Tales From The Crypt

People of the world, greetings from the vast expanses of the universe…or something like that.

Those amongst you with greater powers of observation may have noticed that this bumfuck of a site has been fairly quiet of late. ¬†Apart from a few posts with content, it’s mostly been talk of things that were coming up or rumoured to be happening, and then very little follow up. This is due in (most) part to the fact that I am an incredibly lazy person who speaks often of doing things like updates, or making phone calls, or organising bike rides, and yet end up doing very little of any of that. Those of you who are regular readers (small in number and the subject of much pity, no doubt) would realise that this is a repeated theme around here. So let’s make an attempt to remedy that, shall we?

Firstly, go tell all the people you hate that the BnC website might start getting some more content a little more frequently. Also, let them know that I have been approached with offers of cold, hard cash in exchange for advertising ugg boots on this “fashion blog”. I shit you not. I want you all to know that I could have quite easily been sitting here in a brand new pair of delicious sheep feet whilst unashamedly linking to some random muppet’s skin boots. But no! The faint odour of integrity that sometimes wafts up from the BnC bed sheets is thickening to a musty stench once again, and damned if we’re gonna clean it out any time soon.

So anyway… late last year we once again held the annual BnC Grass Track Slalom event in Hobart. Boxing day saw a fine selection of old men and young children loitering around a tree in a park, supping on beverages and tittering nervously. After some friendly banter things eventually got under way. As per usual, the afternoon consisted of large numbers of people on bicycles kooking it on various levels and inevitably ending up on the ground in a pile of hurt and metal. Fun for all.

I honestly can’t say I remember who won, if anyone. I’m fairly sure that Kiwi retained the previous year’s Croc Cup simply by default, and probably because no one else wanted some aged plastic kid’s shoe strapped to their bike. As with most of these events, things got rather interesting after everyone packed up and headed to the pub. Memories are fairly hazy, and those of you so inclined can no doubt track down various photos involving inebriated BnC members out and about later that evening, usually making complete fools of themselves. I myself ended up awaking on a strange couch in a house filled with people I didn’t know, at 7:30am the next morning. Safe to say I made a swift exit.

For those who missed it, here are some photos. For those who made it, maybe this will bring back some memories. For those who we may have crossed paths with…sorry.

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