Alright. Let’s take a good look at some facts. There is no way that tradies are better drinkers than uni students. Picking up a hammer doesn’t automatically make you this hard cunt who’s been drinking beer since he was 6 but it certainly makes you think you are. Look mate, Uni students are the only demographic on the planet that have the ability to drink 4 times a week. Repeating this action week in week out means most students could absolutely fuck a tradie up in a drink off. Yeah you make more money than us and yeah you probably did the right thing doing a trade but I’ll be damned if you think you could sink more than me. I’ll see you in town. Cheers.
DRINK OF THE WEEK
Being the Waikato child that I am, it would be classed as a war crime if I didn’t spout off about this beautiful piece of liquid engineering that is Waikato Draught. It’s the more well-rounded version of it’s cousins Speights and Lion Red. Speights? It’s just for people who won’t shut up about speights. Lion Red? No thanks, I’m not from Northland, nor do I smoke meth. Sure these might taste similar to each other but with this drop, it’s not about the taste. It’s the loyalty, committing yourself to your regional beer for the remainder of your life. It represents something greater than just drinking beer. It’s a lifestyle. Thank you.
RED CARD IDEA
David Baine Challenge
The David Baine challenge involves some mates, terrible sweatshirts and a lot of piss. The idea of the game is to, like the fabled David himself, take a shot in every room of a house. This can easily be adapted for the halls, for example, a drink on every floor. You are required to find, obtain and wear the shittest op-shop cardigan or woollen jersey you can find, the more colours the better. Bonus points if you bring a newspaper with you. Warning: these are alcohol shots, please do not murder your family
EPISODE 6: Move In Day
A wide-eyed second year moves into his flat with a hopeful year of education laying in front of him. That went down the drain in about 4 seconds. First night. The boys. Beers. Sesh rigs out. So we proceed to break in the house by getting spasticated. My flatmate sees a lone couch at the end of our driveway. The cogs in his head started turning, an idea was formed. He grabs a lighter and sprints to the end of the driveway in a drunken canter. Now at the end of the driveway, in another house, was a den of sesh gremlins (just 5 absolute bogans in a house yelling encouragement). The flames weren’t catching so the local gremlins threw him down a can of lynx. With fuel in his hand in combination with the spurring on from the neighbours, he was finally able to set the couch ablaze. When the cops and the fire brigade showed up the cops went door to door hunting for my flatmate. It got to the point where he was trying on new clothes in front of us like some sort of fucked up fashion show so as to select the perfect disguise to conceal himself from the law and any potential description. However, before the law reached the door the local gremlins started chucking bottles at the cop car. They were arrested and we escaped all blame. We woke up the next morning to some of the local gremlins having a full-on fistfight in the driveway. The charred skeleton of a couch that graced our street corner for another week became very reminiscent of my uni grades that year. What a year that was.