27th January 2003
I'm afraid this is not so much a story about Shane, but about what happened when Shane was visiting. Yet he does appear at pivotal moments. I should declare up front that there have been no long-term repercussions from this night, but that every word is true.

One of my 3 flat-mates (Fitness Freak, for attentive readers) was leaving after 4 years in the apartment, so we threw him a farewell party. The party had been a notable success, but the fun really started once most people had left. Fitness Freak had been given for a birthday an electronic 'guard dog'‚ which, when turned on, barked at intermittent intervals for no reason at all. Being perhaps the worst toy since Matthew Kelley tried to market his Magical Growing Trouser Snake, we decided it had to be destroyed. Within a few minutes the dog had been turned to debris by being repeatedly bounced off the concrete outside. And once the destruction genie is out of the bottle, it's so difficult to get back in.

Next on the radar was a golf buggy that had been parked outside our apartment and getting in the way all night. Nearby were a few lanterns left over from a previous party. These were 6 feet hollow tubes of wood. The golf buggy was metal. You can probably guess who won that confrontation. We all layed into the buggy, and pretty soon the lanterns were turned into splinters.

As we looked around for something else to attack, the genius of flat-mate Chris (the blackjack master, Simpson quoting, PhD in neuroscience) became apparent. He went to his room and produced an old Apple Mac he had bought for $10 for the sole purpose of destroying. There were now just 4 of us left - Shane, myself, Chris and other flat-mate G.I. Joe (aka Forrest Gump / pre-kebab Harley). Shane and Chris took it up to the 3rd floor and threw it off the balcony. Once it landed with a satisfying thud, me and G.I. Joe laid into it in true Office Space style. I then noticed we had an empty keg, which I just about had the strength to lift over my head and smash down on the quickly disintegrating computer.

Now you might be wondering why the police had not yet turned up to see what all the noise was about. So was I. But not for much longer. A man with a torch came round the corner and told us to put our hands up. I ran inside, Chris and Shane were still on the 3rd floor, but G.I. Joe went for one last kick, and as I disappeared inside, I looked back to see him silouetted against the torch with his hands in the air.

Safely in the apartment this whole time was Alcoholic, a guy who spends so much time in our apartment he is considered an honourary flat-mate. He had turned up late and proceeded to catch up with everything we'd drunk in the space of a about 10 minutes. He was looking rather the worse for wear, staring at the wall and gently dribbling. I told him that as long as he stayed inside he would be fine. I was unclear as to whether he had understood.

When the police knocked on the door I decided it would be best to answer it. They asked for Chris by name, which brought him down from his 3rd floor hideaway. I emerged to find GI Joe kneeling on the ground in handcuffs and Chris trying to explain that it was all a bit of fun. The police were not amused.

"These guys are'‚t brain surgeons," muttered one cop taking in the sea of computer wreckage.

"Ironically enough, I'm a PhD in neuroscience," replied Chris. The police were still not amused.

Just when it looked like the situation was resolving itself, Alcoholic stumbled out of the apartment and threw up all over the bushes.

"Could you come over here please?" asked a cop.

"F**k you‚" came the less than courteous reply.

Alcoholic soon found himself kneeling on the ground, handcuffed behind his back next to GI Joe. The problem was that the police had put him in front of a concrete slab, and when he fell forward in one graceful movement, he smashed his head on it and required 5 stitches across his eyebrow. As he lay there covered in blood and vomit, Chris suggested they take off the handcuffs

"Okay. Hey - if you'll be nice we'll take the handcuffs off".

"F**k you".

(Genuine overheard conversation:

Cop1: 'Those cuffs are so rusty. I can't believe you put them on someone'

Cop2: 'I'm not putting them on myself')

Fortunately the police decided Alcoholic was too drunk to take to the station, so the paramedics strapped him onto a trolley and carted him off to Stanford Hospital, one of the world's top medical research institutions, where he could sleep it off.

GI Joe seemed relatively sober in comparison, and was released into our care, on the basis that he go straight to bed and sleep on his front. You may think that Shane has had a rather understated role in the mayhem. And it is now that he comes into his own. As soon as we're back in the apartment I hear,

"Time for some tequila!"

Now about 5 in the morning, me, Shane, Chris and GI Joe drink 4 more tequilas before going to bed.

Any major damage done in the course of a night's destruction? The next day we got a worrying phone call from our neighbour with the golf cart. It turned out it had a got cigarette burn on one of the seats.