Friendship (Jeremy)

It’s an interesting concept, friendship; mateship, if you will (though all mateship tends to imply to me is two friends who are both too manly to admit that they love each other). It’s certainly a difficult concept to pin down. I remember back when we had the Republican Referendum and Howard tried to write a preamble for Australia’s constitution involving the term “mateship” that was shot down in flames for its ambiguity, and so he has since replaced that proposal with something even more ambiguous; “Australian Values” (which presumably involve knowing all the words to Khe Sahn, farting, speeding, and not talking during the footy). Myself, I think that I’ve finally worked out what friendship really means.

Friendship is, in reality, just like any other relationship, except you’re not related and you’re not having sex (or, come to think of it, both at once). The reasoning is simple; that, in your best friendships, when you strip away the frills, you no longer look for someone who shares your tragic love for your football club, or someone who you can have coffee with, or someone who is trustworthy or interesting and funny. In the finish, in the best friendships, as in the best relationships and the best relations, all you look for is to love and be loved. The rest just falls into place.

Over the weekend, Kim and I were fortunate to suffer the Tomato Sauce bottle law (ie that nothing comes for a while and then everything comes at once, “everything” in this case being party invitations), recieving no less than four invitations in the one weekend after a fairly barren month. Naturally we could only restrict ourselves to two, and so it was off to Emma’s Oriental-Themed 21st followed by Liam’s Scary-Themed 21st birthday bash.

First up, on the Friday, was Emma’s celebration and it is fair to say that Emma’s family are either (a) well-heeled, (b) have pimped the cat and sold a cousin into slavery or (c) spending themselves both emotionally and financially to the bone, because every effort was made to make Em’s party a resounding success; and it worked. The drinks was good, the sushi was fantastic, the setup worked a treat and Kim and my outfits looked even better. (Modesty is wasted on the talented). Most of all, Em seemed to have a fantastic time and this was all capped off by two wonderful speeches in particular from her friends.

At around 11 o’clock Emma brought out some bai-jiu (rice wine) from China, a substance which is best used for stripping paint, stripping stomach linings, advocating for teetotolarism (sp?) and drinking (in that order). One young man in particular thought he’d be a he-man and drank a whole shot at once; following that, he immediately deposited his dinner on the driveway. Another amusing person (drunk people can be lots of fun when you yourself are sober) was a young man who had an air-mail envelope crumpled and hanging halfway out of his pocket. What’s that? we enquired. “Oh yeh”, he replied, as, tottering slightly, he took it out of his pocket and gave it a thorough inspection. “I luuurve French… Damo luurves French, don’tcha Damo?”. (We quickly moved out of the ‘line of fire’ as he swayed towards said Damo).
Turns out the envelope contained his tickets to France.

Still, to dwell on drunk people and the fun that they create is to paint a completely wrong and misleading representation of Friday night. Despite the fact that I knew roughly four other people there – and I sincerely wished to dig myself a six-foot hole after forgetting one of them – Emma’s friends made us feel welcomed wherever we turned. We both – like everyone else – had a great time. Happy Birthday, Em.

When it came to Liam’s bash for the next night (‘Scary’ theme), we were flat out of ideas for scary things to do that didn’t involve dressing up in the bedsheets and subsequently bringing to mind allusions of the Ku Klux Klan. We hadn’t really had time to hit Saver’s to make the most of any reasonable idea and we were basically lacking that final touch of inspiration to truly justify the effort. In the finish, we went as ourselves (which, in my own case, can sometimes be a truly scary thing).

Wouldn’t you know it; the one party that we don’t go ‘in-theme’ to, and everybody has not only gone in costume, but spared no detail in the effort for it. Particularly notable were the set of witches who had made their own broomsticks, Liam’s housemate ‘Squish’ who had made a notable appearance as Wolverine (we’re talking a jacket and pants that had been attacked by a Stanley knife, sideburns, glued-on (I hope) hand hair, the works), his two brother’s appearance in contrasting white and black suits as Good and Evil Conscience, a Snowman, Marcel Marceau, the Incredible Hulk (trust Nick to find the only costume that allows you to arrive half-naked) and a couple of zombies. My personal favourite was Sharif, who came dressed all in white, with mascara on one eye and a cricket protector strapped around the outside (“A Clockwork Orange”, 1971). Naturally, as soon as I walked in the room I had a few fantastic – if not quite workable ideas – for scary things. John Howard. The Dentist. Will Ferrell. Or, best of all, strap a vacuum cleaner each over our backs and go as Ghostbusters. To top off the night, a China friend of mine, Kirsty, who was also at Emma’s party, arrived at Liam’s halfway through, with no idea that we were here; sheer and utter coincidence.

The weekend was, I suppose, for seeing some old (and not-so-old) friends, catching up together and simply having some raucous fun in each other’s company. Many of the people – even old school friends – at Liam’s party I have dropped out of contact with, and that’s ok. It’s the way life goes. But, in the finish, it makes the friendships that you do hold all the more special. Friendship; mateship; love, call it whatever you want; for me, it’s best enjoyed on each other’s back, belting out the words to Working Class Man at 2’oclock in the morning and that’s good enough for me. Dancing the Moondance with Kim and Khe Sahn with mates; how good can life possibly ever get?

Enjoy your study, all (sigh)

jez.