Words by Christian Orkibi
Illustrations by Tegan Iversen
A few years ago a high school friend got a secret girlfriend. Being the nosy little bastard that I am, I decided to sit down and figure out for myself which of the girls in the year level he had hooked up with. Armed with a pen, a spreadsheet, a yearbook and a box of ‘Guess Who?’, I undertook the most useless amateur detective case ever conducted.
She either had red hair and a big nose or she was actually a bald Italian bloke called George. Perhaps we’ll never know.
‘Guess Who?’ was developed by popular British board game company, Milton Bradley, in 1979. The two player guessing phenomenon was designed by husband and wife team Ora and Theo Coster. They were, presumably, both visually impaired and struggling to figure out what the other looked like. I’m not exactly sure that joke works.
Each player receives a board with 24 little ‘windows’ that you can flap up and down. A card with a unique face and name is inserted into each window and both players select an extra ‘chosen card’ that slots into a window at the base of the board. Players then take turns attempting to Sherlock Holmes their way into the opponent’s mind (Benedict Cumberbatch not included) by asking questions regarding the appearance of their chosen card. If you ask, for example, ‘does your person have rainbow eyes?’ and the answer is yes, you can flap down all the people that don’t have rainbow eyes. This reduces your chances of getting your final guess wrong.
Once a player believes they have narrowed down the identity of the mystery card, they can call out the name. If they are wrong then it counts as a guess. If they are right, they win the game.
The real fun behind ‘Guess Who?’ lies in choosing the right questions to ask and the home wrecking poker faces that are traded across boards. True fact, True Detective was actually inspired by a family murder case over games of ‘Guess Who?’.*
You always start with ‘are they a man or a woman?’ If you decid to forgo this question and MacGyver your way into beards and noses straight off the bat, then you’re pretty much screwed instantly. The other person will drop half their board in a single question. After you get the standard questions out of the way, it becomes a challenge as to who could come up with the most creative questions.
My brother and I would end up creating personas and backstories for each face on the cards to make the game harder. Terry was a cross dresser from Liverpool with a cocaine habit and Linda was a hipster who worked night shifts at the abattoir. Of course, once you’re that far off the rails, it’s only a small step to all out fisticuffs.
‘Guess Who?’ was the first board game that celebrated diversity and unique physical features. Red hair was red hair and big teeth were strategic assets. Kids played the hell out of it and parents stepped into the ensuing fights. There was really only one feature that I thought was missing…really big ears. Kind of like those of a certain unpopular political figure at the moment. Guess who?
*Not a true fact.
Words by Jakob von der Lippe
Sir Redmond Barry was not the kind of person you would expect to have been the first chancellor of The University of Melbourne. He was, in short, a wily old bastard. The first part of his life was pretty straightforward. Born in 1813 in County Cork, Ireland, Barry’s life was pretty standard for a rich-ish, pro-British son of a military man in Ireland. He attended military school from age twelve, and for the first 26 years of his life, showed every indication of joining the military. However, his failure to gain an officer’s commission (no doubt due to the mounting tensions surrounding British rule in the 1830) sent Barry along an entirely different course. In 1837 he graduated from Trinity College, and was admitted to the Irish Bar in 1838. As in he practised law, you stereotyping racist.
Here’s where it gets interesting. Throughout his time at Trinity, Barry made friends with a certain Isaac Butt, who was essentially the man behind the Irish Home Rule movement, a political force focused on Irish autonomy. Butt himself was inextricably linked with a lot of the movers and shakers of 1800s Ireland, including W. B. Yeats, so you can guess the class of individual Redmond Barry associated himself with. This man had absolutely no interest in fucking around.
Except he totally did have an interest in that. During his voyage to Australia in 1839, Sir Redmond Barry, future Queen’s Counsel and Knight Bachelor, was confined to his cabin aboard the Calcutta by the captain of the boat. The reasoning behind this was simple: Barry was having an open and incredibly improper affair with a married woman. News of Barry’s love of maritime adventure spread quickly upon his arrival in Sydney, and once the then Bishop of the Church of England found out, his prospects of employment basically dwindled to nothing in the established colonies. So, forced out of the genteel and settled parts of Australia by his audacious attitude and colossal balls, Redmond Barry did what anyone would do, and attached himself to the new settlement at Port Phillip Bay. Y’know, what would be called Melbourne.
Despite not being able work in civilised parts of Australia due to his inability to keep his pants on, Barry entered the new settlement with high ideals and expectations. As one of a few law types that far south, he worked tirelessly towards enforcing justice, sort of like a colonial Batman. Throughout this early period he also worked as a legal liaison and counsel for the local aborigines, usually without pay.
By pure luck and perseverance, Redmond Barry put himself on the scene in Melbourne. His tireless work in the early years meant that in 1851 he was appointed the first solicitor-general of Victoria, and throughout his time in Melbourne he’d cemented himself as a man of learning, the arts, and a generally alright dude. But there must have been some disagreement about this, considering he was challenged to a duel in 1841 by a certain Peter Snodgrass. Snodgrass got nervous and fired his pistol too early, missing completely. So Redmond Barry, being a magnificent bastard, slowly and majestically pointed his gun into the air, and fired.
Underpinning all of these events was Barry’s commitment to public learning. Barry offered up his own house as a library before one existed in the new colony. Unsurprisingly, in 1853 he became chancellor of the university he had worked so hard to found. Barry’s efforts to create a centre of learning in Melbourne followed a simple, but solid logic: his life had been shaped by the opportunities his education had afforded him, the development of the colony depended on offering more people those opportunities.
In the final two years of his life, Redmond Barry oversaw and prosecuted the infamous Kelly cases, making it his personal mission to apprehend and judge the outlaw. After sentencing Kelly to hanging, Kelly cursed Barry, proclaiming that he’d see him in hell soon. Within twelve days, Redmond Barry died of breathing complications.
Words by Christian Orkibi
Illustration by Sarah McDonald
No, this is not about Matthew Broderick’s ‘pile o’ shit’ Inspector Gadget movie from 1999. If you want to know about that Inspector Gadget, search through your local Video Ezy bargain bins and then put your head in a blender.
The Inspector Gadget TV series first aired all the way back in 1983, but it wasn’t until the early ‘90s that the show began to churn out follow-up seasons on Nickelodeon. Revolving around the adventures of cyborg detective Inspector Gadget, the show was produced by several companies around the globe. Animation was done in Japan and Taiwan and writing in France and Canada. Go go, carbon footprint!
Inspector Gadget is celebrated by kids of the ‘90s for displaying the power of clumsiness. He was our Basil Fawlty, and we loved him. Gadget was constantly tripping over himself and making a mockery of the advanced technical wizardry contained within his body (penis joke, not intended). For me, his ability to save the day, despite his failures, really instilled hope and reassurance into my own failures. Years later, I’m still waiting on the Royal Melbourne Hospital to fulfill my request for springy robotic legs.
The character and personality of Inspector Gadget was originally designed to mimic the mannerisms and escapades of The Pink Panther’s Inspector Clouseau. In the pilot episode in ’83, Gadget can even be seen with the iconic Pink Panther moustache. Gadget was accompanied by his so-close-to-a-Family Guy-lawsuit dog Brain and his super genius niece Penny. Penny and Brain were the brains behind the operation (pun intended), solving almost all of the cases set against Gadget by the super cliché bad dude, Doctor Claw!
The plot of each episode wasn’t exactly Academy Award winning, given that every single episode pretty much went down the same. But then again, the writers didn’t have much to work with, did they? Well, nothing except for the fact that he was a robot filled with gadgets …
The episodes would begin with Gadget, Penny, and Brain receiving a call from Chief Quimby, (seriously, all these cartoon producers need to have a big lawsuit day). Quimby would then give the Inspector an assignment, which of course would self-destruct after reading. The group would then travel to the location of the crime, where Gadget would get into mischief while Penny and Brain fought Doctor Claw’s men and solved the case. At the end of each episode, Gadget would be commended for his service to the world and it would end with a good moral lesson. Something like not deciding to stuff half of NASA’s equipment up your bottom to help solve crimes.
Gadget’s legacy lives on today and he is remembered for his charm, innocence, and crazy contraptions. Despite the series ending in the early 2000s, a new animated show is currently in development and Inspector Gadget comic books have been on shelves since 2012. But perhaps the best thing Inspector Gadget ever gave us was a childhood of standing on tables with a little bowler hat on, screaming “Go go gadget!” at pieces of furniture. May we never forget him.
Every issue, Brendan McDougall takes a classic literary text and fills it with graphic, explicit, filthy, transgressive, don’t-show-your-grandma sexiness. Keep it under lock and key.
Words by Brendan McDougall
Illustrations by Sarah Layton
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation, not to mention the opportunity to spend a few months of dark nights up to my neck in seamen. The seamen all over the bunks in our quarters, seamen all over the deck, each individually scented, albeit all with that distinct saltiness that lights my loins so, invigorated me to no end. My journey began positively, sharing a bed with a nasty Polynesian named Queequeg, equal parts tattoos and throbbing masculinity, with which he showed no hesitation in stuffing my rubbery, landlubbery porthole, filling me with the salty solution both my rectum and disposition hungered for. I felt safe beneath Queequeg’s gasping, sweating frame as he tied me down and docked me for those first three nights, and even though my body was being wave-borne out into to the unknown Atlantic, every instance that Queequeg’s haired stomach flesh slapped like a wave into my stern felt like a homeward pound.
This initial comfort wore away however, just as the ocean erodes the coastline, as my restlessness and thirst for misadventure sharpened. We moored in Nantucket and there, in the port, I heard rumour of a ship that lay in the harbour, a mysterious ship sighted every night being visited by shadowed figures. Opportunistically I arrived with my cock in hand, red-raw from Queequeg’s sandpaper palms, standing starboard side of the good ship Pequod, awaiting a meeting with the captain. I had heard legend onshore of Captain Ahab’s single-minded approach to flogging his white whale Moby Dick, and though warned of the danger, sought a ride on his large, ragged vessel. After letting another prospective sailor shaft me for twenty minutes in the shadows under the pier, the captain appeared, a gruff silhouette against the afternoon sun. I quickly scooped the cum out of my porthole and went up to meet Ahab. His voice was musty like an old rug and the sight of his bare chest, weathered and red as lobster-flesh, caused my mast to stiffen in the wind. “Come, Ahab’s compliments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me.”
He touched one massive finger to my lips before turning away and leading me towards his quarters. It was quiet on deck, save for the screech of seagulls, the clop of Ahab’s whale-bone leg and the beating of my sparrow-heart. The captain had lost his real leg in attempting to win his life-long battle with the white whale. The traditional rationale behind whaling lay in the extraction of precious spermaceti from the whale’s sperm-sac, but Ahab took to the sea only for revenge. Here was a man who had no care for profits, a man who wanted to flog the white whale until it was red and bleeding, screaming as it gave up its sperm. We entered the cabin and he closed the door behind him, lit a candle, and stepped quickly out of his pantaloons. His member, already bulbous, was engorged with blood. It had teeth marks and even a harpoon imbedded in its side. This was the Moby Dick, the white whale. He looked at me earnestly as he started desperately pulling at it, panting frantically. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it. He moved on from the tugging and began slapping his cock, punching it, grabbing it with two hands and twisting it, all the while staring at me earnestly. He wailed, leaping at me and grabbing my face and pushing my soft lips onto the monster, holding it in place as he thrusted. I could feel the tip of his knob crushing into the back of my throat and I gargled with joy.
“Swerve me! Swerve me!” he bellowed.
I sucked as hard as God would allow me to suck, so much so that I could feel my eyes bulging from their sockets, until finally he screamed with pleasure as I extracted the sperm from the white whale, making sure to collect every last drop salaciously with my tongue. The old captain slumped onto his chair, eyes in a far off place, dick shrivelling rapidly like a rotting piece of fruit. His gaze was one of relief: after all these years, Moby Dick had been licked, and sucked, and chewed a little bit too.
Words by Christian Orkibi
Illustrations by Sarah McDonald
Ever imagined what it must be like to be a teen parent? Having to change your baby’s nappies while your parents are nagging you to clean your room. Posting status updates about your child’s first word when your friends are nek nominating one another. Not being able to go clubbing with your friends because you’re crouched in fetal position on your bed listening to Sinead O’ Connor on a loop.
The life of a teen-mum was much easier back in the mid ‘90s; children consisted of 14 pixels, were trapped in handheld devices and only died twice a week. I refer to the world of the Tamagotchi, the Japanese craze that swept the world and wasted the lives of every kid under the sun.
Akihiro Yokoi of WiZ and Aki Maita of Bandai developed the first Tamagotchi in 1996, to help young girls learn the basics of parenting. The name Tamagotchi was derived from the Japanese word for egg, “tamago”, and the English word “watch”. The story is simple: an alien race of Tamagotchis land on earth and for some reason, are incapable of caring for themselves or maintaining personal hygiene. Thus, it falls upon the teenagers of earth—boys included—to care for these little nightmares.
For anyone who owned a Tamagotchi in the early days, the process of picking up poo, dropping off food and giving your fungus covered children a smack in the face became a well-oiled machine. This routine eventually developed, through many editions, to include a series of mini-games with high score tables and hunting.
As you looked after or slowly murdered your pet, it grew through different stages of life, from baby to adult. However, everyone who owned a Tamagotchi experienced the heartbreak of the angel rising from a dead Tamagotchi’s body. Leave your pet for too long and they will ascend to the heavens forcing you to begin anew. Common causes of death were either excrement suffocation or a simple lack of common sense to get feed them.
If you were a kid in the ‘90s, chances are you had a Tamagotchi. However, I bet I can throw a couple of random facts your way that you mightn’t know about our alien friends.
Fact one: in December 2007, Tamagotchi The Movie told the story of Tanpopo, a teenage girl transported into the world of crystal meth Tamagotchis. The film received dismal reviews.
Fact two: German band Die Ärzte may have a hard-arse name, but in 2012 they released a song entitled ‘Tamagotchi’. Remarkably the band’s career is still going strong.
Despite being the subject of crude insults and general humiliation in today’s culture, Tamagotchi was truly a gem of the ‘90s; the world it created and the copycats it inspired are evidence of that.
Tamagotchi taught teenagers what it was like to have a child, and evened out global population growth. Thanks Japan.
Words by Ella Shi
Illustrations by Tegan Iversen
Finding your perfect pen is essential. While not guaranteed to improve your grades, it can definitely make academic mediocrity more enjoyable. So before stationery shopping, make this handy guide your PENultimate stop.
The Papermate Kilometrico is the most affordable. Though scientists have yet to prove whether this pen can actually write for a kilometre, experience indicates that these things never run out of ink. However, the slim barrel makes it the culprit of crippling hand cramps. You’d think that buying a packet of 20 would mean you never run out, but this is far from reality. The large packet means it’s hard to keep track of the pens, making them the perfect target for pen thieves. Will be lost faster than used.
Many have used the classic BIC 4-Colour ballpoint, but is it really as great as its variety of hues lead you to believe? While colour versatility at the click of a pen may be a novelty to you, it will probably drive the people around you mad, and may result in a violent stabbing with writing implements. Furthermore, its longevity is surprisingly limited, as you find yourself tossing it out once your most used colour has run out. Would not recommend unless you’re a proponent for colour equality.
The Typo Needle Me is basically your average fineliner, unabashedly branded with the Typo logo. Regardless, the five for $5 deal has lured in many. Despite its price tag, the pen writes smoothly and the somewhat rubbery veneer makes it pleasurable to grip. But be warned: the tip—though fabulously pointy—is easily blunted by a heavy hand.
I picked up a packet of Nondescript K-mart pens under the impression that stationery shopping would equate to academic success. While my agenda was flawed, the pens were not. Though cheap and rather ugly looking, they were actually of satisfactory quality and have persisted despite ample use. The occasional faulty specimen has the tendency to leak, but the risk factor adds a thrill to note taking.
Words by Simon Farley
If you think Australia’s political climate is polarised now, well frankly, you don’t know shit. In the 1960s and early ‘70s, social divisions in this country ran deeper than most of us young’uns could ever imagine. Inequality and injustice were rife, and the general populace was finally getting mad about it. The focal point for this rage was of course the Vietnam War. Why? Probably because it was a horrifyingly pointless conflict that had precisely fuck all to do with Australia, besides the fact that every Prime Minister from Curtin to Whitlam wanted to suck Uncle Sam’s dick. Figuratively speaking, of course. The fact that people were being dragged into this terrible thing against their will (thanks, conscription!) only added injury to insult.
Being the lefty paradise it was (and to a lesser extent still is), the University of Melbourne was at the forefront of the movement against Australia’s involvement in the War. This was particularly the case with conscription. It dragged so many bright young men into Vietnam’s vicious maw, spitting many of them out as barely recognisable husks of humanity. Either that, or they just straight-up died. By 1970, Vietnam was the longest military conflict Australia had ever fought, and popular sentiment against it was reaching a vociferous peak. Protests and other acts of resistance ranging from the theatrical to the militant were commonplace. Following similar protests in the US, a series of ‘moratorium’ rallies were held throughout Australia in 1970 and ‘71. At Melbourne’s first, on 8 May 1970, some 100,000 people peacefully occupied the CBD, many of them students.
It was amid this climate that Union House was briefly transformed into a sanctuary for draft resisters—an ad hoc fortress where activists could broadcast their subversive messages through a pirate radio station.
On 27 September 1971, four draft resisters and their supporters established Resistance Radio on the third level of Union House, where the George Paton Gallery stands today. For the next two days, they played what’s been described as a “cat-and-mouse game” with the Postmaster General, who was in charge of telecommunications. To defend the fugitives and their illicit broadcasts, hundreds of students occupied Union House, constructing elaborate barricades from chairs, tables and Young Liberals. The Melbourne University Resistance Commune, as they dubbed themselves, were an ideologically diverse lot, but they co-operated in a way that would make a grown Socialist Alternative member weep.
But this microcosmic liberal utopia was not to last. At 5 am that Thursday, some 150 police officers stormed the University. Thanks to an elaborate warning system consisting of flares and foghorns, those within Union House were warned of the attack well in advance. These alarms also summoned reinforcements from the colleges, in what I imagine looked a lot like that Helm’s Deep bit in Lord of the Rings where everyone’s about to die but then Gandalf comes in with the Riders of Rohan and it’s all like BAM SHING WHACK and they kill all the orcs. Surprisingly, however, it was a largely non-violent affair—the members of the Commune simply linked arms and sang “Power to the People” while the police went about their business.
It took twenty minutes for them to break into the building and then work their way up through the barricades to the third floor, by which point the draft resisters had long since disappeared. They fled to Adelaide, where both Adelaide and Flinders universities offered them asylum. The Fuzz cleared the building of students and proceeded to spend the next four hours destroying Union property, causing thousands of dollars worth of damage, because apparently in the ‘70s the police force was primarily made up of cranky toddlers.
So, what did we learn?
It may have been short-lived, but as a student of the same university as those brave, crazy lefties, I can’t help but feel inspired. Power and privilege are still pooled in a relatively small segment of society, and increasingly that segment of society is throwing its weight around—making that power felt, that privilege obvious. I’m not saying we need to form the Melbourne University Resistance Commune 2: Commune Harder, but as role models go, you could find worse. I’ll put it this way: in 1971, people felt like they were being pushed around, and they didn’t just cop it—they made themselves heard. They resisted. And by the end of the next year, conscription was abolished, all conscientious objectors had been released from prison, and there were no more Australian troops fighting in Vietnam.
Welcome to Concession Card Cooking!
Each month, I’ll present you with a recipe that’s cheap and easy to cook—a perfect student feed.
Words and Photo by Nathaniel Seddon-Smith
Student life is tough. You move out of home (or at least the cool ones do), then suddenly POW! Bills! BAM! Responsibility! WHACK! Studies! Then of course, the toughest challenge of all: living without mum’s cooking. Your once rich diet reduced to Mi Goreng seasoned with whatever was stuck to the bottom of the bowl. Breakfast becomes optional, then non-existent, and the closest thing to salad you have is the mould that thrives in the jar of god-knows-what at the back of the fridge.
But now, the time has come for you to break out of the vicious cycle of subsistence and malnutrition. This is an intervention to cure you, my readers, of your culinary heresy. But you can’t go straight from microwave to Masterchef. You need some training wheels and a helpful father figure to give you the metaphorical push in the right direction.
To find them, we take a trip to the faraway land of Mexico. We can all learn something from Mexico: it is a simple country, filled with simple people, and the currency is Marijuana. Mexican culture is often horribly misunderstood: contrary to popular opinion, they do not spend their days wearing ponchos and sombreros, eating tacos and drinking Corona. In fact, for the average Méxicano, Chili is a major part of their diet, both con carne or sin carne (they also have much better taste in beer). This Aztec delicacy is so easy it can be cooked by any gringo, whether you’re the type that swears a lot in the kitchen because you’re Gordon Ramsay or because you’ve set the pan on fire. Best of all, it’s cheaper per serving than anything you’ll find at Maccas.
Ingredients: (Serves 3-4)
- 500g Beef Mince (Replace with lentils or beans for a vegetarian option)
- 2 Onions
- 2 Cans Chopped Tinned Tomatoes
- 1 Can Baked Beans or Four Bean Mix
- Salt, Pepper, Chili Powder
- Rice (Long Grain best)
- Cooking Oil
- Dice the onions and fry them in a spoonful of oil until they’re pale and soft
- Add the mince to the same pan. Break the slab up a bit as it cooks to help it cook more evenly.
- When the meat is all brown, empty the frying pan into a large cooking pot. Add the tomatoes, beans and seasoning. Add as much chili powder as you want, but don’t ditch it altogether – it adds to the flavour (you sook).
- Mix it all up and put it on a high heat until it’s bubbling a little. Turn the heat down and let it simmer for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
- While the chili cooks, wash and cook the rice (about half a cup of raw rice per person).
- By the time the rice is done, the chili should be cooked. Stick them both on a plate and chow down amigo.
If you’re feeling a bit fancy, fry some garlic with the onions, then add some chicken stock and mixed herbs with the other ingredients.