purple Imperial

shorts and a cut loose singlet. Clarinet was a good speaker, even an inspirational speaker if

you were thinking on his direct level. Before the thronged mass of the proud Imperial

men, President Calrinet parted his lips and offered a strident proclomation-

“Today, three men of Imperial College have been accussed of one of the worst crimes im-

aginable legally and ethically. I’m not going to mince words with you boys because I trust

you to keep your mouths shut. The three guys concerned, whose names I am not mention-

ing due to the serious nature of the accusations, have been accussed of rape.

What we do know is this. Three Imperial men had sex with Bond from Faith College in the

Imperial disabled showers last week. Everyone was drunk, and I’ll admit it, probably a bit

stoned on that night. So nobody really has any fucking idea what went on. Stories have

circulated around this college though. You’ve probably heard the tales of the fucking and

the fisting. Many of you would know the girl concerned and, yes, she is a bit of a ques-

tionable kind of person.

But, she is one of the Faith College girls. And all the Faith College girls are up in arms

about this shit. So I need all you guys, who understand college and the college culture, to

do this for me. Keep your mouths fucking shut and hold your ground until the college can

sort this shit out. Encourage all freshers you talk to do the same thing. Because we all

know that freshers are useless as shit and don’t know how college works. I wouldn’t ex-

pect any less of any of you boys.

Now tonight, we have an exchange with the Ladie’s College. I can see all you boys are

keen for it. What we need to do tonight is get massively drunk, forget about this bullshit,

and remember what college is really about. DRAGON!“

“DRAGON!“ yelled all the guys in the common room in response, followed by a massive

cheer and yells of support.

Following the meeting, everyone migrates to the quad. I have a carton of James Boags

Tasmanian Lager in my fridge, but there is a goon punch being made in the quad so I

leave my beer for a little while. Imperial College goon punch is a noxious combination. In

addition to the usual ten dollar boxes of Cooloobah goon wine, the punch consists of thirty

dollar bottles of cheap vodka, cans of Mother Energy drink, crushed up No Doze caffine

tablets, party ice, and boxes of chemically questionable “fruit drink“.

It’s a sunny afternoon in early March, the summer weather has lingered on like it always

does in the Australian tropics. The dudes are chilling in the glow of Amun Ra’s holy rays.

Some of the boys sit on the purple steps of the quad, drinking and smoking Malboro

Golds. Other guys run around the quad, playing a game of impromptu touch rugby. I’m

sitting near La Grand Emperor Clarinet, Vice President Jetson, and a small but powerfully

built Fresher. The fresher is a black kid from Anglican Church Grammar School, a school

known around the Brisbane GPS crowd as Churchie. His real name is Alec, but his fresher

name is Jigaboo, what with him being black and all.

Between sips of chemically toxic goon punch, Jigaboo tells the boys a story. Apparently on

O Week, which occurred two weeks ago for the 2011 Imperial College freshers, Jigaboo

recieved a rather interesting blow job. A Faith College girl, who I had fooled around a bit

with in 2010, was giving Jigaboo gobbies in the common area of the Rogerson building.

Both of them were extremely drunk. The girl who was giving Jigaboo gobbies was some-

what inexperienced at the activity, as many of the good Christian girls from Faith College

tended to be. As such, about ten minutes into the dick sucking sesh, something interesting

began to happen. The young lass began to choke and splutter. Then she felt a surge in her

stomach. Then she vomitteed hot, acidic, alcoholic spew all over Jigaboo’s dick. Shit. Jiga-

boo you fucking champ.

I respond to the story with an interesting perspective of my own “Well“ I say “women are

only really life support systems for vaginas anyway“.

A look of impressed shock comes over the faces of Clarinet, Jetson, and Jigaboo. They ob-

viously had not expected such an attitude from a former leftie peasant. The three laugh

with me and slap me on the back for my words of wisdom. I’m getting the vibe of this

place more then I ever have. Supposedly.

Everyone at Imperial College gets more and more drunk as the exchange approaches. I

whip a six pack of beer out of the bar fridge in my room around night time, and drink

them with a sailor’s thirst in the Imperial College quad. The Imperial College student club

has set up a caged drinking area below the Rogerson Building. By vote of the men of Im-

perial College, the area has become known as the “Mike Shearman Memorial Rape Dun-

geon“.

Mike Shearman, known as the “Dragon Slayer“ at Imperial College for his mandated job

of handing out suspensions and expulsions to students, left his job at Imperial at the end

of 2010. I didn’t really blame him. Mike Shearman was like a lightning rod at Imperial Col-

lege, doing all the nessecary shit kicking for the institution to function on behalf of Master
Gerald Oebid. He also had four young sons, the oldest of whom was in kindergarten. And

from what I had seen of residential colleges, they were no place to raise a kid. Especially in

a testosterone and alcohol fuelled institution such as Imperial College. Whether Mike

Shearman had left Imperial out of the realization that he was a shit shoveller or the aware-

ness that his kids would be raised within the institution and strongly influenced by the

norms and values therein was largely irrelevant. Mike Shearman BA OAM Dragon Slayer

had left Imperial College and this was generally a cause for celebration and jubilation

amongst all members of Imperial College who had feared, and in some cases felt, his

mighty wrath.

Consequentely, the new area set aside for drinking and debauchery had been labelled the

Mike Shearman Memorial Pit or the Mike Shearman Memorial Rape Dungeon depending

on the crowd you were amongst. On that hot March night, I was definetly among a crowd

more inclined to term the caged area the Mike Shearman Memorial Rape Dungeon. There

was a decent amount of rain that night, but the weather has been so hot and sunny during

the day that the effect of sitting in the Mike Shearman Memorial Rape Dungeon was

roughly equivalent to sitting in a sauna. The steel cages and brick ceilings around the

Dungeon add to the sauna effect. To cope with the heat, all the Imperial boys had been

drinking like thirsty Vikings. We all got loud and rowdy in the first drinking session in the

Mike Shearman Memorial Rape Dungeon. I downed the whole six pack of James Boags

during the pre-drinking session.

After the pre-drinks, we arrive at the Chalk Hotel in Woolongabba for the exchange with

Ladie’s College. I down two jugs of beer and one jug of fruit tingle. At some point I re-

member “shuffling” in my fresh new Nike Air Jordan kicks and falling over in front of

everyone. Fuck it. YOLO. In the taxi, I apparently give the Indian taxi driver shit, to the

widespread approval of the boys.

“Hey mate, do you like punani? Do you like puntaken? You should like punani. You

should like puntaken. I bet you get lots of punani, I bet you get lots of puntaken“ (“pun-

taken“ or “punani“ are Hunduized references to pussy).

Fucking peasant, curry eating, turban wearing cunt. I wake up the next morning with a

pounding fucking headache, but in an amazing mood. I’ve completely forgotten about

Bond and the rape accusations.

Generally, Bond and the rape accusations were peripheral to what was going on in my

first few weeks of college in 2011 anyway. I was setting up a weed shop, my own business,

and generally enjoying my time skylarking around and experiencing Brisbane. My first

year of college taught me one very important thing. I hate working for anyone with a su-

periority complex who wishes to assert their authority over me. I consequentely had to

find a line of work where I would not be subjected to people’s domineering bullshit.

My pizza job early in 2010 involved driving around delivering pizzas at ten bucks an hour.

There was a payment for each delivery, but it never really covered the cost of delivering

the pizzas. Plus my boss told me to break the speed limit to ensure that his precious pizza

and garlic bread was delivered on time. Fuck that. I quit my job at Pizza Hut Toowong as

soon as I got a job in the Imperial College kitchen.

The Imperial College kitchen proved just as depressing as Pizza Hut in it’s own way. I

have generally poor motor and co-ordination skills. I was born that way, and I always will

be that way. So I was a slow worker and performer at the Imperial College kitchen. This

was translated to the staff as laziness, but never was. I got sick of the hagid old bitch of the

kitchen, Shazza, giving me shit. I was over my job in the Imperial College kitchen. Plus

they had cut my shifts back. I didn’t have a steady amount of income to mantain the

amount of drinking I wanted to participate in.

Consequentely, I had decided that my job at Imperial College in 2011 would be selling

weed. Selling weed was a righteous thing to do in my mind. The plant was certainly a less

harmful drug than alcohol, and cheap piss was everywhere at Imperial. From my teenage

years smoking weed onwards, I had picked up a large and reliable selection of contacts

from whom to secure the plant on the New South Wales Far North Coast. A fair number of

these dealers had even relocated to Brisbane, taking their businesses with them. Yes, I

would bring the righteous North Coast ganga culture to Imperial College, maybe the in-

creased presence of weed would calm down some of the angry XXXX skulling cowboys

that lived at Imperial College. And pigs might fly. And a Baptist God may bring a right-

eous fiery apocalypse to Earth, burning all those who didn’t believe in him in painful hell-

fires for all eternity.

I felt like some awesome crime movie mad cunt with my ounce bags of grass. My child-

hood was full of movies like Goodfellas and Scarface, games like Grand Theft Auto, and

American rap music. Criminal anti-heroes like Tommy Vercetti, Chris Moltisanti, and Big-

gie Smalls were romantic to me. They did whatever the fuck they liked, took shit from no

one, and had all the money, drugs, and bitches they could ever desire. Certainly better

dudes then the self righteous, sacromonious, right wing policemen with guns and sniffer

dogs that my high school friends and I had made an artform of avoiding at music festivals.

Better and more honest then the cheesy and slimy ”venture capitalists“ and salesmen who

conducted their immoral and expolitative trades within the frames of the law.

About five days before I returned to college in 2011, I was with my mate Davo coming

back from our regular dealer’s house in Lismore. We had just passed off the highway and

onto the pine tree lined road that headed to McEllen’s Ridge. I unzipped my backpack and

said to Davo “Yo Davo look at this“.

Davo had a look in the bag. “Holy shit“ said Davo.

Inside the bag were four ounces of fresh and green marijuanna. The Northern Rivers‘ fin-

est. I was going to sell the weed at Imperial College. In honesty, I never viewed what I was

doing as immoral back then and still don’t. Weed is weed is weed. Besides, I was a liber-

tarian back then. Weed has as much a right to free market avalaibility as booze, fish and

chips, condoms, panadol, rugby balls, gym memberships, and McDonalds burgers. Fuck

Babylon Rasta.

I was extremely happy with pretty much everything back then. I had fat sacks of weed,

ready to smoke and reliable as a steady source of income. My room in college for my sec-

ond year was a lot better then the sub-standard Z Flat room of my first year. It was in the

new centenary building of Imperial College, which had formed the construction site next

to my room back in 2010. Views from my room overlooked the Brisbane River, I had a bal-

cony where I could smoke bongs, and my cool and comfortable new room contrasted

completely to the brick sweat box I had resided in the previous year.

Imperial College had rebuilt the college pool. It was an impressive and large structure, and

good to chill in after a few bongs. I could navigate college food better now, distinguish the

good from the bad. And when I didn’t like college food, I could just walk to the street of

shops fifty metres from college and eat pizza, Thai food, fish and chips, or Subway.

Parties were just as frequent and just as messy and wild in my second year as in the first

year. But I was certainly navigating the college environment much more easily. I was re-

laxed and comfortable in the college environment now, so moving amongst the crowds

and hitting on the chicks within the scene didn’t seem as strange and awkward as in my

first year.

In a somewhat more consensual nod to the Bond scenario, I had even accquired my own

dirty rooting story at Imperial College. I was at Thomas Hobbes College’s bi-annual party

student, Bunker, commonly marketed as the loosest and wildest and biggest student party

in Brisbane. Drunk and loose, I was dancing like a mad cunt with an Iron Man mask on.
Iron Man corresponded to the theme of the party somehow. While I was dancing some

chick, blonde with big tits but a bit on the chubby side, reached inside my pants on the

dancefloor and grabbed my dick.

Before long, we were both at Imperial College. We gave each other head and then fucked

in the Imperial College disabled toilets and showers, the same place where the Bond four-

some or rape had occurred. Afterwards, the bitch made me lead her back to Thomas

Hobbes College so she could meet back up with her friends. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I

shouldn’t have wasted my time. She was a daygirl anyway.

I went back to Imperial College and got stoned with the boys on the terrace after that. YO-

LO. Reflecting on that night, I realized something. The Bond scenario, whether rape or a

foursome, was almost meaningless in the college world. Too much was going on in every-

one’s lives. In a few weeks, the accusations of rape would be dropped and the incident

would dissapear from most people’s memories completely. College was and is such a high

flying and aviatistic culture that such a development and conclusion to the incident was

inevitable. Imperial College’s rape accusation scare ended around one month after it start-

ed and faded from everyone’s memories completely. It was what it was.

Chapter 14-Greed-

Now, if the greenbacks don't stack large on my side of the yard

I ain't fuckin with it

This cake has got to be all icing baby

Now I know I'm taking the biggest piece

but god damn I'm the biggest fish with the biggest mouth bitch

You wanna be rich right? (Hell yeah)

Well stick with me, do as I does, and be as I be

We be stackin chips, packin clips, mackin chicks

Laugh at tits, slappin dick, in yo' bitch (bitch!)

Makin hoes, take these clothes, from these sto's

Walkin slow, there go the po', now here we go

Parking lot to the spot, Marriott

Cause what I got to make a knot, is very hot

Who's at the do', go and check, I got the Tec

Tell him that you soakin wet, until he jet

Now lift up your fuckin dress, where's the rest

Bitch can hide a treasure chest, in her breasts

Uh-huh strip search, whip skirts

Uh-huh shit hurts, but it works bitch

You can jerk niggaz but you can't jerk me

Hoe I only tell you once that this dick ain't free

I'm talkin greed

Greed, give me everything that I need

How you gon' deal with the niggaz that I feed

We smokin weed, you and me

Lookin for that currency

-Ice Cube, Greed, 1998.

College gave me an increasing sense of self importance early in 2011. For I was an Imperial

Man, a man of honour. But it was, admittedly, that kind of wanky honour people secure

through positions, titles, awards, and trophies. For as well as being the Imperial College

weed dealer for The Year of The Lord 2011, I was also the Imperial College senior maga-

zine editor, an honourable and respectable title to hold in my second year of college. I had

been junior editor of the Imperial College student magazine in 2010, and had been offered
the position as senior editor by Master Gerald Oebid for 2011. Really, I was the senior edi-

tor for 2010 anyway. Last year’s senior editor, a guy by the name of Ryan “Tyrant“ Bates,

had rage quit from Imperial College in late 2010 and completely vanished from the

Queensland college scene. Tyrant was an alright dude, a bit weird, but an alright dude.

Tyrant lived in a strange kind of attic room ajacent to the administration offices of Imperial

College in 2010. A journalism student, he was weird and a bit offbeat. His room was full of

retro gaming consoles and books I had never heard of. Tyrant had a collection of rugby

shorts from every single college, including a black pair from St. Anthony’s that he swiped

during the St. Anthony’s O Week. I sometimes went up there to Tyrant’s room to discuss

plans for publishing the Imperial College student magazine. Writing the student magazine

was a bitch. In order to write the magazine, you had to harass and annoy all the captains

of the Imperial College sporting teams. Jocks with their own shit to do like jogging, lifting

weights, drinking, and fucking chicks, the captains of the sporting teams tended to resent

the wimpy jourrnalistic magazine editors for getting all up in their shit and bothering

them with pesky Facebook messages about some faggot magazine. Journalism wasn’t a

real degree anyway. Writing about shit is gay.

Sometimes, people would act as pricks about writing the magazine just cause bro. One

night, after Imperial College’s victory in the UB rugby championship finals over St. An-

thony’s, the Imperial boys were drinking at Trotsky Square. Lots of beer and lots of hoo-

rooing was going on. For Imperial College had won the inter-college rugby, the most sig-

nificant sporting competition in The University of Brisbane, and in the world if we are to

be entirely honest about things. Dragon.

That night, I went up to the Imperial College student club President for that year, La

Grand Emperor Kevin Herpes McMillan, to see if he could maybe start writing his presi-

dent’s report for 2010. He responded to me enquiry by palming me aggressively in the

face. Dragon. I responded to the stress of this inident by quitting Trotsky Square and go-

ing to smoke bud with two American frat boys I knew round then.
The last time I saw Tyrant The Creator was in November 2010, towards the end of my ex-

am period. He had come down to my room in Z Flat to discuss ideas for the Imperial Col-

lege student magazine. We were discussing procuring the articles, going through how dif-

ficult it was to secure articles off agro roid freak sporting captains. All of a sudden, Tyrant

flipped. He began questioning how much I smoked weed, for some reason or another. I

responded honesty, like the late, great Nate Dogg would say “smoke weed errr-

ryyydayyyy“. Tyrant had a beserko rage. He stormed off and said that we would write the

magazine in due time. That he would get the articles and I could finish the editing on my

own.

Tyrant never did shit about the magazine. I never saw him around Imperial College again.

He must of been avoiding me, skulking around college and unofficially resigning from his

role as editor. After college ended for 2010, Tyrant dropped around half of his college

friends on Facebook, including me. He was signalling his official resignation from college

and college culture.

I didn’t have any role in the 2010 Imperial College magazine except editing the grammar

and punctuation in the articles that Tyrant sent me. Therefore, for most of the summer I

waited around for Tyrant to send me many of the articles he was meant to. They never

came. Instead, I recieved a phone call from Imperial College Master Gerald Oebid on a

rainy day late in January. Gerald informed me of what I had suspected for a while. Tyrant

had dropped off the map, flown under the radar, and become lost somewhere in the Ber-

muda Triangle. I confirmed Gerald Oebid’s conclusions. Therefore, I became the Imperial

College Senior Magzine editor through coincidental chance. But hell yeah, I now had an

important and properly mad cunt position at Imperial College. I was such an important

and good citizen.

When I arrived back at college in 2011, Gerald offered me the position as senior magazine

editor. Fuck, I was proud of that at the time. I finished the magazine in due time. It was a
bit patchwork, but I was proud of what I had achieved. When I look back at the magazine

I edited back then, of which I still have digital copies, it seems like a strange contrast, an

effort at walking a moral tightrope. The 2010 magazine was a testament to my attempt to

balance out a conservative college boy orientation with the latent 1960’s counterculture

ideals and beliefs that shaped and defined the ideas of many kids on the New South Wales

North Coast. Really, the attempt to reconcile these two worldviews was a marriage born

in hell.

Perhaps the style I edited that magazine in could best be described as “Gonzo Lite“. A pa-

thetic and absurd attempt to mix the subversive and personalized writing style of Hunter

S. Thompson with the self glorification and verbal masturbation that is generally required

in a self congrajulatory college periodical. In the magzine, I wrote articles on naughty and

exciting things like the time that The Ladie’s College did a totally loose raid on the student

halls of Imperial and left smashed egg shells and flour all over the blue carpet halls of

Lower J Flat. Or an article totally condemning the inconvenience and crapness rendered

by the fact that Imperial College had placed a construction site next to my room in 2010

and caused me many an irritation. Loose. Dragon. Fight the power Rasta. The subcon-

cious struggle between wanting to write what I wanted and writing what I was told and

what I was meant to was clearly highlighted in my editor’s note, which read as follows-

With a complete rout of UB sport, a better showing in cultural, and a general improvement in the
reputation of the College, 2010 was an undoubtedly successful year for Imperial College. Unfortu-
nately, the same can not be said of the College's Magazine. Various communication issues (a Senior
Editor fell out of touch with College administration, a Junior Editor was forced to become Senior
Editor) have meant that this issue of the Imperial Man is long delayed. This has ensured that the
trials and tribulations, the blood, sweat, and tears, and the saga of eventual triumph over adversity
that was Imperial College in 2010 has been a tale absent from the coffee tables of proud parents
across (and beyond) the fair land of Queensland. But, no more! The tyranny is over! The Imperial
Man Magazine, though months delayed, has returned.
For assisting with the publication of this magazine, I would like to thank various contributors.
Firstly, I would like to thank all the Imperial Men who sacrificed their time to provide articles. Your
contributions are highly appreciated. I would also like to thank Travis for donating photos for this
edition, and the College Administration for being so understanding re-garding the various delays.
Lastly, but most importantly, I would like to thank my younger brother. Without his help, my gener-
ally retarded formatting skills would have probably meant that this edition of the Imperial Man was
never published at all. 2010 was a successful year for Imperial. May 2011 (probably the date that
this Magazine will be published) prove equally successful and may that success be detailed in a rich
and swiftly released Magazine (otherwise, Gerald has told me that I'll be up a proverbial creek
without a paddle).

Lucas "Texta" Jones (Senior Editor but formerly Junior).

Authority and subservience is never a very good cocktail. Generally, I remember semester

1 of 2011 as my greatest period of time at Imperial though. I was part of the college cul-

ture, I was feeling the Dragon. At the Rogerson Bulding, where the Imperial College exec

hung and lived, I was even a welcome and regular associatte. The Imperial College exec

for 2010, the previous year, were extremely private school. They did not like me very

much, to say the very least. What was a public school peasant like Texta doing at Imperial

College? Geezus Wilfred, the times they are a changin. Fuck that cunt Texta. Cunt can’t

even get laid.

2011’s Imperial College student executive were also a very preppy and private school

group of individuals. But they were a much easier to get along with and worldly collection

of dudes. Bobby “Clarinet“ James, the 2011 President, was a very different dude to the

2010 President Kevin “Herpes“ McMillan. If we are to use a metaphor from the modern

world’s largest growing economy, China, it was like we had Confucius as President and

Emperor after a year long reign under the mighty and bloodthirsty Mongolian, Ghegis

Khan. The scholars were being set free to live alongside the warrior sportsmen and jocks.

It was a great time at Imperial for many of the more academically inclined dudes.
The exec under Clarinet were generally more chilled. Roughly half of them smoked weed,

and my role as weed dealer at college meant that I spent a lot of afternoons and nights af-

ter drinking booze and smoking cones on the middle floor of the Rogerson Buidling.

Those were fun times, and my ego expanded enormously during that period. It was hard

to be unhappy with the world when you were welcome among the self declared elite of

the self declared elite college at the elite University of Brisbane. Life is great when you

were drinking like a fish and smoking like a chimney basically every day, when you are

welcome in every corner of college and feel like some kind of king, when you are seeing

decent action from the ladies after a basically lifelong drought, and when you live

amongst beautiful surroundings consisting of sandstone buildings and gardens. I was Tex-

ta, the king of his own universe, and maybe the actual universe as well?

Life seemed to be moving in good ways at that point in time. I was moving everywhere,

whether at college or among non-college crowds, and everywhere I was welcome. The

great magnet had shifted good vibes and good fortune in my direction. I had found my

Zen and my Dhrama in libertarianism and Dragonism.

Chapter 15-You Used To Laugh About, Everybody That Was

Hangin Out-

Once upon a time you dressed so fine

You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you ?

People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"

You thought they were all kiddin' you

You used to laugh about

Everybody that was hangin' out

Now you don't talk so loud

Now you don't seem so proud

-Bob Dylan, Like a Rolling Stone, 1965.

Hapiness, an elusive concept, can be described as a condition where you are content with

where you are in life and how you came to that position. It dosen’t matter whether this

nivarnic state is achieved in a prison cell or a mansion, contentment is contentment and it

is something human beings can only truly achieve if all seems good within their world, if

all seems to make some kind of sense amidst the confusion. Some people gain hapiness

internally, by focusing on being the person they aspire to be and treating the world in that

manner. Other people derive hapiness from externalities. Their job, their house, their so-

cial position, their root tally, their girlfriend history, their access to good drugs, the school

or college they attended, or any other number of outside factors. Hence, the human brain

is defined by an eternal clash of the id, our personal idea of what is right and that internal

drive to do what is right by others in our own eyes, and the ego, those external factors and

forces telling us what is right and wrong and how we will gain recognition as a righteous

motherfucker. Imperial College, for me, was an ongoing clash of id and ego.

My id, as it had been throughout my entire life, was of a predominantly left wing and egal-

itaraian persuasion, even in my time at Imperial College. My ego, starting from February

2010 onwards, was of a largely right wing and elitist oreintation. At no time was this more

exemplified than in my trip, in March 2010, to the South East Queensland ghetto city of

Ipswich.
I took that trip with two Imperial men who I had known and been friends with in my first

year of college, Smart Dude and Stinky. Smart Dude and Stinky were amongst the more

politically inclined kids who had been at Imperial in my fresher year in 2010. Both were

from very wealthy families with connections to money. Smart Dude was from a family of

wealthy builders based in Tweed Heads on the New South Wales and Queensland border.

Stinky’s family, meanwhile, ran one of the boarding houses at the elite all boy’s Southport

School on the Gold Coast.

Smart Dude and Stinky suprised me as people. Despite Smart Dude’s nominally working

class origins and Stinky’s deceptively upper class family background, Smart Dude was

strongly right wing and Stinky was a strident left winger. Smart Dude had been educated

in right wing philosophy his entire life, or so it seemed. He had a working knowledge of

John Stuart Mill, John Locke, and libertarianism that stunned me back then. I was so im-

pressed by it, and generally impressed by the preppy lifestyle, that I drifted somewhat

rightwards at college. Stinky had a different oreintation of belief. His family were upper

class but had a strong history of adherence to and belief in left wing philosophy. Due to

Stinky’s selectively dismissive attitude towards things such as tattoos, baseball caps, and

contemporary negro music, Stinky’s left wing politics seemed much more an identity

thing to me. Like my Grandmother’s family, his family were probably classic champagne

lefties. People with a working knowledge of left wing philosophy and ideas, but leaders of

a life centred around classical Western materialism and capitalism. Like the Mosman

dwelling commie my Grandma was, Stinky’s position as a beneficiary of capitalist society

allowed him to be it’s critic.

Regardless, I was a lot more contradictory as a human being in my time at Imperial than

Smart Dude and Stinky. So any judegement of their political philosophy is trife when I

have been definitively more conflicted and morally fucked up as a human being. Humans

do what they do for various reasons. That’s why, over a shitty Imperial College dinner of

rissoles and potatoes around 5.10pm one warm Wednesday afternoon in March, Smart

Dude, Stinky, and I decided we would take a tour of the city of Ipswich. Namely, we
wanted to go on a zoological tour. We desired to see what strange sub breed of human be-

ing inhabited and walked the Ipswich streets, how the fithy tradies, drug addicts, alcohol-

ics, and unemployment fiends kicked it in Queensland’s biggest ghetto. Well, Queens-

land’s biggest ghetto save maybe Logan in South Brisbane. But Logan was too scary a

place for some preppy kids from Imperial College to go to, we would surely get our faces

smashed in and our wallets stolen for dressing too gay there. No, Ipswich was a safe bet.

The easy ghetto city to visit.

We departed for our Darwinian examination of Ipswich around two days later. It was a

sunny March morning and the hot Queensland summer weather, which Queensland has

missed out on during the 2010 to 2011 floods, was in full force that day. We were all

decked out in properly preppy uniforms for that day. The clothes we all flaunted were de-

liberately and especially preppy uniforms that were designed to provoke shocked reac-

tions from the local wildlife in Ipswich. Smart Dude, always up on what to wear to rep the

upper class, rocked boater shoes, purple Imperial College ruggers, and a white and col-

lared long sleeve polo. Stinky, always a bit alternative and indie, wore a fleece pattern

multicoloured jumper that looked like it was knitted by some Grandma for her

Grandaughter and a pair of TSS ruggers. I threw on a simple but distinguishable uniform;

purple Imperial College rugby shorts and a black T shirt from David Jones. We were out to

show the fauna of Ipswich who their natural but subtle puppet masters were.

After a breakfast at Imperial College, consisting of a bacon and egg sandwhich and a cof-

fee for me,we all departed in my gold Toyota 98 Camry sedan for Ipswich. My sedan

looked good back then. It dosen’t look that good these days. My camry didn’t have near as

many of the scratches it has accquirred over the years. Driving on nothing but cement

meant that it wasn’t that muddy and dusty back then. These days I’ve had a few minor

crashes and my car is generally dirtier as I drive around the North Coast countryside

slumming it, seeking out doofs, and smoking weed. One’s property is a reflection of one’s

lifestyle I guess.
As we drove out of Imperial College, Smart Dude and Stinky commented on the Imperial

College centenary building. The centenary building was a structure built to memorize one

hundred years of the existence of Imperial College in 2012. It has been finished one year

early as planned and I had elected to live in a room in the centenary building for 2011.

Smart Dude and Stinky, fine architectural critics, said that the centenary building was ug-

ly. Apparently it looked like some kind of terrible Benthamite prison, a panopticon.

Jeremy Bentham, the 18th century English legal and political philosopher, originally came

up with the idea of the panopticon. The panopticon is a difficult and strange concept, but

it makes some kind of sense as a description for the Centenary Building. Essentially, the

panopticon is a prison where a bunch of cells circle around a central tower, in which sit the

guards. This means that the guards can look at the prisoners at any time, without the pris-

oners knowing. The filthy criminals consequentely have to be on constant and eternal vig-

il, for they could be being watched any time. So much for having a wank. Michel Foculat,

the 20th century French philosopher, said that heirarchical societies are essentially and

naturally like a panopticon in terms of their structure. People could be being watched at

any time, because the guards of the social panopticon could be watching at any moment.

The difference between the real and the metaphorical-social panopticon is that in the sec-

ond version people are completely unaware that they are being watched. Until they are

caught, that is. Modern society is a panopticon, but we often don't realize that. As George

Orwell would say, ignorance is bliss.

And the centenary building was somewhat structured like that, a panopticon. Basically,

there was no way to ensure privacy in your room in the centenary building. Each room

had a verandah with partial blinds and a large glass window behind it. This ensured that

everyone’s business was essentially visible during the day. Wanking, fucking, and smok-

ing weed were all activities that had to be reserved for the night time in centenary. I was

therefore selling weed in both the physical and metaphorical-social panopticons through-

out 2011. Indeed, in this manner the centenary building was the wet dream of Imperial
College Master Gerald Oebid. He could watch his men and ensure that they didn’t do any-

thing naughty, like pushing the devil’s secret seven herbs and spices.

We drive past the Imperial pool, through the Imperial gate, and onto the streets of St. Lu-

cia. Sunshine dances of the roads and windows around us. We take a left to head to the

highway to Ipswich. On CD, I have Nas and Damian Marley’s 2010 album Distant Rela-

tives. It’s an album I really dig. The mix of rap and reggae is wicked. I’m chilling to the

tunes, listening to ideas of Babylon, Zion, and Africa. The CD forms an oddly out of place

soundtrack on the highway as we embark on our righteous oddysey to Ipswich. But dur-

ing one song, Stinky makes a remark that throws me of somewhat. For, despite Stinky’s

left wing tokenism, the remark seems slightly racist and snobby. At one point during the

song My Generation, Nas raps-

“Can you blame my generation subject to gentrification,

projecting their frustration over ill instrumentation.“

Stinky responds to this line by stating “He probably thinks he’s really smart for using the

word gentrification“. The comment throws me off for some reason. It’s years later as I write

this, and I get what vexed me so significantly about such a statement. Nas is one of the

world’s greatest renowned lyricists and musicians. Growing up in the Queensbridge Pro-

jects in Queens, New York, throughout the 1980’s and 1990’s, Nas was the poetic and mu-

sical spokesman for the New York ghettoes and the mentality existent within these im-

poverished and violent areas of the planet. His debut album, Illmatic (1994), is considered

a classic of hip hop as well as a lyrical and musical tour de force. After Illmatic, Nas has been

artistically involved in twelve albums, of which millions of copies have been sold. Nas

continues to be at the top of the rap game, as well as the music industry in general.

Stinky’s statement that Nas‘ use of the word gentrification was a sign of a lack of intel-

lignece reveals the ignorance and pig headedness that largely defines the elite school up-
bringing. The idea that someone is more intelligent because they learned the word gentrifi-

cation in a classroom at The Southport School or a lecture hall at The University of Bris-

bane rather than a street corner or rap music studio in New York frankly fucking sickens

me these days. It’s as simplistic as saying that I’m better than that dude over there because

X set of circustances rendered me Y. Righto, dickhead.

We drive down the highway and begin arriving in Ipswich around 11am. Images of bo-

ganism and the crassness of the Australian servant classes assault us as we arrive in the

ocker/Aussie ghetto. Every avaliable commodity is FOR SALE in massive warehouses

with the LOWEST PRICES. BARGAIN! BARGAIN! BARGAIN! Anything and everything

is avaliable in massive fuck off warehouses in Ipswich. Shoes, beds, clocks, dildos, cars,

sausage rolls, TV’s, computers, and burrittos. As I regard it then, Ipswich is a debauched

salute to everything that is wrong with Australia. Fuck that city.

We pull into a vacant lot in Ipswich around 11.20am. The vacant lot is ajacent to an aban-

doned matress warehouse with faded red and white SALE! SALE! SALE! Posters out

front. Ipswich was hit pretty hard by the December 2010 to 2011 Queensland floods. This

was inevitable as the city is centred around a river. A matress warehouse was not the kind

of structure to withstand a flood. All the stock was destroyed and the place had to be

abandoned. An abandoned warehouse gels nicely with Ipswich’s ghetto image.

We all get out of the car, preppy and proud, and discuss what we will do. Stinky, Smart

Dude, and I decide we will walk to the town square of Ipswich and then decide what to do

from there. As we walk towards the town square, we encounter a tobacconist. We decide

to go into the tobbacconist because, fuck it, when in Rome. I love tobbaconists. Though I

have smoked ciggarettes intermittently through various stages of my life, I have never

been a huge fan of tobbacco peresay. Tobbacco can be a good accompaniment to drinking.

When on hard drugs, cigarettes are fucking amazing. They are smooth, and the smoke

drifts like misty silk down the throat. But as a thing, I have never been a huge fan or advo-

cate of tobbacco. Weed and other illegal highs have always been my vibe. And that’s what
I love about tobbaconists. For there is no Australian tobbaconist that sells just tobbacco. In

any neighbourhood Australian tobacconist, there will be a vast collection of weed pipes,

rolling papers, bongs, digital scales, and other associatted paraphenalia. A large number of

Australian tobbacconists even stock meth pipes and pill bags for the more extreme kinds

of customers.

An unscrupulous and silent Indian store owner watches me as I browse the store as I look

around, searching for tools for my trade. I buy a nice blue hand blown glass weed pipe

and a set of digital scales that resemble a iphone. To be honest, I’ve been a pretty un-

proffessional weed dealer in my first few weeks of doing it. I didn’t have any scales, so I

was eyeball perking. This had pissed off a few of my customers. I had to throw a bit of ex-

tra green their way to keep them happy and chirpy. But this should reverse the trend. I

put the scales and weed pipe on my credit card, a fool move in retrospect to be honest.

Then I walk out of the store with swag in my step.

Smart Dude, Stinky, and I all walk towards the Ipswich city square. When we arrive there,

we are met with sights that are the opposite of the college world I have been a part of for

the last year and a bit. Destitute motherfuckers hang around the square, looking like a

bunch of gimp dickheads. A bunch of people with meth rash, wearing fila trackpants and

dirty Brisbane Broncos caps. It’s strange that filthy peasants like this even reside on our

planet.

Needless to say, we don’t hang in the central square of Ipswich for long. We walk back to

my car. From there, we decide to go to Ipswich’s main shopping centre, to observe how

the local fauna recreate when they are not serving their masters in the corporate world.

They are an interesting species, these Ipswich types. A lot of obesity, Tap Out shirts, Ed

Hardy clothing, and gimpy looking fucks in general. Kind of like Lismore, where my Dad

used to do his shopping when I was a teenager. The same populations must grow and

congregate in these sort of squatter cities all across Australia. Stinky, Smart Dude, and I go

to the food court at the shopping centre. We all go to KFC and purchase the “double“. The
“double“ is an odd “burger“. It consists of a piece of dodgy bacon and two slices of plastic

cheese squeezed between two greasy crumbed chicken fillets. A meal emblematic of the

21st century condition for sure, something dodgy and controversial enough to have dieti-

cians screaming EVIL and journalists with fuck all else to do to writing articles about the

new trans fatty burger, polluting everyone’s Google News feed with irrelevant bullshit.

“MAN, this burger, if you can even call it a burger is like SO FATTY!“ Saideth the dietician

to the journalist “It would be like totally unhealthy to eat it, so no one should eat it, and

KFC is like totally irresponsible for marketing this so called burger to people. KFC is the

fucking devil“.

Fuck Google News, I eat the double anyway. YOLO. We depart the Ipswich shopping cen-

tre food court after finishing our KFC Doubles. We get in my car, parked under the shop-

ping centre, and begin driving off. As we drive off, a feral looking ex teen Mum type with

four young kids drives near my car and nearly hits us. She’s a typical Queensland driver,

she gives us the finger because she nearly hit us. It’s that classic Queensland attitude of we

had a disagreement so fuck you cunt it is your fault. There is a look of rage and anger at us

in her eyes. Fuck her, the welfare slut.

I drive my car out into the street and across the road to the Ipswich RSL Club. Out front of

the Ipswich RSL, I take a photo on Stinky’s iPhone of Stinky and Smart Dude pretending

to smoke durries with a large sign saying “Ipswich RSL“ in full view. The durries, ciga-

rettes for you poms out there, are fancy Benson and Hedges smokes. Winfield Blues, the

chosen cigarette of those on a low budget, would probably be a more accuratte fit for a

town like Ipswich. But, fuck it, you can’t tell what’s being smoked in the photo anyway.

We begin to leave Ipswich around 2.30 pm. As we leave, the song My Generation off Nas

and Damian Marley’s Distant Relatives album plays on the highway back to Brisbane. Dur-

ing the song, Damian Marley sings-

My generation is so special it will make a change.

Stinky remarks that he dosen’t have much faith in our generation. Smart Dude and I agree.

Chapter 16-Nigga Just Throw It Up-

Nutty Blocc, screaming “Nigga Compton!“

Swagging with my blue flag hanging out the left side,

Blue chucks banging on the front line,

See me with my tech 9, nigga just throw it up

-Nutty Blocc Compton Crips, Nutty Blocc Crippin, 2005.

Power comes in numbers, and the power of a uniting and all pervasive group mentality is

something that is clearly evident at Imperial College. The first inter college sporting event

for 2011 is the ICC swimming carnival. Imperial College comes prepared and decked out

for this important and essential, and undoubtedly well renowned, championship. It is

around 5.30pm on a warm afternoon in late March. Two hundred or so Imperial College

men wait around the front gate of the college, ready to represent the Imperial colours for

the ICC swimming carnival. All the men have come decked in their finery. Purple and or-

ange is everywhere. Ruggers, polos, singlets. Flags depicting the Imperial College Dragon

are flown high in the air. Periodically, shouts of “DRAGON“ are heard from amongst the

crowd.

The vibe is electric, but vexxed up and apprehensive. We are awaiting Clarinet, the stu-

dent President, to lead us on a march through the wilds of the University of Brisbane and
to the buses that will take us to the location where the swimming carnival is due to be

held. Clarinet emerges from the Imperial College buildings around 5.40 pm and a massive

cheer goes up from the two hundred or so dudes who have been waiting around for him.

Woo Hoo Roo! Dragon! We are ready to depart.

Clarinet takes the lead with a megaphone in his hand and yells “DRAGON!“

Everyone yells “DRAGON!“ in response.

Then we all head down the road towards the University of Brisbane. Two hundred or so

evident mad cunts all on their fucking game chief. We walk past Immanuel College. Fuck

them, they aren’t even very good at college sport. Wankers. We walk past Federation Col-

lege. Fuck them, they aren’t even a real college, floggers. We walk, two hundred deep,

past the sandstone gates that form the entrance to the great court of the University of Bris-

bane. It is time to represent what we are about.

We all yell at and abuse the passers by, yelling Dragon and the like in their faces. One

bloke, a rugby boy from Bundaberg, borrows the megaphone off Clarinet. He starts yelling

lines from Ridley Scott’s Gladiator-

“ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? IS THIS NOT WHY YOU ARE HERE?!“

Funny cunt. It’s fun to show these daykids, these hipsters and Asians, who we are and

what we are about. We are Imperial College, we are the elite of the college system and the

university. Fuck the haters brah.

The Imperial College support cohort walks through the University of Brisbane great court

and into the area known as the UB Union. At the UB Union, some gay arse salsa dancing

or some shit is taking place. It takes place every week. A bunch of friendless and clueless
gimps being faggot salsa dancers. Fuck them. The Imperial boys righteously mock the de-

bauched freaks as we walk through the square of the UB Union-

“NICE DANCE MOVES FAGGOT!“

“SICK STEPS YOU SLUT!“

“GO BACK TO SOUTH AMERICA YOU GIMP CUNT!“

Fuck those faggots. After we have shown the salsa gimps just how pathetic they are, the

cohort moves down to where the buses are parked. Five red buses are parked near the

University of Brisbane olympic pool, which is empty. The UB pool got fucked up during

the summer of 2010 to 2011 floods. Rotten Brisbane River water consumed the pool, made

it filthy and dirty. The pool had been drained and empty ever since. Consequentely, Impe-

rial College had the only pool at the University of Brisbane for the entirety of 2011. And

only the college crowd had access to it. Exclusivity biatch.

As we walk down near the pool to approach the bus, all the other University of Brisbane

college students wait there decked out in their collegial finery. There is the black worn by

the St. Anthony’s boys, the red worn by Federation College, the bright yellow of the La-

die’s College, the maroon of Joan of Arc College, and the green of St. Peter’s College. As

the Imperial boys approach, proudly rocking the orange and purple, a chant goes up from

the St. Anthony’s, Federation, and St. Peter’s crowds. Slowly, and with increasing intensi-

ty, they chant-

“broooomstick, Broooooomstick, BROOOOMSTICCCKKK, BROOOOOOOMSTICK-

KKKK.“

The chant is irrelevant to outsiders, but completely understood amongst college crowds.

Back a few years before I went to college, a bloke who had resided at Imperial had a
broomstick shafted up his arse by a bunch of other dudes who lived there. The dude went

by the name of Bundy, because he was a fat motherfucker who looked like the Bundy

Bear, a promotional polar bear for the Bundaberg Rum Company. Stories of why Bundy

had a broomstick shoved up his fat arse were varying among the Imperial College crowds

when I lived there. Some people said that Bundy was penetrated by a broomstick because

he was gay and creepy. Other dudes said that Bundy was an egotistical motherfucker,

someone who bullied Imperial College freshers excessively while he was an RA. Eventual-

ly, the freshers got sick of Bundy’s antics and shoved a broomstick up his anus while he

was taking a piss in toilets of his flat at Imperial. Whatever the reason for the event’s oc-

curence, it is an indisputable fact that Bundy did in fact have a broomstick shoved up his

arse at Imperial. The tabloid news program A Current Affair did a report on the shafting,

full of the usual sensationalism and bullshit. Bundy’s anal rape did the rounds in all the

local Queensland newspapers such as The Courier Mail and The Brisbane Times. I think that

the incident even got a mention in The Gold Coast Bulletin. Eventually, so Bundy would

stop talking to the media, Imperial College made a large cash settlement with the fat cunt

and his family.

But whatever occurred and for whatever reason it occurred, Imperial College and the stu-

dents who lived there in my two years were fully behind Bundy’s anal shafting on com-

mon and basic principle. The fat cunt deserved it. He asked for it, on some level. I mean,

people just don’t go shoving broomsticks up other people’s arses for no reason, do they?

Bundy was a shit, possibly gay, possibly egotistical cunt and he needed a broomstick up

the arse so that he learned his fucking place, the prick.

But here we are on this day, with our rival colleges chanting “brooomstick, Brooomstick,

BROOOOOMSTICK“.

But fuck them, they don’t rep this yo! Imperial College Men are proud of their identity as

Imperial College Men. Clarinet, our President, knows this. He puts his mouth to the meg-

aphone and yells out a righteous proclomation to his men-

“DRAGON!“

All two hundred of us yell back in response “DRAGON!!!“

We yell DRAGON until we are all hoarse and until the sound of BROOMSTICK from the

mouths of the students of our rival colleges is drowned out. Woo hoo roo! Winning like

Charlie Sheen cunt.

Having demonstrated dominance and supremacy to the faggots at the other colleges, we

all walk onto the red buses before us. The Imperial boys get onto one of the five buses.

Some Imperial College fresher is sitting on a seat that I want, so I tell him to move and

give me the seat. Second years can tell freshers what to do, you see.

On the bus, we loudly and obnoxiously sing Areosmith’s “Don’t Want To Close My Eyes“.

Don’t wanna close my eyyyeeesss, Don’t wanna fall asleeeeppp,

Cos I miss you Babbbyyy, and I don’t wanna miss a thiiiinngggg.

It’s a long trip to the swimming pool the carnival is to be held at. Namely, we have to

travel all the way to Mount Gravatt in South Brisbane. It’s a trip to think that a lot of the

University of Brisbane day kids would travel as far as Mount Gravatt and further just to

attend uni. Fuck that. Fuck being a day kid.

We arrive at the swimming carnival around 7pm, with the Queensland sun setting over

the blue waters of the chloro-toxic pool. Various flags and insgnias of all the colleges are

on display as we enter the pool area. All the different coloured college support teams line

up in certain areas and a cheer goes up from the crowd, totalling about one thousand peo-

ple in all, when the cap gun goes off and the first race begins.
Imperial College secures a complete rout of the ICC swimming. We win every single race,

unanimously recieving first place trophies and complete points for everything. Imperial

College is the best College with the best boys. This is why we win! THIS IS WHY WE

WIN!

All the boys rush in together surrounding the trophy, in a huddle of orange and purple.

Then we begin the Imperial College victory chant. I actually don’t know the words to the

chant, because it was taught on the first day of college and I ditched the first day of college

for Soundwave. So I mumble the words and act like I know what I’m saying-

“Something Something, St. Peter‘s says,

Something Something, Imperial to the end!

Something Something, Imperial fucking rocks.

Something Something, let’s sink some piss!“

We all stick our middle fingers in the air at the end of the chant. Fucking winning. Hoo

fucking roo!

Despite the strongly tribalistic nature of the University of Brisbane Colleges, Brisbane Col-

lege kids were not the only factionally inclined kids at UB when I was doing my under-

graduate there. One crowd at The University of Brisbane equally as tribal and factional-

ized as college kids are university politicians. Uni students involved in uni politics gener-

ally pursue campus politics as if were a proffessional sport. They support their colours,

hate the other side, and love the Fabian tactics of burn and move on. At the University of

Brisbane, there were two cheif political factions; Fresh, a proxy student faction of the right

wing Liberal National Party, and Change, a left wing amalgamtion of students linked to
the Australian Labour Party and the Australian Greens. Like the college kids, the political

kids at UB have their own colours and flags. During the season for election of The Univer-

sity of Brisbane student council, the area around the UB student union swarms with the

blue shirts of Fresh and the red shirts of Change. There was also a group of throwback far

left loonies called the Socialist Alliance who had somehow forgotten that the Berlin Wall

fell in 1990. The membership of the socialist alliance consisted primarily of middle aged

bus drivers and factory workers, plus a few more extremely inclined students, who would

yell abuse at passing university students for not signing their strange petitions and sup-

porting a cause that died twenty years ago.

I attended one meeting of one of the left wing factions of the University of Brisbane back

in 2010. This was at a precipitous time for me. My views were drifting rightwards back

then because, unquestionably, I was the most important cunt in the world and because

YOLO, life was for me and only me. But I believed that, by March 2011, my views had

shifted enough to know where I stood and warrant an engagement in university politics. I

was a libertarian. Libertarianism, for me, seemed a happy marriage of what I had learned

at college and my left wing upbringing in Northern New South Wales. A libertarain per-

spective allowed me to retain my views on the government staying the fuck out of peo-

ple’s private lives, especially on issues I firmly believed in. So I merged my belief in drug

legalization and gay marriage with a perspective that if people should be allowed to do

whatever they wanted socially and personally, then the same basic set of rules should ap-

ply in the economic sphere. Alas, the nature of the conservative and Neoliberal mentality

was about to become abundantly clear to me at the meeting of the University of Brisbane

Liberal Club.

The meeting was at the Pig and Whistle Imitation English Ye Olde Pub at the Indooropilly

Shopping Centre. I attended the event with Smart Dude, an Imperial Man with an interest

in politics that mirrored the extent of my own. There was a special guest there, Senator

George Brandis of Queensland. Beer was free and plentiful. As I was drinking one of the
fine pints of pale ale and chatting to Smart Dude, a bloke comes up beside me. He drops a

twenty cent coin into my beer and yells “GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!“

What the actual fuck? Apparently it’s some kind of strange drinking game. A coin is

dropped into your beer, and you have to skull it. But the connotations of the game disturb

me. Are these people surrounding me actual and real life monarchists? The idea of monar-

chy disturbs me greatly. Someone is better then me because of their blood? Fuck that. As

my old man always said, the Queen is a jellybean. If I had the opportunitty to save the

Queen, I probably wouldn’t. In fact, if I was in a position to save the Queen, I would in all

likleyhood throttle her by the throat and watch the blood drain from her cold and lifeless

face instead, the upstart bitch. Just kidding, son. But fuck the Royals and fuck England. It’s

unusual that people can support those kind of medieval ideas in 21st century Australia.

I don’t say any of this to these throwback medieval masturbators, and instead focus on

common topics. Like how we need to loosen up the laws, just let everyone in this country

live a little without fear of some vicious cops fucking their shit up. Like how we need to

legalize drugs and pass through the passage of gay marriage. The response of the neolib-

erals among me is a typical one, albeit one that I don’t quite understand at the time due to

the fact that I am drunk as well as new to this whole conservatism thing. Well, reply the

neolibs among me, those issues are important and do need to be discussed. But aren’t there

more important things that need to be addressed first, like the economy. Well no, not really.

There is always an economy and there always will be as long as humans exist. And these

days it is apparent to me, why the economy needed to be addressed rather than the issues I

believe in. Neoliberals want to delay the discussion of things such as gay marriage and

drug legalization, things I believe in, because fundamentally they are oppossed to these

changes in society. No good conservative neoliberal wants the fags and dykes enjoying the

same priveleges as good and honest heterosexuals such as themselves. No adherent of

Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Raegan’s school of thought wants to see kids dancing to

psytrance in the woods, experiencing wild chemical thrills that they will never know or

have the cojones to engage in. It is not within the conservative conception of what is good,
righteous, culturally Western, and Australian to see people finding personal fulfillment

through these personal and divergent life choices.

So we discussed what was important to the tories. Yes, Julia Gillard and Labour were shit

economic managers. Yes, we needed someone with more fiscal sense, like Tony Abbott

and the team, elected to government in Australia. While we discuss the evidently dreadul

state of the economy and Labour’s gross mismanagement of it, I continue to leave the top

of my beer unguarded. Silver coin after silver coin after silver coin falls into my pint glass.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. For fuck’s

sake. All I want to say is “Fuck the Queen, I want to torture that stupid old hag Guan-

tanamo Bay style and slide a fucking hunting blade into her throat“. But I know it’s not a

good idea to say what I’m truly thinking, so I don’t.

By the time Senator George Brandis arrives, I’m extremely drunk. I greet George Brandis,

an older man with glasses and developing baldness, briefly, which is about all I remember

of the rest of my afternoon with the Neolibs. George Brandis gives a brief speech, real

rousing and aggressive, I’m very drunk when he gives it so here is a rough approximation

of what was said-

“I, as a Liberal and a representative of the Liberal Party of Australia, am very proud of

what the University of Brisbane Liberal Club has accomplished. In most campuses across

Australia, the left dominates. It is not even considered or concieved that a right wing stu-

dent group can achieve supremacy in an Australian university, let alone to the extent of

what you guys have achieved here at the University of Brisbane.

The left has been crushed on your campus! They are annihalatted. And you must work

towards this end. Annihalate the left, do whatever you can to crush them! Show no mercy!

Members of the University of Brisbane Liberal Club, use whatever tactic you can to secure

victory. Do whatever is nessecary. The only final moral wrong is losing and letting your
opponents on the left have it over you. So go out there proudly, and destroy and smash

the lefties!“

A massive cheer goes up from the crowd of student politicians surrounding Senator Bran-

dis. Hoo fucking roo! After Senator Brandis‘ speech, Smart Dude and I depart the Pig and

Whistle and get a cab back to Imperial College. There is meant to be another drinking ses-

sion at Totsky Square afterwards, but I am pretty fucking drunk from all those rounds of

God Save The Queen. I tell Smart Dude that I will get an hour’s sleep in my room and then

see how I am feeling. Smart Dude knocks on my door around an hour later, I stumble to

the door and open it. I tell him I am too drunk to get to the meeting and need to go back to

sleep.

Smart Dude accepts the explanation, but seems a bit dissapointed. Whatever. I stumble

back to bed. Man, what the fuck is with the University of Brisbane Liberal Club? All those

fucking monarchists and economics nerds. They don’t believe in my Australia, an Austral-

ia where people are free to do what they want as long as they don’t punch on at cunts, and

to be honest the tories probably never will. Ah well, back to that age old recipie of hedon-

ism and getting loose because fuck it, nothing matters. The more I learn about politics and

those involved in it, the less I’m liking it. Both sides of student politics at the University of

Brisbane seem like over serious dorks fighting over roles and positions that will essentially

secure them jobs as nothin more than exxageratted tuckshop managers. However, they

fight for those roles with all the self importance and Machiavellian calculation of Federal

politicians. Maybe I should seek a position of power elsewhere, for I am a politically

minded person. I seem to be getting on alright and becoming increasingly accepted at Im-

perial College, what with my roles as a magazine editor and a franchisee in ganga. Maybe

I should seek power through the Imperial College executive, see if I can become one with

the Dragon.

Chapter 17-What Condition My Condition Was In-

I woke up this morning with the sun down, shining in,

I found my mind in a brown paper bag, but then,

I tripped on a cloud and fell eight miles high,

I tore my mind, on a jagged sky,

I just dropped in, to see what condition my condition was in.

-Kenny Rogers, What Condition My Condition Was In, 1967.

College is about to break up for mid-semester break. It’s a somewhat cold night in late

April. As the next day is Good Friday, the day the Romans nailed good ol‘ Jesus to the

crucifix, no pubs or clubs are allowed to be open past 12 at night. The Imperial College

boys have consequentely invited girls from Faith, Ladie’s, and Joan of Arc colleges round

to Imperial for a few drinks.

Before the ladies come round, all the Imperial boys have decided to have a few predrinks

on the top floor of the centenary building. Guys are there playing FIFA, a soccer based

video game. To be honest, I don’t like sports games very much. They are big amongst the

guys of Imperial College though. I guess our video game choices are representations of

our abstract fantasies. The average Imperial College guy has fantasies of managing a

sports team in the big leagues of soccer or basketball. A lot of my friends from high school

must have had fantasies of being a dwarf or elf adventurer, the amount of World of

Warcraft they played. My little brother must want to be Batman or a space marine, judging

by his video game choices. Personally, my video game choices would suggest that I wish

to be either a Roman general or a cocaine kingpin. I have always been a fan of games such

as Total War or Grand Theft Auto. Fuck managing a digital soccer team when you can lead
armies to conquer a vast empire, slaughter entire cities, overthrow the Roman Republic,

and become Emperor of the entire known world. Fuck directing electronic basketball play-

ers when you can slice motherfuckers to pieces with chainsaws, move kilos of cocaine on

fast boats, shoot at police, and take over the criminal underworld of a city. Just my per-

spective anyway.

Everyone is getting loose on the top floor of centenary, watching FIFA. It’s then that I say

the first real faggott brag swag thing I say at college. Imperial College was a hyper alpha

male, hyper sex driven place when I lived there. A lot of bragging and boasting about sex

and root tallies. To be honest, a lot of it seemed made up to me. But a lot of people did it, a

lot of people engaged in the same faggot ego boosting bullshit. One bloke, the highly ego-

tistical Imperial College debating captain Hoisin Farkley, claimed a fuck tally of over one

hundred sluts. No one believed it really, but everyone went along with it. To keep the

peace, to mantain the order and the smooth functioning of the college. Most other guys

genuinely fucked a lot of sluts, or exxageratted how many sluts they fucked or had pro-

spects with to present themselves as virile and fantastic alpha males. My first year of col-

lege was a virtually dry year. I fucked basically no one. But my second year wasn’t bad. I

saw action with a few sluzzas, lining up a root tally of six or seven, depending on what

happened the night before I woke up next to some daygirl after I had got blackout drunk.

But lying and exxageratting about how many bitches I had slayed with my dick became

somewhat compulsive for me in my second year at college. It was like I couldn’t help do-

ing it, I was compulsively exxageratting what I had done, for whatever reason. Maybe it

was to fit in, not be singled out as a weak beta phaggot as it were. Maybe it was to seem

like a madder cunt than everyone else, to give the impression that I was some super sayian

drug gobbling, slut fucking afficianado. The fact stands though, I was a lying scum cunt in

this regard. By the end of the year, I had doubled my fuck tally in my mind and what I

convinced myself of was what I told people. I therefore just told people that every dry

hump, hand job, and gobbie was a root. I didn’t see what I did as exceptionally shit, eve-

ryone at Imperial seemed to do the same exact thing in my eyes. In a society of sinners, the

only final crime one can committ is getting caught. Some dudes are good liars. Business-
men, corporate fuck over wizards, and lawyers can usually get away with lying or bend-

ing the truth. Capitalism, as a system itself, relies on a distinct set of so called “noble lies“.

But I am not a good liar. Therefore, when my fragile deck of cards came crashing down, it

crashed like ten tonnes of bricks falling right on top of me. But that hadn’t happened yet.

Lying, or even holding one’s tounge, was a vital part of getting along at Imperial. If some-

one was saying something you disagreed with at college, it was best to let them speak and

ignore it. I heard people boast about bashing aboriginals, talk about their hatred of gays,

and say that trade unions were full of shitty and selfish people over various breakfasts,

lunches, and dinners at college. I agreed with none of these things, but ignored what was

said at college for most of my time there because it was easier to take the path of least re-

sistance. It was easier to blend in and just ignore the bullshit because if you oppossed an

egotistical motherfucker in any position of power whatsoever, you were fucking finished

in that place. In a place where lying, or telling white lies as you percieved them, was vital

to getting by day to day, lying just becomes a part of you. That is until it takes it’s toll on

you and defines your whole personality. By the end of 2011, it was like my entire life was

one big fucking lie. It was like I was a completely empty and evil human being, defined

only by a sense of animal and feral self interest. Maybe I was like that. But I felt like, if an-

ything, that was chiefly because I was a product of an environment that had made me be-

have in such a disgusting manner. People are never sick, but are instead symptoms ofsick

societies. There is an obvious cause to each and every evil committed by human beings.

No one wants to be that weak cunt that everyone else in the pack can single out.

My first little lie, part of a broader pattern, was told to Special, a fresher who would later

rise through the ascendent ranks of Imperial College’s student executive. I told Special I

had two hot bartender sluts lined up back in Northern New South Wales. It was bullshit. I

knew it, and he probably knew it. But I said it anyway because fuck it, it seemed to make

sense in the scheme of just surviving at Imperial. Alpha male top dawg supreme cunt.

Special just didn’t say shit.

The boys drink and watch FIFA for another forty minutes before we migrate on to the

Rogerson Building. The exec of Imperial have a pretty good drinking set up over there,

complete with a massive hookah through which flavoured tobbacco can be smoked. It’s a

fun night chilling over at Rogerson, I get pretty drunk and spend most of the night smok-

ing the hookah. There are the tyical college arguments over who fucked who and you

fucked my friend so fuck you. But by the end of the night everything is chilled. I end the

night smoking weed on President Clarinet’s balcony, two massive J’s that a few of the

boys and a few of the ladies pass around. Ned arrives during this part of the night and I

swing him a 50 bag of green.

The next morning, I drive back to Northern New South Wales. I had an exceptional ability

to handle hangovers back at college to the extent that I barely notice the effect of the alco-

hol upon me the next morning. My first mission when back home is to meet one of my

drug connections, up in the hills around Lismore. I buy two ounces of weed from the deal-

er. I also buy something I have specially requested, as a special favour for some of the

guys at Imperial College. Twelve hits of LSD, sugar cubes with the acid soaked into them

through a liquid drop dispenser. I am selling on seven hits of acid at Imperial, so I calcu-

late that I can equalize the money I spent on buying the LSD while dropping acid a maxi-

mum of five times myself. Wicked.

At this stage, LSD was merely a recreational thing for me. A way to unwind if you will,

kill a little bit of the boredom on an off day in New South Wales. I have no knowledge or

experience of the “bad trip“, that wicked revenge of bad psychology, dreadful karma, and

a guilty subconcious mind upon a human being, early in 2011. My 2011 mid-semester

break, or my 2011 LSD Week if you will, was an amazing time. I took the first acid trip of

the week at home at my mum’s house in Ashtonville. I was sitting in my room, a bit bored,

and the ten sugar cubes were stored in a bar fridge in my room. LSD requires refridgira-

tion so that it won’t go off. I’m pulling bongs in my bedroom while Mum watches a DVD

of The Twilight Zone in the loungeroom. Just an average Friday night off in the life of Lucas

Texta Jones. SFL, So Fucking Loose.

While I’m getting stoned, I think about the acid in the fridge and decide, well fuck it. Acid

takes around an hour to kick in. Mum will probably get too drunk to notice I am on LSD

soon enough anyway. I take the acid out of the fridge, grab one of the sugar cubes out of

the tin foil package, and place that little bad boy on my tounge. It kicks in an hour later,

while I am watching The Twilight Zone. There’s some episode on about a golden stopwatch

that can potentially end the world. As I’m watching the episode, the stopwatch goes

through a sequence where it is floating through the air on screen. While this happens, the

stopwatch seems to dance out of the TV, floating through the air in my loungeroom. Wow.

So acid. Very trip. I turn around and look at my loungeroom light, which has granite rocks

at the base. The green of the light upon the granite rocks makes my loungeroom light look

like an alien landscape. This feeling is extended by the presence of bugs crawling along the

wall, all of which I know to be imaginary. It’s mid-autumn. The rains they are a coming.

Bugs don’t crawl along walls in mid-autumn, that’s just a fact.

I drop the next sugar cube on Sunday morning. I’m going to Bluesfest with my Dad and

his partner Anne. I take the acid sugar cube in Dad’s bathroom and then brush my teeth.

It’s around forty minutes from Dad’s house at McEllen’s Ridge to Brisbane, so I should be

able to get through the gates at Bluesfest before I start to trip. The acid kicks into slight

gear as I’m approaching the gate at Bluesfest. I notice swirling patterns on the muddy

ground below me and in the gray skies above me. Shit son, you better hold it together so

you get let into Bluesfest. I get let through the gate and tell Dad I am going to one of the

bars. No acts are on right now anyway. I find a bar around five minutes later. The bar is a

muddy mess, with a strongly hippie clientele and silver barrels as tables. I buy one can of

Jim Beam and two cans of Pure Blonde low carb beer. I’m trying to watch my figgurrre.

While sitting at the bar and waiting for the acid to kick in, I text my mate Daniel, who is

also at Bluesfest. Daniel was the hipster kid who I lived with for one week when I got sus-

pended from college for smoking weed in April 2010. He’s a cool cat with an afro and a

dress sense that somewhat resembles The Doctor on Doctor Who. His Mum was a candi-

date for the right wing and agrarian conservative National Party in Northern New South
Wales. She lost drastically to Labor in the Ruddslide election of 2007. Her son has been in-

volved in university Labor at QUT, perhaps a strange and fortuitous premonition of things

to come. Probably not. From what I can see and percieve up till that point my generation,

kids raised in the age and epoch of neoliberalism, act like the most savage and blood-

thirsty pack of human mongrels to ever tread the Earth. I’m the same as everyone else my

age, a vicious and calculating Machiavellian cunt, but that’s the way you have to be to

survive and get by in this vicious and Thatcherite day and age. YOLO. Never worry about

fucking anyone over as long as you stand to benefit from it, and can get away with it.

The acid hits me around five minutes before Daniel arrives. It comes suddenly. There are a

lot of brightly dressed hippies and hipsters around me. All kinds of rainbow fluros, tye

dye shirts, and colourful bandanas. The acid drives all of these things to extreme peaks.

Colour explodes and exxagerattes and twists all around me. Every human being within

my immeadiatte vicinity has turned into a massive parody and charicature of themselves.

There is some kind of pulsating Chinese Dragon ground balloon directly in front of me. I

can’t tell whether the fucker is really moving and pulsating, or whether that is just the ac-

id.

That is a question for Daniel when he arrives I guess. And Daniel does arrive. A massive

and larger than life character ordinarily, Dan’s hipster swag is in full swing. His afro, tie

dye shirt, fluro gumboots, and tweed jacket show him for what he is, a truly original and

fantastic freak of nature. And the LSD charges everything about Dan to the tenth degree,

so that he appears to me as some crazed combination of Jesus, Jack Kerouac, and Sideshow

Bob from The Simpsons. I’m sipping on my beers, a good method for slowing down and

mellowing out the extremes of LSD, when Dan arrives. And I have a very important ques-

tion to ask of Dan when he does arrive-

“Is that fucking Chinese Dragon balloon thing really moving, or is it just me dude?“
“Woah man“ replies Dan in his exxageratted and characterful voice “It is really moving.

What are you on?“

“I just dropped acid“ I reply casually.

“Why would you do acid at Bluesfest?“ enquires Dan.

“Because YOLO“ I conclude.

Dan accepts this conclusion. YOLO indeed. I head off with Dan, a can of drink in each of

my hands. We catch a few bands and artists, minor folk and reggae artists that usually fill

the early afternoon timeslots at Bluesfest. I’m due to meet up with my Dad in around two

hours. I drink one more can of bourbon and two more cans of beer before I meet Dad. By

the time I catch up with Dad, the alcohol cuts into the acid pretty significantly, enough for

Dad to say-

“Lucas, you are drunk, aren’t you?“

“Yes, I am so drunk Dad“ I reply with a smile, dirty and forbidden knowledge in my

brain.

The rest of the afternoon is wicked. I am able to successfully hide the fact that I am high on

LSD from Dad and Anne. Dad even buys me a few more beers. I spend the afternoon

watching sets by Elvis Costello and Parliament Funkadelic. At night, the headliner, Bob

Dylan, takes the stage. Dad and Anne are fucking annoying. They decide to leave Bob

Dylan after three songs because the ground is cold and muddy and because they want to

beat the traffic. Fuck ever being old like that. I want to drop acid, get pissy drunk, and

smoke weed until I’m forty at least. I don’t think I’ll ever be the person to leave a Bob Dyl-

an set early because it’s cold and muddy and I want a cup of tea and a warm bed. Fuck my

Dad and his upper middle class pretensions. But I am beholden to my Dad at this stage in
my life, as I more or less have been my entire life. For tha $$$. On that particular day, Dad

has the only car that can drive back to his house from Bluesfest. And in my acid and booze

fucked state, that is my only key home. So I reluctantly take a ride home with Dad and

miss most of Bob Dylan’s set. Man, fuck my Dad.

Because I’m drunk and still tripping, I sit in a happy and contemplative silence on the

twenty five minute ride back home to McEllen’s Ridge. Once I’m back at McEllen’s Ridge,

Dad and Anne go to bed pretty quickly. The LSD makes it completely impossible for me to

sleep. So I find a joint I had rolled and go and smoke it outside, tossing it behind Dad’s

water tanks. When I get back to bed, the weed, booze, and acid combine so that I reach a

major point of Dragon, or genie if you will. My bed feels as if it’s floating like a magic car-

pet over the deserts of ancient Arabia. Cool. I feel like I’m riding a magic carpet for around

two hours before I suddenly and spontaneously pass out for around ten hours.

I spend the next few days smoking weed and chilling out. By Wednesday, Ned has come

down to the North Coast and he’s all like “Yo dude, let’s like totally drop some acid“. And

I’m all like “Yeah dude, righteous, we totally like need to drop some acid“. So we like to-

tally decide to drop some acid. Calabunga dude.

We take the acid at a friend of ours, Leonard’s. Leonard is a Jew. I hate the idea of stereo-

types and defining people by racial categories, but Leonard does have an odd and extreme

obsession with making money. Like, it can be all the dude talks about, a lot of the time an-

yway. Leonard works in Western Australia, doing the money and accounting and stuff for

a mining company. His house, or his Grandma’s house to be more accurate, is a nice qua-

si-mansion in a manicured estate in the Northern Rivers countryside. It looks over the roll-

ing hills of the North Coast and has a swimming pool. A sick place to drop acid really.

Leonard dosen’t engage in the use of psychadelics like me, Ned, and Davo. However, he

smokes cones like a champion and could smoke out the best of them. So he’s a good fit for

our small crew of freaks and creeps.

Me and Ned drop the acid around 9am. Before the acid kicks in, we decide to adventure to

the local store to buy supplies for the trip. We purchase a carton of beer, some potato and

corn chips, and a Smirnoff Vodka “Blood Orange“ goon sack. The Smirnoff pre-mixed

goon sacks were a sick idea. I feel fucking retro, like I’m drinking goon in the park like in

my high school days. Except pre-mixed smirnoff dosen’t taste nearly as horrible as goon.

We get back to Leonard’s and begin smoking cones at a table around his backyard pool.

Like always, the weed helps kick the LSD into gear. Just as the colours amplify, as the gray

clouds in the sky begin swirling, I experience one of the most unusual things I have seen in

my life to date. Leonard’s Grandma, a skinny old Jewish woman with a German accent

(and a probable Holocaust survivor to boot), walks out of the interior of the house with a

cardboard box in her hand. As she walks out, the plastic bottle bong and the chop bowl of

weed are in full view.

Grandma Leibowitz does not appear phased by the site of the bong. Instead, she pulls a

glass bong out of the carboard box she is carrying. Holy fucking Yaweh!

“I don’t want my only Grandson smoking weed out of plastic, it’s toxic. Use this glass

bong instead“ states Grandma authoritavely.

Holy fucking Yaweh indeed. The North Coast is an interesting place with interesting in-

habitants. We get stoned and trip for the remainder of the day, with the clouds swirling

above us. Grandma Leibowitz periodically circles around us, walking by her kitchen win-

dow to peer at the young lads grilling outside. At one point, I go to hang a piss. There’s

golden ornamental Hannukah candles inside in the loungeroom, which twist and shine to

extraordinary degrees due to the effect of the LSD. Grandma looks at me as I look at the

candles. I’m fucking freaked out, and walk with my head down towards the pisser down

the hall.
I spend another two hours drinking and smoking outside, until Ned come out of the house

at one point, his face white as fuck. Ned is a tanned and aesthetic motherfucker. He has a

taste for protein powder, low carb meals, and MDMA that would make the most obnox-

ious mad cunts at the Stereosonic Music Festival proud. But I like the dude, I have known

him since he was a fat kid drawing anime pictures in my year 7 visual arts class. I there-

fore am shocked to see Ned’s face rendered so fucking white. He is a tanned surfer dude,

so the sight confounds me enormously. Ned says to me, angst in his voice-

“We need to leave...now“.

He is on acid, and to people on acid acid logic always makes some fundamental kind of

sense. Me and Davo agree to leave with Ned. We take our booze, our bag of weed, and the

rest of our shit. Then we bid a quick and cordial farewell to Leonard. We all head to Da-

vo’s white 4WD in the driveway and head off through the countryside.

“Fuck staying there“ says Ned.

“What happened bro?“ I ask.

“That fucking Grandma pulled a fucking knife on me“.

“Holy shit!“ exclaims Davo.

“Yeah man, holy shit“ says Ned.

Holy shit indeed. The late, great Hunter S. Thompson once said that any acid freak can

handle the kind of trip where you hallucinate that your dead Granmother is crawling up

your leg with a knife. To be honest, that’s just a bunch of bullshit drug scene people say to

spook out the squares. Sorry Hunter old mate, but that little secret we all had had to be

given up eventually. LSD never induces full on imagery that has no grounding in some
physical reality, unless you consume five drops of liquid acid at once and fall into the time

vortex. Rather, LSD typically exxagerattes all thought and imagery to extreme degrees.

And a Grandma pulling a knife on you whilst you are tripping balls is probably any acid

freak‘s worst possible waking nightmare. Other than getting tortured to death on hallu-

cinogens. That would really suck.

We drive from Leonard’s house in Tintenbar to Dad’s house on McEllen’s Ridge, me trip-

ping out about the concept of a Grandma pulling a knife on you while you are on LSD for

the entirety of the drive, which takes around twenty five minutes in our state of height-

ened awareness. Shit, why did the crazy old woman pull a knife on Ned? To prove a

point? To show us she was tough shit? To prove to us young bucks once and for all that

the elder generation is not an age category to be fucked with? Probably none of those

things. She was senile, and that is a for sure conclusion. My bet is that she was some old

survivor of the Holocaust or something, with a numbered tattoo on the interior of her arm

and everything. Ned has blonde hair and blue eyes. The woman must have assumed that

he was some strange Nazi Gestapo agent with an equally strange attatchment to cut loose

singlets and fluro rugby shorts. Fuck Grandma Leibowitz and her stupid delusions of a

21st century Nazi genocide. Whatever. I’m on acid. I don’t fucking care anyway.

We pull into the driveway of my Dad’s house on McEllen’s Ridge. Dad’s is a Queens-

lander style house, shipped south into New South Wales on two oversize trucks. It used to

be a cool house, when me and my little brother were teenagers. We had a bush buggy to

drive around the farm out back in, a swimming pool, and a cool place to just fuck around

in, invite mates over for goon when Dad wasn’t round, and play PS2. Dad’s partner, Anne,

moved into Dad’s house in 2010, when I moved to college. Since then, the house has mor-

phed from the boy’s house of my childhood into some kind of fucked up demonstration of

everything that is wrong with upper middle class pretension. There are vases, jars, cups,

and flasks that fulfill no practical purpose what so ever, and they are everywhere.

“Art“ within the house, if it can even be considered that, consists of charming pieces such

as three ceramic ducks in Dad‘s bathroom. Those animals are the most freaky, tacky, and
screwed up things I have ever seen. Man, I fucking hate those stupid ceramic ducks. But it

dosen’t stop there. Dad and Anne have five thousand dollar apiece leather lounges, then

have the fucking nerve to complain about the cost of sending me to college. Fuck them. All

the beds in Dad’s house, at Anne’s request, have floral sheets, girly testaments to middle

class pretensions and materialism. Dad’s house, in it’s 2011 incarnation, is a fucked up

place normally. On acid it is a whole other level of wierd.

Fuck the freaky interiors of Dad’s house. Davo wants to go home, so Ned and I bid him

farewell. Then we go out to the balcony of Dad’s house. Dad’s backyard is still a beautiful

place. Even Anne’s materialist tendrils can’t mess with nature. So Ned and I chill on Dad’s

balcony, watching the gray clouds twirl and twist above us. Below them are the emerald

greens of Northern New South Wales, the grass and the trees dance around wildly as the

acid, booze, and weed does it’s work. Ned and I sip on beers and the smirnoff goon sack

as the trees and skies twist and turn. Alcohol is a great accompanying drug on acid, kind

of like engine coolant for the brain.

Dad gets home from work around half an hour later. He dosen’t know what’s going on

and fuck him if he does. Me and Ned just pretend to be drunk and ignorant. We call Davo

around half an hour later to see if he can pick us up and drive us to Ashtonville. I don’t

want to hang around Dad all night, trying to pretend I haven’t taken acid. Plus me and

Ned want to smoke some bongs to assist with the acid comedown. Davo agrees to drive

us. Fuck yeah. Ten minutes later Davo shows up in his white four wheel drive. Thirty

minutes later we are all in Ashtonville, smoking bongs on my Mum’s balcony. Ned and I

keep smoking weed for the rest of the night, until we pass out watching Family Guy at

around 10pm. Acid makes Family Guy really suck dick.

I forget how I spent the next four days, but I probably spent them buggering around and

smoking weed. Ay, the exhuberance of youth! By the time I have returned to Imperial Col-

lege the following Sunday, May the 1st 2011, the sun is once again shining and the dreary

gray skies of the past week have vanished. Like always in the subtropical areas of Austral-
ia such as Brisbane and the Northern Rivers, the Easter rains have broken the summer

heat. A cool and glary winter sun therefore shines over everything below it. Imperial Col-

lege and it’s windows and buildings shine and glisten under the winter sun. I’m rocking

my swag to the fullest because YOLO. My Toyota 98 Camry Sedan is pumping Dr. Dre

beats while I rock a fully sick cut loose singlet and a blue LA dodgers baseball snapback

cap. YOLO swaglord faggotts.

I pull into Imperial College feeling like the result of a gangbang involving Timothy Leary,

Snoop Dogg, John Stuart Mill, and God. As I pull up my car into the Imperial College car-

park and get out with my backpack full of weed and LSD, I am beckoned by Principal, the

social minister of the Imperial College student executive, to join him on the Rogerson

Building balcony. Principal calls to me in his California accent-

“Yo Texta, you going to Creamfields dude?“

“Yeah bro“ I respond.

“Come up here man“ responds Principal “We are having a few predrinks“.

“Will do dude“ I reply.

I walk to my room in the Centennary Building and pick up the foil containing the LSD

soaked sugar cubes out of my bag. I throw the foil packet in my pocket. Then I walk up to

Rogerson, my fucking swag in full gear. I have a six pack of Toohey’s for my predrinks

and, well fuck it, I might as well drop acid again. I still have a shit tonne spare anyway.

Wicked. When I get up to Rogerson, the first question I am asked by Principal is-

“So Texta, what festival kinds of drugs would you have access to?“

“These“ I reply.
I whip out the ten or so remaining sugar cubes of acid and let the fuckers oggle.

“What are those, for Coffee?“ asks Sideways, a preppy farm kid from the Whitsundays

who has probably fucked half of The Ladie’s College.

“LSD“ I respond “acid, fucking wicked trip your brain out and go half mental hits of

heaven“.

The guys look on catiously, but decide against the Holy Sacramental Chemicals of the

prophets Aldous Huxley and Timothy Leary. Fair call. We start drinking and talking shit.

Around fifteen minutes after we hit the first drinks, I text Anal, who is the Imperial Man

buying the acid off me. He comes up to the balcony of Rogerson to grab the five sugar cu-

bes of acid, which he is going to split among him and his mates. We continue to drink and

talk shit once Anal leaves. Ten minutes later I get a call from my Ashtonville High mate

Mick, who is coming to the Creamfields Festival with all of us. I tell Mick to walk up to the

big brick building facing the Brisbane River and walk up to the balcony on the second

floor. Mick obliges and shows up fifteen minutes later.

Mick, for some reason or another, is a stunned fucking mullet on the Rogerson balcony. I

don’t get why. Maybe it’s the country and preppy swag of the guys around him. Conver-

sations on Rogerson revolve around seven day drinking binges, fucking sluts, and telling

the freshers what’s what within this world. Maybe Mick’s uncomfortable with the very

institution of Imperial, being among the self proclaimed Emperors within the palace of the

self proclaimed Emperors. I do try to involve Mick in the conversations a little bit, but he

dosen’t seem to want a part of it. During some random point in the drinking and shit talk-

ing I state-

“Mick’s bro went to Imperial around six years ago.“

“Get real Lucas, my brother hated Imperial“ replies Mick.

Well fuck dude, whatever. Just trying to establish some point of commonality, but you ob-

viously don’t want it. I try to qualify and backtrack to cover my traces-

“Well that was during the Dragon Years“.

A mutual chrous of “yeah, understandable“ goes up from the kids around me. Ay, those

wild Dragon Years! Years of legend and renown amongst the current Imperial College

bros. Times when the boys ran wild, doing whatever the fuck they wanted. A time when

the Imperial College boys threw fruit at the Ladie’s College and Joan of Arc College sluts.

A time when Dragon was unchained. A time when that fat cunt Bundy got a broomstick

righteously forced up his anus. Dragon.

Because the Imperial College executive don’t want to take acid, they decide to see if they

can score some other drugs. We go to the Imperial College Terrace, where a bunch of the

Terrace boys are smoking bongs and chilling out. Most of the Imperial College exec want

E. Unfortunately the Terrace boys can only get speed. So most of the Imperial exec guys

decide, fuck it, there is plenty of medicinal speed floating around Imperial College any-

way. Dexamphetamine and Aderal are common drugs at Imperial College, and they are

more or less legal versions of speed, or amphetamines as the honourable Queensland Po-

lice Service would term the drugs. So the Imperial College exec guys decide to go back to

Rogerson, to crush up and snort some dexies and aderal. Mick and I drop the acid sugar

cubes on the Rogerson balcony while the Imperial College exec sniff semi-legal speed in a

closed off room.

Around fifteen minutes later, the dexie and aderal has cleared out of the sinuses of the

Imperial College exec. I’m also feeling the first surges of my acid trip. Mick probably is

feeling the surge of hallucinogens too. We therefore make the collective decision to leave

for the Creamfields Festival before the drugs hit too heavily. A taxi has been booked out-
side the sandstone steps of Imperial College and we all walk tipsy and slightly drug

fucked into the maxi van that awaits.

The taxi zooms through the sunny streets of Brisbane on a lovely Autumn morning. Slow-

ly, I feel surges and explosions of acid in my brain. LSD is not a drug for subtelty or dis-

guise. Rather, it is a drug that is impossible to pretend you are not on. Trippers say tripper

things. So as the taxi swerves around the backstreets of Fortitude Valley to the RNA

showgrounds, amping the acid up, I spontaneously say, quite loudly-

“I can feel the first LSD surges through my brain maaaan“.

All the other dudes are like Woah Texta! Chill out man! We are Imperial Men, we don’t

want these fucking taxi drivers knowing we do drugs dude! We are the elite after all, other

people can’t know we use drugs like they do.

Whatever. We get to the RNA Showgrounds and I manage to get through the gates before

the acid amps up to the fullest. Once it does, and the festival explodes in colour and light, I

head straight to the bar for some cans of Smirnoff Ice. To process the hallucinogens at a

manageable rate, I buy two cans of Smirnoff. The other Imperial guys ask Mick if he wants

a drink as they owe him money for the taxi fair. Mick is tripping balls, and I remember

that this is his first time tripping. Shit. Mick is confused and fucked up, so he dosen’t ask

for a drink. Poor mistake man. If a Neolib offers you a drink or money back, you better ac-

cept it. Because after that, a torie will pretend they have offered you nothing or they will

avoid you so they don’t have to pay you. If I learned one important lesson from Imperial

College, it is to never give a capitalist anything if you haven't been paid for it first. You

will never recieve anything back unless there is a carbon copy document of the transaction

with multiple signatures and the official judicial stamps of a few well respected judges to

boot. Then you are best to copy that document and get it scanned, because a committed

capitalist will try and pretend that that document you have is a fraud.
I hadn’t learned that lesson in any meaningful manner by May the 1st 2011. Hell, I was

fucking people over and ripping them off whenever and wherever I could around then. In

my trade in 2011, the drug trade, official documentation and signatures are probably not

the greatest idea anyhow. I didn’t even allow people to mention drugs on texts or Face-

book messages. The Feds man, THE FUCKING FEDS!

The Creamfields Crowd is a very different crowd to the Bluesfest crowd. It mainly consists

of mainstream kids who blend in anywhere (Skrillex and Deadmau5 are headlining

Creamfields) as well as the standard roid freaks and raver kids who occuppy any dance

music festival. I went to two dance music festivals in 2011, attending the Future Music Fes-

tival in Brisbane earlier in 2011. In the end I have to conclude something about dance mu-

sic festival though; they fucking suck so many dicks. Dance music festivals are typically

considered the face of dance and electronic music in Australia. Really, they are the anus of

dance and electronic music events.

At Australian dance festivals such as Future Music, Creamfields, and Stereosonic, you typ-

ically pay around one hundred and fifty to two hundred bucks to buy a ticket that allows

you entry. There are usually police with sniffer dogs at the gates of dance music festivals,

as electronic music events are somewhat deservedly considered events with high rates of

illicit drug use. Therefore, at most dance music festivals, if you are of the chemically in-

clined variety of human being, you will have to take your drugs before you go, or shove

them up your arse to get your chemicals past Officer McFriendly and his happy poochy.

Then you will enter the festival, retrieving your bag of drugs from your anus in a boiling

porta loo toilet that smells of an odd combination of piss, shit, and disinfectant. You will

wander the festival for most of the day, putting up with agro roid freaks (nothing here

against your garden variety roid user without a hectic ego complex guiz), summer heat,

and mid strength cans of premixed vodka or bourbon for around ten dollars a hit. There

will be a bunch of acts who are big on the international dance music scene, but seeing

them live isn’t anything special really. It’s just Skrillex or Pnau or Deadmau5 or Avici or

Flume or DJ Whoever The Fuck looking trendy and pressing buttons on a laptop. Most
dance music festivals are held in big cities, which have noise ordinance restrictions. So

most dance festivals end at around 10pm. Everyone, from roid freaks to ravers, therefore

leaves at 10pm in a crammed and aggressive rush for a taxi, and then gets home before

11pm for bed and a nice warm glass of milk. If people want to keep going out and party-

ing after a dance music festival they can, but a tame night out in your average Australian

city typically costs at least one hundred bucks for taxis, club entry, and a few quiet drinks.

Your day at a dance music festival, if you want a decent one, is therefore probably around

two hundred and fifty bucks at least. If you want an excellent day involving partying and

getting a bit wild after the festival, lay down at least six hundred hard earned bucks

straight from your bank account. Mate, you have payed the equivalent sum of a small hol-

iday. You are now permitted to go to Stereo and look like a sick cunt. Fuck dance music

festivals.

Bush doofs are a relitavely, and nessecarily, underground scene within the Australian

electronic music landscape. However, they are the complete opposite of the relitavely lack-

lustre Australian dance music festival experience. It seems to me anyway that doofs repre-

sent all that is good about electronic music in Australia while dance festivals represent

everything that is shit. Doofs vary from dance festivals in almost every concievable facet.

The first notable area of difference between bush doofs and dance festivals is the

avaliability of intoxicants. It isn’t hard to score drugs at a doof, in fact it would probably

be a shit doof, or not even a proper doof, if you didn’t run into at least a few dudes hold-

ing LSD, MDMA, or marijjuanna. At the gates of a doof, no police dogs or self righteous

security guards are there to harrass you. You do not have to shove the pills up your arse

and retrieve them in the toilets. Rather you are typically beckoned in by a security guard

with the same inclinations and lifestyle preferences as yourself. An average doof typically

includes at least twelve hours of peace, love, and good vibes, and easy avaliability to any

chemical method through which this can be achieved. The roid freaks and posers aren’t

generally at Doofs. A few muscular dudes inhabit the scene, but they are just there to have

a good time like everyone else. Bush doofs are held in the deep woods, away from the

reach of the Main Cop and his agents. Consequentely, trees rise above all those dancing
below, suggesting the simultaneous benevolence and indifference of the natural world to

the affairs of humankind. There are no time or noise restrictions at Doofs, as there are no

time or noise restrictions in the forest. Unlike the Prime Possum, go to bed children end-

ings of most commercialized dance festivals, doofs go all night and everyone parties all

night. Girls and guys dance on more or less equal footing, a complete opposite of the fuck

the sluts attitude that defined the inter-sexual relations mentality of Imperial College as

well as a roid driven inner city wankfest such as Stereosonic. Everyone just gets fucked up

off their own poison and has a good time as the beats and chemicals combine to create an

unearthly but somewhat natural and tribal state of behaviour. In all, the average bush doof

party experience costs around one hundred and fifty Australian dollars, less than the cost

of a ticket to the typical Australian dance music festival and a much better experience on

average.

Ah, the follies of youth. If only I had known back then that dance festivals were a shit sce-

ne. But only experience brings insight and Texta, the person who inhabited Imperial Col-

lege, was a naive and inexperienced dude. Generally, Creamfields passed in a blur of acid

and booze for me. I remember flashes, extreme shots of light. I remember seeing Dead-

mau5 at one point, with his flashing mouse mask. I remeber seeing Skrillex, with his

fucked up half bald, half long hair head. At one point, I saw my mate Reg, wild on booze,

speed, and MDMA. He gave me an aggressive WHAT CUNT look, pushed me, and then

had a laugh. I bounced between various crowds at Creamfields with Mick; Reg’s crew, the

Imperial College exec, other Imperial dudes I saw there. I tried to dance with some stupid

slut but failed because I was fucked up on booze and acid. Fuck her. At one point I

thought one of my high school friends had stolen a drink from Principal, the Imperial so-

cial minister, and tried to snatch the drink back for Principal. Principal got pissed off, in-

forming me that he had in fact given my mate the drink. Shit, awkward. Oh well, I was on

drugs.

Creamfields ends at 10pm that night, in line with the Brisbane noise restrictions. I bounce

out of the festival with Mick at 10.20pm and we are both still pretty fucked up. We can’t
find a taxi anywhere, with thousands of people competing for around twenty taxis, so we

end up walking 2 kilometres through Fortitude Valley to find one. Some bloke from War-

wick ends up walking alongside us, and I tell him that whatever suburb he is headed to is

near St Lucia. I don’t honestly know if his destination is near St Lucia, but I don’t really

give a fuck either. Fuck that guy, I don’t know him. Hopefully, he can save me some mon-

ey by sharing the taxi fare. He tells me and Mick he is from Griffith University on the Gold

Coast and that he has been speed balling, mixing cocaine and speed, all day. Wicked, but

stimulants are no replacement for animal good sense and judgement mate. Machaivelli

101. Yeah dude, we can totally share a taxi with you hey.

We eventually find a taxi and the turban head Indian at the wheel begins driving us to-

wards Imperial College. The lights of Brisbane flash alongside the car, the acid making

them dance like crazy. We arrive at Imperial College around forty minutes later, with the

buildings looking dark, secluded, and imposing as we pull in. We all pay our share of the

taxi fare and walk through the monolithic buildings of Imperial College to my room in the

Centenary Building.

When we get back I chop a bowl of weed and we all pull a bong. I don’t remember wheth-

er I put the Warwick dude I was travelling out of place and pocket or not, whether I

fucked him over or not. To be honest, at the time I didn’t really care whether or not I did

fuck the dude over. If I fucked him over, it was because I was smarter then him and he

probably deserved it. But I do remember that at some point the random dude left and

Mick drove home to Indooropilly. The very last thing I recall of LSD Week 2011 was walk-

ing from Imperial College to Mr. Deno’s Kebab Shop, feeling as if my brain itself was levi-

tating behind my body.

Chapter 19-America, Fuck Yeah!

America, fuck yeah!

Coming again to save the motherfucking day yeah!

America, fuck yeah!

Freedom is the only way yeah!

-Trey Parker, Team America Theme Song, 2004.

I wake up from my week of dropping acid scattered as fuck. For those with no education

or initiation into the world of pills, cardboards, and powders, “scattered“ is a special kind

of fucked up only achieved through and after the ingestion of intense substances. It is a

kind of lingering psychological hangover. Being scattered, or scat, is different from the

straight alcohol hangover in that physically a scattered human being will feel fine. Mental-

ly, however, everything sucks and everything is fucked up.

May the 2nd 2011 is a very interesting day to be scattered indeed. For it is a day that ends

an era. May the 2nd 2011 is the day that the world’s own super villian and arch terrorist,

Al Qaeda leader Osama Bin Laden, copped Karma Call of Duty style. May the 2nd 2011 is

the day some US marine felt like Jehovah himself (the Abrahamic God to all you less in-

formed theists out there) when he fired a machine gun and it’s bullets ripped through the

frame of an evil and debauched religious freak. Osama Bin Laden, the figure of all that

was bad and fucked about modern Islam, and indeed modern religion in general, died the

violent death of a violent man on May the 2nd 2011.

I wake up on May the 2nd 2011 with such a fact irrelevant to my life and what is going on

in it. Irrelevant because I have been taking acid for a week and irrelevant because the US

navy seal hit squad hasn’t embarked on their mission yet. My awakening on May the 2nd

occurs when Smart Dude knocks on my door around 7.30 am. Smart Dude and I have

come from somewhat similar backgrounds superficially. We are both from high schools on
the New South Wales North Coast, mine being a high ranking public school and his school

being a low ranking private school. However, our appearances that morning indicate that

our paths are about to diverge enormously. Smart Dude is dressed intelligently. He rocks

a polo shirt, smart shorts, and boater shoes. He obviously got dressed showered and eve-

rything that morning. I, meanwhile, look fucked up in my one day old cut loose singlet

and Billabong shorts and with my drug shot eyes.

“Hey Texta“ says Smart Dude “That Government of Queensland assignment we have is

due tommorow. Want to do it in the learning centre together?“

“Shit dude, really?“ I reply.

“Really“ replies Smart Dude.

“Fuck man“ I respond “I went to Creamfields yesterday, I’m scat as fuck“.

“Scat? What’s that?“ enquires Smart Dude.

“Scattered, the hangover you get from hard drugs. I took acid yesterday.“

“Scattered“ Smart Dude chuckles. The guy certainly has an endearing awkwardness. He is

like a strange Georgian tourist who shot through the Tardis time machine into the 21st

century.

“Okay, let me just check for sure that it’s dude tommorow. I really don’t want to do an as-

signment in my state“.

I stumble over to the laptop on the desk in my room. I switch it on and start accessing the

University of Brisbane student sites. Oh, for fuck’s sake. The fucking assignment is due

tommorow. Guess I was too busy dropping acid over the last week to notice. Ah well.
“Okay dude, give me like half an hour and I’ll meet you at the college dining hall“ I say.

I have a shower and get changed into some new clothes, a pair of shorts and a purple

hoodie with the letters IMPERIAL embalzoned across it and the Imperial Dragon stamped

on the back. Then I walk up to the Imperial College dining hall. I look over the Brisbane

River. There is definetly something different about it on this day. I wander into the Impe-

rial College dining hall. There is something different, perhaps indescribably so, about the

bronze dragon, the rowing oars, and the pictures of the old Imperial masters on the walls.

I can’t put my finger on quite what it is, but there is something different about these sym-

bols to me on that morning.

I eat a bacon and egg sandwhich and drink a strong coffee for breakfast. Smart Dude sits

across from me drinking tea and eating a bowl of fruit for breakfast. As we eat brekky, we

both read The Australian. A fact most likely mentioned previously, The Australian is a ne-

oliberal and conservative rag. Like most Imperial Men, I had previously read The Australi-

an and it’s opinion pieces and been all like “yes, quite, indeed“. But this morning, after

LSD Week 2011, everything about that newspaper seems inconcievably different. I can’t

put my finger on it, but something seems to have changed.

Whatever. I have an assignment to do. Smart Dude and I walk to the Imperial College

learning centre. The learning centre is a strange area of Imperial. Built over the site of the

old Imperial College gym, it is an integral part of Master Gerald Oebid’s grand strategy to

render Imperial College “a college for the 21st century“. Apparently Imperial College had

such shit grades amongst it’s student population, with an average GPA that was failing,

that a learning centre needed to be constructed so that the men could read good. If we are

honest and realistic about things, the Imperial College Learning Centre should probably

be renamed The Imperial College Centre For Men Who Can’t Read Good And Want To

Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too. Derek Zoolander should have MC’ed the opening of

the Imperial College Learning Centre. You-goo-gallies.

Smart Dude and I walk into the Learning Centre. The area is an odd assortment of multi-

coloured cushioned work stations that complies to the latest abstract quasi-scientific anal-

ysis of what makes people work hard and learn good. Smart Dude and I set up our lap-

tops on a standard set of tables and chairs that dosen’t have any colour or unusual shape.

Fuck trendiness yo.

It’s an unusual day, the day leading up to Osama getting his brains splattered across plan-

et Earth. To cope with doing an assignment scattered, I drink more caffeine in a day than

is probably reasonably safe to consume if you want to avoid cardiac arrest. This includes

three cans of Mother Energy Drink, about six strong coffees, and a 600ml bottle of Coca

Cola. SFL, So Fucking Loose. Most of the day passes relitavely ordinarily and I just focus

my attention on the assignment. Around 5pm, that all changes. Smart Dude announces to

me-

“Osama Bin Laden is dead“.

“Shit“ I reply.

I check Google News and my Facebook news feed for confirmation. Osama Bin Laden is

indeed dead. Through my life, I have been among a variety of scenes and a variety of dif-

ferent people. Reactions from my Facebook “friends“ generally vary according to who

they are. Here are a few reactions to the death of the architect of 911 from my Facebook

friends-

“Bin Laden is dead! Come out to the Imperial River Estate and get wild on Budweisers to

celebrate the death of one of the most evil motherfuckers that this world has ever pro-

duced“-American rugby boy and resident of Imperial College John Buren.

“What the fuck? The US is meant to be champions of liberty and freedom yet they send in a hit

squad to assasinate Osama Bin Laden?! Everyone who is AWARE knows that it was the CIA and

US Corporations behind 911 anyway“-Some crazy and mentally unstable 40 year old hippie

bitch from Byron Bay, New South Wales, who I happen to know.

“Osama Bin Laden is dead? Well, you know, YOLO“-Some dude that I know.

Osama Bin Laden’s death, as well as watching the reactions to it on Facebook and Google

News, distracts me somewhat from my task of completing my assignment. One thing I am

glad of is that Christopher Hitchens, the famous British journalist and antitheist, got to

write an essay on Osama Bin Laden’s death. Hitchens‘ report on Osama’s death is filled

with the righteous libertarian vitriol and hate that I have come to love and appreciatte

from good old Christopher. Osama Bin Laden got Hitchslapped bitch. Because of the dual

distractions of being scattered as fuck on acid as well as viewing all the reactions to Osama

Bin Laden’s killing, I end up writing a pretty poor essay on the Government of Queens-

land. Oh well. I finish my essay at 3am, smoke a rolled durrie with two Imperial freshers,

and crash out in my bed around 3.30am. I get up at 7.30 am the next day and check what

kind of assignment I ended up producing. My essay sucks, but I don’t really care. Here are

a few insights from Lucas Texta Jones on the topic of the Government of Queensland dat-

ed to the glorious and fortuitous date of May the Second 2011-

Ex-National Party LNP Senator Barnaby Joyce is one of the LNP's most notable Federal

representatives and also a politician who is indicative of a continued culture of exceptionalist

conservatism in the state. Joyce, whose mannerisms and behaviour have led him to be characterised

by both political theorists (Williams, 2008) and journalists (Crabb, 2011) as the archetypal “wild

man from the North”, is a politician who demonstrates that, at least to a degree, Queensland

remains a “different” place culturally. This is illustrated through both Joyce's ideology and his use

of political rhetoric.

Barnaby Joyce's core ideological beliefs are one indication that Queensland exceptionalism is alive

and well within the mindset of at least some of the state's politicians and populace. In his time in
the Federal Senate (2005-), Joyce has constantly advocated traditional National Party policies

supporting rural socialism and a strongly socially conservative outlook. This is despite the

Coalition at large and Australia more generally heading down a more liberal path in respect to

economics and, for the most part, social issues as well. This indicates that, for at least a section of

Queensland's electorate, the relationship with the Australian state at large remains a combative one

in which politicians with a confrontationally based and abrupt style (such as Joyce) are seen to be

required by constituents to represent the interests of the electorate.

Barnaby Joyce's highly deliberate usage of populist political language and mannerisms during his

political career also suggest that a culture of “difference” still exists amongst Right wing politicians

in Queensland. This is especially apparent in Joyce's “straight shooter” (i.e. politically incorrect)

manner of expression, his use of slang and colloquialisms, and his constant toying with the

language of “grass roots” grievance politics. Joyce's “down to earth” style of speech is exemplified

by quotes such as the following-

“Maybe I'm an agrarian socialist, I don't know, is there a problem with being an agrarian

socialist?” (ABC Radio National 2005, Background Briefing)

Joyce's heavily pro-agrarian and populist style is indicative of a continued culture of Queensland

political difference. The presence of Joyce federally also suggests that a separate political culture

defined by antagonism towards the rest of the nation and an identity of difference from Australia

more broadly still exists in the state's far North.

However, the LNP federally has also been characterised by politicians of a more

progressive/libertarian inclination. Ex-Liberal (now LNP) Senator George Brandis is one note

worthy example of the progressive Right representing Queensland federally. Brandis, in terms of

basic ideology, has been typically characterised by theorists as a “Small L” (read “slightly Left

Wing”) Liberal. Evidence for such an inclination includes Brandis' passionate avocation of the

libertarian traditions of the Australian Right (Rogeveen, 2009), his emphatic rejection of the belief

amongst some notable Liberals (e.g. current Federal Opposition Leader Tony Abbot and ex

Australian Prime Minister John Howard) that the Liberal Party is founded upon a conservative
tradition (Rogeveen), as well as his support for traditionally “Left wing” policies e.g.

multiculturalism (Leslie, 2011). In terms of his political beliefs, Brandis has much more in common

with other moderate Liberals such as the Sydney based Shadow Minister For Communication

Malcolm Turnbull than “wild men” from the North such as Barnaby Joyce. His presence within the

Federal Senate suggests that in some areas of Queensland (most notably the urbanised South East

regions that largely voted for Brandis) a culture more like that of wider Australia exists whilst in

others (i.e. the North-Eastern and Greater Western regions that compose Joyce's voter bases) a

culture of continued political exceptionalism is still present.

As demonstrated by evidence of the emergence of a new political culture in Queensland , as well as

the continued presence of elements of the state's old public culture, modern society in Queensland

is defined by a syncretism of both latent/dormant as well as emergent elements. Politically and

culturally, Queensland and Queenslanders remain different to most Australians. However,

Queensland is changing. Modern Queensland, especially in the South East, has become a place

much more culturally reminiscent of the Australian nation at large.

Chapter 20-He’s Just A Kid-

One day you'll learn when you get burned

By then it will be too late you ya

Be too late for ya

When the fire spreads and burns, don't you know?

[Verse 1: Plan B]

He's just a kid off the estate

They call him little Jake

Today he tried to buy weed with his little mate

Up in the bits, but he's just a kid

So he was open to manipulation

He had to undergo initiation

And when some older boys saw the situation

They took the piss; now look at this

Little youth beating up his only friend

The only one that weren't pretend

And even gave him the money for the pen

From mice to men and then to rats

But only a snake behaves like that

But the gang don't care for fool shooting caps

They're just happy that you fall for the trap

-Plan B, Playing With Fire, 2012.

The next few weeks of college and university proceeded as usual. I drank a lot, I smoked a

lot of weed, I occassionally got my finger in some bitch or another. One thing that was

begginning to make me increasingly paranoid towards the end of semester one 2011,

however, was my business of ganga supply. Selling drugs is a thankless and fucked up job

that I would never consider being involved in again. Taking drugs recreationally, mean-

while, is honestly quite fun on the condition that your mind is clear and your conciense is

clean.

I thought of myself as a big deal weed supplier and drug expert back when I was living all

collegial. Lucas Texta Jones was a regular Pabalo Escobar or Tony Montana in his own in-

flated mind and ego. But throughout my time at college I was more accurately a relitavely,

or in fact a very, small scale weed dealer. At most, I would sell around two ounces of weed

with a total profit of two hundred to four hundred bucks a week, depending on the quali-

ty of the weed and how much it cost me to buy it. I saved none of the money I accquirred

selling Jah’s greenery at Imperial College. Usually, I funelled it into buying clothes, getting

drunk, or whatever else I wanted to buy to entertain myself. I didn’t really care anyway,
because I didn’t want any trace of my business evident at all. And a wallet full of different

notes adding up to about four hundred bucks is as clear a piece of evidence as anything

that something is dodgy or amiss. I do, in retrospect, hate the whole vibe and scene of be-

ing a drug dealer, and being known as a drug dealer. However, selling weed did have it’s

perks. The clothes and booze money was certainly a nice plus to selling ganga. But the

main advantage to selling weed, for an increasingly committed stoner such as myself, was

that I got to smoke a fair bit of bud without paying a cent.

All kinds of dudes would buy weed from me in my time at Imperial. Everyone from the

President of the Imperial College student club, Clarinet, to the most unnoticable fresher

were customers of mine in my time selling 20 and 50 bags in my room in Centenary Build-

ing. I even had some outside customers who would come to college to grab a fat bag of

bud. My high school friend Lewis, a musician, and some French exchange student who

lived in Toowong were regular visitors to my room in Centenary Building in 2011. Ned

and Mario, two more of my high school friends, were also regular customers. I spent a lot

of my off nights at Ned and Mario’s place in Milton in fact, smoking bongs, drinking beer,

and visiting restaraunts in the suburb, a known restaraunt hub in Brisbane.

Imperial College had a pervasive ultra-capitalist mentality amongst it’s student body, and

this mentality defined how I conducted my weed selling business. I sold weed at what

would be considered rip off prices on the Northern Rivers at Imperial College. I sold weed

in this way because-

a) I had a monopoly on ganga sales at Imperial College for the first semster of 2011.

b) Weed was a generally more expensive commodity in Brisbane (Babylon) than it was

down south on the Northern Rivers (Zion), predominantly consisting of expensive hydro

rather than cheap bush.

c) I was the one taking all the risks, so fuck it.

d) Fuck those rich kids, they could take the hit to their finances anyway.
These days, I wouldn’t be as much of a profiteer off weed. All people who have been

around the Australian drug scene long enough know that within Australia there are

two co-existent but heavily divergent drug cultures within Australia. These are, name-

ly, the predominantly middle class hippie/tripper scene and the largely working

class/unemployment class hard cunt semi-bikie/amphetamines scene. And everyone

who has been around both scenes long enough and has half a brain (or conciense) has

generally reacgnizes that middle class hippie trippers are cool and easy people. Hard

cunt semi-bikies are annoying and intense kinds of human beings who you can only

really associatte with in very small doses.

In my days selling weed, I encountered volume dealers of marijuanna from both drug

scenes. I found the wannabes of the bikie and semi-bikie worlds grating. Their boasting

and bullshit got to me. Hippies were always right with me though. Talking philosophy

and existential ideas with a bunch of dreadlocked freaks suits me well. Capitalism and

the drug scene are a bad mix, a filthy and turgid cocktail. And that was the mistake of

my dealing. Should I go the route of a semi-bikie mad cunt or a chilled out hippie

dude? Time and life experience has more or less answered that question for me these

days.

In my Imperial College days, I was certainly of the drug profiteering persuasion. But it

was as much a product of the time and place of Imperial College in 2011 as anything

else. One time I was called up to the balcony of Imperial College to sell some weed to a

bunch of hot Faith College chicks, one of whom had been fucking the President of Im-

perial College Bobby Clarinet James enough to earn the honoured title of “girlfriend“.

Being the girlfriend of the President of Imperial College was an extemely huge deal

amongst the social set of the University of Brisbane. Good bloke that he was, Clarinet

was arranging the weed deal with the girls. The Faith College ladies were a group of

innocent-ish (in terms of drugs anyway) private school chicks who were just tipping

their toes into the world of Bob Marley, Harold and Kumar, and Seth Rogen. As such,
they had no idea about the world or the value of Jah’s holy herb. Clarinet told me that I

would be in to make a fucking killing selling grass to these dumb sluzzas.

I sold the girls the weed on the day of “Imperial At Imperial“, a party hosted by the

boys of Imperial College, at Imperial College, and for Imperial College. Clarinet had

called me up to the balcony of Rogerson and asked me to bring bud. He told me to

bring an amount that I considered rip off, because the sluts didn’t know shit. I obliged,

bringing 0.7 grams of my worst ganga, taken from a stringy bag of bush weed, to sell

for twenty five bucks. To give some perspective, twenty five bucks would usually buy

you around two grams of bush weed that basic and average back home on the North-

ern Rivers.

I swagger up to Rogerson and give the girls their weed. These chicks are three of the

hottest lasses at Faith College, and generally only fuck the elite men of Imperial Col-

lege; the jocks, the rugby players, and the exec. I don’t really have much to do with

these ladies. I exchange the weed with the Faith College girls, knowing that I am rip-

ping them off but in equal measure not really giving a fuck. They are just women, or

fucking sluts, anyway. While I sell the girls their ganga, they admit to their ignorance.

“I don’t really know how much this all costs“ says one blonde skank.

Whatever slut. I exchange the weed for a rip off price and the lovely Faith College La-

dies leave not too long afterwards. After they leave, Clarinet says to me-

“You really could have ripped them off more. Made a lot more money of them. They

are just dumb chicks anyway.“

Righteous Rasta vibes. Represent the ganga culture and everything it’s about son!
I got maggot drunk at Imperial At Imperial. I hooked up with one chick, but remember

being too wasted to really follow up much further. Story of my life brah. The next day I

eat a filthy hot dog in the Imperial College dining hall. The college students from The

University of Brisbane had created a music festival the day after Imperial At Imperial,

called the Mazjam Music Festival. Sick innuendos. So sexual man.

I had paid forty bucks for the ticket. But it was raining. And I was hungover as shit.

And I knew none of the acts on the lineup. So I decided to call it quits on the festival. I

went to Reg’s house in South Brisbane to smoke bongs and play Mariokart Wii instead.

It turned out to be a good decision. Apparently the Mazjam Music Festival was shit. If

there is one thing a polo sporting conservative cannot do better then a dreadlocked

hippie tripper, it is organize a music festival. The conservative scope of life just dosen’t

see the need for tripped out lighting, exploding fireballs, and random points of distrac-

tion at live music events. Cheap booze and a large stage is never the recipie for a good

live music show, there are other elements that make live music great. And a clean cut

conservative is never the kind of individual who can grasp just what it is that makes a

music event fantastic.

Over the concluding weeks of semester 1, 2011, I became increasingly highly strung

and paranoid. I swear that I am hearing shit on my mobile phone. Little beeps and little

taps sounded on just about every call I make or every call that lasts for more than a

minute. It’s not just me who is hearing these things either. My parents hear the beeps

and taps on my phone when they call me. In fact, anyone who is talking to me for more

than a minute or two on the phone can hear the mysterious little noises. I don’t men-

tion it to anyone for a while. But it’s making me edgy and fucking strung out.

People at Imperial College aren’t helping to calm my nerves either. One Rockhampton

hipster kid who buys weed off me pretty regularly tells me a “funny story“ that his sis-

ter, who went to Faith College a few years back, related to him. Apparently some dude

at Imperial was selling weed at Imperial College back in 2007. Paul, the old cleaner,
discovered the weed. As a result, Paul recieved a 50 bag of buds every week in ex-

change for not spilling the beans on this particular Imperial old boy’s ganga operation.

Eventually, the cops caught on to the fact that this young lad was selling the herb. But

Imperial Men are smart and elite after all. Imperial Old Boy Number X caught on to the

fact that the cops had caught onto him. He dumped his burner mobile phone off the

jetty of Imperial and into the Brisbane River, and then he phoned Paul the cleaner. Paul

stored the weed in the storage cupboard of Imperial College. When the heat had died

down, Paul took a fat half ounce of weed for himself, and Old Boy took the rest of the

weed. He smoked all the weed though, and never sold herbal again.

The story was meant to be funny. But honestly, it increases my fucking edginess. I feel

like I have drunk the Milk With Knives out of A Clockwork Orange. It all finally comes

to a head on the final night of the proper term of semester one 2011, before everyone

goes in different directions for exams. That night, I have scored two fat pills from Ned,

who has formed increasingly good drug connections within the Brisbane clubbing sce-

ne. I’ve been told the pills were MDMA, but in retrospect those little motherfuckers

were probably speed with a bit of Ketamine (horse tranquilizer) thrown in for good

measure. Dodgy pills always suck. I once tripped ten hours on 2CB in Fortitude Valley

because a dealer, who turned out to be a smack fiend, sold me a red pill. He said the

pill was MD, but it certainly wasn’t. At another point in time, the same reputable

source sold a friend of mine Valium and told him it was estascy. Go figure.

This batch of semi-dodgy pills throws me off on one of the last nights at college for

2011. It’s a Sunday night. As per usual on a Sunday night, everyone at college is going

to the Royal Exchange Hotel in Toowong. A few of my high school mates are also go-

ing to the RE, and I have said that I will meet them there. I take the first pill around

7pm, around two hours after I have started drinking. The first dinger initially induces a

few tunnels and shit in my vision, but nothing special. Besides, I find the tunnels fuck-

ing cool. Around half an hour, I feel the confident roar of a speed rush. That’s when the

beans, if they haven’t been tipped over by my behaviour already, are definetly spilled.
Some dude, a wealthy lad from The Southport School on the Gold Coast, asks if I am

just on alcohol. I probably don’t look like it.

“Nah dude“ I reply “I’ve also had a pill“.

A look of recognition goes up from the dude and the other blokes around him.

“You should totally start selling pills at Imperial too. You’d make a killing bro“.

I’m positively charging by the time it’s 9pm, by the time everyone is starting to head

out. I walk down to the St. Lucia Village, a clearly amphetamine buzz pulsating

through my brain, and catch the 412 bus to the RE. I meet a bunch of my high school

friends at the RE. They are acting like a bunch of petty, bitchy, high school level cunts.

A few of them are trying to talk shit about how I got no pussy in high school. Fuck

them. After around one jug of beer, I tell them to get fucked and that I’m probably see-

ing more and better vag at this stage in my life then those guys will ever see in their

lives. I ditch my faggott high school friends not long after, the petty fucking wankers.

I drop the second pill not long after I ditch my high school friends. Ketamine tunnels

begin forming at the back of my brain. It’s going to be a mission to not get kicked out

of the RE tonight. Before long and after another jug of beer, the speed in the pill over-

powers the Ketamine. I’m cranking again. That’s when a spot of ye good olde paranoia

kicks in. Shit man, the feds have been tracking my shit for a while now. I’ve heard

beeps and clicks on my phone. Is it possible that they have been tracing my phone? Is it

possible that some vicious facist cop is on to me?

I think of the consequences if I am caught as the Imperial College weed dealer. The re-

percussions would be enormous. I would be fucked, screwed, and raped. Firstly, there

would be the police. Pigs love to fuck scumdogs like me, especially those with a nerdy

or intellectual vibe like Lucas Jones. The police, undoubtedly the most conservative
and vicious ones, would grill me until I burn and break. As I attend one of The Univer-

sity of Brisbane’s most elite institutions, I would be punished out of all proportion. I

would have to be made an example of, be made a prick of. Bogan trash that populate

many of the ranks of the Queensland Police Force would love to bring arrogant young

aristocrats like me down to their filthy level. If caught by the cops, I wouldn’t just be

given communitty service or drug diversion, as your average street level stoner or

weed slanger would be. Rather, the vengeful conservatives would love to send me to

some brutal and fucked up prison so as that I can learn humility through being shivved

in the back with a rusty fork and raped up the anus in the prison showers. Maybe this

weed dealer thang isn’t worth the risks.

In addition to getting punished more exceptionally than a normal person would, drug

dealers who are members of reputable and respected institutions typically face ex-

traordinary punishments in terms of public attention for what are essentially trife and

minor crimes. In May 2013, two students at one of Brisbane’s elite Catholic schools,

Nudgee College, were caught dealing illegal steroids at the prestigious institution. The

story was all over the Brisbane and national Australian newspapers ranging from Bris-

bane’s The Courier Mail and Brisbane Times onto nationwide publications such as The

Sydney Morning Herald and The Australian. It didn’t suprise me to see that two Nudgee

boys were caught dealing roids. Illegal steroids are all over elite private schools and

university colleges, and there is a concurrent obsession with body image at all of these

institutions. Roids, like drugs more generally, are a part of the tapestry at many, if not

all, economically elite educational institutions.

It was completely ordinary for two Nudgee boys to be caught selling roids. What was

extraordinary, however, was the reaction to two Nudgee boys dealing roids at their

school. That kind of media hysteria would never follow if two kids were caught deal-

ing roids at Holland Park State High School or Ashtonville High School. Public school

roid dealing would be considered so unexceptional that it would fly under everyone’s

radar entirely. I doubt even MX, that free magazine that they hand out on the trains in
Brisbane, would pick the story up if two public school kids had a steroid ring. Yet ille-

gal steroid use is unquestionably more common at private schools then public schools.

Private school kids or members of elite institutions cop the bullshit hand of the law ex-

ceptionally hard if they are caught dealing or supplying volumes of illegal drugs. And,

in retrospect, I believe that if my weed operation at Imperial College were ever discov-

ered the name “Lucas Jones-Imperial College Marijuanna Dealer“ would have been all

over newspapers from The Courier Mail to The Australian to The Age in Melbourne. I was

twenty when I was selling bud at Imperial and I wouldn’t have had the same chil-

dren’s privacy law protections as the two young jocks from Nudgee. Therefore, the

name LUCAS JONES-WEED DEALING SCUM would be the subject of condemnation

in right wing opinion pieces all across Australia. Hacks like Greg Sheridan, Andrew

Bolt, and Miranda Devine would have a field day condemning me as a ganga dealing,

ganga smoking, acid dropping, pill popping scumcunt. Those self same conservative

hacks would also have a field day righteously defending the proud institution of Impe-

rial College in their writing, stressing that an instance of drug dealing at a proud uni-

versity college was an isolated phenomon. Righto. I knew at least two other dudes who

sold drugs at Imperial College in my time there. But the paranoia was getting to me

very heavily round then. On that night at the RE, in the depths of informed and

drugged out paranoia, I even visualized and imagined the reports on A Current Affair

and Today Tonight if my little weed dealing operation were ever to be discovered. Shit, I

could have even written the fucking report myself-

Imperial College is a proud institution at the University of Brisbane. It is where the most

wealthy male students of the university live, party, and congregate. It is where young men from

all across Queensland come to enjoy their university years in a safe and fun place. But behind

the facade of Imperial College’s sandstone skin exists a darker element. For Imperial College

conceals a hidden drug culture. Marijuanna, pot, cannabis, weed, ganga, dope, green, crack co-

caine; whatever name you call the insidious plant based drug by, it is to be found in BULK vol-

umes at Imperial College.

Until last week the kingpin of this marijjuanna dealing operation was an Imperial College stu-

dent by the name of Lucas “Texta” Jones. Originally from Northern New South Wales, the re-

gion with the highest levels of marijuanna consumption in Australia, Lucas Jones moved to Im-

perial College with the intention of corrupting the institution by selling large volumes of skunk

weed to the students living there. Due to this, Lucas Jones earned the nickname “Texta“ because

he was a “colorful personality“, a buzzword for CRIMINAL.

Last week, Lucas Jones‘ six month drug fuelled run was up when members of the Queensland

Police Force raided his room. There they found two ounces of marijuanna, two hits of LSD, var-

ious cannabis smoking implements, and a pill that is currently under forensic examination. Im-

perial College’s Headmaster and Cheif Executive, Gerald Oebid MA BED, has been quick to re-

spond to the incident-

“This incident, of course, is isolated. Most Imperial Men are honourable young lads with

healthy interests in sports, civic activity, and intellectual pursuits. Lucas Jones is an unusual

and exceptionally troubled young man, but we here at Imperial College don’t judge anyone.

Our ethics are Christian of course“.

Another person we spoke to, a young woman who attends The Ladie’s College at The University

of Brisbane said that Lucas Jones was a known “stoner“ amongst the college crowd, but that she

never expected him to be a DRUG DEALER-

“This one time last year right, like me and my girlfriends were hanging in like Z Flat with a few

of the Imperial boys. Texta came out of his room. His eyes were like bloodshot red and he was

talking really slowly. I think he was like STONED...“

Though the Imperial College administration has continued to deny that marijuanna injection

and suppository ingestion of cannabis is prevalent at the institution, questions are still being
 asked from the parents who send their young men to the college. These parents fear that a grow-

ing drug culture is destroying the institution of Imperial College and it’s communitty...“

Indeed. These fucked up and abstract thoughts continue to circulate and spin in my

head until I find them literally impossible to contain any longer. I wander through the

RE in an amped but spacey state. At the top balcony I find Broken, a law student who

came to Imperial College through Somerset College on the Gold Coast. I’m wigging

out by the time I meet Broken. He does law at uni, so I ask him what the potential pit-

falls of selling the ganga are. He says he’ll have a look at it all for me, have a mini judi-

cial inquiry.

Good. Excellent. I drink more jugs of beer that night and a few bourbon and cokes as

well. It works to smooth out the amphetamines. Somehow, I end up with a decent

chick in my bed back at college around 3am. College can be a good place even for

amped up trippers such as myself.

Chapter 21-Punishment All College Style-

THEY have been crowned, in St John's College circles, the Untouchables.

Barely eight months ago, on March 4, the seven men were among 33 students who were suspended
for allegedly being involved in the now infamous ''O'' Week ritual that left a teenage girl close to
death in hospital.

To round off an eventful year, seven of the 33 have now seized all but two positions on next year's
college council, including the top three of president, secretary and treasurer.
Fairfax Media attempted to contact all seven students on Monday but is aware the college executive
has ordered them not to speak to the press.
On Monday, the University of Sydney vice-chancellor, Michael Spence, gave his full support to the
St John's College rector, Michael Bongers, in the scandal over brutish and dangerous behaviour at
the residential college which has sparked a power struggle over its management.

There is still no word about the rumoured push, by the college council, to sack Mr Bongers.
Dr Spence called on the Catholic Archbishop of Sydney, Cardinal George Pell, who is the figure-
head of the college, to ''do all he can to sort out this issue''.

''The college does not report to me or to the university, and the university is not represented on the
college council,'' Dr Spence said.

''The governance of the college rests with the college council, which includes six representatives of
the Catholic Church. I would urge Archbishop Pell to do all he can to sort out this issue.''
The shadow federal treasurer, Joe Hockey, a former Johnsman, said the reported behaviour was
unacceptable and deserving of investigation.

''If there is inappropriate treatment of any person, then it deserves proper investigation and, where
appropriate, it deserves to be properly punished,'' Mr Hockey said.

But wild behaviour was prevalent on campuses around the world, he said. He confirmed initiation
rituals occurred at St John's when he was a student.

''Let's not gild the lily on this sort of stuff,'' he said.

''I think if you open the lid on colleges and campuses and frat houses right around the world … by
the general standard of behaviour, it would be deemed to be pretty lewd and inappropriate.''

In the weeks after the female student was injured by an initiation ritual, Mr Bongers, University of
Sydney officials and Cardinal Pell's office collectively agreed to draft in an impartial adjudicator.
Ken Handley was a recently retired, highly respected judge from the NSW Court of Appeal. After
considering the evidence - and failing to flush out the ringleaders - he ordered the group to com-
plete between five and 20 hours' community service.

Mr Handley believed it might open their eyes and teach them a valuable lesson in humility.
He also felt it would be inappropriate for any of the group to ever hold school council executive
committee posts and he banned them from standing.

Given that the initiation could have ended in tragedy, there were some within the college who felt
the students had escaped proper punishment.

The students, though, felt hard done by and appealed, claiming to have been bullied.

Three months later, a mock court was created comprising two college council members and a for-
mer Federal Court justice, Roger Gyles.

One of the student's mothers represented 32 of the 33 boys. The remaining student arrived with his
own barrister.

Mr Bongers had a barrister - as did the college. Every student provided a statutory declaration,
including the girl who had been hospitalised.

It took several months, but in August Mr Gyles delivered his verdict: while upholding the rector's
original decision to suspend the students, he decided they could not be compelled to do community
service and it would be ''double jeopardy'' to deny them the right to stand for election to the stu-
dents' council.

When handing down his ruling, Mr Gyles must have presumed the students had learnt a valuable
life lesson and, with remorse, would grow up and move on to become model students.
He may have been wrong.

As Fairfax Media revealed on Sunday, they have now renamed themselves the Justice Group.
They have printed T-shirts with the slogan ''Year of Justice'', which features the college's symbol -
an eagle - vomiting.

They have rampaged across campus, leaving faeces in fresher's rooms, and smashing windows and
doors. They also set fire to a college sofa outside the rector's office window.
-Eamon Duff and Caterine Armitage describing the culture at St. John’s College, The University of
Sydney, in The Sydney Morning Herald, November 6, 2012.

On a 'catholic' college: how could it end up like this?

A number of readers have asked me to comment on the bizarre story of St John's College in Sydney.

I have to say I think this is one that pretty much speaks for itself, but as it does keep getting more
and more bizarre, here goes. This peculiar story has been bubbling away all this year in Sydney
over one of Sydney University's (so-called) Catholic residences, St John's College.

The latest installment is that Cardinal Pell has stepped in to prevent the rector of the College being
sacked for attempting to restore order in the place, by getting all of the priest members of the Col-
lege's Council (and there were six of them) to resign. Under the College's constitution, this means
it cannot make any decisions.

A fairly drastic, and unsatisfactory solution you would have to say!

Particularly when the Cardinal has had to ask the Premier of New South Wales to step in to reform
the legislation that underpins the College's operation in order to achieve a real resolution of the
problem.

How did it come to this?

The short version is that, according to reports in the Sydney Morning Herald, the student popula-
tion of the college seem to think they are living in some nineteenth century English boarding school
where second and third year students can terrorize 'freshers' through vile initiation rituals and en-
forcement of other petty rules and practices.

Things came to a head earlier in the year when a young woman nearly died after being allegedly
forced to drink a vile concoction that included things she was severely allergic to by a group of
thirty male louts as part of an 'initiation ritual'.

Attempts to discipline the group were overruled by a cabal of governing Council members (some
did resign in protest. But most were reportedly more concerned about the future careers of the
guilty students than about the safety of first year students); alumni (who have sought to defend the
'traditions' of the college against attempts to reform it); and the parents of the guilty, who took legal
action to prevent their children being required to do community service and being barred from be-
ing office holders in the college.

Then this week it was revealed that not only had those involved escaped punishment, but several of
them had been elected onto next year's internal House Committee that runs the college on a day-to-
day basis. Meanwhile, the college has allegedly descended into anarchy.

Lies

It is hard to understand how this situation could have been allowed to continue, particularly when
the governing council of the college includes six priests!

But the instinct to cover-up and even lie if necessary - whether in relation to child abuse, jockey's
betting against themselves in horse races, doping in sport, or the sleazy politics of New South Wales
being revealed by current corruption hearings - seems to be alive and well.

Indeed, the ABC's Lateline ran a story on the college featuring an interview with a student
who stated that she was a freshman at the college and the claims being made were all untrue. Now
it has been revealed that she was actually a third year student, and a member of the College's
'House Committee'...

There would appear to be nothing 'Catholic' whatsoever about this college. But then, that's true of
most of our so-called Catholic institutions which have long since lost any genuine claim to the title.

A failure of leadership?

At the recent Synod on the New Evangelization, Cardinal Pell lamented the reluctance of bishops to
speak up on issues of morality perhaps out of fear of the message being rejected and the political
consequence thereof.

Well, he surely knows of what he speaks. This, after all, a diocese where 'Acceptance Mass-
es' promoting the homosexual lifestyle have been allowed to continue, and more than a few priests
continue to promote erroneous opinions over at places like acatholica and The Swag.
The Cardinal is, under the Act of the NSW Parliament that governs St John's its 'Visitor', an office
which, on the face of it, has wide powers at law.

It is truly breathtaking that this particular situation has been allowed to continue and he has only
stepped in to act when the story hit the media once again.

The Church in Australia is doomed unless our leaders put their own words into action.

-Kate Edwards in Australia Incognitia (Conservative Australian Catholic blogspot), November 7,

2012.

.....................................

Semester One turns into the 2011 winter holidays in a somewhat fluid and seamless

transition. Time passes with a mechanical rythm. I get sick at some point, with the doc-

tor telling me to probably take it easy on the booze for a while. But the winter holidays,

needed especially at Imperial because of the tensions that always develop when large

amounts of grog, drugs, ego, and testosterone combine, do come right on time. A good

vibe pervades the last night of Semester One 2011, with an all college exchange at the

Chalk Hotel in South Brisbane being marked by a vibe that is notably free of some of

the tensions that typically develop at college through the semester.

I drive back to Northern New South Wales the next day hungover but happy. I spend

my first night back home on the North Coast dropping acid and smoking blunts with a

bunch of my high school mates. YOLO. My winter holidays are enjoyable, but I’m be-

coming increasingly paranoid about selling weed at Imperial College around this point

in time. One day, when I’m buying weed in Lismore, a jagged piece of metal goes

through my front right tyre, flattening it. For a dude, a male, I have no practical or me-

chanical skills whatsoever. I’m therefore forced to wait for my brother and his mate

Tony to change my tyre, wigging out and hoping that the cops don’t catch me with the

two ounces of weed I have just purchased. We change the tyre and drive back to Ash-

tonville. I get stoned to forget about the bullshit.

My 2011 winter holidays are spent smoking, occassionally drinking, and thinking of

ways in which I can get out of selling weed. I eventually decide that I will pass my

business as it were onto some fresher. He can sell the baggies in their 20’s and 50’s, and

I’ll keep scoring the ounces. That way, the supply of weed into Imperial College will

remain more or less constant, but I won’t have a trail of phone texts or Facebook mes-

sages, or people knocking on my door at 3 in the fucking morning because they are

fiending for a late night sesh after a night out on the piss. My plan seems solid and I

think I will be able to successfully carry it out.

My uni holidays in 2011 are generally pretty boring. I go to one party, hosted in a shed

out the back of Lismore. The party bores the fuck out of me. I try to grind a few of the

sluts there, but these Lismore bitches are having none of it. By the end of the winter

holidays, I’m bored, frustrated, and eager to get back to college. Dragon.

I return to Imperial College a week early because I missed an exam due to being sick

during exam block. My exam, The Foundations of Europe, is pretty easy and I’ve had

over a month to prepare for it. I end up getting a High Distinction for the exam and the

subject. Imperial College itself is a pretty droll and boring place when no one is really

there. Me and around twenty other guys are there, so the place is sleepy. The college

staff are slack at this time, and we are served what is essentially microwave lasange at

most meals. Fucking peasant scum, those kitchen cooks.

The night before everyone else arrives back at college it is my mate Reg’s birthday par-

ty, hosted in Annerley in South Brisbane. After being in the sleepy confines of Imperial

College for a number of days, I’m keen to get a bit messy, smoke some bongs, and

drink some alcoholic drinks. Reg’s party is a loose night. I smoke a shit tonne of weed,

drink a shit tonne of booze, and even snort a bit of speed off a kitchen knife. But I’m

only getting warmed up. For next week is Disorientation Week at Imperial College; an

entire week of drinking and parties for those hardcore enough to compete.
Disorientation Week 2011 is a brutal time for my stomach and liver. The week, hosted

in late July, begins with a party hosted by Imperial College’s rival college, St. Antho-

ny’s, on their turf. St. Anthony’s is an interesting college. More budget than Imperial,

the college is really just a collection of gardens and rooms. No swimming pool or Bris-

bane river location like Imperial, the povo motherfuckers. St. Anthony’s hosts a legiti-

mately pumping party, despite the fact that the St. Anthony’s boys are a bunch of in-

bred and ingrate Catholic cunts. Drinks are cheap and cold. I score hook ups and num-

bers from a few skanks on enemy turf. Hell yeah, fight the fucking power Rasta!

The next week is a blur of parties, bitches, and bongs. I attended Disorientation Week

back in 2010, but I was a noob to college and it’s world back then. Therefore, I didn’t

get the whole vibe of college and it’s world back in those days. In retrospect, I never re-

ally got the score or the gist of college for my entire time there. I never really got what

the whole college thing was about or what it represented, whatever it was meant to

represent anyway. In the conservative and torie halls of Australia’s youth, I was al-

ways a confused and clusterfucked alien. And Imperial College was a strongly xeno-

phobic place. But in late July 2011, I thought that I got college. I believed I had the place

and it’s vibe mastered. Positive karma and natural energy flowed and pulsated

through me in July 2011. Semester 2 2011 would be the time I realized how little I actu-

ally understood Imperial College, how far from the mark I had actually been about the

place and what the institution actually was. In Semester 2 2011, I would Chase the

Dragon with reckless abadon before arse fucking “the dream“ of college and going

through some hectic withdrawls and angst filled realizations on the actual shape of

things at Imperial. Semester 2 2011 is unquestionably the story of how I fell out of love

with the Dragon and Imperial College.

The first event driving my fall from grace happens on my first night back at college, af-

ter the party at St. Anthony’s College. Essentially, what happened was a dispute be-

tween Rockhampton boy Wilson Jr, the younger brother of the wild Rockhampton son
of millionares Wilson, and Sauce, a strongly egocentric Brisbane Grammar boy who

was a star rower and rugby player at Imperial College. The dispute apparently had it’s

origins shortly after the conclusion of the St. Anthony’s party. Wilson Jr. Was pissed as

shit after the party at St. Anthony’s. As Wilson Jr was drunk as a cunt, he needed to

take a piss. There apparently weren’t many places to piss where Wilson Jr was, namely

the Ladie’s College carpark, so he proceeded to piss on a bright blue Totota Yaris

parked in said carpark. Unfortunately for Wilson Jr, that car belonged to a Faith Col-

lege girl who was hanging in the nearby vicinity. Oh no.

Even more unfortunetely for Wilson Jr, the said Faith College girl was chatting to

Sauce. Sauce was known around Imperial College, an exceptionally egocentric and tes-

tosterone driven institution, as an exceptionally egocentric and testosterone driven

human being. Everyone knew stories about Sauce. Though a third year, Sauce was

known as “Fresher Sauce“ around Imperial College for a supposedly consistent pattern

of bad behaviour and general bastardry. For the most part, I hadn’t really encountered

Sauce before Semester 2 2011. I had more or less steered clear of him, hearing of his

reputation, and he more or less hadn’t really noticed me at college.

What I did know of Sauce was that he was an exceptionally violent and ego driven

drunk. Sauce was a Residential Assistant at Imperial College in 2011. There was a sto-

ry, circulated in early 2011, about his actions while RA. These actions occurred during

the “Flat Party“ of B Flat. Flat parties were a feature of life at Imperial College. Each

residential flat at Imperial College had a yearly “Flat Party“ wherein the Imperial Col-

lege administration gave money to each residential area of the college on the condition

that the funds provided were not directly spent on alcohol. Usually that money was

funelled into things related directly to the consumption of alcohol; party ice, mixer

drinks, and snacks designed to absorb booze. Flat parties at Imperial College were

usually reasonably fun but also relitavely stock standard affairs. At the flat party run

and administered by Sauce the Residential Assistant, Sauce himself got extremely

drunk. He got so drunk that he vommitted all along the college hallway of B Flat.
How Sauce responded to this situation was through a command that combined ego,

sociopathic impulse, and psychopathic impulse in a deadly and brutal cocktail. Sauce

responded to his own gag reflex situation by ordering all freshers in his flat to drink

until they threw up. College can be a weird place. Commands are given often, and

more or less they are usually followed without questions as to their legitimacy. Essen-

tially, those who will seek to command or order you at college are human beings of the

same basic flesh and muscle as yourself. They do not have many more capabilities or

abilities then those they hold influence and power over, if any. Yet, in the strange and

preppy world that defines college, an aura of mysticism exists around those holding

commanding positions such as those of Residential Assistant or college student club

executive. Strange and unusual commands and orders are followed, often without

much question, because people hold arbitrary and largely inflated positions of authori-

ty. An intrinsic respect for command and authority at college is concurrent to an intrin-

sic and arbitrary respect that is meant to be paid to the institution of college itself. Con-

sequentely, when Sauce told ten freshers in B Flat to drink until they vommitted, all ten

of the freshers obeyed his strange and nonsensical command.

Ten eighteen year old kids could easily overpower someone telling them what to do,

especially something as dumb as drinking until spew is induced. They could say “no

cunt, why?“, they could simply refuse, and if worse came to worse, they could beat the

living shit out of their self appointed commander and leave his bloodied corpse in the

hallway for the college cleaners to dispose of the next day. The young freshers could

have done any of these things. But the fact is none of the B Flat freshers questioned

Sauce’s command. Every fresher in B Flat drank goon wine until they vommitted eve-

rywhere and the entire hall of B Flat smelled of a fetid mix of cheap wine, stomach ac-

id, carrots, and chicken. Sauce’s commands were followed because he was a college

commander-man and if you question the general you will be up for an intense round

of corporal punishment, faggot.

Sauce was a dangerous and volatile motherfucker at the best of times. With a head full

of booze, he was entirely something else. To boot, Sauce was not some little scrawny

kid with a fondness for scrapping. He was a muscular motherfucker with roid shot

arms. He needed to be a fit mofo for his rugby and his rowing and his ego. But back to

what happened the night after the party at St. Anthony’s anyway. Wilson Jr. Was piss-

ing, pissing happily away all over the blue Toyota Yaris. It was then that the Faith Col-

lege girl noticed Wilson Jr. Giving her car a golden shower. So she was all like-

“Hey, hey dude. Like totally don’t piss on my car hey“.

And then Sauce was all like “NO! NO! I’LL SHOW THAT STUPID LITTLE FRESHER

CUNT! JUST FUCKING WATCH ME!“

Then Sauce walked over to Wilson Jr, punched him while he was still mid piss, then

grabbed him again and threw him down on the concrete, breaking his arm. Everyone

was all like “Woah Sauce, why did you do that man, wasn’t that like a little bit of an

overreaction“. And Sauce was all like “Nah, like totally not, COZ I AM THE FUCKING

BEST!“

People were all like “You better watch out Sauce because there could be, like, repercus-

sions“. And there were repercussions that night for Sauce. Well nearly, well kind of.

Wilson Jr, in my opinion, was a fundamentally good kid. He was a wild Rockhampton

kid. He liked guns, weed, and dirtbikes. Wilson Jr liked the odd snort of a bit of coke.

Like all kids at college, he had a capitalist mentality and mindset. Fucking over people

on the odd and off chance therefore wasn’t foreign to him, nor was it foreign to anyone

at college really. But Wilson Jr was a good dude fundamentally. And pissing on a car

was no reason to have your arm broken.

I smoked weed with Wilson Jr and his mates on the Imperial College jetty on many oc-

cassions. They were all good kinds of kids. Not nessecarily the kids that adapted or
blended into college that easily, but good guys at the core nonetheless. Word goes

round amongst Wilson’s mates of what has just happened between Sauce and Wilson

Jr around 12.30am. Everyone begins texting. There is a fucking furious mood in the air

that cold July night. Sauce was a prick to do what he did to Wilson Jr. We want to lo-

cate Sauce, track him down, and hopefully gang bash the living crap out of the mother-

fucker.

Around 1am, we get a call saying that Sauce has been located at Mr. Deno’s Kebab

Shop. We all begin to roll up to Mr. Deno’s, around six deep. We pick up another five

guys out the front of Mr. Deno’s who want to flog the shit out of Sauce. He has made a

lot of enemies at Imperial because of his behaviour. I’m high as a kite on booze, testos-

terone, and adrenaline as we all stride up to Mr. Deno’s baying for blood. On the way

up to Mr. Deno’s, I encounter one chick who I could have possibly rooted last semester.

I fucked it up with her though because I was too college and she was too Indie. Such is

life. As we storm past her I’m like-

“SAUCE IS GOING TO HAVE THE CRAP BASHED OUT OF HIM!“

She responds by saying “I don’t care“.

Whatever, you stupid indie whore. We stride into Mr. Deno’s Kebab Shop. Sauce is

there, talking to some tasty babes. We all surround him and he looks furiously at us all.

“YOU ARE FUCKING DEAD CUNT!“ yells one of the boys who has come to smash

Sauce’s face in.

Sauce shoots a furious look back “FOR WHAT YOU FRESHER SHIT CUNTS! KNOW

YOUR PLACE IN COLLEGE!“

“FUCK OUR PLACE IN COLLEGE“ replies one of the guys “WHY THE FUCK DID

YOU BREAK WILSON’S ARM?!“

“THE CUNT DESERVED IT, HE WAS PISSING ALL OVER FLOWER’S CAR!“

This heated exchange continues for around twenty or so minutes in the kebab shop. It’s

a tense stand off. Sauce continues to attempt to assert his authority throughout the

twenty minutes, but he fails miserably. An idea such as the authority of a college RA

loses all it’s traction when you have a head full of alcohol and you are pissed off at an

egotistical motherfucker like Sauce for breaking a dude’s arm. Fuck Sauce and his bull-

shit.

Eventually, things calm down in Mr. Deno’s. A bunch of Sauce’s chick mates convince

us not to smash his face in and dump his carcass in the vacant lot behind the kebab

store. That would have been fun but oh well. Cool heads prevail and we all decide to

go back to Imperial, smoke some bongs, and calm down. Sauce will probably get pun-

ished by the college administration for what he did anyway. Natural justice and the

natural goodness of the karmic order should dictate that this will be so. So me and the

boys smoke billies and let the testosterone level out, comfortable in the knowledge that

Sauce will recieve his punishment without us having to use fists.

Sauce never recieves any punishment for throwing Wilson Jr down to the concrete and

breaking his arm. Nobody really knows why. It’s unjust, it’s bullshit, but no one can do

shit about it. Maybe Sauce never recieved administrative karma because he was rowing

captain and a star rugby player. Maybe it was because Sauce went to Brisbane Gram-

mar, a wealthy GPS school that the Imperial College administration felt that they need-

ed to impress and psychologically wank off. Perhaps it was because Sauce was from a

wealthy family, with important connections to the mining industry in Queensland, a

family whom Imperial College thought it was important to have within their commu-
nitty. It was probably all of these things. But the fact is that Sauce never recieved pun-

ishment for smashing in the bones of Wilson Jr’s arm that cold night in July.

When I smoked weed at Imperial College on April the 20th 2010 I was suspended from

the college for two weeks. Kids found with bongs in their room at my time at Imperial

recieved roughly similar punishments. When I was found smoking weed at Imperial, I

copped my punishment on the chin. I left for two weeks and even felt a bit perversly

guilty for the fact that I had let Satan’s smoke enter my lungs. The Imperial College

administration was arguably justified in suspending me. But the incident with Sauce in

July 2011 flipped up my whole perspective on that.

People can say what they will about smoking weed. Stoners can be insular, reclusive,

and outright obnoxious at times. But whatever the flaws or negatives of burning and

inhaling naturally occuring plants, no one can ever tell me that getting stoned is worse

than violence. Ganga smokers universally only really ever harm themsleves when they

light some green and begin to get giggly. Punching people and breaking their arms is a

whole other matter. By every single definition, that violent action is harm and damage

directed at another human being.

The fact that I was suspended for two weeks from Imperial for smoking weed reveals

one or two important things about the nature of the institution as it existed in 2010 to

2011. One-Imperial College and it’s administrators viewed the consumption of canna-

bis as somehow worse then drunken violence. Weed is for tripped out and useless hip-

pie cunts but violence is acceptable because boys will be boys and, you know, boys do

punch on after all. Ay, the lads! Fact number two was one just as daunting to confront

for me. If you were a public school kid such as myself and got caught breaking the

rules at Imperial, you would be punished in a way that ensured you were a vicious

and prominent example to others. But if, like Sauce, you went to an elite private school

such as Brisbane Grammar, could play rugby and row, and had the right connections
amongst Brisbane‘ s wealthy mining families, everything would be all g. You and your

family were very important to Imperial College after all.

In terms of punishments recieved for crimes, Australian law does not see marijuanna

as worse then violence. Weed smokers typically recieve a few short drug diversion ses-

sions as their sanction getting caught with weed, a pipe, or a bong. These sessions

don’t even have compulsory requirments to quit smoking the greenery, no post session

drug testing or anything. One of my high school friends got caught with weed once

and had to go to one of those drug diversion sessions. At it’s conclusion, he told the

drug diversion lady straight up that he was going to keep smoking ganga and that her

attempts to convince him otherwise had achieved nothing. Drunken violence, mean-

while, is considered a serious crime in Australia. If convicted of a serious drunken as-

sault in Australia, such as breaking someone’s arm, the offender will probably go to

prison.

In the real Australian world, I would have recieved a one hour drug diversion session

for getting caught smoking weed in public. Sauce probably would have gone to prison

for breaking someone’s arm in a self righteous drunken rage. The last time someone

recieved a harsher punishment for marijuanna then violence in Australia was probably

the year 1951. But college was a wierd place in 2010 to 2011 and is probably still a

wierd place in the present. In terms of mentality, Imperial College as an institution

struggles with the year 2011 and probably wishes that this was still a happy time like

1951, when Australia was still a great place defined by the great Sir Robert Menzies,

fish and chips, and lawnmowers. A time when all THESE DRUGS were not around.

The conservative mentality fucked me up something righteous at Imperial. Druggies

were considered worse then a few good old lads just being boys and throwing the odd

punch or two, or breaking the odd arm or two, at Imperial College. Apart from all this,

I did not have the connections and wealth that Sauce had. Sauce was a Brisbane Gram-

mar rugby and rowing boy and I was a mere public school peasant. Consequentely, I

got suspened from Imperial College for two weeks in 2010 for smoking weed and
Sauce recieved absoloutely no punishment at all in 2011 for breaking a guy’s arm. Such

is life.

Chapter 22-Bros Are Fucking Competitive As Shit-

Bros are fucking competitive as shit. We want to bang the hottest girl at school, to have the rich-

est parents, and we want to be the guy who gets wasted more than any other motherfucker out

there. For most of our competitive events, we have a way to judge who wins and who’s the fuck-

ing loser. Since Bros are by far the smartest people on the fucking planet, we’ve been able to

generate a way to measure the unmeasurable. By having a high tolerance, not only do Bros get

Slam Pieces wet as shit, but they prove to their fellow Bros just how fucking awesome they are.

Stay thirsty, my Bros.

The Bros Like This Site, April 12, 2012.

College is a place where a lot of out there stuff happens generally. The Sauce incident

in my first night back for semester 2 2011 was only a minor part of my first week back

at Imperial. Amongst the constantly active and happening culture that is college, inci-

dents such as violent assault fall into relative insignificance compared to all the other

shit that is just going on and happening.

Despite Wilson’s arm getting broken, it was still Disoreintation Week. And I had inten-

tions to drink every night of Disorientation Week. SFL, So Fucking Loose. There were

numerous college exchanges during Disorientation Week, all of which I attended but

none of which I quite remembered. What I do remember is flashes of that week. Get-

ting digits from bitches, drinking heavily, getting laid twice (playa), and smoking

bongs with the boys on the Imperial College jetty after most college exchange events.

There were also more violent occurences. A swirling brawl between Imperial College

and Immanuel College boys outside of the Magic City Nightclub in Fortitude Valley,
another punch on that occurred outside of the Friday’s nightclub, and of course Sauce’s

crazy testosterone filled rage fest on the first night. One night a bunch of freshers from

Wilson Jr’s crew came to buy some weed off me while I was smoking bongs with Pres-

ident Clarinet and his mates. But when the guys came to buy the greenery, Clarinet be-

gan mocking them and throwing shoes at them, kind of like that Iraqi reporter who

chucked his shoes at US President George W. Bush and then got jail time in Iraq for it.

The important difference here, however, was that President Clarinet was the powerful

and those two freshers were the weak, a complete role reversal of the Iraqi reporter-

President George W. Bush situation. I led the freshers outside the loungeroom in Rog-

erson where I had been smoking bongs and sold them their bag of bud on the stairwell.

Bad blood and bad vibes were developing between the various crews I associatted with

in Imperial in 2011. It was a swirling sea of bad karma and I was about to get caught in

the middle of the whole shitstorm. I just didn’t realize it yet.

But Disorientation Week was a great week despite all the bullcrap. I felt like a fantastic

mad cunt after that week of drinking. My shit also turned into black liquid corrosion

that burned my ring as it flowed out of my body but, you know, YOLO. The final event

of Disorientation Week was the Imperial College and Ladie’s College “golf day“ pub

crawl on the last Saturday of July 2011. This event involved drinking at ten different

pubs across the Brisbane CBD. Everyone was dressed in preppy gear such as polo

shirts, golf caps, and jumpers slung over their back like a cape on that day. The dress

code was a simultaneous mockery and assertion of upper class pretensions. All the

boys began drinking around 11am, and everyone had a solid alcoholic buzz going on

by the time we departed for the golf day pub crawl around 12pm.

Golf Day beckoned a lot of old faces who hadn’t been around Imperial for a while re-

turning for a day of drinking with the boys. The ex-Imperial guys who have decided to

show up to the Golf Day are real old boy kind of characters, guys who love Imperial

and what it’s about. As we are waiting for the 412 bus into Brisbane city, they sip beer
and talk shit about whoever they didn’t like, relate to, or get on with when they were

living at Imperial. Classic old boys.

The 412 arrives and the Imperial boys board it for the ride into Brisbane city. In total,

the ride into Brisbane takes around forty minutes, the boys yelling, shouting, and hoo

rooing all the way. We arrive in Brisbane city fifty strong and begin drinking at the first

bar. As we are drinking at the first bar, Irish Murphy’s in Queen Street Mall, I am

awkwardly seated at a table next to Sauce. Naturally and if not driven to it, I do not

consider myself to be a person who cooks the beef, one to hold or ferment hatreds and

conflicts. My natural inclination, if left in a state of nature, is to seek reconciliation. I

therefore say to Sauce-

“Hey sorry about that shit on Sunday night. I was pissed as shit“.

Sauce replies “It’s all good, just some drunk shit anyway“.

In retrospect, I should not have apologized to Sauce. I should not have tried to seek

reconciliation of any form. Sauce was, and probably still is, pure unadulterated cunt.

Conservative males are a typically vindictive and unforgiving species of human being.

I know this from my experiences living and thinking like a conservative dude. But I

had a naivety about the torie mentality at the time. I did believe that, if I apologized, all

would somehow be well with the universe. What I did not count on was that Sauce

was a vindictive motherfucker with a long memory ala. Tony Abbott. He would not

forget that I had slighted him or challenged his position as RA with a threat of aggress-

sion. But he would be fucking damned if he was going to surrender that particular lit-

tle parcel of information to me. I was right to threaten Sauce with aggression and gang

bashing that Sunday night in July. I would still be right if I forced a battle axe through

the skull of that retrograde private school boy cunt then fed his bleeding corpse to a

pack of feral pigs. I say this proudly and without mercy in my present mindset. Or

maybe, as Mahatma Gahndi once said, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.
The truth is I have no fucking idea how I would respond to Sauce and his ilk if placed

in their presence these days.

Murder fantasies aside, I thought that the beef had been squashed that Saturday and

that the cooking process had been averted. So I continued to drink with the Imperial

boys as we bounced onwards to new locations. After Irish Murphy’s, all the boys be-

gan striding down the sunny streets of Queen Street Mall. At the end of Queen Street

Mall, there was a funny encounter that was small and insignificant in many ways, but

said a lot about the Imperial College attitude. Some emo dude was chilling with his

girlfriend, sitting on the pavements of the pedestrian mall. He had a gangsta cap on,

some form of baseball cap. A fresher, a young roid freak from Anglican Church

Grammar, grabs the emo dude’s cap straight of his head and begins mockingly wear-

ing it. All the Imperial College boys laugh in appreciation of just how hilarious the

whole incident is. The young emo dude gets up and tries to staunch the cap back, but is

probably aware that he can’t do jack in the presence of fifty or so roided up and pissy

drunk young jocks. The Anglican Church Grammar boy then grabs the cap and throws

it into the gutter by the edge of the Queen Street Mall. A chorus of laughter sounds

from the fifty or so Imperial College boys in the street as the emo dude and his girl-

friend are left absoloutely dumbstruck.

As we walk onwards and the emo bloke and his lady friend look in bewilderment at

us, I make a somewhat philosophical and reflective statement on the nature of the

whole incident that just occured “Are we the shit cunts? Yes we must be the shit

cunts“ I say, laughing a bit at the whole irony of the fact that the shittest cunts are the

ones with the most money and who have a significant share of power in the world.

“No Texta“ replies Fatso, the Sunny Coast dude who I met on my very day of college

“You are the shit cunt, the shittest cunt I know“.

I brush it off psychologically. Fatso is probably jealous that he still remains fat and that

I have lost weight over the last year and a half. Fuck him, the shit cunt. And what is a

“shit cunt“ anyway? Maybe our definitions of shit cunts are personal. Perhaps there is

no universal definition of the phenomonon of the “shit cunt“.

Philosophy aside, the boys of Imperial and the women of Ladie’s College continue

drinking throughout the day.We get drunker and drunker, bouncing from location to

location. Eventually we end up rolling drunk at some bar in that weird transition zone

and dead space between Brisbane City and Fortitude Valley. I’m not really feeling the

vibe anymore. I’ve drunk too much booze through the whole week, through the course

of my seven night drinking bender, and it feels like a metric tonne of lead is in my

stomach. Fortunately for me, President Clarinet is maggot too and wants to quit the

bar. We both decide to leave together. Clarinet and I grab some Subway from a filthy

and unkept Subway store down the street. I ate Subway so much, so drunk, and so

hungover at college that I can’t walk into a Subway without wretching and supressing

my gag reflex a bit these days. Word.

After Subway, President Clarinet and I catch a cab back to Imperial College. Clarinet is

positively legless drunk by the time we are back at Imperial. So drunk that I need to

carry him through the gates of Imperial, through the back carpark, and into the Rog-

erson Building. As we walk through to Rogerson, I encounter Wharfie, a stoner-hipster

fresher from the Sunshine Coast north of Brisbane. Wharfie notices me and says “Hey

Texta, keen for some bongs?“

“Maybe later bro“ I reply.

As I carry Clarinet further down the path I ask him something that in retrospect seems

like a forlorn and stupid pipe dream in retrospect-”Hey Clarinet do you reckon I’d

have a chance at being Imperial pres?“

Lucas Jones 2011 you are a stupid cunt.

Clarinet replies “Only third years can run for exec bro“.

My enquiries go further. For I am an academic and a politician.

“What about exec?“

Clarinet replies “Yeah I’d reckon you’d make a good exec“.

I walk Clarinet to his room in Rogerson.

“You are a good cunt Texta. Remember that“ says Clarinet before he goes to pass out.

Well maybe I am not a shit cunt after all. Maybe I am a good cunt. Maybe people can be

good cunts and shit cunts simultaneously. Good cunts in the eyes of some human beings

and shit cunts in the eyes of other people. Maybe every individual human being has the

capacity to be a good cunt and/or a shit cunt all at once.

After I leave Clarinet, I get called up a floor of Rogerson. Principal, Imperial College’s

resident American frat boy, then calls me up to the top dec. He and two other exec

guys want to get stoned. He asks me to bring my weed and my bong. I oblige. I head

back to my room in the Centennary Building and grab my backpack containing my

weed and my billie. Then I walk back to Rogerson.

We all begin lighting bongs and passing the billy. We are all drunk as shit so it dosen’t

take very long to get to planet Mars. Once we hit lift off though, all the other guys

around me start getting strange, snide, and seemingly bitchy. They start talking crap

about how Slash, the surfer dude I know from Byron Bay and who lived in Z Flat with

me back in first year, dosen’t do as well as he could possibly do with the chix. It may
be the weed creating unnessecary paranoia, but I sense their bitching about Slash is a

covert dig at me.

The exec guys move on from bitching about Slash and start having a bitch about this

Imperial guy and that Imperial dude. After a while, they decide to call it quits and go

to McDonald’s, getting a lift from one of their girlfriends. I’m left alone on the exec bal-

cony. I silently pack up my weed and my bong and head back to my room in the Cen-

tennary Building. There, I pass out and officially finish the seven days of drinking that

constitute as Imperial College Disorientation Week.

The next day I wake up feeling as sick as syphillis. My shit has turned into pure and

burning liquid corrosion. It rots my anus as it shoots out of my arse like a burst water

main. I have a mate’s twentieth birthday that night. Literally, I cannot handle another

alcoholic drink that night. So I end up getting really stoned instead. A bit boisterous

(lol) from the piss and weed, me and my high school mates break into Indooropilly

State School. We find some hay bales on the school oval, left over from some school fair

or another. We take the hay bails and dump them into the olympic swimming pool

possessed by the Indooropilly State School. YOLO.

Life cruises and transitions by as normal at Imperial College for the next few weeks.

The same progression of parties, bitches, and college events. My brother comes to stay

at Imperial College and go out in Brisbane for the night of his birthday. We get pretty

maggot and I grind some Asian sluts on the dancefloor of the Stock Exchange hotel in

Brisbane City . I get some nasty arse hickies while my brother fingers two sluts on the

dancefloor. What a little champion. We spend the next day chilling and watching

Breaking Bad in my college room.

It’s mid-August when my college deck of cards begins it’s slow but inevitable implo-

sion. By the end of this crash I will only have one card left to play-the joker. Shit really

gets vicious and out of all control in my final few months of college. But the end of my
college life started the way everything at college did really-drinking and trying to get

laid.

It was mid-August and I was still loving the college life. The University of Brisbane

colleges had arranged an “all college exchange“ at the Magic City Nightclub in Forti-

tude Valley that week. It was a loose party and a good night. I got to talking to some

rich American sorority chick. She was a real babe, blonde and fit. Someone who it

would be good to have on your arm at college for status purposes. After about an hour

of chatting, she seems keen to go back with me to Imperial College. Wicked.

We both walk out front of Magic City, and attempt to get a cab. I look around to see

who from Imperial College may be keen to share a cab. But “the boys“ are having none

of it. The tough man, conservative country lads are the most vicious in their responses.

“Fuck off Texta“.

“Piss off“.

“Get fucked Texta“.

Get fucked indeed. Well that’s what I am trying to do right now, you cock blocking

pricks. Eventually, Wharfie the Sunny Coast stoner-hipster fresher stumbles out of

Magic City in a blind drunk semi-trance. Wharfie was my mate back then. He was no

aggressive country lad. Consequentely, he agrees to share a cab with me and the hot

American sorority slut.

We all share the cab back to Imperial College, paying around five bucks each. Wharfie

asks if I want a bong. I tell him maybe later. I go back to my room in Imperial College.

Me and the American sorority slut fuck. She is a beautiful specimen, someone who you

could really parade around and get mad props from your boys because of her looks
and her sweg. I might even ask her to Imperial College Ball this year. She is sufficent

for Lucas Texta Jones.

I bid farewell to the American sorority slut around an hour later. When I return to the

Centenary Building, a bunch of dudes are chopping a bowl of weed. Wharfie is

sprawled all over the couches of the common area, out of it beyond all imagination and

recognition. He can’t even put two words together. Seeing the dudes chopping up, I

decide that I want to get stoned as well. I grab some of the weed from the ounce bag in

my room and mix it with the chop already in the bowl. We all go and smoke cones on

the Imperial College rowing jetty. The water glimmers from the light of the buildings

across the river. What a beatiful fucking night. I feel all kinds of high that night. It’s like

I’ve finally reached the Dragon-that perfect and excellent high that college always

promised. I feel like this Dragon, whatever it means, is something I can live with and

get used to.

Little do I know, an almost silent momentum is about to slay that fucking Dragon

within me. A word said here, a small argument had there. These are the seemingly mi-

nor things that will destroy me-they will institute and begin an epic process of soul-

burn that will crush Lucas Texta Jones, whoever that person was, and kill my college

persona finally and definitively. A psychological death by one thousand cuts, not dis-

similar to the ancient Chinese torture method, will be my fate and final destination at

Imperial College.

This process of a slow death of the ego and soul begins two nights later, at another col-

lege exchange. This college exchange is at the Normanby pub in Kelvin Grove. I attend

the Normanby fairly frequently these days. I have many memories of the place, some

of them positive and some of them not. My most positive memory of the Normanby

was in 2013, when I snorted my first line of cocaine with Ned in the disabled bath-

rooms of the establishment. My least positive memory of the Normanby was a ubiqui-
tous college exchange at the establishment in 2011. I love cocaine and, in retrospect, I

fucking hate college.

Maybe hate is a strong word. It is stupid to hate anything you have a true and proper

understanding of. All hate is, in the end, a basic lack of understanding something. I

mean, they always have those History Channel documentaries on Hitler and the Nazis

saying that those guys were pure evil. Hitler and Co were all born evil and destined to

be evil and fucked up human beings. Well, not really. No one and nothing is pure evil.

No one is born evil or divinely destined to commit great acts of villiany. Our “evil“ ac-

tions as individual humans are, in the end, products of an evil and messed up world.

Adolf Hitler, age two, did not simply think one day “Yes, one day I will grow up to kill

six million Jews because I hate those cunts“. Rather, he was the product of a fucked up

world that messed and fucked with his psyche until he became a being of pure hate.

Hitler was a hateful monster, but he was the product of a hateful and messed up

world. Knowing the nature of hate, of how it develops and manifests in human beings,

it becomes impossible to hate anything. Hitler, Margaret Thatcher, the Westboro Bap-

tist Church, and the US Republican Party all have reasons as to why they promote or

promoted hate. If you can understand the processes that fuelled the hatreds of these

various individuals and organizations, it becomes literally impossible to hate them of

themself. All haters are, in the end, a product of hatred and evil done to them.

I once hated college and it’s world for a solid year, the year after I left college. I smoked

a lot of hydroponic marijuanna and snorted a lot of speed that year just to feel normal,

to feel functional. This was because, at it’s depth, I didn’t understand college. Nothing

in the world made sense anymore. I was fucked up by every single definition and

couldn’t have got laid that year if my life depended on it. Everything, including my-

self, felt broken and messed up. I don’t hate college anymore. But I don’t think I could

ever bring myself to like college or the college scene ever again. I don’t think I could ev-

er be an old boy type character laughing it up at the Tattersals Club in Brisbane about
just how loose those wild times in college indeed were. I’m completely psychologically

and physically incapable of reliving the glories of a shattered and long dead past.

And that glorious past that I had been promised as a part of a distinguished future as

an Imperial College old boy began to shatter on that fateful night at the Normanby in

late August 2011. The night started out reliatvely unremarkably. I hadn’t actually in-

tended to go out. I had assignments to do and I wasn’t really feeling up to a night on

the piss anyway. Through the early part of the night, around 6 to 7 pm, Imperial boys

kept swinging by my room to buy bags of weed. Most of them asked me if I was going

out that night. No, nah, no bro were my answers the first few times. But eventually I

decided fuck it, YOLO. I was going to go out. I grabbed a Heineken from my bar fridge

and began preparing for the night.

By the time I got to the Normanby I had a solid alcoholic glow going on. I was four

drinks deep and feeling generally good. Early into the night, that all flipped. I was

drinking with Davo, an Imperial dude from deep up in the Northern Territory, and his

mates. Those guys were my most regular customers when I was selling ganga. They

were committed stoners at the time like I was. They also had the same taste in gangsta

rap I did. But over the course of Semester Two 2011, I had started acting like a real nob,

a real power hungry wanker. Throughout high school, I had viewed success in terms of

trophies, awards, and certificates of official recognition. I was a model student in high

school, and these things all seemed to come pretty easily to me. Back in high school I

had been a star debater and public speaker. I had a shit tonne of extra-curriculars. I

was a sporting house vice captain even though I played no sports. I was proud of all of

this but these days I consider myself a wanky dickhead for the fact that I was ever

proud of any of it.

When I first came to Imperial College, I was still proud and self assured of the fact I

was a model student kind of character. College threw that all on it’s head for me. Eve-

rywhere at college where I tried to attain any form of official recognition or success, the
doors seemed closed. You want to be on the debating team? Fuck you, you public

school peasant. You want to be the speaker for that speaking competition the colleges

host? Fuck off you pleb. You want to be editor of the college magazine? Well we are

giving it to you, because no one else applied. Better be proud and happy with that you

impoverished cunt.

My model student persona slowly disintegrated and vanished at Imperial College. In-

stead, I decided to become a weed smoking swaglord champion because YOLO. But

the spirit of competition, of wanting to be the best, remained within me. I had read

Machiavelli. I was going to be a fucking prince. Plot, scheme, undermine, fight like a

fucking gutter rat, show no mercy and victory can and will be yours. Early into semes-

ter two, I decided I was going to run for official roles of recognition at Imperial Col-

lege. The Imperial College exec and Residential Assistant positions seemed like the

things I should aspire to. These positions would fulfill me, give me the power and glo-

ry I so desired. Plus I could change a few things around at Imperial College, maybe see

that it became a better place for the young trippers round the place. There were a lot of

judgemental torie motherfuckers at Imperial College and I wanted to rock the boat just

a little bit.

My problem was the fact that when I get into anything, I get into it with an intensity

that is almost inexpicable. Or at least I did so in the past. Marijuanna, college, the Aus-

tralian Labour Party, liberalism, LSD, and Warhammer collectible models are just some

of the things I have been into at various times with an almost obsessive passion. As

such, I have become somewhat disillussioned with almost everything I have ever en-

joyed. Nothing is great anymore. Everything simply just seems to exist.

The Imperial College exec, and attempting to get on it, was like that for me. A strange,

all consuming, and all engrossing obsession. To this day, I cannot truly explain why I

became obsessed with that pathetic status and ego boost. Maybe it was because I truly

loved Imperial College at the time, or had convinced myself I did. Maybe it was be-
 cause I wanted to prove to all the cunts who had ever doubted me at high school, or at

any other point in my life, that I could be or become something. Perhaps it was because

I did believe I could truly make Imperial College a better place, improve it for all the

strange kids like myself. Perhaps I wanted to show up all the preppy private schooled

motherfuckers up and beat them at their own game. In actuality, I will never know

why I pursued such a petty and pathetic thing with such reckless and ruthless abadon.

The fact is my forever doomed quest to be an Imperial College RA or exec made me

look like a fucking dick and probably fucked up every worthwhile friendship I ever

made at Imperial College. Such is life. I am an obsessive personality and, as such, I just

couldn’t shut the fuck up about running for Imperial College exec in semester two,

2011. And Davo and his boys were probably jack of it that night at the Normanby. Da-

vo and his friends were kids who had been in the private school system, but were not

it’s success stories. That’s why they smoked weed at Imperial, got pissy drunk, smoked

durries wherever they wanted to, and never seemed to give a shit about the reputation

and prestiege of the glorious institution of Imperial College. So, on that night, when I

opened my stupid fucking mouth about running for exec once again, I think Davo felt

compelled to respond-

“Texta, stop bothering with it. Your not a bad dude, but you aren’t the kind of guy

who’ll get on exec. And that’s not a bad thing. You just don’t have that killer instinct“.

Whoa buddy, fuck you. I’m a fucking top of the world, invincible mad cunt. Of course I

can be an Imperial College exec. I’ll show you that killer instinct you fuckhead. I

grabbed some ice cubes and toss them at Davo. Understandably, Davo isn’t pleased.

“Do that to me again, and I’ll flog you you dickhead“ he says.

Fuck you, you dickhead, I think to myself. Who’s Davo trying to tell me I can’t do

something? I can do whatever the fuck I want. I’m Lucas Texta Fucking Jones you
prick. You wait. I’ll be the Emperor of this fucking institution before long. I storm off

and try to find a chick to stick my dick into. Fuck Davo and his mates.

I’m aimless that night, after that shit with Davo and his boys. Aimlessness defines the

next two years of my life arguably. The slow implosion of me. I drift around and have

idle conversations with a few of the Imperial boys. President Clarinet and Social Minis-

ter Principal have brief chats with me, but I’m feeling vacant. My mind is a bit gone to

be honest. Eventually, I find some chunky chick. Not fat, but chunky. She has nice tits,

so whatever. She touches my dick and I begin hooking up with her. Playa.

I’m on the look to just get fucking laid that night. I find two other chicks at various

points of the night on the dancefloor. They are both good lookers. I hook up with both

of them. In the end though, I just go with the easy option, that chunky chick. I agree to

share a cab back with her to Thomas Hobbes College, where she stays. Like most col-

lege girls, she is a keen slut after a few drinks. She lifts her shirt in the cab and I begin

feeling her tits in full view of the taxi driver.

I’m feeling keen as fuck for a good old fuck. But shit goes bad when I get back to her

room. My mind is elsewhere. On that beef with Davo and his mates earlier, on thinking

about becoming an Imperial College exec. I can’t focus on the sex. My dick flops

around like a worm in the mud. She tries jacking me off. She tries sucking my dick. But

nothing works. I am dead and I am flacid. In the end, I don’t root her.

The next day, I get up and leave her room. I tell her I will call her again. She used to

root Fatso and I am keen to fuck her for a bit to get revenge on Fatso for calling me a

shit cunt. I don’t end up calling her again though. There is a strange sensation within

me as I walk back to Imperial College that morning. Everything looks strange. The

trees, the cars, the buildings, the sky, everything. Nothing seems normal. I got drunk

last night and went home with a woman, even if she was a bit chubby. I should feel

happy, or at least I should feel contented. But I don’t. An indescribable sadness fills me.
It’s a feeling I don’t kick that day, or that week. I don’t get over the strange sense of

emptiness that year or even the next year. In my idle hours, when I first awake in the

morning and when I am about to fall asleep, it can still come back and take me over.

But I’ll be fucked if I let anyone know I’m feeling that way. I need to show everyone

that I am not a weak cunt, no regrets and no apologies ever. I’m a fucking real man,

man.

Chapter 23-I’m a Cowboy-

I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride,

I’m wanted, dead or alive.

-Bon Jovi, Dead or Alive, 1986.

One golden rule of life is to never fuck with a cowboy unless you can well and truly

kill that motherfucker dead. In the past, in the days of the Australian Wild West in the

1850’s, cowboys would pull a six shooter on you and shoot you down if you gave them

lip. It didn’t matter how much “chat“, attitude, or verbal bullshit an Aussie cowboy

gave you, you were meant to take it like a man and accept the fact that you were in-

deed a gay city cunt. If you insulted an Australian cowboy back in the good ol days for

his cowboy attitudes, no matter how much he insulted you first, you would have

risked hitting the dust with a ball of cold lead in your cranium. Such is life as every-

one’s old mate Ned Kelly would say.

In modern Australia, all kinds of people exist. Residual cowboys are among them. Like

their ancestors, the young cowboys of 21st century Australia are real rednecks. Except

today’s cowboys do not arm themselves with six shooters and ride horses. They carry

iPhones and ride around in Four Wheel Drives. But the same old cowboy attitude per-
sists. 21st Australian cowboys are hard drinkers, “straight talkers“, and they shoot

from the hip. Neo-cowboys can’t kill you physically, as that would send them to jail in

21st century Australia. But if you do manage to somehow piss a neo-cowboy off, in

whatever way, that will be the end of you. A neo-cowboy will use everything within

his arsenal to destroy you mentally, socially, and rob you of any dignity as a human

being if you talk back to him or give him lip even once. After experiencing this kind of

brutal mental death, I can honestly say that being shot in the head is probably easier.

In the final few months of Semester 2 2011, the neo-cowboys of Imperial College killed

the human being that was Lucas Texta Jones and ground my memory into the red dust.

And this process began, like the first idle winds of a desert dust storm, on the night af-

ter the college exchange at the Normanby in August. The night of the St Paul's College

Ball.

It was the night of St. Paul’s College Ball. St. Paul’s College was the old school elite col-

lege of the University of Brisbane. Apparently, and according to most Imperial College

guys, St Paul’s had lost that elite status when it went co-ed in 1992. St. Paul’s never

won the sporting competitions anymore, as Imperial or St. Anthony’s often did. And

besides, St. Paul’s was a dirty co-ed college. Imperial College was a smarter college

then that. You see, Imperial College men outsourced their vagina. Don’t shit where you

sleep.

I’m not feeling the vibe of going to the St. Paul’s college ball that night to be honest, but

I decide to go anyway. I’ve purchased the ticket and the ticket cost me one hundred

bucks. So I go. But something feels off kilter and strange that night. Something seems

somehow abstractive. At lunch that day, a serving of fish and chips that Imperial Col-

lege served every Friday and that I was honestly starting to get a bit bored of by then, I

asked President Clarinet if he was going. He said he was. I asked him if I could rock up

with him. He said, sure Texta.

I start drinking for the ball at 4, which commences with drinks at St. Paul’s at 5 that af-

ternoon. Then I wait, beer in hand, at the front gate for Clarinet. He dosen’t show up.

He probably left early and it’s my assumption these days he was avoiding me. I end up

rocking awkwardly with a group of conservative freshers who I don’t really know. It’s

6pm by the time I get to St. Paul’s. Everyone catches buses from St. Paul’s to the venue,

which is the ballroom of the Hilton Hotel in Brisbane if I recall correctly. Departing for

the Ball are the same collection of well dressed lads and ladies with similarily large

egos. The St. Paul’s Ball is a shit night. I spend the night awkwardly gimping it be-

tween groups of arrogant young bucks. One fat motherfucker, the leader of The Uni-

versity of Brisbane Liberal Club, keeps following me around. He knows I have signed

up to help the UB conservative faction and is trying to get my support secured evident-

ly. I'm not interested in supporting the libs, and I honestly don't even know if I agree

with them anymore. I just spend most of the night walking awkwardly around, my

head spacey. I don’t even enjoy getting drunk that night.

I end the night talking to an Immanuel College girl who knows someone who I had

been fucking around two months before. The girl who I had been fucking was a chub-

by Immanuel College chick, big tits though. Obviously, this particular Immanuel Col-

lege girl disapproves of the fact that I had been fucking the girl down her hallway. Ap-

parently, I am a “hot guy“ whose social capital has gone down because I fucked a fat

chick on repeated occassions. The girl who I am talking to that night says that she

would have fucked me but that that ship has sailed. Gosh darn it. My night at the St

Paul’s Ball ends with me catching a cab back to Imperial with the Immanuel College

girl and her girl mate. A bunch of St Paul’s boys try to encourage us to go to a “kick

on“ at the Embassy Hotel. We aren’t really feeling it though.

Around 3am that morning, I am awoken by three loud knocks on my door. Two Impe-

rial College country boys have been snorting cocaine at Friday’s Riverside, an exclusive

club located on the side of the Brisbane River and popular amongst the Brisbane rugby

and bodybuilding crowds, as well as the packs of sluts that these crews generally draw
in. They have been snorting Columbia White with a guy that they label “Country

Sheen“, so nicknamed because he is from the country and shares a certain habit with

party boy celebrity Charlie Sheen. Both of the boys are keen for a bong, to assist with

the comedown from the coke. I oblige them and grab my billy and some weed, which

they have cash ready for.

I am feeling extremely sick when I am awoken that night, like a cold is coming on. A

cold was probably inevitable at this stage, with all the weed I have smoked and booze I

have drunk over the last one and three quarter years. I therefore bring my shitty metal

weed pipe along as well, so I can smoke weed without infecting the two country rugby

lads. We get stoned as shit in one of the guys‘ rooms on the top floor of the Imperial

College Centenary Building and spend the next hour watching random videos on

Youtube. Before I go to bed back in my room, I tell one of the guys that he can have my

ticket to the recovery event for the St. Paul’s Ball. I am feeling as sick as a dog and I’m

not in the mood for a day of drinking and spitting multi-coloured food dye at people.

I awake the next morning feeling like I can barely breathe. My throat is burning and

jammed with a thick coating of mucus. It’s 10am and Housey, the guy who wanted my

St. Paul’s College Recovery ticket, has not showed up. So I guess he isn’t going to the St

Paul’s Recovery. I am feeling so sick I can hardly move. I end up passing out in bed

again before I can even get out.

At 3pm, I wake up again. So much mucus, bile, and spit has built up in my throat that I

need to vomit. I run to the Imperial College disabled toilets and vomit a turgid pile of

spew that mostly consists of stomach acid. Then I lumber back to bed and pass out for

another three hours. I get up for college dinner and struggle up to the Imperial College

balcony. Dinner is a shitty fare of steak burgers, a favourite meal of the Imperial Col-

lege staff when they are feeling lazy. I can barely eat my steak burger. While I am at-

tempting to digest the food, Sauce and the freshers who I was with at the St. Paul’s Ball

the night before throw a pineapple ring at me. The pineapple ring hits the back of my
head. Sauce and Co laught wickedly. A few freshers that I am sitting with, whom I still

guess I could have considered my friends at this stage, call it shitty behaviour and

shoot Sauce and his mates some dirty glances. I’m feeling fucking hagard, so I can’t re-

ally express an opinion about it in any way, shape, or form. I end up eating about a

quarter of my steak burger before almost crawling back to bed. The thirty metre walk

from the balcony to my room is a struggle.

Around 9pm that night, I am awoken by a series of knocks on my door. It’s Davo and

his mates. Apparently they have forgotten about the shit the other night, when I threw

ice cubes at Davo for throwing water on my ambitions of being an Imperial College ex-

ec. They want to get stoned on the Imperial College jetty. I am feeling sick as shit.

Maybe a little weed could help with the sore throat and the nausea. I decide to go with

them and bring my bong and pipe. We all get stoned and for some reason the topic of

Crip walking comes up. The “Crip Walk“, for those unitiated into the themes of gang-

sta langauge and culture, is a dance common among members of the Crips street gang.

The Crips, for those who have never been wannabe gangstas, are a Los Angeles based

gang known for wearing the colour blue, selling crack cocaine, and being involved in

drive by shootings. The Crips were made famous through the music of West Coast rap

artists such as Snoop Dogg, Tupac Shakur, and Warren G. Their dance, called the Crip

Walk, was also made somewhat famous through the music of such artists.

While we are getting stoned Wharfie, who is one of the crew, states that he can Crip

Walk. He demonstrates his Crip Walk to everyone, and does it quite well and quite ac-

curately. I then state that I too can Crip Walk. This was, straight up, one of the biggest

mistakes of my entire life. I am an uncoordinated human being and my co-ordination

around any type of dancing, the Crip Walk included, is questionable to say the very

least. With the encouragement of the guys smoking ganga on the jetty though, I at-

tempt to Crip Walk. My attempt to Crip Walk is fucking dreadful though. I kind of

look like a rhino that has just had a crab crawl up it’s arse. Indeed, my Crip Walk is so
bad that the guys on the jetty that night label it the “Text Step“. Watch this space. The

Text Step is a reccurring theme of my last few months of college.

I pass out again about an hour after getting stoned. I spend the next day popping pa-

nadols like smarties, sleeping whilst drooling warm saliva all over my pillow (proba-

bly a bodily reaction so that I don’t choke to death), and periodically getting up to

vomit, with my vomit becoming more and more acidic at each turn. All I can drink is

ginger ale and all I can eat is gummy worms. The sickness lasts so long that by

Wednesday, my over-protective Dad comes to check on me. I manage to get down

some sushi that day. Dad even gets a doctor over to check what’s going on. I am in-

formed that I do not, in fact, have a cold or bronchitis or pheumonia. What I do in fact

have is tonsillitis. I am told to take it easy on the booze, to maybe not smoke cigarettes

when I drink, and that I will probably have to have my tonsils out within the next few

months. All sounds fair enough.

I don’t drink for the next week. By Saturday of that week, I’m feeling relitavely good

again though. My health is back. I’m not feeling college shit on that night, although

there is a college party on. Instead, I grab some LSD I have stored in my fridge-freezer

at college and head to Reg’s house in South Brisbane. I drop the acid at Reg’s and he

takes an estascy pill. As we wait for the drugs to kick in, we smoke bongs and drink

Jack Daniel’s and cokes. The acid kicks in around an hour later and the patterns on

Reg’s pantry begin to look like swirling clouds. I drink a few more JD and cokes and

smoke a few more billies. Two hours in, I’m listening to some kind of electro music or

another and feeling fucking wild. Some mad peak of Dragon that seems unattainable

again, with my life and experience to date rendering such a wild high something that I

don’t think will be possible anymore.

Once the drugs cool off a bit more, Reg and I watch Suckerpunch. The movie sucks and

is stupid. Sober, the plot would make no fucking sense. On acid, the stupidity of the

film is almost completely unbearable. After Suckerpunch, we play Mario Kart Wii for a
bit. Reg wins everytime because he’s better at Mario Kart and because acid fucks you on

a level that estascy cannot achieve.

Reg goes to bed around two and, for me, that is when all hell breaks loose. From my

experiences with the psychadelic class of drugs I can definitively say that there are two

unbreakable rules of using hallucinogens. One, external stimulation of one form or an-

other is always needed when using LSD or mushrooms or whatever. Two, never use a

psychadelic drug with a head full of bad thoughts. No external stimulation and a rising

tide of bad karma are the worst two elements to combine with LSD. And, on that night,

I broke both vital laws of hallucinogen use.

This induced within me what is known as the “bad trip“. Joe Rogan, the only radio

shock jock whom I have ever admired, states that there is no such thing as a “bad

trip“ on psychadelics. A “bad trip“ is simply a signal to the user of a psychadelic drug

that something is fundamentally wrong with their life and, consequentely, a signal that

such a thing must be altered. At that stage in my life, college was starting to turn sour.

A bad momentum, a wave of bad karma, was rushing towards me. And on LSD, the

awareness of this came. Acid evangelists will tell you that LSD or similar psychadelics

are a path to enlitenment, something that will open up the third eye and allow you to

see reality for what it is. In a wierd way, that can be true. Although I would say this in-

stead; psychadelics, from acid, to shrooms, to peyote, are fundamentally emotional and

sensory amplifiers. They exxageratte every thought a human being has, whether that

thought is good or bad, to extreme degrees. College, as it was in 2010 to 2011, was a life

and lifestyle that was fundamentally oppossed to everything I had grown up with and

been taught to believe and hold true as a kid. To function and get along day to day at

college, I had to change a significant amount about myself, who I was, and what I be-

lieved. To become successful at college, the top of the food chain as I so wished to be in

my second year at Imperial, I would have needed to have changed basically everything

about who I was and what I was about. Become pure cunt.
Alone at 3am on a couch in South Brisbane, this realization comes crashing down on

me. Maybe, I think to myself, I should just call it quits on this whole exec thing. I

would be a lot more chilled out and a lot happier if I wasn’t running for exec. If this

burning and fierce desire was not within me, maybe life would be easier and cruisier.

But my ego, the portion of my persona that largely defined my behaviour and action in

my college years, screams back at my id, my subconcious desire to take a path that is

more true and pure in my own eyes. No Texta, you have come too far now. Don’t give

up. Remember why you are running for exec. You need to change Imperial, show those

torie kids the Noble Aphorycal Path. Besides Texta, are you not a mad cunt, mad

dawg, weed smoking, beer drinking, pussay slaying machine? Well maybe, well not

really. There are guys who get a lot more puntaken then me at Imperial. But Texta, you

need to change Imperial, make it a better place for the wild tripper kids like you, drive

out the conservative gimps who rule. This is your noble mission, you are Lucas Texta

Jones.

Thoughts circulate that entire night in my head while I am alone on the acid. About

that hot and cool girl I totally fucked it up with earlier in the year because I was being

so college. About how much I’ve changed. About how I am just another fake bullshit-

ter in a land of fake bullshitters. At one point, I go outside and look at the houses on

the street. They look like night elf houses off of World of Warcraft. While I’m calming

down and looking at all the houses, a black crow swoops past me in the 4am gloom

and nearly drives it’s fucking beak through my head.

Chapter 24-Living on a Thin Line-

All the stories have been told

Of kings and days of old,

But there's no England now.

All the wars that were won and lost

 Somehow don't seem to matter very much anymore.

All the lies we were told,

All the lies of the people running round,

They're castles have burned.

Now I see change,

But inside we're the same as we ever were.

Living on a thin line,

Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?

Living on a thin line,

Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?

Living on a thin line,

Living this way, each day is a dream.

What am I, what are we supposed to do?

Living on a thin line,

Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?

-The Kinks, Living on a Thin Line, 1967.

Around 6am, the acid that I have taken finally dies and peters off. I am left in the lounge-

room philosophically distraught. Ego death is a bitch, initially anyway. My elbows are

over my knees and my head is clasped between my hands. Reg’s housemate, a girl I have

known from back in high school, asks me if I am alright. I tell her that I am fine. Then I

pick myself up, the glare of the early morning sunlight in my eyes, and walk to the local

bakery. I buy a pastie and a bottle of coke zero, both of which I consume relitavely joylous-

ly. Then I smoke a bong in Reg’s laundry and drive back to Imperial College.

Something is strange about Imperial College that morning, like the buildings have lost all

their awe and significance. This place, this glorious institution, dosen’t seem that special to

me anymore. It simply exists. I spend the morning unsuccessfully trying to get to sleep.
But I can’t sleep. My mind is too troubled and too worried. Around 1pm, I quit my at-

tempts to crash out and leave my room. I’m going to meet my Dad and my Grandad for

dinner down at Tweed Heads, on the New South Wales and Queensland border. The

drive down to Tweed Heads is horrible. I am scattered and tired as shit. To keep myself

awake, I drive fast and play my favourite CD, The Eminem Show, on full blast. The Eminem

Show was the first CD I ever brought, back when I was ten. I have always got Eminem on

some primordial level and I have always loved his music. Eminem, to me, just seems to be

a dude like me, a confused and clusterfucked white boy who woke up one day, looked at

the world around him and thought to himself “Hey, what is all this bullshit?“

As I drive at a high speed keep awake pace along the highway, Eminem raps-

I thought I had it all figured out I did,

I thought I was tough enough to stick it out with Kim,

But I wasn’t tough enough to juggle two things at once...

I make it to Tweed Heads, and meet my Dad and Grandad. I tell them that I am hungover,

which is true in it’s own way. Dad and Grandad tell me that I should stop drinking so

much booze. I probably should. At the beach in Tweed Heads, I take a swim. As I sub-

merge myself in the water, I feel oddly insignificant. I look out to the horizon and see a

huge ocean full of all kinds of life, whales, sharks, fish, and other animals human beings

haven’t even discovered. Amidst it all, I feel somewhat small and pointless. I am an ape at

the edge of an endless salt lake. The ocean shimmers with a fierce and piercing intensity.

I wander out of the water and look back at the ocean. It shimmers again with a fierce in-

tensity. Then I dry off, get dressed, and go to have dinner with Dad and Grandad. We

have dinner, which I enjoy. It’s Earth and Sea Pizza along the boulevard at Tweed. Over

dinner, we discuss college a little bit. Grandad and his partner Marge are old world kind
of people. They grew up in a world where institutions like colleges and grammar schools

were highly respected. They love the fact that my cousins attended GPS schools in Bris-

bane and they love the idea that I am attending an old school college like Imperial. Over

dinner, they ask me if the younger guys at college call me “sir“-

“Well yes, hopefully next year“ I reply.

Do you even hear yourself talk sometimes Texta you dickhead? We finish dinner around

ten and have coffee. Then I drive back to Brisbane, playing Eminem’s Marshall Mathers LP

on the drive back north. I arrive back at Imperial College around 11pm, and find Davo and

his mates watching nature documentaries on the loungeroom of the Centenary Building.

Some David Attenborough affair about tigers in Siberia.

The acid hit of last night has changed my perspective on my dealing of ganga. I kind of

feel like dealing was directly oppossed to everything weed and the true drug culture is

meant to be about. Profiteering is an essential capitalist and neoliberal approach to drugs.

And everything about the tripper culture I had been a part of and grown up with had op-

possed the very notion of being a profiteer. Consequentely, I ask Davo and the boys if they

want to have a sesh, on me bruz.

They agree. Yeah bro, we are down. I get stoned with Davo and two other guys on my

balcony. I get high as shit and my mind blanks, my thoughts slow down to managable

levels. The next day I wake up around 9am. The bullshit’s come back though. The same

doubts about this fake fucking lifestyle haunt me again. I’m feeling empty.

My college world shatters from that point on. In my final few months of college, I don’t

feel in control of my actions. Nothing seems to matter. I wander around like a ghost. On

the surface, I look the same. In terms of health, I feel exactly the same way, normal. But my

every action is beggining to feel compulisve. It’s like I’m being pulled by a great magnet

into everything I do. Do we, as human beings, have any fucking free will?
When I go out to drink, I do so joylously. I spend most nights on the piss smoking durries

and downing beers on my own. Most nights when I am drinking, Davo and his mates

convince me to do the Text Step, my retarded version of the Crip Walk, convincing me

that it is indeed all in good fun. I know it isn’t, I know the intent is malicious. But I do it

anyway. I have no fucking idea why. But everything about where I am and the people I’m

surrounded by seems empty, irrelevant, and stupid. So what does it matter?

I’m getting stoned every single night now and more stoned as each night goes on. It’s the

only relief I can get from the emptiness that is consuming me. At lunchtimes and

mealtimes at college, I drink three strong coffees. I gimp around tables trying to find peo-

ple to chat to. I’m feeling lonely and everything is feeling stupid and empty. I’ll be fucked

if I say that to anyone though.

I still find some pleasure in my uni work, that still sparks the brain up and gets the juices

going. I love writing, just scribbling down my thoughts. It’s one of the last remaining

things holding me slightly together. Between writing my assignments, I smoke cigarettes

with Davo and his boys. I used to only smoke when drinking, but it’s something that I’m

doing fairly regularly by this stage. I’m even buying my own packets of Malboro Gold on

a regular basis. Smoking helps to calm me, to wipe the stress of everything away for a few

seconds. Eventually, I don’t even go outside to smoke durries anymore. I just do it in my

room, on the balcony overlooking the Brisbane River. I can’t really be fucked talking to

anyone if I don’t have to. College events still happen. But they seem trife and boring now.

The same succession of stupid private school bitches who think that they are better then

me and the same rotation of identical bars I have known and frequented over the past two

years. My social life is begginning to seem like more of a duty then anything else.

Even the big college events, the ICC rowing regatta, the rugby final between Imperial and

St Anthony’s, and Imperial Ball, don’t seem that fun or interesting anymore. It’s like I’m

compelled to go more out of some abstractive idea of responsibility then genuine enjoy-
ment. And while I wander around ghostly, it’s easy for the barracudas to bite me and tear

at my flesh. At every important college event, the sharks circle me and smell my blood in

the water.

At the ICC Regatta Stallion, a roid freak who will be the 2012 Imperial College Student

Club President, goes out of his way to publicly embarass me. I’m wandering around aim-

less once again. This scene and lifestyle is so dead. I look out on the Brisbane River. All the

college kids are being hella serious about the Regatta, really into it all. It is all just seeming

stupid to me now. Stallion has a goon sack. He tells me to get down on my knees for a

skull. I oblige. But then he pours the goon all over my Imperial College hoody, making it

stink of cheap wine. Man, fuck that cunt. The college regatta seems stupid and pointless to

me that entire day. I just drink excessive amounts of alcohol and try to appear happy. But

it all just seems completely fucking dumb and irrelevant. Maybe everything at college was

always stupid and pointless, and maybe everyone is just putting on a face and pretending

it’s serious. Perhaps everyone always just viewed this as a bit of bullshit fun. I honestly

can’t tell anymore.

Later that afternoon, when the regatta is over and Imperial College has defended the row-

ing title, I go to check out the victory drinks amongst the rowing team. I don’t know why I

do but I justify it by thinking, well hell, I am the Imperial College magazine editor, I could

write this into the magazine. But when I go to check out the victory drinks, I know im-

meadiatelly that I am out of place. The drinks are for the Imperial College rowing boys,

and I am not a rowing boy. I’m wearing a blue LA dodger’s snapback baseball cap and

wearing a cut loose singlet. My awkward presence in the corner is clearly noticed From

the Imperial College rowing boys. A slowly rising chant of NO SNAPBACKS, NO SNAP-

BACKS goes up amongst the predominantly private school Imperial College rowing team.

I’m beckoned to leave by President Clarinet, who is drinking with the rowing squad. Fuck

this shit. I spend the rest of the night drinking heavily and trying to conceal my em-

barassment.
Rugby, and the intense collegial rivalry at the rugby final between Imperial and St Antho-

ny’s, seems just as stupid and pointless. I spend the time before the rugby final drinking

with Davo and his boys on the Imperial College jetty. That said, I’m feeling increasingly

distant from those guys. All they seem to do is bum cigarettes off me. I go to the rugby fi-

nal and just spend the whole rugby game drinking and pretending to be a committed Im-

perial Man. But the game just seems dumb to me, as well as the rivalry between Imperial

and St Anthony‘s. Imperial College wins the rugby game, smashing St Anthony’s out of

the park. All the guys are wildly cheering. I pretend to be excited, but really I don’t give a

fuck.

After the game, a fight starts between the Imperial College boys and the St Anthony’s

boys. St Anthony’s keeps a rake that was supposedly used to fuck up the leg tendons of an

Imperial College boy back in the 1980’s when he was trying to compete in the Inter Col-

lege long jump. The St Anthony’s boys start parading the rake around, until it gets stolen

by Principal, the Imperial College social minister. All of the St Anthony’s boys give chase

to Principal and all the Imperial boys run to protect him and keep the rake in the posses-

sion of Imperial College. A massive four hundred man brawl starts amidst the buildings of

the University of Brisbane. I jog along with the boys, and circle around the brawl. But, to

be honest, what I am doing just seems mechanical. Magnetic forces seem to influence me

more then my own free will.

College Ball is just as dry and empty to me. I have a decent date that year. An Immanuel

College girl who is a solid seven out of ten. I spend most of the night getting drunk. Col-

lege is seeming like an increasingly miserable existence to me. College Ball that year seems

like the same old shit on a different day. At one point during dinner, my date states that

she is “really anti drugs“. Word. Well this thing between you and me isn’t going to work

then. I don’t mind a lady who dosen’t do drugs. Drugs aren’t for everyone. But being

against drugs is just a whole attitude to life I can’t contemplate. That kind of judgmental

attitude is rife amongst the University of Brisbane College girls. Conservatism, Torie-ism,

Christianism. I’m sick of that attitude towards life and I’m sick of those kinds of girls.
Maybe somewhere in the world there are crazy bitches, crazy sluts with the same attitudes

and ideas as me. Chicks who like to drop acid, smoke weed, get wild, and explore the

world. I know sure as fuck that I’m never going to find one of those girls at college though.

Fuck this shit.

I ditch my date at some point and hit the dancefloor of the ball. On the dancefloor, I hook

up with two Ladie’s College girls. Playa. I go to have a piss and brag about it to the boys in

the toilets. I know it’s nothing to boast about really. But I’m trying to recapture a feeling I

once had. A feeling of excitement and glory, that feeling of the Dragon. It’s a feeling that I

fear is gone forever. To be honest, that is just what has happened and I’m finding it hard to

accept.

My date goes home with her mates and I go back to Imperial College to smoke weed. Be-

fore I pass out in my bed alone, I have a sensation of intense loneliness and pointlessness

envelop me. Life is shit.

I wake up the next day for Imperial College Recovery. It’s just another day of going

through the motions. Everybody is seemingly having a great time, spitting multicoloured

food dye at each other and being drunk. To me, this whole thing just seems exceptionally

dumb though. I drink until I vomit off to the side of the Imperial Quad. After I have vom-

mitted I decide, fuck it. I grab an estascy pill out of my bag in my room and eat it, washing

it down with a can of Pulse vodka-energy drink.

Albeit temporarily, the estascy puts me in a good mood. On the bus to Imperial Recovery,

at the Down Under Bar this year, colours are bright and flashy and I’m in a good mood. I

get a bit wild at Imperial Recovery and start hitting people with a pool noodle. I’m in a

good mood until the X peters out. After that, everything just seems pointless and dumb

again. I drink heavily and ride out the Recovery. Imperial Recovery 2011 is no fun at all.

It’s a mission pure and simple. At one point I go to have a piss. In the toilets, I see roid

freak, arm breaking mad cunt Sauce and his bitch boy Sausage, a Brisbane Grammar boy
who hero worships Sauce and probably secretly wanks to the thought of Sauce being ap-

plied to his sausage. I see them in there and I’m all like “what the fuck, who the hell are

these dudes anyway, they are so weird“. I freeze up. It’s been something that has been

happening with increasing regularity lately. All I can think is “who the fuck are these peo-

ple? Why am I amongst them? My presence makes no fucking sense here“.

I say none of this out loud though. All I do is look at them and freeze. Sauce and Sausage

choose to interpret it in a different way though. They get all aggressive and alpha male on

my arse-

“WHAT THE FUCK TEXTA, ARE YOU LOOKING AT MY DICK?!“ yells Sauce.

“YEAH TEXTA“ echoes Sausage “ARE YOU GAY OR SOMETHING CUNT?!“

Well, no. You people just make no fucking sense to me anymore. Fuck, why do I even

want a part in any of this? It all seems so stupid now. Everything about it. Just fucking

stupid.

Eventually, the buses bound back for Imperial arrive at the Dunda. They can’t have come

soon enough. I hop on the bus, glad to be ditching Recovery. By the time I get back to Im-

perial, I’ve chilled out. I grab a can of Toohey’s New out of my fridge and sit on my balco-

ny looking at the sun set over the Brisbane River. Fuck Recovery.

After about five minutes I hear a series of knocks on my door. It’s Davo and his mate from

The Southport School, Jockstrap. They want to get stoned. As it’s Imperial Ball weekend,

I’ve already decided that I’m shouting weed to whoever wants it this weekend. I tell them

to find a suitable location to smoke herbs and that I will bring the weed and bong in re-

turn. Davo and Jockstrap return ten minutes later, saying that they have found the middle

balcony of Rogerson as the suitable location. I grab my backpack and we all head up to

Rogerson. When we arrive, there are around ten people seated around Rogerson, all Impe-
rial Men, Ladie’s girls, and Faith girls. I whip out my bong, chop up around fifty bucks of

weed with tobbacco, and get ready to smoke.

The first hit of weed is just what I needed. I’m lifted out of this college world and back into

a dream state. Fuck this shitty and confined existence. On the balcony of Rogerson that af-

ternoon, everyone smokes weed and imitates rap lyrics playing over a stereo. Or at least

the boys spit rap lyrics while the women wait around for the guys that they have chosen

to fuck. We rap the lyrics to one song that seems so relevant to my life back then, looking

back on my fucked up and wasted youth at Imperial College-

I once knew a nigga whose real name was William,

His primary concern, was making a million

Being the illest hustler, that the world ever seen

He used to fuck movie stars and sniff coke in his dreams

A corrupted young mind, at the age of thirteen

Nigga never had a father and his mom was a fiend

She put the pipe down, but every year she was sober

Her son's heart simultaneously grew colder

He started hanging out selling bags in the projects

Checking the young chicks, looking for hit and run prospects
He was fascinated by material objects

But he understood money never bought respect

He built a reputation 'cause he could hustle and steal

But got locked once and didn't hesitate to squeal

So criminals he chilled with didn't think he was real

You see me and niggas like this have never been equal

I don't project my insecurities on other people

He fiended for props like addicts with pipes and needles

So he felt he had to prove to everyone he was evil

A feeble-minded young man with infinite potential

The product of a ghetto breed capitalistic mental

Coincidentally dropped out of school to sell weed

Dancing with the devil, smoked until his eyes would bleed

But he was sick of selling trees and gave in to his greed.

Chapter 25-Wasted Years-

From the coast of gold, across the seven seas,

I'm travelling on, far and wide,

But now it seems, I'm just a stranger to myself,

And all the things I sometimes do, it isn't me but someone else.

I close my eyes, and think of home,

Another city goes by, in the night,

Ain't it funny how it is, you never miss it til it's gone away,

And my heart is lying there and will be til my dying day.

So understand

Don't waste your time always searching for those wasted years,

Face up... make your stand,

And realise you're living in the golden years.

-Iron Maiden, Wasted Years, 1986.

The next day, it is the begginning of the university holidays. I’m giving a lift to Slash, the

surfer dude I know from Byron Bay, and his girlfriend, Lisa. We all leave Imperial College

around 10am. On the way, I go to Reg’s house in South Brisbane. I pick up a half ounce of

hectic hydro weed and smoke three bongs. Reg and his girlfriend, Megan, both kids from

my high school, try to make conversation with Slash and Lisa. It comes up awkward

though. Reg and Megan talk about scoring cocaine in London, how easy it is to find drugs

there. Slash and Lisa are clearly uncomfortable with that topic.

I drive the three hours south happy for the fact that I won’t be at Imperial College for the

next week. That place is stressing me the fuck out. Periodically, Imperial College could

stress me the fuck out. When that happened in the past, I would shoot three hours south to

spend a few days getting stoned and hanging with my high school mates. The feeling of
ditching college and driving down south is something I still love. Escaping those imposing

Dragon walls. Saying, fuck it, and leaving to meditate amongst the woods on acid. The

drive down, throughout my two years at Imperial College, was always one of the best

parts of that trip. As the urban sprawl of Brisbane and the Gold Coast ended at the blue

waters of Tweed Heads and then gave way to the rolling green hills of the North Coast, I

would always feel a wave of calm descend upon me. On this sunny morning in late Sep-

tember, that same feeling hits me. I am going to be back in my homeland for a week, away

from all the bullshit, gossip, and torie sociopaths. Amongst normal people.

I drop off Slash and Lisa at Slash’s Mum‘s house. Slash’s Mum is a fucked up woman

mentally. I get her vibe these days. She was a private school girl. But she was not one of

those girls who did well in the private school system. Consequentely, she “dropped

out“ of private school society, at least partially. She migrated to Byron Bay and became a

quasi-hippie. A quasi-hippie in the sense that she could never really give up her private

school pretensions, that hollow belief that she was a part of an elite private school clique

that was only really, in essence, a construction and fabrication of her mind. The experi-

ence, to put it briefly, rendered Slash’s mother a strange and clusterfucked human being.

Around a year after I left college, and although I never said a bad word about her or her

son, she randomly attacked me on Facebook, ending her little tirade with the charming

anecdote “Maybe you should consider getting the rest of it (your penis) amputated and

they can create a sweet little vagina instead. Then you can be a cunt for real!“

Word bitch. Your cunted mouth is almost as filthy as mine. For someone who takes on the

pretensions of a hippie lifestyle and tries to “drop out“ of mainstream society as it were,

the factionalism that a private school mentality imposes from a young age can be hard to

break out off. The hollow illusion that you are part of the social and moral elite is a men-

tality that is both attractive and poisonous to human beings. Even many of those who be-

lieve they see beyond the bullshit of the upper class mindset will still rush to defend it and

be it’s fiercest champions when push comes to shove.

Slash’s Mum isn’t on bad terms with me that afternoon though. She didn’t mind me back

then. After all, I used to drive her son to and back from Imperial at the beggining and end

of almost every uni break. I wasn’t her self declared enemy back then as I am now. So on

that afternoon, she gave me a joint. The buds the joint was rolled from were the baddest

flowers of grass I had ever seen. The weed was purple tipped and everything. Real Cali

Kush. I smoke the joint in her backyard, a gold state of Buddha looking down upon me,

and get quite high. I wait around twenty minutes before I leave, as I’m spacey.

Eventually, I depart and drive back to Ashtonville. I love driving high through the coun-

tryside. Driving stoned in the country is a whole other, and different, gig to driving high

in the city. In the city, when you drive high, a certain and nessecary paranoia grips you.

You are on the lookout for cops and they could be anywhere. The city buildings and con-

fined city streets strangle and suffocate you. It’s complete shit to be honest. I only drive

high in the city when I strictly need to. Driving high through the countryside is fantastic.

You are amongst nature, trees, fields, and everything beautiful. Cops aren’t out in the

country, and you would be very unlucky for an officer of the law to pull up on you and

your mate billy around the backstreets near Byron Bay or Lismore.

I actually spend most of my week back home just getting stoned and driving around the

country roads of the North Coast, exploring the waterfalls and beaches of my childhood

and teenage years. On the North Coast, I get this sense of freedom and fulfillment I can

never really achieve in Brisbane, and especially at Imperial College. I’ve honestly been

feeling angry, paranoid, and amped up every moment I’ve been at Imperial College lately.

But out here in the countryside I once again feel free and unshackled from the bullshit ex-

pectations and demands of life in Brisbane. Capitalists and right wingers may talk like

they have the idea of “freedom“ locked. But out here in the countryside, stoned as fuck on

the beach, in the forests, and at waterfalls, I get a feeling that those guys have no real idea

of what they are talking about. Maybe the hippie movement of the 1960’s had it right, the

essential idea of that abstract word called “freedom“. As old mate Bob Marley would say-
“If you know what life is worth,

then you would look for your’s on earth,

and now you’ve seen the light,

you’ve gotta stand up for your rights.“

College returns a week later. I’m honestly not excited by the prospect of going back to Im-

perial anymore. There is a sinking feeling in my gut about the place. I’ve applied for the

conventional and institutionalized methods of advancement at Imperial; the Residential

Assistant and student club exec positions. I’m relitavely confident I can secure one posi-

tion or another. Surely, I have the abilities and capabilitites to perform successfully in ei-

ther position. I end up securing neither position at Imperial. This will be the straw that

breaks the camel’s back for me in terms of Imperial College. After that strong hit of acid, I

was already viewing Imperial College as an empty place, just another pedestrian collec-

tion of rooms. A place no more special than Federation College, Immanuel College, or

Holland Park West. Without the pretensions and propoganda, Imperial College had be-

come a tabula rasa to me, a blank slate. My final weeks at Imperial College would therefore

shape how I finally and conclusively viewed the place, how I regarded it upon my depar-

ture.

Pretty soon after I get back to Imperial there is a drinking session. I don’t feel as excited as

usual, but I still decide to go. I’m skittish that night though, I can’t lie. Before we go out, I

bounce between the various crews I have been a part of or associatted with in my time at

college. I start smoking durries and drinking cans of Canadian Club and Cola on the Im-

perial College jetty with Wilson Jr, Davo, and those boys. But all they do is pinch durries

off me. I get jack of it before long. Next I migrate to the balcony of J Flat, where Anal, my

weed smoking buddy from my first year, and a bunch of his mates are hanging. They are
on my same rough level as me. They are becoming increasingly disillusioned with Imperi-

al College and it’s culture. However, they have completely given up the dream of Imperial

College. I am still trying to feel the Dragon, that sensation of belief in Imperial College as

an ideology. While I smoke Malboro Gold durries and drink whiskey with Anal and his

boys, an awkward, balding old man in an expensive suit walks up onto the balcony. He

looks at the balcony with a mystic glimmer in his eyes.

“I was living in this area when I was back at Imperial College“ he states “back then, I was

in the rugby team that won in 1969“.

Fucking word. We discuss shit with this old boy character for a while. Eventually, he asks

us what degrees we are all doing.

“Political science and history“ I reply.

“Psychology at QUT“ says Anal.

“Chemical engineering“ replies Leon, Anal’s Greek mate and an all round skeptic.

The face of the balding old boy lights up “Well, it is good to see we have some scientists at

Imperial“ he states.

Cunt, you can’t be fucking serious, I think to myself. Before the old boy leaves he an-

nounces, with gusto and an obvious air of self importance in his voice “I am John Ash-

croft“ as if every dude on the balcony that night should know who John Ashcroft is.

John Ashcroft, the giant of Imperial College and an obviously important character, de-

parts. What a fucking loser, still living in the days of the 60’s, remarks one of the guys. It’s

self evident, so everyone agrees. What a fucking loser. Everyone in the crowd on the bal-

cony that night is bitchy and cynical. The guys around me have a bitch about the guys
downstairs. All the guys downstairs talk about is the gym and they are true believers in

the Dragon. What a pack of cunts. I hate the guys downstairs anyway. I know that they

bitch about me like a bunch of pre-menstrual fourteen year old girls. Fuck them, that pack

of Paris Hiltons with penises. I have a bitch about Sauce. I’m sick of that cunt, a rugby and

rowing hero and loyal private school boy. Fuck him. Who does he think he is to throw

pineapple rings at me and call me a faggot? I hate that cunt. Our bitching moves on to the

exec of Imperial College itself. They are a bunch of rich kid faggotts, a bunch of close

minded cunts who have no idea what it feels like to work and struggle for anything. Fuck

them and their shit.

But from our balcony, I hear the yelling and hoo rooing of the exec. They were once my

friends, once my homies, or so I thought. But over the year, my distance from those kids

has become larger and larger. An unexplained gulf exists between me and them. I tell Anal

and his boys that I’m going to see what’s up with the exec kids. Anal and his friends seem

dissapointed. But I do need to explore something. I do need to see whether the magic is

still there between me and the exec crew. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. I wander over the

Rogerson to see if I can recapture the Dragon.

When I get there, I know for certain that the Dragon is gone within me forever. I get up to

the exec balcony, and it’s like there’s this massive gulf. They are surrounded by freshers

and second years who still worship them, who still view them as the guardians of where

it’s at. Whatever it is. But I’m no longer on that level. The exec know that and I know that.

I stand there distantly. There is a coldness and a deep divide between me and the exec

boys. It’s unsaid and it’s unstated, but it’s definitely there. Everyone knows it.

Before long, I decide to go back to Anal and the boys over on the other balcony. We con-

tinue to drink whiskey, smoke durries, and bitch about college and it’s inhabitants. A vibe

of slow burning virtiolic rage eminates from the balcony that night.
Eventually, we leave for the exchange, which is located in Fortitude Valley. It’s just anoth-

er night with more of the same bullshit. I drink beer and smoke rolled durries miserably

the entire night, surrounded by Anal‘s crew of Imperial College cynics. The Dragon seems

dead within me, and this whole college scene seems dead to me. I still have intentions of

running for the exec though. The status of it all still appeals to me. I can still take what I

want out of this scene. Maybe a hot Ladie’s girlfriend or some shit next year, a status seek-

ing slut. Besides, I could still make Imperial as a place better for the tripper kids like my-

self. That still makes some weird sense in the scheme of things.

Chapter 25-They’ll Sell Your Soul for a Piece of Gold-

Ey, and they say it's part of it

So they buying you, sell your soul

Well, my friend, the thought of it

They'll sell your soul for a piece of gold

While they in their companion slaves

Slaving through the night

I know I can find my way for there is light

Chase dem

Run them politicians

When I see dem I get cold

-Stephen Marley, Chase Dem, 2007.

The next morning I wake up with a hangover. I’m due to assist at some “Imperial in

Pink“ breast cancer charity luncheon event. I volunteered for the event the day before. I
did so figuring that it would be better for my prospects of being an Imperial College RA.

But it seemed like a weird gig, signing up for volunteering on the previous day.

Leading the volunteering proceedings was Jane Oebid, the wife of headmistress Gerald

Oebid. She’s a classically attractive woman, in the sense that all private school women are.

The Imperial boys make a lot of jokes about her being hot. She is. Headmaster Gerald

Oebid and Jane Oebid have a son, a nasty little cunt by the name of John. Jane and the

eighteen year old young buck John run through proceedings for the next day’s volunteer-

ing and delegate roles to the five or so young Imperial guys who have shown up. While

they are running through the volunteering proceedings, the Oebid family dog comes up to

me. I love dogs, so I can’t help but pat the little rascal. As I pat and pet the dog, a white

maltese terrier with scruffy and matted fur, I notice young Johnny Oebid looking at me.

His look is a cheeky smile, shot through his chubby and smarmy facial features. It’s like he

knows something I don’t know.

I didn’t know what he was smiling about on that day, but I can more than guess at it now.

He was thinking “Texta, you are fucked you public school peasant, you just have no fuck-

ing idea yet“. Everything was just days away from imploding in my world, and Johnny

Oebid more than knew that. But I didn’t.

Anyway, I had volunteered to help charity. For half the Pink Cancer gig anyhow. The oth-

er half I was due to go to a lecture, some history lecture on Hannah Arendt’s The Banality

of Evil. I also had another lecture for political science that afternoon. It was on something I

already knew about, a political science theory called rational choice theory. So here I was

this morning, on a gloomy morning in October, guiding cars into Imperial College and

through the gates to the master’s residence. My head pounded from drinking heavily the

night before. My throat was dry from the previous night’s tobbacco smoke.

My duty that morning was to guide various women through the gates of Imperial College

and to the master’s residence, where they were due for champagne and canapes. But there
is something strange, something fake, and something cartoony about the women I am

guiding through on that morning. It’s like they are all gross parodies of themselves. They

all forward into Imperial College. Their cars are all black and silver. All the cars are Lexus-

es, Chryslers, and BMW’s in Sedan or Four Wheel Drive models. The women driving them

have the same uniform look as their vehicles. They all wear jewels and gold, and expen-

sive pink garments purchased from David Jones or Myer at the very least. On their faces is

makeup caked so thick that it would make a street mime blush in silent embarassment.

They all have haughty and upright looks etched permenantely on their faces. These

wealthy women, these probable trophy wives, all seem like a bunch of debauched and an-

imated mannequins.

The sight of these women gets my thoughts circulating in a weird way. Is this what all

those hot private school girls who hang around at college are going to end up like?

Strange and unusual reflections of yuppie pretension? If so, count me out of this. I don’t

want a piece of that meat pie. The name of “Ladie’s College“, or any GPS connections,

seems suddenly irrelevant to me. These people are just pedestrian, normal people in the

end. Maybe worse than normal people. Normal people don’t seem to carry on with as

much yuppie swag and bullshit as these middle aged department store dummies that I am

guiding through the gates of Imperial College.

Eventually, my time volunteering comes to an end. I am glad beyond imagining for it. My

hangover clearing out just a little bit, I trudge over the wet bitumen to my room in the

Centennary Building. When I get back to my room, I notice a letter slipped under my

door, sent to me via the Imperial College administration. I pick up the letter and open it

apprehensively. I know it concerns something important. It has that whole air and vibe to

it. I read the paper in the letter, and it pierces another spear into my perception of the

Dragon of Imperial College-

Dear Lucas,
The Committee concerning the selection of Imperial College residential assistants has reviewed your

application for the position of residential assistant. After due consideration, we regret to inform you

that you will not be offered an interview for this position. We look forward to working with you in

2012, and we hope you can find ways to assist and improve Imperial College in the coming years.

Yours sincerely, Gerald Oebid, Master and CEO.

Motherfuckers. Snidly slipping a letter like that under my doorway while I’m volunteer-

ing for the college. I haven’t been offered a fucking interview, the pieces of shit. What real-

ly irks me is that smarmy and smart alec last phrase-

And we hope you can find ways to assist and improve Imperial College in coming years.

Eat a dick cunts. They know full well that any talent I do have has not been utilized by the

college these past two years. I was a state debater back in New South Wales, but was never

even really considered a possibility for the Imperial College debating team. It was because

of who I am and where I’m from pure and simple. I was the school public speaking cham-

pion back at Ashtonville High School. But I know I would have never been even consid-

ered for the inter-college oratry competition at Imperial. My accent was too fucking ghetto.

I did get to become magazine editor, if only because no one else more suitable applied. In

my first months of Imperial College, I couldn’t even move around socially comfortably. So

I sold weed, and later a few hits of acid. It gave me social traction and the ability to move

about around the place. But it was a real catch 22. Those figures of authority, those pater-

nal figures that any good and functioning member of Torie society could trust and relate

to, became my overnight enemies. I could no longer trust in the friendly policeman, the

school principal, or the college master to help and guide me. Out of nessecity and seem-

ingly out of survival instinct, these people couldn’t be trusted by me anymore and, con-

versely, they couldn’t trust me. In a mere two years, I had morphed from a model student

and a good citizen into a drug dealing and lying scum-cunt, at least in the eyes of many

people. It was a transformation I barely noticed until that moment, for it was a natural and
slow process. But it happened nonetheless. And now I'm being told I'm an unhelpful

shitcunt? Get fucked, sincerely yours, Lucas Texta Jones.

My thoughts are spinning and circulating as I walk toward my history lecture on Hannah

Arendt. But what is said in that history lecture on that day makes some kind of strange

sense to me.The lecture is on Hannah Arendt’s Adolf Eichmann in Jereusalem; A Report on the

Banality of Evil. It concerns a central figure, Adolf Eichmann. Adolf Eichmann ran the

death camps for the Nazis in World War Two. He co-ordinated the mass killing and exe-

cution of millions of Jews and other percieved social malcontents in those years, he was

the chief architect in removing the scum who corrupted the purity of the Aryan race. After

World War Two, Eichmann escaped the reach of the allies and fled to Argentina, where a

facist regime that sheltered Nazi war criminals existed at the time. But in 1967, Mossad,

the Israeli special forces, captured Eichmann. Eichmann was put on trial in Jereusalem,

found guilty of the crime of genocide (the only crime that carries the death penalty in Isra-

el), and executed by hanging. Hannah Arendt reported on Adolf Eichmann’s trial.

Adolf Eichmann was a criminal and an evil man pure and simple. But there was a funny

thing about Adolf Eichmann. Eichmann never considered himself evil. He was not an an-

gry man, and considered anger a stupid and futile emotion. He was not a Nazi fanatic, and

most people at his trial observed him as a dispassionate man with a cool head and a cool

temper. Adolf Eichmann was no genocidal maniac. What he was, however, was an ambi-

tious and calculating beureaucrat. Adolf Eichmann was a man geared to success. He

wanted to be successful. He would have made a great Roman soldier, an excellent medie-

val priest, and a fantastic venture capitalist. But the system he was operating under was

Nazism, so he made an excellent Nazi. Adolf Eichmann was a fantastic beureaucrat, and

ran the Nazi death camps extremely efficently. But that’s all he ever saw himself as, a

beureacrat. Unfortunately, the Israelis, whose family members had been victims of his

crimes, never saw it that way. Adolf Eichmann died at the hangman’s noose. Am I Adolf

Eichmann 2011?
Imperial College was not exactly the Third Reich. As a place, it was much more benign

and insignificant. But in Imperial College and in how I was behaving there, I did see

strong shades of Adolf Eichmann in myself. I had become judgmental, obnoxious, mys-

ogonistic, and self righteous. I was a far cry from the naive, dorky, but ethically intact kid

who had entered Imperial College two years before. I had lied, cheated, and stolen for the

glamour and glory. It was eating me alive, I was becoming a walking Zombie, but I

couldn’t show it to anyone. Stay strong cowboy, ride it out.

As I walk to my next lecture, a lecture in political science, I question whether I am indeed

like Adolf Eichmann, or like a moth. Moths have a natural guidance mechanism that

guides them towards sources of light. In the past, this light was the moon. Moths‘ natural

and inbuilt navigation mechanisms guided them towards the moon, they followed it and

found whatever they were looking for by following the moon. But then humanity came

along. We invented electricity and built lights, lamps, and other sources of artificial light.

Moths, naturally geared towards light, followed the artificial light of humanity. Except this

time round, it didn’t help the moths. Human light zapped and fried the moths, and they

died. Maybe that’s just how it is with me. In high school, back in Ashtonville, the light of

the moon, my ambition, guided me. It allowed me to excel, to succeed. It made me happy

in some sense. I was in my natural state. But then I came to Imperial College to live

amongst artificial light. This time round the light guided me in the exact same way. But

not to success. It was guiding me steadily and assuredly towards my own destruction. But

like a moth, I still followed that light mindlessly and without a thought to anything else.

Because, like a moth, I was just following my natural and inbuilt mechanisms and in-

stincts.

My political science lecture that afernoon is on rational choice theory. Rational choice the-

ory essentially states that every decision from every individual human being is a rational

consideration. Human beings rationally look at a situation, examine either and all options,

and make a calculated choice that is essentially and always self interested. This, apparent-

ly, is the way politics works and the way human society functions. We make rational
choices and rational decisions at every minute of the day, every day of the week, and eve-

ry week of the year. But, as everyone is making rational choices based on rational ideas at

any one moment, the results we witness from our rational choices don’t always seem ra-

tional. War, famine, death, rape, greed, and exploitation all exist in the 21st century. All of

these things can be attributted to our rational choices as human beings. Maybe my tenden-

cy to my own self destruction, despite my own flowering knowledge of it, was just a ra-

tional choice. I was destroying myself, and was playing with fire just to see what would

happen.

I get back to Imperial College around 6pm. I eat dinner quickly and silently in the Imperial

College dining hall. Then I go back to my room. Hannah Arendt, moths, rational choice,

old yuppie mannequin women. Hannah Arendt, old yuppie mannequin women, moths,

rational choice. Fuck this, I need a bong to clear my fucking head. I smoke a bong and

hope and pray for my mind to go blank. Moths, rational choice, old yuppie mannequin

women, moths. Fuck this. I need another bong. I smoke another cone. My mind is blank

again. I’m comfortably numb.

Chapter 26-The Dominant Norms of the Master Society-

“The education system in Australia is a socialising process. A kid enters it to be socialized into the

dominant norms of the master society, and if he or she does not learn how to play the system, or re-

fuses to participate then it is too bad“

-Mudrooroo Nyoongah, mad cunt Aboriginal dude, 1995.

While all bros are created equal, your bitch is the exception. While the bitch might think that he is a

bro just because you let him hang out with you, bros know what he really is: a piece of fucking shit.

A bitch can never become a fucking bro. Obviously, bitches have no fucking clue about this since
they’re so fucking stupid and will do anything just to hang out with bros. By leading your bitch on

to think that he can actually become friends with you, not only are you giving him a dream to work

towards, but you are also giving your bros countless hours of free entertainment. Let’s take a look at

a couple of the things that make having a bitch so fucking great.

He’s an ATM – Sure bros are rich as shit, but why the fuck would you spend your Dad’s hard

earned money when you can get someone else to do it? Whenever you invite your bitch to hang out

with you, it’s understood that he better be paying for every fucking thing you do. You better believe

anytime your bitch opens up a tab at the bar everyone and their fucking mother is going to know

about it. The bitch might try to stop you by saying bullshit like “only three people can use my tab –

I need that money for my medication!” but this just means he needs to be reminded of the privilege

that it is to hang out with you until he agrees to buy everyone at the bar a shot.

Making Fun of Him – Making fun of people is the shit. Not only does it make you look better than

that person, but it’s fucking hilarious. That’s the beauty of having a bitch – you can do pretty much

anything you want to him and five minutes later he’ll be congratulating you on a great joke. For

example, one late drunken night back in College we convinced one of our bitches that if you lost a

game of “hot potato” with a soccer ball, you had to shave one of your eyebrows. Obviously we all

threw the ball softly to each other, until it was time to toss the ball to the bitch. I can still see my bro

standing two feet away from the bitch and winding up with everything he had and pegging the ball.

As the ball ricocheted off his shoulder, his head dropped. He knew what dropping the ball meant in

the sacred bylaws of the game we had invented five minutes earlier, so he took his seat in a chair on

our porch. As we all sat around, watching one of my bros shave his eyebrow with a buzzer normally

reserved for pube-trimming, we realized this was one of the greatest things we’d ever done.We

thought we had seen the last of the bitch, but sure enough the next night he came back 30 rack in

hand to willingly get his other eyebrow shaven - you know, so he wouldn’t look like some sort of

one-eye browed freak. Bros: 1. Bitch: 0.

-Bros Like This Site, May 5, 2010.

The Imperial College student club elections are held on a ubiquitous sunny day in mid Oc-

tober. This is what I have been gearing myself for all year. I am keen but anxious about the

student club elections. Already, I have decided that I will leave Imperial College next year

if I am not elected to the student council. There’s nothing new and nothing exciting I can

learn from Imperial College anymore. It dosen’t seem worth it staying at the place. To-

night is a definite jucture in my road. As stated, I’m keen but anxious. I’m drinking

longnecks of Toohey’s New in my room and listening to Eminem’s Lose Yourself in the

lead up to the student club elections.

The elections of the Imperial College student club begin around 5.30pm with a gathering

of Imperial men in the Imperial College quad. It’s the usual assortment of preppy kids,

wearing rugby shorts and yelling loudly. I’m dressed differently. I wear grey striped

shorts and a pink T shirt with a hot chick and all this writing in French upon it. Everyone

is in the quad, yelling and hoorooing. About ten minutes in, President Clarinet and his

crew walk down to the quad, obviously basking in the glow of their last moments of colle-

gial glory.

President Clarinet carries the rake of St Anthony’s College. Clarinet was a President who

loved giving speeches and he isn’t going to surrender his opportunitty to give one of the

last speeches of his Presidential career. Clarinet walks to the centre of the throng of young

men and holds the rake aloft-

“This year has been a great year for Imperial College! Once again, we have crushed sport,

winning virtually everything! This year we even nearly took out cultural, coming second.

We have fucked up St. Anthony’s College! We have fucked so many chicks and got so

fucking pissed all year! Fuck being a daykid.

Tonight, gentlemen, we show just how glorious we are. Tonight we show this entire fuck-

ing university that Imperial College is the shit! Tonight we burn a rake. Dragon!“
A loud chorus from the crowd surrounding President Clarinet goes up “DRAGON!!!”

With that, President Clarinet places the rake of St Anthony's on the ground. Another dude

douses the rake in kerosense. Then President Clarinet lights a match and throws it down

onto the rake. Rupturous applause and spontaneous shouts of “DRAGON“ sound as the

rake burns.

The rake continues a slow burn until it is a pile of blackened wood and metal on the

pavements of the Imperial College quad. Once we know that the rake is gone and that that

ignonimous and shameful period in collegial history is over, President Clarinet beckons us

onwards once more.

“Now gentlemen, to the JCR!“

Around two hundred and fifty young guys follow President Clarinet to the JCR. The meet-

ing in the JCR is, as usual, rowdy. A lot of alcohol and a lot of yelling and pissy drunk

young men. There is the usual procession of stories of collegiate looseness. Some dude

fucked a chick on an oval. Another dude had a threesome with two chicks from Joan of

Arc College. Some other guy choked a goose to death at the University of Brisbane lakes.

All of these stories are met with cheers of rapturous applause.

After the stories of how wild and rowdy college is, there is the elections. First there is the

election for President. Hoisin Farkley, the captain of the Imperial College debating team,

thinks he has the presidency of Imperial College in the bag. He dosen’t. Everyone at col-

lege has been talking about what a shit cunt he is behind his back. He has no chance of be-

ing president. But he dosen’t know that. Hoisin Farkley gives a speech about what a mad

dawg he is and how much he has done for Imperial College; he was debating captain, he

was a rugby hero, he is a mad cunt rower. Everything that needs to be done to be the pres-

ident of the Imperial College student club really. Or so he thinks. A bunch of different

guys are running to be the Imperial College student club president and the result is really
a lucky dip. The only two guys running without a real prospect are Hoisin Farkley and the

rowing captain/arm breaker Sauce, who somehow thinks he has the credentials to be pres-

ident. I vote for Pissy, a generally friendly rugby jock, for the position of president. In the

end, the position goes to Stallion, a semi-psychotic roid freak rugby jock who loves to

“chop“ people’s rooms. “Chopping“ a room, for those unaware of what it means, refers to

messing up and destroying someone’s room. You know, funny shit like spraying cans of

beer over it, throwing someone’s possessions all over the place, and emptying garbage all

over the room. That kind of stuff is what constitutes a good room chop.

I am a naive fool at this point in my life. I therefore believe I have the chops and the cre-

dentials to be on the Imperial College student executive. Realistically, I have no fucking

chance. People, my friends and acquaintances, have tried to tell me this throughout the

semester. But I haven’t listened to them. My raw ambition has overidden all common

sense. My self delusion has therefore convinced me that I have a good chance of securing

an exec position on this night in October. I don’t.

The first position I am going for is social minister. It’s what I really want to do. Organize

all the parties, organize the ball, be a general collegial mad cunt. I’m nervous and anxious

about running for the position. Imperial College still means a lot to me in a way. Or at

least a part of the place. I like the good kids there, the more wild amongst the college set.

The billy smokers, the ones who aren’t about being with the concencus of Imperial. But

looking around me, I notice something. The kids I have hung around at Imperial, though

by far the most prominent in terms of personality, form a minority in terms of numbers.

By far the largest group at Imperial are the quiet conservative kids. They are the kinds of

people Richard Nixon would have termed the “silent majority“ back in the 70’s when he

was President of the USA. Quiet, brooding tories who don’t really state or say much, be-

cause they don’t feel they need to. But in their numbers, they are the ones who make the

decisions. In Australia, you could term these kinds of people the “Howard Battlers“. They

like people who are quiet and sensibly minded, in a conservative sense of the term, like

themselves. Back in my Imperial College days, I was anything but that.

All people running for social minister are required to give a speech. This is due to the con-

clusion amongst the 2011 executive that the 2010 social minister, Rape And Slaughter, was

a massive shit cunt. Most of the speeches for the 2012 social minister position are stock

standard and follow a pretty predictable pattern. A muscular dude will get up and state

that, next year when he is social minister, things will be very loose and there will be a lot

of sex with Ladie’s College girls. I’ve planned something different. I never did very well

with Ladie’s College girls back when I was at Imperial College. They always seemed a bit

too good and private school girl for me. That and I had made their weekly periodical of

shit blokes, distributed amongst their entire college, for being a weed smoking sleazecunt.

Such is life.

I get up to give my speech. Usually, I am good in front of audiences. I could have spoken

in front of an audience of thousands for hours on end comfortably back when I finished

high school. But an anxiety and nervousness has gripped me regarding giving this particu-

lar speech. I haven’t really done any public speaking for two years. And I’m nervous

about judgement and condemnation from the Imperial College guys. The last thing I want

to be regarded as is a “shit cunt“ by these guys, who once were like heroes to me back

when I came to college pink and virginal. Imperial College boys don’t seem like heroes to

me anymore, they are just normal dudes like everyone else. I don’t even have much regard

or respect for the Imperial College administration. But the good opinion of these guys still

matters enormously to me. A fierce anxiety has therefore gripped me regarding the deliv-

erance of this all important speech. I want to be someone to these guys, I want to be the

best. I am so nervous that I am on my third Toohey’s New longneck so as that I can speak

for these forty seconds. Here fucking goes.

I get up and walk to the front. President Clarinet seems to announce my turn to speak in a

tone of thinly veiled disgust. Whatever. I part my lips and begin my speech-
“Yo dudes, well what will I do if I am elected social minsister. Well it’s gonna be hell

gangsta, hell loose. No hell loootttthhhh (a mocking term for the word „loose“ used at Imperial

College from 2010 to 2011, this explaination part in brackets was not in my speech). There will be

heaps of beer, heaps of chicks, heaps of parties. It’s probably gonna be the most Dragon

fucking year in Imperial College’s entire history. Oh, and my little brother is probably

coming to Imperial College next year. So elect me onto exec so I can make that little moth-

erfucker’s life hell on O Week next year (I wasn’t really going to make my brother’s life hell, I

knew me being on exec or an RA would be the only way my little brother could go to Imperial Col-

lege-He wouldn’t have had as much patience for collegial bullshit as me, and I didn’t have as much

patience for collegial bullshit as most guys there, when I reflect back I was shit at college life).

Cheers cunts.“

A deafening round of applause goes up after I sit down and conclude my speech. Looking

at how my last few weeks at Imperial College panned out and ended, I will never know

whether the applause was genuine or mocking. Or both. Depending on who was applaud-

ing. But in that instant the applause seemed as real and genuine as anything. I was amidst

my brothers. I felt the Dragon resurge within me for a brief moment.

A few minutes later, the position of social minister is announced by President Clarinet.

“Torie Black“.

Not me. Damn. The other positions begin to get announced. They all fall to sports jocks

from the Whitsdundays more or less. I secure no position at all. I guess I had this place

completely wrong, Imperial College. What I was doing, smoking weed and not giving a

motherfuck because YOLO, seemed normal amongst the crowd I was hanging with in

2011. Perhaps it wasn’t, because all I can see around me in the Imperial College JCR are

quiet, nerdy torie types. These are the guys who don’t say much, are pretty much invisi-

ble, but will decide where all chips fall come election day. Richard Nixon’s

“Silent Majority“ straight up boy.

I already know that this is the begginning of the end of my time at Imperial College. Half

the guys elected to the executive do not like me, and I know that. They will give my little

brother hell if he comes to college next year, for the fact that he is the brother of that shit

cunt Texta, and I know that. Besides, my brother’s spent most of Year 12 drinking, playing

computer games, smoking weed, and chasing pussy. He won’t have the marks to get into

a top tier uni like The University of Brisbane next year, let alone a shit Northern Rivers uni

like the profit factory Southern Cross. Due to these factors, it’s obvious my little bro will

never be an Imperial Man. I know that. And maybe I’m not destined to be either. My time

at Imperial College is more or less over, and I know that. All that’s left to do know is

drink, smoke weed, and finish my remaining assignments.

Around half an hour after the new exec are elected, there is the traditional executive in-

ductory nudie run around the quad of Imperial College. As per usual, the exec guys shave

each others heads in wierd and unusual manners before running down into the Imperial

College quad. A massive cheer goes up, then two hundred or so young guys begin peg-

ging rotten fruit, meat, bread, and milk at the new exec. It’s meant to be a humbling excer-

cise, reminding them that they are men, not gods. To all the gods, I wish I was in the posi-

tion those guys were in, having pieces of rotten food pegged at me. The nudie run charade

lasts around five minutes. To show just how awesome they are, the exec even do a second

lap.

After the nudie run, I text around twenty of the boys.

“Come for a sesh on my balcony. My shout“.

Around ten minutes later, ten guys show up. We begin hitting billies on my balcony pub-

licly, blatantly, and openly. I don’t really care if I get caught smoking weed anymore, be-

cause I’m planning on leaving Imperial College anyway. I have basically no classes left for

the whole semester, just exams and assignments, so I don’t even need to be on the UB
campus to finish my work. Kick me out motherfuckers, I dare you. They wouldn’t kick me

out of Imperial College now anyway, I’m still writing their magazine. So I let ten guys ob-

viously smoke weed on my balcony. I was going to let this happen win or lose at the exec

elections. Fucking YOLO.

We smoke my weed until it all runs out. Then Wilson Jr, who is smoking on the balcony

that night, suggests we go and get more buddha. There is another weed dealer at Imperial

College. He had been selling weed at college the whole time I was there on the other side

of Imperial. His name is Charles and he comes from Coffs Harbour in Northern New

South Wales. It’s kind of funny, how all us Northern New South Wales boys ended up

selling the weed at Imperial. Most Queensland public school boys and kids from mid-level

private schools have an attitude against weed and DRUGS. Predminantly, the ganga puff-

ing crowd at Imperial College came from the elite GPS system, with a few public and mid-

level private school grillers here and there. But no kid from a Queensland grammar school

ever sold weed. They either recieved too much money from their family anyway, or

weren’t willing to “risk it for the buscuit“ as they would say. One kid I knew from Rock-

hampton Grammar tried selling weed out of his room at Imperial College for two weeks,

with me sourcing it. He got over it when he didn’t make as big a profit as he thought he

would. Profits are variable for any low level weed dealer, with an ounce costing anywhere

from one hundred and fifty to three hundred bucks, then sold on in smaller packets at any

cost suitable to secure a reasonable profit. In his first two weeks, old mate from Rock-

hampton made a profit of sixty bucks. It was a shit couple of weeks. I told him that if he

presisted there would be benefits. On a good week as a low level college weed dealer you

could make a neat couple hundred dollars. But he wanted none of it. He wasn’t in for the

bad weeks. So he quit and me and Charles remained the dual weed dealers at Imperial

College in 2011.

I decide, screw it, I have been selling weed all year at Imperial College. I have made a fair

bit of cash off these kids anyway. What’s fifty bucks in the scheme of things? Wilson Jr and

I venture to the other side of Imperial College to find Charles. We eventually find Charles,
talking in some room to a bunch of his rugby mates. One of them asks me if we are having

a sesh. Yes we are, I reply. He is free to join if he wants. Another asks whether I’m coming

back to Imperial College next year. No I am not, I reply. No way, no fucking chance. Fuck

that.

The rugby dude who I offered to come to smoke weed in my room, who is also the guy I

voted to be Imperial College President, asks me “But what about all the Groovy’s (his

fresher name) out there? What are they going to do?“

“I don’t know“ I reply “To be honest I don’t give a shit“.

And I really don’t. I’m tired of this thankless bullshit. Source the weed, buy the weed, sell

it for profit. Source the weed, buy the weed, sell it for profit. Source the weed, buy the

weed, sell it for profit. Fuck living in this half criminal commercial hampster wheel. I’m

tired of thanklessly and constantly putting my neck out there for no good reason, and for

people who couldn’t give a shit about me anyway. I don’t even make that much money

when I sell weed anymore, now that I have to match my prices to Charles, but these guys

don’t give a fuck. They never really did.

“What do you think of the new exec Texta?“ prompts another one of the kids, a proudly

racist soccer jock from Dalby, Queensland.

“Hate them. Boring motherfuckers. They are dickheads“ and they were, at least to me an-

yhow “Someone like me, you are going to either love or hate. And I’m pretty sure a lot of

the polo gimps out there hate me“. Add the rest of Imperial College to that, you blind

fucking idiot.

“What school did you go to Texta?“ asks the same guy.

“Ashtonville High“ I reply “It’s a semi-selective public school in Northern New South

Wales“.

What school did you go to? Now that is a classic college question. A lot of people at college

have an intrinsic belief that what school you went to defines you largely as a human being

and maybe they are right. My upbringing at Ashtonville High gave me no preparation at

all for the strange and confounding experience of Imperial College. Kids from Ashtonville

who came to Imperial College usually had one of two paths to follow; they either submit-

ted themselves to the Dragon, or ragequit Imperial College. My mate Mick’s brother, who

was a journalism student, quit Imperial College after six months. He fucking hated the

place. There was another dude from Ashtonville High at Imperial College when I was

there. His fresher name was Bart Simpson, because he had bright blonde hair. Homer

Simpson was a big South African boofhead. He probably came from a very conservative

family, one totally and completely unlike my own haphazard family eeking out an exist-

ence at either end of the Australian middle class, my Dad definitively upper middle class

and my Mum definitively lower middle class. A geology student, Homer Simpson had a

hard on for stratified rocks, war, machine guns, and other forms of weaponary. I’m pretty

sure that when he visited Vietnam he literally paid money to shoot a water buffalo to piec-

es with an AK47. There were photos of him on Facebook pointing an AK47 at some clue-

less exotic cow anyway. I saw him at the Ashtonville Pub on Christmas Eve 2012. I was

high to the eyeballs on weed, booze, and MDMA. He seemed to be mocking me at the end

of 2012 for my aspirations when I was a proud Imperial Man in 2011. But I was past giving

a fuck about my Imperial days by then, I was past giving a fuck about anything to be hon-

est. There were two paths to follow at Imperial College for Ashtonville High boys. I knew

that on that night . Arse kiss or ragequit. I had arse kissed for two years. It had got me

fucking no where. At the end of 2011, it was time to ragequit.

I’ve just mouthed off a fair bit, but I don’t really care anymore. Half of Imperial College

had no problem talking behind my back the whole time I stayed within the glorious build-

ing. I was a weed smoking, weed selling, acid dropping, pill eating scum cunt, so I obvi-
ously deserved it. For two years, I’ve tried to avoid bitching and mouthing off. But I’m

over it. The resentment and hate has been building up within me for two years, and now

the dam banks have burst. Fuck every self righteous corporation kid, neo-cowboy, and

prepster that inhabits this building. I am so beyond giving a shit.

Wilson Jr and I head back to my room. We start lighting up my glass bong and smoking

weed again with around ten other dudes. But as soon as the weed runs out, every guy

hanging out in my room fucks off quick smart. I pass out alone, thinking of the new exec

partying and basking in their newfound glory twenty minutes down the road at the Dun-

der.

Chapter 27-Say Goodbye Hollywood-

feel like I'm walking a tight rope, without a circus net

I'm popping percocets, I'm a nervous wreck

I deserve respect; but I work a sweat for this worthless check

Bout to burst this tech, at somebody to reverse this debt

Minimum wage got my adrenaline caged

Full of venom and rage

Especially when I'm engaged

And my daughter's down to her last diaper

That's got my ass hyper

I pray that god answers, maybe I'll ask nicer

Watching ballers while they flossing in their pathfinders

These overnight stars becoming autograph signers

We all long to blow up and leave the past behind us

Along with the small fry's and average half pinters

While player haters turn bitch like they have vaginas

Cause we see them dollar signs and let the cash blind us
Money will brainwash you and leave your ass mindless

Snakes slither in the grass spineless

-Eminem, Rock Bottom, 1997.

The next morning, a feeling of freedom flows over me. I’m no longer constrained by the

demands and expectations of life at Imperial College. It’s all over. The game is up. I can do

what I want. Plus I have three thousand bucks saved up in my bank account, money that I

was going to use to pay to stay at Imperial College in 2012, but money that is now all mine

to spend.

That morning, I go and purchase a bunch of shit. My money is now mine, and not col-

lege’s. I buy a fat ounce of bush ganga, a heap of clothes, some “synthetic weed“ that goes

by the brand name “Zeus“, and a big blue glass hookah. There is now no way at all I can

return to college in 2012. I don’t have the money anymore. Aw Damn!

When I’m buying clothes, I even have a bitch about one of my customers, a Rockhampton

Grammar boy by the name of Timmo. Timmo is a long haired stoner who wears classic

21st century druggo apparel, backward caps, khakis, and Kid Cudi T shirts. He is always

hostile and aggressive towards me when I’m round him. I really have no idea why. For

some reason, he took a disliking to me very early on though. Maybe because I tried to rip

him off for some weed. Yeah, that was probably it precisely. Makes sense. Whatever. I had

a monopoly back then. Capitalism bitch. Imperial College loves that mentality. Timmo

wasn’t taking any risks by driving ounces of weed in his car through Brisbane after all.

Apparently Timmo used to have a hard dick for the chick who works at the surf shop I’m

buying some singlets from, or so she informs me. But now its awkward between them.

Plus Timmo is always getting stoned. I know, I tell her, such a stoner. Fuck Timmo. I don’t

like him and he dosen’t like me. Little does Miss Private School know that I’m probably at
least as bigger stoner as Timmo. Plus he’s buying all of his weed off me. Ah, the delicious

irony of it all.

I spend that afternoon getting stoned at Ned’s. Ned has the afternoon off work and I’m

honestly kind of sick of being around Imperial College, or I’m just finding the place

straight up stupid and irrelevant. It’s a lovely afternoon in Milton. The weed and the sun-

light dancing between the trees in Ned’s backyard makes me forget that Imperial College

exists at all.

That night I return to Imperial College, content to spend my last few weeks here just

chilling and relaxing. I linger stoned in my room for the afternoon, enjoying the sun and

the sunset. Around 7pm, I hear a knock on my door. It’s Davo and his mates. They didn’t

come for the sesh last night and they want to get stoned tonight. I’m feeling generous so

yeah, whatever. We all get ripped as shit on my balcony in full public view of everyone

and everything. Imperial College boys, conservative rule obeyers, walk back and forth

from the gym. They look at the spectacle going on on my balcony. They are clearly uncom-

fortable with it but they can’t really say or do anything. Fuck them.

I enjoy the sesh that night. It’s chilled as fuck. But then the next night they come, wanting

more freee weed. I’ve been selling weed all year to them so, yeah, I oblige them. Then they

come the next night, and the night after that. All of these nights, I’m expecting some kind

or form of reciprocation. Amongst my mates in Northern New South Wales, we had a sys-

tem with weed, alcohol, and cigarettes we termed the “Boomerang“. It was generally

acknowledged on the Northern Rivers that he who had beers, ganaga, or durries when

others didn’t shared with his mates on common principle. Weed, alcohol, and cigarettes

would then “Boomerang“ back to those who gave them. The Karmic winds and the youth

ideology of the Northern Rivers generally dictated that he who shared any method of get-

ting fucked up below hard drugs with his mates would recieve compensation back. Bud-

dha dictated the terms of the Buddha.

But Imperial College was a different place and a different culture. Those who shared their

drugs at Imperial College were generally considered weak cunts, poor bastards ripe for

exploitation. Imperial College loved a drug dealer. Drug dealers were considered an ex-

treme form of the capitalist dream at Imperial College, those so committed to profit that

they were willing to resort to illegal means to achieve it. But drug users were another mat-

ter. Drug users were silly pricks. They were emotionally weak, desperate motherfuckers. It

was therefore was logical to strip them of everything you could before moving on. I did it

to a few people when I was at the height of selling weed, but got over it. Something

seemed off kilter about it.

Capitalism is indeed a system that loves a drug lord and hates his clientele. Think of all

the classic gangster films like Scarface and Goodfellas. Tony Montana and Henry Hill were

depicted as partial heroes, despite their criminal mindsets and mentalities through the first

half of those movies. That is, until they started putting their own product up their noses.

Then they transformed from capitalist heroes to druggo losers. The Hollywood playbook,

which is heavily intertwined with the ethics of capitalism, loves a drug dealer but hates an

addict.

Hunter S. Thompson, when running for sherriff of Aspen County in Colorado in 1970,

called for the decriminalization of all drugs in the Aspen area. But he said the following of

drug profiteers “It will be the general philosophy of the sheriff's office that no drug worth

taking shall be sold for money. My first act as sheriff will be to install on the sheriff's lawn

a set of stocks to punish dishonest dope dealers“. That’s a statement I tend to agree with

strongly these days. I love drugs, but bringing the capitalist mentality to the drug scene is

what truly fucks it up. It destroys all the good vibes that illicit drugs tend to create among

people in the right mindset.

I’m kind of hoping, on some vain and abstractive sense of counterculture moralism, that

Davo and his mates will eventually decide of their own violition that they’ve had enough

free weed. But maybe Karma dictates I deserve this. I have been a dishonest dope dealer.
Whatever. After five nights of those guys seshing on my balcony, I get jack of Davo and

his mates coming round. I decide that I’m going to piss off from Imperial College for a few

days, maybe a few weeks, or however long I want really. Without telling anyone at college

of my plans, I pack a suitcase, head to my car, and drive off.

Reg has scored a bunch of X pills. So I go to Reg’s in South Brisbane, eat a dinger, and play

Mario Kart Wii. This is a lot better as a scene than college. We end up smoking weed and

talking shit all night until I end up vommitting in Reg’s backyard. YOLO bitch.

The next night there is some random house party for indie kids hosted in South Brisbane. I

decide to take the two remaining X pills I have brought off of Reg and go there instead of

back to college. I end up eating the two pills, drinking a dozen beers, smoking five joints,

and passing out around 5am in a random house in Woolongabba. The next day I awake

still not ready to return to college, so I decide to drive down to Northern New South

Wales. I’ve also lost my phone, but I don’t really give a fuck. Who gives a shit about a

phone? Nothing really matters anyway. Not college, not my “reputation“, not a phone, not

anything.

I hang out in Northern New South Wales smoking weed basically twenty four hours a day

for around four days on end. After four days, I decide to start attempting to sober up. But I

notice something in that morning of horrible sobrierty. Life seems fucking horrible, aim-

lesss, and pointless. I’ve been gearing my entire life for two years towards a petty and

pointless goal I didn’t even achieve. I feel like I’ve just wasted two whole years of my life

at Imperial College carrying on like a headless chook.

I need to clear my head, so I decide to go the beach. The beach is in Ballina, fifteen minutes

from my Mum’s house in Ashtonville, so I begin driving there. On the exit from Ashton-

ville onto the highway, I start lighting a cigarette. I’ve begun smoking durries regularly

now. It allows me to clear my head and forget reality with each puff. As I light the ciga-
rette, I begin turning onto the highway. At that moment, my car is nearly side swiped by a

semi-trailer truck.

I don’t get hit by the truck. But it is in that instant that a strange thought goes through my

head. What if the semi-trailer did hit my car, crushing it and crushing me? Wouldn’t that

be a fucking relief. I’m hating my brain at this point, the fucker just keeps talking. It won’t

shut the fuck up. If that truck hit me, I would be dead, gone, oblivion. Shit, then I wouldn’t

feel so fucking insignificant, I wouldn’t think of anything. Wouldn’t that be fantastically

convenient. A truck crushing me out of all existence and shutting my chattering fucking

brain the fuck up. Shit, I might even get an entire page on the next Imperial College peri-

odical telling everyone how great and fantastic I was.

I light the cigarette and turn onto the highway. Death. Death dosen’t seem that bad at this

moment and in this instant. I’ve been feeling pointless and worthless for the last week. It’s

an indescribable feeling of existential despair and emptiness. And death would end all

those feelings. None of these nagging questions of morals, of wrong and right, of not

knowing what to believe or think anymore. Just a comforting and endless nothingness,

complete and all embracing.

If I were to properly end this bullshit though, how would I do it? Surely, I have some good

connections within the drug world from my two years of selling weed. Maybe I could

track down some Special H. I’d buy the smack, rent a hotel room somewhere isolated and

ubiquitous, shoot the heroin in an overdose amount, a hot shot, and drift off into a blissful

opiate delirium. That kind of death would surely live up to the reputation I’ve built and

constructed for myself at college over the last two years. Texta the rock star, going out the

way he lived. Or maybe I could go out like a Roman general or Samurai warlord of old.

Hari Kari. Grab a butcher’s blade and force the fucker right through my stomach. A true

warrior’s death. Call me a coward or scum after that you cowboy cunts, I dare you.
Not cowardly? But that’s the essential truth behind it, isn’t it? Death is always the cow-

ard’s way out. When everything seems pointless and stupid, when life no longer makes

any sense, the true soldier and the true warrior holds on for dear life and rides it out. And

that’s what I feel like I’ll have to do. Life is seeming stupid and meaningless, but I’ll be

fucked all the way to a warped pentacostal Christian hell if this world defeats me. As I

drive down the hinterland to the Ballina coastal plains, Eminem’s Say Goodbye Hollywood

is blasting over the stereo, seeming to mirror my feelings and sentiments exactly-

Bury my face in comic books, cause I don't want to look

At nothin', this world's too much

I've swallowed all I could

If I could swallow a bottle of tylenol I would, and end it for good

Just say goodbye to Hollywood

I probably should, these problems are piling all at once

Cause everything that bothers me, I got it bottled up

I think i'm bottomin' out

But i'm not about to give up, I gotta get up

Eminem, alongside Julius Caesar, was my childhood hero. He still is one of my heroes, in a

way. I don’t know if I really have heroes anymore. Heroes seem like a trife and simplistic

concept to me these days. Everyone who I have ever idolized, considered a role model, or

considered a hero, has proven themselves to be just another human being at the end of the
day. Another human being with the same imperfections, insecurities, fears, and flaws that

define us all as people. Eminem, Julius Caesar, Tupac Shakur, Hunter S. Thompson, and

Paul Keating were just that at the end of the day. Just human beings and people like me,

like everyone I guess.

I’m seeing Eminem that December in Sydney. It’s something I’ve been waiting and eager

to do my entire life, or since I purchased my first Eminem CD when I was ten. Eminem’s

music always spoke to me on a wierd level. Like me, Eminem is a ubiquitous and inconse-

quential white guy who could see all the stuff that was going on around him, and he

couldn’t make sense of it. Because, at the end of the day, everything in the universe is kind

of manically nuts and everything in existence is in some state of strange nonsense. Some

people don’t realize that I guess, or ignore any implication that this conclusion on exist-

ence may be the case. Some people do realize it but conceal the fact that they know every-

thing is bullshit and nonsense rather successfully. As an individual, you are in serious

trouble in the instant you realize everything is nonsense and stupid, but you lack the so-

cial tact or awareness to realize that you are going to freak people the fuck out by saying

so publicly. Eminem was one of the guys who lacked that awareness I guess. And so am I.

That’s why I relate to him as much, if not more, at twenty years old then I did when I was

ten. See-Jerry Jackson-Linkin Park-Youtube.

I eventually arrive at the beach, still scatter headed as fuck. What’s the point of college,

life, the Dragon, fucking anything really? It’s all strange and stupid to me now, life and

being. I go for a jog on the beach, up and down, up and down. Back in 2007 a kid from my

high school died surfing at this beach, Lighthouse Beach in Ballina. A bullshark bit him in

the leg, ripped through an arterie, and he bled to death in the surf. He was a nice kid. A

friendly, unassuming Christian dude. Not an enemy in the world. Why is the world so

fucked that nice kids like him are dead and ambitious, vindictive scumbags like me are

still living? By all rights I shouldn’t be living if he is dead. The world is just fucked I guess.
Eventually I get sick of jogging and decide to go for a dip in the ocean. The cold saltwater

and the sensation of immersion within it is refreshing. It clears my head and vanishes all

thoughts running through it. But then I emege from the water again. One million thoughts

assault and assail my mind again, like one million invisible harpies swooping from the

vast skies above and damning me for the very fact that I am still living on this pointless

fucking planet within this pointless fucking universe. Fuck this.

I head back to the beach, grab my towel, and dry off. I look up to the sky. Countless plan-

ets, star systems, and galaxies are out there. I am but a speck on this miserable planet. I

then stare out towards the ocean. Countless whales, fish, octopus, and whatever else are

out in those endless expanses of blue ahead of me. They are going about their animal lives.

They don’t give a fuck about me and my useless and pointless fucking life. Two years of

which I have wasted psychologically sucking the collective dicks of a bunch of private

school boys, wasting my life and life force for a useless and pointless elitist culture. Fuck

this and fuck them.

I get in my car, my shoulders set to slump. I turn on the keys and ignition and drive home.

As soon as I get home, I have a bong. Conservatives may like to tell me weed is bad shit.

But being stoned is sure better then dealing with the fucked thoughts running through my

brain.

After around a week on the North Coast, I return to Imperial College. But I’m not enjoying

the place. I’m finding everything about it essentially and fundamentally stupid. I get vir-

tually no enjoyment from any of the parties I go to.

One of my last party nights at Imperial College is the Imperial-Ladie’s Wedding Exchange.

To me, the entire night just seems like a constant assault of the bullshit I’ve tolerated for

these last two years but can no longer take. I’ve been feeling dejected and lonely at college

ever since I lost the student elections. My “friends“ have been turning on me, I’m paranoid

when I turn a corner, and the dorky private school boys have been especially vicious, tear-
ing little shreds out of my rapidly deteriorating ego whenever and wherever they can. To

me, every guy at Imperial College seems like a human wolf or vulture, waiting to tear me

apart for a personal shred of psychic meat by which to sate and feed their own egos. It’s a

crock of fucking shit and, what’s more, I don’t feel it’s all „”just in my head“. Well, maybe

it is “all in my head“. In the end, everything and all of existence is in everyone’s own

heads. We create our perceptions of life, our personal definitions of what is wrong and

right, all in our heads. Every interpretation of life is unique and based on what is “in our

heads“. College, however, seemed to impose an idea of a universal truth marrying Neolib-

eralism with the ethic of Make Money Biatch Christianity. Such a black and white view of

reality was seeming increasingly retarded to me by the end of 2011.

I once thought that that particular view of reality could sustain me forever. I’m now see-

ing it won’t and can’t. On the way to the Imperial-Ladie’s College Wedding Exchange I

notice a bunch of bullshit that would have probably just slipped under my radar around a

month ago. Sauce has a plastic toy sword. He is on the piss. Sauce goes fucking wild on

the piss, to the extent that he occassionally breaks people’s arms. Ah well. Boys will be

boys!

Sauce starts whacking random nerdy looking daykids who look like they won’t punch

him back with the sword. He’s really going for it too. He’s whipping them in the face,

smacking them with the plastic sword until they run in terror. I think one of the dorky

looking daykids even draws blood. What the fuck? All the other guys around me are

laughing about this evidently hilarious behaviour. I can’t draw out laughter, or even feign

it. I may have found this funny once, but I can’t seem to now.

At one point, I’m walking ahead of Sauce. He asks me if I want to be penetrated with the

sword. Jokingly, I reply “YEP. STRAIGHT UP THE ARSE CUNT!“

I don’t know why I reply like that. It’s like my survival instincts at Imperial College have

vanished. Imperial College from 2010 to 2011, by the standards of the general Australian
communitty, was an extremely homophobic institution. In a Roy Morgan survey conduct-

ed in 2011, 68 percent of the Australian communitty stated open support for gay marriage.

At Imperial College, I would conservatively estimate that less than forty percent of stu-

dents supported the notion that the government would condone two men fucking each

other in the arse with a legal certificate. Homophobia was rife to Imperial College to such

an extent that it was dangerous to even “come out“ as a supporter of gay marriage. Right

wingers typically assume that every viewpoint a person holds is essentially self interested.

The general concencus at Imperial College was that he who supported gay marraige had

to be gay by logical extension. Why would a heterosexual support the notion of two dudes

fucking? That shit is gross. To not respond with righteous rage and indignation to what

Sauce said was therefore, by Imperial College standards, a grave and stupid mistake on

my behalf.

One time, when I was smoking a joint with a former Imperial College friend of mine from

Towoomba Grammar, I happened to mention that I supported gay marriage. He obviously

thought there was something divergenet about what I had said and stated in response

“Do you know that the fags brought AIDS to the human race? Those sick bastards were all

fucking chimps and then they fucked dudes. Some of those dudes were bisexual and they

fucked chicks. So now the whole human race has AIDS because of the fags. Fuck them“.

I honestly believe that, towards the end of 2011, there was a rumour going round Imperial

College that I was gay. I sensed the rumor going about and a different, and distant, vibe

eminating from guys who had previously been my friends. It is true that I didn’t get as

much pussy as the average tuff cunt rugby boy at Imperial College. It is also true that, in

the eyes of National Party country boys, my love of things such as literature, underground

music, cannabis, and LSD seemed urbane and effeminate. But the notion that I want to

fuck men, as much as it hurt me emotionally at the time, seems laughable to me in the pre-

sent. I know what I masturbate to, even if the real thing occurs in admittedly sparse

amounts for me.

There were guys at Imperial College who were gay in retrospect. Like Trafford, a South-

port School boy who a lot of the girls from the other colleges were comfortable being

around. As such, Trafford often got invited to college balls. Or Daniel, a guy from the

Middle of Nowhere, Queensland, who I noticed had started attending gay club nights in

Brisbane a few years after he left Imperial College. And a few of the over eager rugby boys

and sports lads did, in retrospect, seem a little too keen about tackling and being in

scrums. On one night at Imperial College, there was an underwear party, with only guys. I

played along with it at the time and didn’t think about it too much, because I was in the

college vibe and I was drunk. But, looking back, a few of the guys there were probably

wearing two pairs of undies so as to conceal their erections.

There were definetly gay dudes at Imperial College. But the fact is, in a conservative cul-

ture like Imperial College’s country Queensland vibe, coming out as gay is social, and pos-

sibly literal, suicide. I came from an open and inclusive culture on the New South Wales

North Coast. If I was gay, I would have told my parents as soon as I masturbated to my

first shirtless dude at thirteen. Then I would have proudly sucked a big fat cock the next

day. But many country boys from conservative cultures do not have that luxury. If they

are gay, they will probably need to suck it up and pretend not to be so their entire lives,

for their family’s honour and reputation. Most of the rich, conservative country homos

will probably marry pretty girls, and in doing so deny that girl an opportunitty to be

fucked properly by a horny heterosexual.

Despite how fucked this situation is, it is better for most conservative country lads then

coming out as gay. For if they do that, they risk ostracism and exclusion from their friends,

their family, and everyone they have known their entire lives. Mantaining the illussion of

heterosexuality is therefore probably the best option for country dick suckers. Enough of

that anyway. It’s fucked that in 21st century Australia there are still places where you can’t

come out as a supporter of gay marriage, let alone gay.

As thoughts like this swell and circulate in my head, I continue marching with Sauce and

his mates to Trotsky Square, where the exchange with the Ladie’s College is to be held.

The circus continues as we walk through the University of Brisbane backstreets to Trotsky

Square. Sauce finds a nerdy looking university proffessor type, a dude with a long beard,

long hair, and nerdy glasses. Hilariously, Sauce then proceeds to whip the dude across the

face with the plastic sword. Everyone around me is cheering and laughing as the nerdy

proffessor dude runs in terror. I try to laugh like I once would have, but I can’t force a

laugh out anymore. Next thing Tennyson Heinrichs, an Anglican Church Grammar boy

and the 2013 Imperial College student club Vice President, joins in on the spectacle. He

jumps up on the car of some helpless day kid, and kicks out the front window. Everyone

cheers as the glass shatters. But I can’t seem to force out a cheer anymore.

I arrive at Trotsky Square around five minutes after everyone from Imperial College has

showed the other University of Brisbane students just how dominant we are. I buy a jug of

beer and a pack of durries and head to a corner that is as far away from everyone as possi-

ble. I start smoking a durrie, anger and disillisionment clearly visible on my face. But pret-

ty soon I’m surrounded by a bunch of my fresher “friends“. All the freshers are asking for

my cigarettes like circling ibis. I just roll them out. Fuck it, what does it matter. What does

anything matter really? At one point in Trotsky Square when I’m giving out durries like

tic tacs, some stupid private school slut begins mocking me. She has that disgusting vibe

all these snotty private school girls have, and a screeching high pitched voice that is more

American then Australian. As I’m giving out my Malboro Golds to my Imperial College

“friends“, she starts screeching-

„YEAH TEXT! GIVE THEM CIGARETTES TEXT!“

I am so fucking sick of these stupid preppy whores. Just months before, I would have

loved to have a girlfriend from the Ladie’s College. I was convinced that Ladie’s was a

righteous place and that a girlfriend who attended that institution was indeed desirable.

But now I’m beyond giving a fuck about any of these arrogant whores, especially if they
see it fit to mock me. I don’t even want a college girlfriend anymore. Give me a tattooed,

fake titted, cocaine snorting stripper slut over a college bitch any day. I’m jack of these

girls, these people, and their shit. So I respond as quickly and brutally as possible to this

squealing little skank-

“Fuck off you stupid slut“ I say quietly but assertively.

She has a brain aneurism. The stupid, fake whore starts gasping and being all like “What?

WHAT?! What did you say to ME?!“

“I said you are a stupid slut“ I reply.

She’s still gasping in disbelief. But fuck her. And fuck the Ladie’s College. I really couldn’t

give a shit about what those girls think of me anymore. Later on, the college party pro-

gresses to some buses that are due to go to the city. I’ve given out every fucking durry I

have that night by then, an entire pack. Near the buses, two Imperial College rugby boys

with a thinly veiled sense of hate towards me begin talking to me like a pair of facetious

cunts. They start going on abut how I was “one vote off social minister“. Then, they start

talking shit about “how many Ladie’s College girls do you get with, bro?“. Virtually fuck-

ing none. But then again it is none of your motherfucking business, you preppy pricks.

I’m feeling agitated and ill at ease by the time I finally get on a bus to Brisbane city. My

head is spinning in fucking circles again. I’m sick of being around all these college mother-

fuckers. This year, the Imperial “bucks party“ is hosted at a topless bar in the city. All the

boys are loud, rowdy, and drunk. Imperial College’s contingent gets kicked out of the bar

around ten minutes after getting there. Maybe it was because the guys were groping the

tits and arses of the topless waitresses. Maybe its because two hundred boys yell “Get

your cunt out for the boys“ as the strip show goes on. Who knows?
Whatever. We arrive at The Embassy Hotel, where we are meeting up with the Ladie’s

College girls. I manage to get drunk enough to quell my anxieties and hook up with one

well known college slut on the dancefloor. Big monay Bo$$ rolling playa niggaaaa.

I stay out till around 3am. Along with a bunch of first year Imperial College stoners, I end

up getting a cab back to college. I remember that the talk in the cab is of the hyper-

nostalgic variety. Everyone is going on about their best times at college. About this party

or that party. About that hot chick we fucked, that time we got really stoned on the jetty,

or that one college party where we all got shitfaced.

Everyone in this cab is leaving college. College, as an environment, had become increas-

ingly hostile over recent months towards weed and those involved in the smoking of the

green herb. 2012 was the centennary year of Imperial College. Stoners were not to be wel-

come in the proud hundredth year of Imperial College’s existence. Imperial College in

2011 had a significant weed culture to the extent that the college had a growing reputation

as the ganga college amongst the other University of Brisbane colleges. Imperial boys were

becoming known as the hippies of the Brisbane college scene.

At the centre of this notorious weed scene, at one of its focal points, was me. Texta, the

dirty and scummy weed dealing cunt from Ashtonville, middle of nowhere, New South

Wales. It seemed to me at that point in time that Imperial College as an institution had de-

cided that the bud smokers had to alter their behaviour, or leave. I’d decided that if some-

one, or rather something, was going to tell me what to do I was going to leave it behind. I

didn’t want to change my behaviour for something I was increasingly begginning to re-

gard as a mere building. Everyone in the cab that night had more or less decided the same

thing. If we had to change to be part of college, then we didn’t want to be a part of college.

We all knew that subconciously. On a concious level, everyone is trying to make the best

of this bullshit situation though. So we sit in the cab, talking shit about what was, what is,

and what could have been. College is over for all of us but we are trying to savour what

good memories we can.

Eventually, we all get out of the cab. Once out, I encounter some real hyper-collegial

pricks. Gimps is what the guys in the cab would call them. In all, it took me around two

years to realize that the college/private school system, it’s implied aims and it’s implied

aspirations, was complete and utter bullshit. Many of the non-gimpy kids who came to

college were guys who had already realized this. College gimps are the real hard out re-

tards who believe in the aims and aspirations of the college and private school world.

They believe in stupid and artificial shit like “the Dragon“, rowing, the Liberal Party of

Australia, and their own inherent superiority to the rest of the Australian population be-

cause their parents had enough cash money to place them in a trumped up sandstone

building. These two gimps wear standard rich boy college attire, polo shirts and chinos. I

didn’t mind these guys earlier in the year, but they don’t like me. For I am a useless weed

smoking hippie cunt with no moral compass aren’t I?

The two guys go by the names of Steve “Karnet“ Stone and Fraser “Special“ Wilters. Col-

lege was not a place where individualism was encouraged or welcome. Though I didn’t

really know it, I stuck out like a bleeding axe wound on the surface of Imperial College.

My taste in Nikes, psychadelic T shirts, swaglord caps, cannabis, LSD, and American rap

music was an abhoration in an institution that had an erection for polo shirts, boater

shoes, rugby, beers, and non offensive forms of white people music. Karnet and Special

are two kids who strived for college conformity and acceptability with a reckless abadon.

I‘m pissed off at Karnet especially. I know it on good knowledge that he has been talking

behind my back to the tradies he works with. Karnet’s Dad owns a wielding shed in South

Brisbane. I have friends from all walks of life. And many of my stoner mates work for

Karnet’s Dad. Apparently, Karnet was once working with some of my mates. His Dad, in

addition to his university degree and college tuition fees, had given Karnet a job as a

wielder’s apprentice. Some kids just have it pretty good I guess. Anyway, I have it on

good knowledge that Karnet has been talking behind my back. One of my friends at Kar-
net’s work mentioned that he knew me. Karnet’s first response on hearing this was “Yeah

man, he’s an awkward cunt hey“.

“Well no“ replied my tradie mate “He’s one of my best mates“.

Karnet is a bitch, straight up. I’ve had enough booze tonight to drive me to rage. The very

sight of Karnet drives me to anger. I start pushing him, agitating him. Special is stating

that the chick I hooked up with earlier tonight is up at the kebab shop, Mr. Deno’s. I don’t

care. I don’t ever want to fuck one of these stupid college bitches ever again. So I just keep

pushing and shoving Karnet, egging him on to fight. I want to fight him. I want to grab his

stupid fucking egg shaped head, with that gimpy conservative smile, punch it in, then

throw him down to the curb. Perhaps I can then place his face on the curb, raise my leg,

and bring my foot down hard on Karnet’s head. As Karnet’s brains and teeth lie on the

pavement, and a trail of warm blood pulsates out of his mouth, I will scream triumphantly

“VICTORY CUNTS! MOTHERFUCKING VICTORY!“

But, of course, that dosen’t happen. Nothing happens. I just shove and push Karnet until it

becomes clear that he won’t throw the first punch. There will be no fight tonight. Ah well,

probably for the best. I end up giving it up and going to bed.

I spend the next three days smoking cones in my college room and doing assignments. At

the end of the three days it is Imperial Conclusion 2011. I guess that’s an accurate name for

it, especially in my situation. This is the conclusion of Imperial College for me ideological-

ly, socially, and literally. There is no colour and joy for me that entire night. The Dragon is

now a fetid corpse within my mind, diseasing and plauging me. And I am too. Merely a

corpse and a traveller moving through the sandstone lands of the zombies.

Before Imperial Conclusion there is the “Valedictory Dinner“. The Imperial College Vale-

dictory Dinner celebrates those who have “contributed so much to Imperial College“. Ba-

sically, it celebrates those who have stayed at Imperial College for three years or more. In
retrospect, the ability to stay at a place as wierd and intense as college for three or more

years seems like a champion effort to me. Good on those who managed to do it. There was

no way I could have.

I’m lost and friendless at the Valedictory Dinner, and end up being seated next to a bunch

of college lovers. Their ringleader for the night is Kicksy, an ultra-racist Imperial College

RA from Cairns and someone who once tried to bring me into the college fold, but has

now clearly given up. Kicksy, in his time, said a lot of shit I didn’t agree with over lunches

and dinners in the Imperial College dining hall. I kept my mouth shut, because he had

more power than me at Imperial.

Kicksy would brag about fighting and punching Aboriginals, but I kept my mouth shut. I

wasn’t an Aboriginal. Kicksy expressed disadain and anger that there were so many “fags

and homos“ in his architecture course over at QUT, but I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t a

fag or a homo. Kicksy loved to rant about the boat people and about how Australia should

stop the boats, but I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t a boat person or refugee. Kicksy got on

his high horse about the “stupid cunts“ at Imperial College and how they were wrecking

the Imperial College culture, but I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t a stupid cunt in his eyes.

Or at least I thought I wasn’t. A few days before, over dinner at Imperial College, I had fi-

nally got sick of Kicksy’s shit. Kicksy was talking to Stallion, the President Elect of Imperi-

al College or 2012, about just how great it was that someone like Stallion had been elected

to the Imperial College presidency. Kicksy thinks it’s great because Stallion is all ripped

and tuff and stuff and represents what a “real Imperial Man should be“. Not like that arty

fuck of a President Clarinet. Stallion thanks Kicksy for his sentiments and states that he

will indeed make a good Imperial College Student Club President. He fucked four chicks

in the last four nights and also managed to force three prospective freshers into leaving

Imperial College when he was on O Week in 2011. Ah, what a lad. I’m sick of these two

and those kinds of attitudes. I tell them to get fucked and tell Kicksy that all he really

wants is a President “Who is all abouuuutt the gaaaiiiinnss brahhhh“. Then I leave the
dinner table abruptly. What a pair of proud and rampant pricks. Adolf and Goebbels 2011.

They will give my little brother hell if he ever comes to Imperial College. So I know He

can’t come to the place anymore.

Kicksy, angry at my lip from a few days before, is out for revenge that night. Conse-

quentely, the Valedictory Dinner is a living hell for me. Kicksy and his lackeys swarm on

me like a pack of hungry hyenas, tearing shreds from the bones of my already shattered

and lacklustre ego. They are questioning me about everthing in my life. I’m the centre of

attention at this table, but not in a good way at all. They ask me how many chicks I have

fucked. I awkwardly and in an obvious lie say twelve, doubling my tally. I don’t know

why I do it but I do. I’m a terrified animal I guess. Mass laughter all around me. After

questioning me about my sex life, nonexistent for the last two months, Kicksy and Co. give

me shit about selling weed, asking stupid and deliberately nonsenical questions about the

weed business. It’s all to mock me and I know it. That’s an essential part of the culture at

Imperial College, insult culture. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but that’s some-

thing I’m just not handling anymore, insult culture. “Banter“ they call it, these pricks with

their constant need to vampirically feed their egos at the expense of others. Next it’s on to

LSD. Kicksy and the boys trap me into talking about acid, then all laugh when I do so. I’m

a living, breathing, fucking joke. Someone shoot me, or strangle me, or burn me alive. An-

ything is better then this dinner with this bunch of arseholes. Their very presence makes

prime rib steak, good red wine, and cheesecake taste terrible. By the end of the dinner,

Kicksy and his mates have apparently decided what my little brother’s fresher name will

be. They decide on it, whispering it in full view in front of me. Cool.

On stage, the usual procession of proud collegial events are occuring while I am the focal

point of “banter“ at my table. Proud college men, champions of almost one hundred years

of illustrious history, are pronounced and talked about on stage. Guys recieve bursaries

and scholarships. They walk on stage, academic gowns around them, with proud looks

upon their faces. I’m meant to be there on stage, recieving a scholarship. But I turned it

down. It was the Someone Whoever Scholarship For Students From Lower Income Back-
grounds. The Scholarship that goes to the povo cunt students basically. Essentially, the

scholarship was worth around three hundred bucks and given to “students in financial

need“. I considered the scholarship more of an insult then an honour to recieve. When I

refused the Someone Whoever Scholarship in the Imperial College Deaputy Headmaster’s

Office a few days before the Valedictory Dinner, I accidentally slammed the glass office

door as I left. I could see a look of abhorent shock on the face of Deaputy Headmaster

James Taylor. He hadn’t expected that kind of reponse at all. But slamming the door was

something that just happened, like a subconcious reflexive action. I couldn’t help my feel-

ings and I couldn’t control my response.

The whole Valedictory Dinner passes like a depressing blur for me, probably because I am

a little drunk. Everything seems stupid and meaningless as President Clarinet gives his

speech about how Imperial is the “greatest college in Australia“ and everyone else around

me cheers loudly. I probably should have gone to Federation College. Fuck this. After din-

ner, one of the guys who was seated at my table assures me that everything that was said

over dinner was “just a bit of banter“. Yeah, righto fucko, whatever.

After the Valedictory Dinner, it is the official party for Imperial College’s end of year

mastrubation session-Imperial College Conclusion. Imperial College Conclusion 2011

seems like a festival of the dead to me that night. Charles, the other drug dealer at Imperi-

al College, is selling estascy pills before Conclusion. I decide to buy some because I’m in

such a shitty mood that booze just won‘t make this bullshit party enjoyable for me. It’s the

same faces, with the same pretensions, and the same bullshit. There is nothing special or

exceptional about any of these kids. There is nothing special or exceptional about this par-

ty.

I snort the estascy pills with Wharfie and Anal before Conclusion. Except the estascy

dosen’t make anything good, or anything special. Just a lot of flashing lights and amped

up pop music seems to exxageratte itself as I wander through the stupidity and emptiness.
Starships Were Meant To Fly indeed. Everyone seems to be having a great time, or at least

they are pretending to. I’m a fucking mess that night, I can’t lie.

I have two conversations with Imperial boys that night, conversations that highlight how

far from the college mentality I have begun drifting. Imperial College boys were typically

raised amongst grammar schools and private boarding schools. That was their world. I

was raised amidst the Northern Rivers drug culture. That was my world.

I’m feeling lost and destitute and I’m wondering what to do with my life. The first conver-

sation I have is with James Gilliam, an English expat and Queensland private school boy

with an interest in history and the ancient world mirroring my own. James had been

raised in grammar schools and private schools. He knew how to navigate the college

world successfully, for that was his world. I talk to James for a while about how I’m in-

creasingly viewing college and it’s strange subculture as bullshit. I just want to chill with

some rad hippies and smoke weed. Nah mean? James tells me I need to quit smoking bud

and return to college next year. Fuck that. He just dosen’t get it. I wander off like the walk-

ing zombie I have become.

Next I talk to McNamara. McNamara is a hulking Towoomba Grammar boy. His attitude

and vibe resembles something like a young Bob Katter. Bob Katter, for those not raised in

Straya, is the one of the most notable and aggressively conservative Australian politicians

of the 2010’s. Katter loves the farms, loves the manufacuring, and distrusts the fags, hip-

pies, and the Greens. Bob Katter’s North Queensland country vibe, complete with the an-

tics of wearing a big arse cowboy hat to parliament in Canberra, impresses and inspires

many of the country boy types that populate the halls of Imperial College.

McNamara is a true cowboy. He is the red headed Bob Katter of the 2010’s generation.

Raised in the halls of Towoomba Grammar and a farm in country Queensland, McNamara

holds the country and the country vibe dear. But he is a more open minded kid than most

of the college types. He was a bit of a loud and wild kid in his time at Imperial. He liked to
drink a lot, he liked to smoke durries. For his birthday, he went on a four day bender

fuelled by cocaine, MDMA, and booze. Occassionally, he’d even drop acid or smoke weed

like a dirty hippie. All the booze and drugs did fuck up McNamara’s grades. He failed his

entire first year of uni and went back to the Queensland Outback at the end of 2011. De-

spite dabbling in less than savoury activities by torie standards, McNamara was well and

truly country. He stuck to the ethos of farmer and boarding school society because, more

or less, that’s what he had known his entire life.

I tell him that I feel that I’m suffocating in this place, Imperial College. I tell McNamara

that the place is cutting off my air and stifling me at every turn. McNamara, like James

Gilliam, offers my problem as the solution. McNamara’s idea is that I should come back to

Imperial College in 2012, stop smoking weed, but keep selling weed. But that’s precisely

what I’m sick of. The monotonous grind where I pull tricks for a bunch of rich kids and

recieve no share of the fun or action.

One night a few weeks before Imperial Conclusion I scored three ounces of bud to sell at

Imperial College. The weed was scored with Reg in South Brisbane. We got the weed off a

semi-bikie guy in the far south outskirts of Brisbane city. When we were driving back to

Reg’s house, we pulled into a petrol station. As we pulled into that station, a bunch of cops

and sniffer dogs swarmed on it. We were shitting ourselves. Then the cops started sur-

rounding another car. They started pulling out massive bags of white powder. We left the

petrol station without even filling up on fuel. Fuck letting the dogs score icing for the po-

lice cake that night.

A few nights later I was at Imperial College. We were smoking weed on The Terrace of

Imperial. But Luigi, the fat Italian security guard, got jack of it. He yelled at us and told us

he would call the cops. I was high and paranoid, and I was shitting myself at the idea that

the cops could be coming into college while I had three bags of weed in my room. I gave a

backpack, loaded with my weed, to another college guy for safekeeping. But the next

morning when I grabbed it, I noticed something. Around one third of the green was gone,
cleverly removed in portions wherein I would be unable to accusse the theif of stealing

from me. Crafty prick.

And that just about summarised the experience of ganga dealing at Imperial College for

me. All of the bullshit and none of the rewards. After one year of dealing buds to a bunch

of neolib cowboys, I felt like a donkey pulling along a cart, with a bright orange carrott

dangled on a string off a stick right ahead of me. I was constantly heading towards an im-

plied reward I was never going to recieve or have a piece of. It didn’t seem that anyone at

Imperial College was really my friend. They just had a use for me. Once that function was

over and I couldn’t do it any more or perform successfully, I was as disposable as a Kleen-

ex. It was what it was.

I go to bed after Imperial Conclusion feeling like all I wanted to die, and sleep was the

nearest thing to death I could achieve that night without becoming a family tragedy. A

bunch of Imperial guys and me had arranged to smoke weed after Imperial Conclusion.

But when they knock on and open my door I wave them off. Fuck it. I don’t want to talk to

anyone. I just want to sleep. My head is a bitch to be in. As I go to sleep, I hear a bunch of

guys smoking bongs and laughing on the balconies above me. They don’t give a fuck

about me and they never did. No one here really ever did. I want to escape my head but I

don’t escape my head properly that night. For I have a wild dream-

I’m wandering through a strange area. It looks like an elite private school. It’s empty,

the school, but I can see a logo with a Latin motto at it’s base it on one of the buildings.

The Latin motto reads “Veritas Vos Liberabit“. It’s the same motto Imperial College has

and it’s Latin for “The Truth Will Set You Free“. Hm, the truth ay? What is the truth an-

yway?

Above the motto is a Lion, and above the Lion is a few more words. The words read

“Australia Grammar School“. Wierd. Just as soon as I process all this strange and unu-
sual stuff, I’m lifted up in the air and above the buildings of the school. And then I

plummet down again, to the Australia Grammar School rugby fields.

There’s a game of rugby being played at the rugby fields. It’s between Australia Gram-

mar, dressed in blue, and Australia State High, dressed in red. On the side of the rugby

fields is a man who looks suspiciously like me, but with a head of grey hair and

dressed in an expensive suit. He is cheering-

“YES FRASER! YES HARRISON! DO THE JONES FAMILY NAME PROUD! SMASH

THOSE PEASANT PUBLIC SCHOOL CUNTS OUT OF THE PARK!“

Fuck me. I want to throttle that motherfucker so badly. I walk over him and attempt to

do so. But before I know it, I’m lifted above the rugby fields of Australia Grammar, and

fly like superman into a skyline of skyscrapers.

Inside one of those buildings, on the highest floor, is the same motherfucker who looks

like me, but isn’t me. He’s laughing with a bunch of rich suits about those two hundred

workers they just sacked so that the corporation could make a bigger profit margin. Big

money rich roll ballin boss playa $$ niggas. Apparently my elder look-a-like is going to

write an article for The Australian talking about what a good decision the corporation

just made acking those workers and leaving them jobless because it is great for the eco-

nomic bottom line.

Once again, I venture over to that cunt to smash him in. I pick up a laptop over from

the side of the room and lift it to slam it over the head of future me, but then I vanish

once more.

And I end up on a higher plane. I’m on a mountain somewhere. There are trees all

around me. The trees wobble and wave like I have taken acid. And fires burn all

around me. The anger from the start of my dream is gone. I feel happy.
But then I wake up. My happiness is gone. I look over the Brisbane River feeling lost and

without purpose.

Chapter 28-

To be honest, I am sick of writing this book. I know what it’s about and I know what it

means. When I first started writing this novel , I took to it with energy and enthusiasm.

But now everything seems monotonous and laborious and kind of just like a slow trudge

to the finish. Oddly, therefore, the experience of writing about Imperial College directly

mirrors my experience of Imperial College.

I could discuss the last few weeks of Imperial College, but to be honest they were pretty

boring. I just did assignments in my room, smoked bongs in my room, watched episodes

of The Slap on ABC iView, watched episodes of Gangland on Youtube, and managed to

make a dick of myself everytime I showed up in public. It didn’t matter anyway, because

it was all pointless. Just a reflection of life and existence I guess, which is in the end just a

Great Eternal Pointless. My last day ever at Imperial College I spent smoking weed in my

room, then joylessly drinking at an Imperial-Ladie’s event at Trotsky Square, then smok-

ing weed in my room again, then blacking out. When I woke up the next morning, I

packed up my room and left Imperial College. I was glad to escape those buildings. They

seemed like massive Orwellian or Stalinist constructs to me now, constructs that imposed

an evil glare down upon me wherever I went. As I left Imperial College, I vacantly waved

goodbye to two long haired stoners who resided there. Then I swung my car out onto the

street. I had fnally escaped my Benthamite Prison, my Panopticon.

As I said, I was vacant and ghostly in my last few weeks at Imperial College. I didn’t really

do much at all. But there is one story I do remember. And for me that story just about
summed up everything Imperial College was about and everything that the place repre-

sented.

Every year, Imperial College and Faith College had a boat cruise exchange. A boat was

rented on the Brisbane River and the Imperial boys and Faith girls got drunk on that boat

together. On that night, Davo, someone who was my friend at Imperial College but whom

I later fell out with, got into an argument with the boat bouncers. I don’t know why or

how the argument started but there is one thing I do know; bouncers in Brisbane could be

complete arseholes. When bouncers in Brisbane got into a disagreement with you, they

would grab and twist your arm. They would bend and almost break it so as to show you

that in that moment and that instant, they were the ones in charge. Davo wasn’t up for

having his arm twisted or sprained and the boat was near a wharf at that point, so he

jumped off the boat and onto the wharf.

Later that night Sauce, the Imperial College rowing and rugby captain, worked himself

into a violent and self righteous drunken rage over something. No one knows why Sauce

got angry that night, but the people and property of Imperial College copped it. Sauce

punched three dudes who tried to calm him down, smashed a row of windows with a

chair, slid down a palm tree like a male gorilla, then proceeded to smash another window

with his bare fists. Eventually, Sauce got taken to hospital because his hand was bleeding.

At hospital, Sauce tried to plea innocence and say that he had been drugged. Then drug

tests were conducted. Sauce’s system showed no traces of anything but alcohol.

Imperial College responded to these two incidents in what was deemed a fair and appro-

priatte manner. Davo was a guy who did not get on well with the Imperial College admin-

istration. Years of private school at TSS had taught him that private school structures and

authority figures were stupid and not to be trusted. Those who controlled private schools

were aristocratic dicks who expected respect but never really gave it. Davo knew this and

the Imperial College administration knew he knew this. They constantly shared a bad and
fractured relationship. Therefore, for jumping off a boat, Davo recieved two weeks sus-

pension from Imperial College.

Sauce’s actions were the talk of the entirety of Imperial College after they occurred. Every-

one wanted to see the guy punished, for Sauce had acted like a cunt to a lot of people. But

Sauce was a rowing captain and a star rugby player, and he loved Imperial College in the

same way that George W. Bush undoubtedly loves America. Sauce, despite breaking

someone’s arm earlier in 2011, despite being someone who found it fun to belt helpless

day students with a plastic sword, and despite being someone who had just assaulted

three people and broken a bunch of college property, recieved no punishment at all. Sauce

was allowed to keep his Residential Assistant Position, he was allowed to remain rowing

captain, and he didn’t recieve a single day’s suspension. All he had to do was make an

apology to everyone. So much for the liberal principle of non-violence and liberal notions

of justice.

Back in 2010 I recieved two weeks suspension for smoking weed at Imperial College, the

same punishment Davo recieved for jumping off a boat. If you were from public school or

had reservations about the private shool system, essentially non-violent acts were consid-

ered grave crimes in the Imperial College world. If, however, you were a rowing captain

from Brisbane Grammar you could carry on how you like, punch who you like, and break

someone’s arm if you wanted to. What are a few punches anyway? Boys will be boys!

That was Imperial College from 2010 to 2011 and that was my experience of college life.

And, I guess, that’s all that can be said of that place.

Chapter 29-Football Season Is Over-

You know me, I used to get caught up in everyday life

Tried to make it through my day so i could sleep at night

Tried to figure out my way through the maze

Of rights and wrongs, but like you used to say

Nothing feels like it's really worth it

Forget perfect, i'm trying not to be worthless

Since I last saw you I been lookin for a purpose

Well I met this kid who thought like I did

He had a weird way of lookin at it

This is what he said;

Slip out the back before they know you were there

And at the worst you'll see nobody cares

Cos you dont wana be around when it all goes down

Even heroes know when to be scared

Slip out the back before they know you were there

And at the worst you'll see nobody cares

Cos you dont wana be around when it all goes down

Even heroes know when to be scared

-Fort Minor, Slip Out The Back, 2005.

I had the shit till it all got smoked

I kept the promise till the vow got broke

I had to drink from the lovin' cup

I stood on the banks till the river rose up

I saw the bride in her wedding gown

I was in the house when the house burned down

I may be old and I may be bent

But I had the money till it all got spent

I had the money till they made me pay

Then I had the sense to be on my way

I had to stay in the underground

I was in the house when the house burned down

-Warren Zevon, I Was in the House When The House Burned Down, 2000.

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67.

That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun —

for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your (old) age. Relax — This won't hurt-

-”Football Season Is Over“, the suicice note of Hunter S. Thompson, February 20, 2005.

To be honest, I will never know, even to this day, whether my exit from Imperial College

was loud or quiet. I’m inclined towards the former, but there were definite shades of the

latter in how I left. When I left Imperial College and it’s communitty, the time just seemed

right. I had played every card, turned every trick, gone for broke, and ended up busted

and broken.

My days when I returned home for the 2011 summer break were anxious. A feeling that

everything I had known about the adult world in my first two years experiencing it was

fake and pointless was the main sensation I can describe from those weeks and months.

My twenty first birthday was in January. I knew no one from Imperial College was going

to come, or very few guys anyway. At the very worst, most of the guys there hated me. At

the very best, they never gave a fuck about me either way, or who I truly was. I was simp-

ly viewed as their servant, their slave, and their dumb bitch boy. I probably did appear

stupid, doing anything and everything those guys wanted. But that’s the strange thing. A

man in denial can often appear stupid. I didn’t want to think of myself as disliked at Impe-

rial College, but I know now that that was probably how it was.
I still had the responsibility of writing the Imperial College student magazine in Decem-

ber. For days, a debate raged in my head over whether I should write the magazine, sell

the last fragment of my soul in an act of extreme submission and subservience. Early in

December, I got an email from James Taylor, Deaputy Master of Imperial College in 2011,

requesting that I email him the magazine and also stating that if I wasn’t going to do it I

needed to give a reason to Master Gerald Oebid. Needed huh, fuck that. I stuggled for two

days on whether I should write the magazine. There was no love within me anymore for

Imperial College, no love for the Dragon.

I requested magazine articles from around sixteen people. I only recieved around four of

those articles. Dejected and feeling like writing the magazine would just be another peas-

ant and servant act, I sent the articles I recieved and an email message to the Deaputy

Master of Imperial College, James Taylor-

Dear James,

Unfortunately I will not be able to finish the magazine. I have requested articles, but sadly only four

contributors have sent in articles. Here are the articles I recieved, do with them what you can.

Yours sincerely and best regards, Lucas Jones.

To be honest, that letter was complete and utter bullshit. I could have written the maga-

zine if I still believed in Imperial College and it’s culture. The fact was that I had ceased to

think anything positive about Imperial. Imperial College from 2010 to 2011 was a bitchy,

petty, and small minded institution. My stay there in those years had turned me into a

bitchy, petty, and small minded person. I needed to do everything I could to escape from

that place and that mentality. I had learned to truly hate myself at Imperial College. This

was something I would need to work on and reverse. And being the little bitch for a bunch

of private school boys was not the way to go about repairing one’s personality.
It was still a challenge, deciding not to write the Imperial College magazine. I knew that I

risked losing every friend I made at Imperial College, every connection within the place.

Imperial College had a way of exxageratting every bad action one committed to extreme

degrees if you were not one of the boys. Tyrant, the guy who had refused to edit the Impe-

rial College magazine in 2010, was commonly depicted as a warped combination of Hitler,

Caligula, and Lucifer at Imperial College in 2011. Everyone bitched about him and it was

common knowledge that Tyrant was indeed a “shit cunt“ for not writing the Imperial Col-

lege student magazine. I played my part in bitching about Tyrant, I played my part in the

hate. Tyrant was a “shit cunt“ in my eyes through most of 2011. I therefore knew what I

was risking by refusing to edit the Imperial College magazine. Everyone who I called my

mate at Imperial College could and would grow to hate me and learn how to do it with a

fierce intensity because I didn’t edit the magazine. A mob mentality can be all pervasive.

But if that was the score, then so be it. A friendship based on being subservient to others is

not a friendship in any sense of the word. I was over everything, and kind of over life in

general, by the end of 2011.

That’s not saying I was neglecting responsibility in some sense of the word. I had a place

in Imperial College, but I didn’t want to accept my place. Indeed, the very notion of having

a place is something that sickens me these days. At Imperial College, the idea was that I got

the weed for the boys and that I edited the magazine. Maybe also keep up the good aca-

demic results, that stuff made Imperial College look good. The game plan, at least as I per-

cieved it, was that I remained in those unspoken roles and never overstep the unspoken

boundaries. Positions such as exec and RA were not for guys like me and I was stupid to

even have attempted to have run from them. I was required to accept that, in the Hobbes-

sian scheme of things, certain people were meant to be above me. All the while, I was to be

thankful for the opportunitty to be a part of the prestigious institution of Imperial College

and my opportunitty to join the self declared elite of Australia. You are a peasant, Texta,

although we won’t say it. You should just play your part and shut the fuck up. Rightio.
I recieved my results for semester 2 2011 around three weeks after I left Imperial College. I

got three distinctions and a high distinction, but I didn’t give a shit about any of it really.

What did it matter? I was a dick and an insignificant and stupid dick in the cosmic scheme

of things at that. According to Travis Howard, the mentor of students at Imperial College,

my results did in fact matter. I recieved a letter from Travis a couple of days after my re-

sults were released, telling me that they were an achievement to be proud of. To be honest,

I didn’t really care about my results. So fucking what. Uni was easy. By all accounts, I had

failed college101. I therefore viewed myself as a failure in a key area of life. For college

was very important, wasn’t it?

Travis Howard was a nice old bloke. A conservatively minded but non-judgmental human

being, he had been appointed by Imperial College to assist and look after the welfare of

students. From his conservative perspective, he probably viewed me as an essentially

good kid with a drug problem. My perspective was that I was an essentially good kid, per-

haps ambitious to a fault, with a college problem. Travis would not have understood that.

His letter was full of praise for my academic achievements, achievements I was percieving

as increasingly meaningless and irrelevant by that time. At it’s bottom was a panoramic

photo of Imperial College from the base of the Brisbane River. The buildings still looked

beautiful, yes. But now I knew what lay within them. Vicious neo-cowboys out for my

blood. I didn’t want to go near those hallowed halls ever again.

Back at Imperial College, I would be a mere servitor and functionary. Imperial College, for

all it’s self pretensions as a prestigious institution and a home to the best men of the uni-

versity, had a failing culminative Grade Point Average in the time I was there. My role

was to stay in my room, sell the weed, get the good grades, play the position, and never

step out of line. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t do that.

A fierce insomnia began to grip me in the weeks following my stay at Imperial. I wanted

the past back, but it wouldn’t and couldn’t return. I didn’t have a fucking TARDIS after

all. I was in a truly horrible state of mind. The only times I slept were when I was stoned
or drunk, or both. So I began to start drinking and smoking weed every single night. One

night, after I had gone to bed after smoking weed all day, I had a strange and vivid dream.

It was a dream that, for me, summarised the entire college experience.

I am sitting around a table in the blue gum forests that grew by the side of Imperial

College, on the mud brown banks of the Brisbane River. There are a bunch of blurred

faces, as well as some faces I reacognize from my days at Imperial College. President

Clarinet is there. Sauce, the vicious cunt of a rowing captain, is also seated around the

table. Davo is at the table, as is Wilson Senior. The rest of the faces are blurs and twist-

ed memories. Their faces kind of look like a Van Gough painting. Everyone at the table

is drinking and having a good time. A bong forms the centrepiece of the table and a few

of the guys take turns hitting it. I take a few hits periodically between sipping beer. Af-

ter a while I start to get the munchies.

“I’m hungry cunts“ I tell the other guys “I’m fucking hungry. Feed me cunts.“

The other guys give me strange looks. Then they signal D for Dragon with their fingers.

From the mists of the blue gum woods around us, a strange figure begins to emerge. He

is European white with long hair and a beard. He wears a white robe. He has a glowing

golden aura around him. Holy shit! It fucking can’t be! White Protestant Christian Je-

sus!

White Protestant Christian Jesus strides towards us. He has a massive loaf of bread

tucked under his arm. He arrives at the table and begins handing out hunks of bread to

everyone seated around the table. President Clarinet recieves a massive hunk of bread.

Sauce recieves a pretty big piece of the loaf from White Protestant Christian Jesus. All

the other guys recieve smaller and smaller pieces. The warped and indistinguishable

faces of around ten men, clad in the purple and orange of Imperial, all get a decent

piece of the bread. Wilson Senior and Davo are given pieces towards the end. Both

recieve pretty small amounts.

At the very end of this ritual, it is my turn to recieve bread. But there is no bread left.

Instead, White Protestant Christian Jesus crushes up a bunch of crumbs and drops them

into my hand. The golden halo of White Protestant Christan Jesus morphs into a halo of

hellish flames. His eyes go red and shoot through with a demonic intensity. What the

fuck. Then White Protestant Christian Jesus begins chanting-

“Eat the bread cunt, eat the bread.

Eat the bread cunt, eat the bread.

EAT THE BREAD CUNT, EAT THE BREAD.“

President Clarinet and Sauce join in on the chant-

“Eat the bread cunt, eat the bread.

EAT THE BREAD CUNT, EAT THE BREAD“.

Ten young men, clad in the purple of Imperial College, their faces twisted Picasso

charaicatures, begin singing the chorus.

“EAT THE BREAD CUNT, EAT THE BREAD“.

Wilson Senior and Davo seem reluctant to join in on the chorus, but they do it eventual-

ly.

“EAT THE BREAD CUNT, EAT THE BREAD“.

I’m feeling alone, lost, and paranoid. But then, I think I see something at the corner of

my eyeview. Yes, I do see something in the corner of my eye. A black dreadlocked man

is running through the woods, out of sight to everyone else around me, but visible in

my peripheral vision. Is that you Jah, God of the Rastafari? I see him running through

the woods, ducking and darting in between everything. It’s then that I make my deci-

sion. I get up, take one last hit from the mutual bong, and begin running through the

woods. The guys around me begin laughing. What the fuck is Texta on about?

I know what I am on about. I start running through the woods, following the dread-

locked shades of Jah. I’m coming home, Mumma. I chase Jah as he bounces and jumps

through the blue gums on the banks of the Brisbane River. I can still hear the chanting

of the Imperial College guys in the background, but it’s becoming softer and softer.

“EAT THE BREAD CUNT, EAT THE BREAD.

Eat the bread cunt, eat the bread.“

Eventually I can’t hear the chanting anymore. And it’s then that I stand in a peaceful

clearing in the woods, birds chirping and singing around me. Jah Rastafari stands be-

fore me, black and dreadlocked, a fearsome but assurred intensity in his eyes. This is

my fate.

I get up and out of bed. In the world of the concious, everything still seems fucked up. But

subconiously, the cleansing has begun.

Epilouge-It Didn’t Matter. It Didn’t Mean Anything-

“If you're part of a crew nobody tells you they're going to kill you. It doesn't happen that way.

There aren't any arguments or curses like in the movies. Your murderers come with smiles. They
come as your friends. People who cared for you all your life. They always seem to come when you're

weakest and most in need of their help.

...Anything I wanted was a phone call away. Free cars. The keys to a dozen hideout flats all over the

city. I bet twenty, thirty grand over a weekend and then I'd either blow the winnings in a week or

go to the sharks to pay back the bookies.

It Didn't matter. It didn't mean anything. When I was broke, I'd go out and rob some more. We

ran everything. We paid off cops. We paid off lawyers. We paid off judges. Everybody had their

hands out. Everything was for the taking. And now it's all over... And that's the hardest part. To-

day everything is different; there's no action... have to wait around like everyone else. Can't even

get decent food - right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg

noodles and ketchup. I'm an average nobody...I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.“-Henry

Hill, straight OG success story, at the end of Goodfellas (1990).

If I had any moral backbone or fortitude at all when I entered Imperial College in 2010, if I

wasn’t fooled and coaxed by the illussions and imagery of power, I would have given the

2010 Imperial College executive a middle finger salute and packed my bags on my first

day of college. But I was a weak and spineless little cunt back then.

After my experiences of the last weeks of college, I began shrivelling up. I devolved from

the taipan/dinosaur (or maybe straight up retarded) persona that defined my personality

at Imperial College into something more reminiscent of a turtle. Shy and overly defensive

essentially. Nothing seems to give me joy in the months, and arguably up to a year, fol-

lowing my stay at the Benthamite institution.

Pretty much what had caused this existential crisis is a brutal hit of reality in too short a

space of time. I always knew that conservatives existed in the world, and in Australia.

However, I thought that the Australian tories were a broadly marginal and fringe phe-

nomonon. No one who grew up on the Northern Rivers, at least no one I ever associatted
with in my teenage years, held orthodox conservative views. Sure, I knew right wingers,

but those guys were generally unhinged and interesting motherfuckers with erections for

cigarettes, 4 wheel driving, hunting pigs with guns, and bourbon. The classically con-

servative were existent merely on the edges of the middle class universe I occuppied until

the start of 2010. What Imperial College taught me is that smart, sociopathic tories are not

only out there, they rule the fucking world. This is especially true in the crystal towers of

the residual conservative elite. Gina Rinehart, Margaret Thatcher, Mitt Romney, Clive

Palmer, George W. Bush, John Winston Howard, and Allan Jones are all products of the

strange world of institutions, organizations, and societies dedicated to the mantainance

and preservation of a self beneficial and Hobbessian status quo. But this dosen’t have to be

me, it isn’t me, and it never will be me, again at least. My thoughts are my own and that’s

all that really matters in the end.

Though I isolated myself for a fair few months after my experience of Imperial College,

finding solace in excessive amounts of hydroponic marijjuanna and The Sopranos, I made

an attempt to reconnect with the college universe in early March 2012. I was at the Royal

Exchange Hotel, the RE, in Toowong. I had got blitzed off chronic hydro weed before I

went there to deal with the anxiety of facing the ghosts of my not too distant past. But the

college crowds seemed strange, even alien, to me by then. College kids were laughing,

chatting, and talking about shit I’d forgotten about, but would have found relevant and

entertaining not too many months before. I couldn’t really find a point of relation to the

college kids anymore. So I turtled it in a corner of the RE drinking jugs of beer and down-

ing shots of tequila.

I left the RE at around 1am that night, and outside on the sidewalk was a group of ex-

tremely laddishly private school Imperial boys. I was looking for the taxi that the group of

my high school mates I came to the RE with were waiting in. It was then that the vicious

hooting and calling sounds come from the group of ascendent young jocks on the side-

walk. These were a group of honourable men tied together by their mutual love of v necks,

their elite school backgrounds, sluts, and illegal steroids. My natural genetic enemies if I
am honest about things. As I walked past, they demonstrated their tuffness and yelled

their chants of mad chat at me-

“MY MAN!“

“YEAH TEXTA!“

“YOU DA MAN!“

By now, I’m that sick of the “chat“, and “banter“ that all I desire or wish for is a final and

honest answer to it all. I respond, fire and anger in my voice-

“HOW ABOUT YOU JUST SAY WHAT YOU REALLY THINK OF ME?!“

The response comes from Tennyson Heinrichs, an angry, scowling Anglican Church

Grammar boy from Beaudesert with a Nieztchean fascination with the weak and the

strong. He is a likely descendant of some ultra fanatical Third Reich refugee who man-

aged to evade the Americans, Russians, and Israelis by hiding in a mystery location in the

Queensland bush. Heincrichs, as mentioned previously, was the guy who kicked out the

car window of some hapless University of Brisbane day kid or proffessor on a loose Impe-

rial night out back in November 2011. He was the Imperial College student club Vice Pres-

ident in 2013 and looks set to be the Imperial College student club President in 2014. Hein-

richs shot back a direct response at me on that warm night, a smile coming to his face in

appreciation of his own wit-

“I think you are like prolapse.“

I didn’t know about the concept of prolapse at that stage in my life. So I shot back a reply

that reflected my knowledge, as relevant to the Imperial stratosphere-

“I don’t even know who that is“.

I thought “Prolapse“ was some new Imperial College fresher or some such. Urbandiction-

ary.com defines “prolapse“ as a “term for medical condition where the anal or vaginal ring

loses its integrity and the inside of the orifice falls out of the body“. Damn Heinrichs, that

chat was tight son! Was I, Lucas Fucking Texta Jones, really just the anus of Imperial Col-

lege, the rectal ring of the Dragon proper? Guess so. But the body shouldn’t abuse the

anus, for whatever reason. Because it is rather painful and inconvenient for the body when

an anus falls out and rips up everything around it.

Heinrichs must have been disgusted that such a good line of banter was thrown away on a

drug fucked peasant like me. There he had come, with a good and gross medical term, and

I had thought it to be merely a fresher name? Lucas Texta Jones had to be fucking retard-

ed, bro. But I’m actually kind of glad that through my ignorance that the probable de-

scendant of genocidal Nazis didn’t get what he wanted. Hitler recieved too much of that

for a good while.

Though Heinrichs thought that he had a winning anus-person metaphor, I prefer an ex-

tended metaphor that relates more directly to my life and experiences to describe my time

at Imperial. Namely, my life at Imperial Colege was similar to the brutal kinds of chemi-

cals those in my high school fraternity were inclined to use to get lifted on back in high

school and beyond it.

Intoxicating chemicals are potentially dangerous and volatile things, and can throw hu-

man beings, namely the body they enter, off in unimaginable and enormously unpredicta-

ble ways. This is how it was with me and the prestigious institution of Imperial College.

Though I didn’t really realize it until towards the end of my stay, I was personally so dif-

ferent to the college communitty and culture so as to be a dangerous and volatile, but in-

toxicating, chemical amongst it. Equally, college and “college life“ was so different to me

and the makeup of my personality back then so as to constitute and represent a danger-
ous, volatile, but intoxicating chemical to me personally. The process of collegiate life on

me and the impact I projected upon college broadly reflected what occurs when a human

being knowingly consumes a dangerous but nonetheless empowering substance.

When a dangerous and intoxicating chemical enters a human body, regardless of whether

that chemical is alcohol, LSD, or MDMA, there is typically and inevitable series of reac-

tions. These reactions seem inevitable in retrospect, but come suddenly and unexpectedly

at the time.

First there is a period of learning, of establishing familiarity. The human mind has con-

sumed the substance and the substance has consumed the human mind. They get to know

each other. They establish how to somehow relate, work, and function with one another.

Thus I got to learn college and it’s communitties and the college communitty got to learn

about someone like me.

Following this, there is a period of intoxication. This can last as long as the dosage has

mandated or as long as a human being wants or requires. A human being can be intoxicat-

ed by a substance or abstract idea as long as he or she wishes. However, intoxication is

rarely perpetual. It is difficult to dose up on a substance, or an idea for that matter, forev-

er. Arguably it is entirely impossible to do so. Consequentely, I felt empowered and en-

riched by college for a good while. In turn, college felt that someone of my makeup was

entertaining to have around the place. I added a bit of flavour, excitement, and weed to

the often monotonous alcoholic grind of college and college life.

But eventually, the next stage has to come. The trip has gone bad, you have drunk too

much booze and need to lie down. Take a breather shithead. That dangerous and intoxi-

cating chemical that gave to such immense feelings of power and invincibility just hours

ago has done a fucking 360 flip! The chemical must be disgorged, destroyed and eliminat-

ed from the body proper. Fuck the good feelings of immortality, joy, or just plain interest it

gave you just hours previously. Everything has now gone to shit. You don’t want that in-
tense state of intoxication anymore. You know what it is, the reality of it, and you know it

is bad for you. That’s how it was with the college mentality within my mindset. Arguably,

that’s how Imperial College felt about me in the end. I needed to vanquish Imperial Col-

lege from my mind and mentality and Imperial College needed to vanquish me from it’s

communitty.

The process of disgorgement and expulsion of a dangerous chemical from a human body

is rarely fun or entertaining. Rather, it is often painful and very ugly. Generally, the hu-

man body expels such chemicals through violent and often quite brual means. Intoxicating

substances are generally pissed, vommitted, or shat out of the human body. At the very

least, they are gradually but inevitably secreted out as droplets of warm, pungent sweat.

This process is ugly, but also a law of nature. Two independent bodies intended to be sep-

arate, like humans and alcohol, should generally not combine. However, they do. And the

body has only one way to expel them. Violently, brutally, and without mercy. That’s how

it was with college. I was the taget of such a high level of ridicule, accusations, and “ban-

ter“ over those last few months that I felt I couldn’t really persist there any longer. In the

complete other direction, I began to feel such a deep degree of misanthropic hate towards

the end of those two years that I doubt even those who sensed what was going on could

communicate or get through to me in any way, shape, or form.

Something about what ended up happening seemed inevitable. Kind of like watching a

video of a car crash. You know the oncoming crash dosen’t have to occur and you kind of

don’t think it will. But natural things have a momentum of their own. That car crash is go-

ing to occur just as sure as any other unstoppable and inevitable physical or chemical reac-

tion. Things like this are just products of inbuilt laws of nature. My crash was inevitable.

In retrospect, knowing my abilities, self perception, and beliefs at the time, a crash was

impossible to prevent.

Another law of nature is that if you drink heavily or take a chemical as highly powered as

LSD, there is going to be a hangover. I felt depressed, emotionally destroyed, and frac-
tured for the year or so after my two years at Imperial College. Equally, the other guys at

Imperial were probably just as confounded, angry, or hateful for my presence in that pres-

tigious institution and obvious lack of respect for the almost one hundred years of glowing

tradition and collegial pride. Fuck it.

What happened had a momentum of it’s own and, looking back at my personality, ideas,

and self image at the time I entered Imperial College, I doubt I could really have done

things much differently. Over the next year or so, I attempted from time to time to re-

establish my connection with some of the guys from Imperial College. But things were dif-

ferent. Things had changed. The “magic“, that special element of wonder and excitement

that makes any friendship or association possible and enjoyable, had vanished. Any at-

tempt to re-establish some form of connection was now awkward and doomed to a seem-

ingly inevitable failure. I had seen too much of the bad side of the guys there, and they

had also seen more than enough of my ugly side. Eventually, I came to accept that I would

just have to abandon that aspect of my life, that period within it. I would move on with

my life and the Imperial College guys would move on with theirs. There was no other way

around it.

I went to two parties in August of 2012 and was able to witness directly the source and

cause of my malaise at Imperial. I saw the reason I never quite got the place and the reason

Imperial didn’t ever quite get me. The first party was for Smart Dude, the last remaining

dude from the Imperial days who still mantained some form of contact with me. Smart

Dude could be considered a vaugely accuratte term for the guy. Mobbia Collegia hadn’t in-

fested Smart Dude as much as everyone else at the proud institution of Imperial in the

Year of the Lord 2012 AD. He consequentely remained a string of contact between me and

the collegosphere in 2012.

Smart Dude’s 21st party represented the college world and everything that the Australian

upper class is about in the 21st century. It was held at the St. Lucia Golf Club. Pale ale

beer, champagne, and fine wine were the beverages of choice. Fancy cheese and seafood
platters formed the food. Everyone was dressed in all the finery expected of them-tweed

jackets, chinos, Italian suits, dress shoes, designer dresses for the lady folk. I got high on

speed before I went because, fuck it, YOLO. That and my separation and disconnect from

the college crowd made me completely incapable of facing them without the aid of am-

phetamines.

College and Liberal Party crowds were seeming increasingly abstractive and surreal to me

by then. Attitudes, pre-conceptions, and beliefs among the college crowd seemed out of

touch with the post college adult world I had witnessed. People still amongst the college

scene talked about college as if their corner of the world was planet Earth in some kind of

strange, Earth-centric pre-Copernican universe. They talked of all things in weird and ra-

ther chilsishly absoloute terms. This is this. That is that. X is good, Y is crap. God exists,

the Earth is flat.

At one point during the party I went to take a piss in the golf club toilets. There I encoun-

tered two very preppy dudes who had been freshers in 2011. One from The Southport

School and the other from Rockhampton Grammar. They were talking, with the serious-

ness and self importance of federal politicians, about prospects for the approaching elec-

tions for the 2012 Imperial College student executive. If anything had destroyed me at Im-

perial, shattered my life there, it was the hollow quest for meaningless and irrelevant

power generally, exemplified through my retarded quest to get on the Imperial College

executive more specifically. Like a ghost from the past, I tried to warn the two young lads

of the pitfalls of the Machiavellian power game-

“I used to be really into the idea of Imperial College exec. But now I’ve realized that it’s

just a small part of the world“ said Confucius-Buddha-Jesus-Mohammed Texta.

Their response was a typically college one, but one I hadn’t anticipated.

“Righto Texta, righto“ said Glorious, the TSS boy, quite sacrcastically.
Righto indeed. The next night I went to a 30th, hosted in a ubiquitous house in South Bris-

bane that was my home in 2012. I was hanging with Ned and Reg that night. My house-

mate for 2012 was Reg’s nominal sister in law. Over the six months after college, it had

been hard to come by good LSD. Supplies had dried up on the North Coast and the Main

Cop‘s tentacles had choked all the dealers out. But Reg had scored some acid from his

brother that night. Hectic tabs apparently. I would concur with that, except that the little

carboard fuckers made it hard to do a proper piss while you were on them. Reg, Ned, and

I eat the blue and yellow pieces of cardboard in my South Brisbane room. The acid starts

kicking in around half an hour later.

What we hadn’t banked on, when we ate that acid, was the company at the party. Unbe-

knownst to me when I left college and found a found a new crowd, my new associates

were interesting people to say the very least. A lot of hard dudes, or at least full time

staunchers, who bordered on bikie. That crowd exists everywhere in Australia. Tough and

volatile speed freak tradies who live to reminisce on the pipe dreams of their past. High

school heroes who just can’t give up their first natural high, so they supplement that feel-

ing of loss by snorting or smoking speed. I had been around that crowd for around four

months, and had done speed with them a fair bit. However, nothing can really prepare a

person for being on LSD around twenty or so drunk and buzzing thirty year old speed

freaks. The experience is intense and the semi-bikie types are always full on people, espe-

cially with a head full of booze and goey. Ned, Reg, and I tried to handle the crowd and

the acid, but Ned and Reg simply couldn‘t do it. They quit the house after about two

hours. As the house was my house, I couldn’t really leave. So I was left to fend for myself

in the jungle. There I observed the strange crowd and watch their conversations. Collec-

tively, they were very nostalgic and discussed extremely weird shit. It was very sad in it’s

own way and reminded me that I would need to move on with life sooner of later. They

talked about that try they scored for the high school touch team in year 12. They discussed

those hedonistic and irresponsible years of their youth, back when they used to go club-

bing in the Valley on LSD. They talked about the two ounces of hashish they scored from
Hell’s Angel’s bikies in Adelaide. They talked about how they got high on speed and

drove that hashish the 2044 kilometres and twenty two hours to Brisbane tweaking out of

their minds. Instead of what college or private school they went to, the semi-bikie crowd

generally discussed prisons like they were finishing schools. Shit, I thought selling a few

ounces of bud made me hard. Fuck, I am the softest motherfucker on planet motherfuck-

ing Earth. I know it sounds strange to say this and many people probably wouldn’t get it,

but semi-Bikie speed freaks have a lot more humanity and humility than the stock stand-

ard college kid. They are much more human at a fundamental level.

Being on LSD that night in South Brisbane and experiencing the preppy St. Lucia golf club

party I attended the night before made me realize something important. The modern Aus-

tralian conservative movement is one that is split in two, out of brutal nessecity. A fence,

above head height and impossible to look through on either end, divides modern Austral-

ian conservatives. Very few people have seen both sides of the fence, and those who have

seen life on both sides and partied with both kinds of tories are generally shocked and

astounded by what they have discovered. Depressed and half destroyed are some other

accurate terms for the feeling you get after being on both sides of the fence.

On one side of the fence are those who control the conservative movement. They are law-

yers, business leaders, doctors, old boys, and old girls. They run this shit and appear to be

nice and normal on the surface. But beware, for their spirit animal is the snake. On the

other side of the fence are those who vote for the conservative leaders and mantain and

support their Hobbessian ideology. They are the true Aussies, people who cling to the re-

sidual and rather parochial idea of a fair and benefical place called “Australia“. They are

Aussie battlers, tradies, beach chix, surfer dudes, hardcore racists, and bogans. They want

to run this shit, but are unaware of the fact that they never will recieve a decent share of

the glory, a fair shake of the sauce bottle, or a significant piece of the meat pie. They are

not bad people, but they are blind to the fact that are the losers in this society and will

never be welcomed in the hallowed halls of the old boys. Desperate and scheming people,
by nessecity rather than choice, their spirit animal is the rat. And as strange animal enthu-

siasts always tell me, rats are fed to snakes as pet food.

In a neoliberal society based on winners and winning, there are very few people who ac-

tually secure the prize known as the Australian Dream. Countless millions may talk about

themselves as winners and may even convince themsleves that they have a part in the

great neoliberal project, but, as my one time friend Wilson Jr. From Imperial College once

said, they are fucking kidding themselves. Unless you are willing to dedicate and throw

down your life to people who see themsleves as your natural superiors and live life as a

servant and slave, you have no real role in the Australia of Gina Rinehart and Tony Ab-

bott. You are debauched, fucked, twisted, immoral, decadent, and evil in the eyes of the

tories if, for whatever reason, you can’t do what they tell you to do. Know your place cunt,

or you will be destroyed. Such is life.

By the end of 2012, the day of my university graduation, I was sick to death of the con-

servatives. It didn’t matter whether those people were upper class preppy types or work-

ing class semi-bikie types. Right wingers are not my kind of people. Shit, I was once like

that, torie and proud. The thought of that lifestyle and life makes me sick to the stomach

these days. I wanted to be around normal, middle class people again. I desired sanity and

a home amongst my own species.

It is strange that, through my years of university, the hardest thing wasn’t the actual uni

work. Rather it was confroting some rather difficult and brutal realities of life. There are a

million ways to live and be and no one way is truly proper or correct. When we are young,

however, we have a tendency not to accept this. We are confident in ourselves, often to a

pain, and often cannot contemplate different opinions or beliefs. I had grown up in a

world where left wing beliefs and a progressive orientation seemed inevitable and normal.

Most Imperial Men had grown up in a world where right wing beliefs and a conservative

orientation were seen as inevitable and normal. And this was the nexus point of the con-

flict that developed.

Explosive but unforseeable. Intense but almost completely irrelevant in the end. Signifi-

cant in the college universe yet cosmically pathetic in actuality. Imperial College was one

of the most surreal and strange life experiences I have ever had. So much so that it made

psychadelic mushrooms and LSD seem perversely normal. College was definitely the

most trippy and strange thing I have ever done. Kind of like DMT maybe, a full mind and

body hallucenogenic. Something amazing, wonderful, mystical, and fundametally fucked

all at once, whilst remaining completely indescribable in a single sentence. I find it weird

that I once was, or wanted to be, a part of the college world. Yet it completely makes sense

to me why I did what I did and why I wanted to Chase the Dragon.That feeling of invinci-

bility-that hollow and ever hungry ego-wanting to feel an impossible and unsustaniable

succession of nods to it’s obvious greatness. And I was indeed Chasing the Dragon-that

perfect and largely innocent, or childish, natural high that comes once but will never come

again.

Conflicts, no matter how large or significant at any given point in time, all eventually fade

into irrelevance and obscurity. I mean, who really gives a fuck about the disputes that de-

fined the Roman Civil War of 46 BCE or World War One anymore? Those personality

clashes and conflicts were relevant in their time and place, but have faded into complete

practical nothingness in the present. Universal irrelevance-it‘s a realization that some peo-

ple have to have.

One sleepy and sunny winter afternoon in 2013 I was at the University of Brisbane. I had

travelled to Brisbane to sign the lease for a house. More specifically, I had travelled to the

University of Brisbane to pick up a copy of my academic transcript, which I had mis-

placed. That afternoon, the University of Brisbane seemed beautiful and colourful. Rays of

sunlight reflected on the sandstone grotesques and the trees in the courtyards. It was exam

time, and the university was almost completely empty. As such, I decided to go for a walk

through the university, to explore my old stomping grounds as it were. I ended up at one

end of the University of Brisbane lakes, with a direct view of Ladie’s, Joan of Arc, and St.
Anthony’s colleges ahead of me. I looked around me and saw what I had missed in my

time at college. Everything about the university was fucking amazing. Birds of all kinds

walked, flew, and waddled around the place. A massive fountain shot up from the middle

of the lake. The sky was sunny and calm, imposing a blanket over all below it. I was cos-

mically completely irrelevant, and happy for that fact.

In the halls of the colleges ahead of me, the single sex institutions of St. Anthony’s, Ladie’s,

and Joan of Arc, the same self important personality clashes and conflicts that defined my

time at Imperial would undoubtedly be unfolding. People hating each other for their dif-

ferences, hating the scary outside world and the daykids for their differences from the col-

lege crowd. People scamming, bitching, and fighting. People trying and striving for a pa-

thetic sense of recognition, but unaware of the blissful realization that none of it matters at

all. Does it matter to those birds in the sky and around the lake? Does it matter to the day

students walking past towards the bus lines? Will the current personality conflicts at col-

lege matter to current college kids in one, five, or ten years? When we are dead, as we all

will be one day, it is ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

College, and everything that happened there, never mattered really. But it did seem to mat-

ter at the time, in a world where everything was exxageratted and given undue attention

and significance. College was Earth in the unusual pre-copernican and Earth centred uni-

verse that formed the first two years of my early adulthood. As I reflect finally upon my

two years at Imperial College, I’m struck by Lionel Richie’s wise words on bad relation-

ships. And that’s what I shared with Imperial College essentially. A bad relationship,

complete with the ups and downs and swinging emotions of love and hate. When Imperi-

al College was going well, it was amazing. However, when the bad times came they were

simply terrifying. But in the end, I had to leave. I could never have been someone I was

truly proud of amidst Imperial College and it’s culture. All that is over now. That’s why

I’m easy, easy like Sunday morning-

Know it sounds funny

But, I just can't stand the pain

Girl, I'm leaving you tomorrow

Seems to me girl

You know I've done all I can

You see I begged, stole, and I borrowed! (yeah)

Ooh that's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning

That's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning!

Why in the world would anybody put chains on me?

I've paid my dues to make it

Everybody wants me to be

What they want me to be

I'm not happy when I try to fake it! no!

Ooh that's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning

That's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning!

I wanna be high, so high

I wanna be free to know

The things I do are right

I wanna be free

Just me! Whoa, oh! Babe!

That's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning, yeah

That's why I'm easy

I'm easy like Sunday morning, whoa

'Cause I'm easy

Easy like Sunday morning, yeah

'Cause I'm easy

Easy like Sunday morning.

-Easy, The Commodores, 1977.

Songs That Have Inspired This Work And Pulled Me Through

This General Existential Bullshit (In No Particular Order)-

-Hopsin-Pillow Man.

-Ice Cube, Greed.

-Coolio-C U When U Get There.

-Fort Minor-Slip Out The Back.

-Iron Maiden-Dance of Death.

-Dr. Dre-The Watcher.

-At The Gates-Blinded By Fear.

-Parkway Drive-Sleepwalker.
-Damian Marley-Confrontation.

-The Commodores-Easy.

-Eminem-Say Goodbye Hollywood.

-Warren Zevon-Lord Byron’s Luggage.

-In Flames-Only for the Weak.

-2pac-Only God Can Judge Me.

-Warren Zevon-Renegade.

-Slick Rick-Children’s Story.

-Death-Symbolic.

-Kenny Rogers-What Condition My Condition Was In.

-Hopsin-Where Will I Go?

-Eminem-Still Don’t Give a Fuck.

-Warren Zevon-Genius.

-Bob Dylan-Like a Rolling Stone.

-In Flames-Upon an Oaken Throne.

-Jefferson Airplane-Somebody to Love.

-Eminem-Drug Ballad.

-Stevie Wonder-Skeletons.

-In Flames-Satellites and Astronauts.

-Iron Maiden-Children of the Damned.

-Kansas-Carry on my Wayward Son.

-Hunters and Collectors-The Holy Grail.

-The Eagles-Long Road out of Eden.

-Alice Cooper-Go to Hell.

-Plan B-Labyrinth.

-Stephen Marley-Chase Dem.

-Trey Parker-What Would Brian Boitano Do.

-Warren Zevon-The Vast Indifference of Heaven.

-Cypress Hill-Carry Me Away.

-Stephen Marley-Mind Control.