Eighteen-Year-Old Second-Year Now Convinced He’s A Fully Mature Adult

For many students, the second year of university can come with its unique set of challenges and opportunities, except for college kids who just do the exact same thing as last year except they’re now permitted to brutally haze the first-years, instead of being the victims of such hazing.

But for some students, second-year is an indicator of something far more than the fact they managed to get through two semesters. It means ‘you’ve made it, bud. You’re a superstar now.’

And for local BAFE student Robbie Spurmann (19), it’s an opportunity to rediscover the brief taste of power most Churchie students experience as some sort of vague House/Spirit/’I Love The First XV’/Straddie Pre-Schoolies Captain in Year 12.

‘Yeah, I’m two semesters deep, and at this point I pretty much run the place,’ said the young man, his words spoken almost entirely out of the side of his mouth.

‘Once you’ve sunk enough jugs at the Reddo, and given enough chicks a tongue-lashing at the RE, you’re pretty much an expert,’ he muttered, conveniently ignoring the fact he’d been using his older brother’s fake ID to get into Ivory Tusk (why the fuck is it called that now, by the way). That was at least until two months ago, wherein his ‘Lad’s 18th’ was marked by nineteen separate incidents of vomiting after two ‘double rumbos, haha’ and nineteen separate incidents of blokes being absolutely tragic, which coincidentally, were the same incidents.

Whilst Robbie’s peers raise their eyebrows at his bizarrely unearned confidence, it has earned the ire of an even more strange set of students: third-years. The odd seniority felt by those who are objectively twenty is a social phenomena few study, but as phrases like ‘Look, it’s my third year, I know what I’m doing’ begin to be thrown around campus, it is worth taking a long, hard, sweaty look at these key issues.

Good luck to the boys in the Firsts this year though, hope you get up against Nudgee.

No more to slum.

Local Man With No Defining Personality Traits Buys Film Camera

A local nuffie who has, up until this point, been defined solely by his ‘polite and friendly nature’ has decided to step up his game. Whilst most of his life has been dominated by being a ‘fringe guy,’ never really in the group chat but somehow still showing up for Friday drinks without fail, today is the dawn of new beginnings.

Following the purchase of an inexplicably overpriced $24.95 disposable camera from K-Mart, Cameron McLaughlin (22) is a re-invented man. 

Goodbye, ‘forgettable but nice guy that you’re introduced to at a 21st but immediately forget.’ Hello, ‘weird guy insisting he take a photo of me on his film camera, and making really certain I know he has a film camera.’ 

Somewhat similar to the purchase of a red convertible in your mid-forties, or Viagra medication in your-mid-sixties, the introduction of any film paraphernalia to one’s life instantly adds an aura of ‘cool,’ in the same way that cigarettes added a sexy aura in the 1950s, and being not riddled with the plague added a charismatic aura in the 1300s.

In order to capture the essence of his typical night out to Howard Smith Wharves, McLaughlin has been shoving his film camera in the face of any intoxicated stranger he can find. 

‘It’s really fucking weird that the guy in the Patagonia shirt over there keeps taking photos of us Juuling,’ reports one of McLaughlin’s most recent muses, the kind-hearted Nursing student Sarah McLennan (23).

‘Just came here for a quite night with my friends and old mate over here is acting like he’s just discovered Tame Impala, Stranger Things, rolled-up jeans, and the bare surface of acting indie. He’s a fucking freak.’

Reportedly, McLaughlin could not hear the sound of this vocal criticism over the metallic clank of the camera shutter on the analogue purchase. In his final comment to The Obiter, he declared ‘It goes really well with my record player and sneaker collection.

More to come.

Ex-Churchie First-Year Ironing The Ralph & Polishing The Birks In Preparation For O-Week

James Robertson, or ‘Chundo,’ as he’s now known to his mates after a particularly vicious bout of Great Northern-influenced gastrointestinal disease at Schoolies, is a grown-up now. Ironing his own collection of navy Ralph Lauren T-shirts, the 2019 Churchie Old Boy is ready to tackle O-Week, Market Day, and all the challenges and opportunities university has to offer Queensland’s brightest. 

Yet, some doubts have arisen over whether insular private schools provide the best training ground for early university experiences. When asked if he was excited for O-Week, and the clubs and societies present at Market Day, James (‘Chundo’) gave the desperately incisive response of ‘Haha, O-Week. Sounds like what I give my girlfriend.’

After our pained silence, he followed up on the original comment.

‘An orgasm every week.’

As our reporters gathered their thoughts, James whipped out the leather polish, but broke with the traditional private-school trend of polishing your fourth pair of RM Williams boots, and instead, starting adding a polished sheen to his Birkenstock sandals.

‘Rolled-up jeans, Birks, a Ralph T-shirt, and a cap of some American sports team I’ve never heard of, but will pretend to support regardless. I’m ready for Market Day!’ declared the dermatologist’s son.

What is he most excited for at Market Day? Following the purchase of FMAA and UQLNC memberships, the local first year cannot wait to have an 11am beer in the Reddo with all his cool new mates in the Beer and Rum Society. 

He also considered buying an L-Card but decided against it, citing the all pink marketing as being ‘a bit gay aha.’ In many ways, who can blame him?

As this absolute legend of a societal failure prepares to grace the St Lucia campus with his presence, and wear his BAFE hoodie until it’s practically falling off his shoulders onto the floors of PwC where he will inevitably receive a cushy consultancy gig, and oversee the yoke of capitalism crushing anyone or anything with dreams or creativity, there’s one thing we should all remember.

Iron Jack is a shithouse beer and it’s absurd the Red Room sells it.

No more to come.

Record-Breaking 183 Oroton Umbrellas Spotted At All Hallows’ Mother’s Lunch

‘When it rains, it pours!’ shouted one particularly intoxicated mother as she opened another bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, ignorant of the fact she would have to be collecting her children in the family BMW in three hours, with a blood alcohol level well above what most would consider functional, let alone legal.

The wet weather today in Brisbane did not cast despair upon a group of women celebrating school being back, and their shitty little children being out of their perfectly balayaged hair. 

The one weapon these women carried en masse to protect themselves against the elements was the Oroton umbrella, obviously. 

A symbol of both ubiquitous wealth and poor taste, a canopy of Orotons enveloped a local Teneriffe cafe. A phalanx of the rain-protecting devices immediately signalled to other Brisbane citizens: take notice, these dermatologist’s wives won’t take no for an answer if you tell them you’re out of the ‘organic pinot grigio.’

It was alleged that one AHS mother, Julie Smith-Wright, had the audacity to brace herself against the rain with a sickening, albeit practical, newsagent umbrella. 

As of this afternoon, it has been reported that Julie’s children have both been un-enrolled from All Hallows’, and forced to attend the heathen wasteland known as Brisbane Girls’ Grammar School (given Julie’s husband was a cracking openside flanker for the First XV in 1982).

More to come.

Obiter Team Drowning Under Record Number Of Subcommittee Applications

‘This is fucked,’ stated the Editor-in-Chief, looking at the nine hundred subcommittee applications scattered across his desk, evidence of over nine hundred people who want to write for The Obiter

‘What is it, Dad?’ asked senior writer Michael Fielding, weirdly.

‘Get me the President. Now,’ responded the Editor, hands trembling as he gazed upon the array of names in front of him, all of whom appeared incredibly desperate to be a part of The Obiter organisation. It seemed almost unbelievable that nearly one thousand people would want to write for this small-time satire publication, but the proof was in the pudding.

And then the email notification dinged. Another application. Another bright-eyed youngster, the 987th, in fact, who was gunning for a coveted position on The Obiter subcommittee. The subject of the email read ‘My Obiter Application,’ but all the Editor saw was ‘More Work.’

He sighed, as he thought back the glory days, when only three or four hundred students would apply for the subcommittee. 

‘I’ve got the President for you on line one,’ chirped Michael, snapping the Editor out of his hazy, nostalgic stupor.

‘Terrific,’ came the swift reply, almost as swift as his chiseled, weather-beaten hands seized the phone. 

‘Mr Tran? It’s your Editor…’ he began, before being cut off by a voice on the other end of the line that sounded suspiciously like Alec Baldwin.

‘This is Mr Trump, Commander-in-Chief, and the Drumpfy-Cheeto-Supreme. How can I help?’

The Editor slammed the phone down on the receiver with force only seen once before, after Churchill ordered Australian troops into Gallipoli. How could this be? How could he have just been connected with the Idiot-In-Chief? The scary orange Cheeto man?

‘Michael!’ bellowed the Editor. ‘I just spoke to the President… of the United States?’

‘You mean… The Orange Liar?’

‘You bet.’

This story to be continued.

No more to come.

Office Karaoke Night Waits With Bated Breath As Dave From HR Selects ‘Ni**as In Paris’

A casual office karaoke night has rapidly transformed into a minefield of potential racial faux pas, as the well-meaning but misguided People & Culture Manager, David Whitfield (26), selected Kanye West & Jay-Z’s 2011 hit ‘Ni**as In Paris’ as his song of choice.

An array of easygoing karaoke hits appeared to lull the office into a false sense of security, as the clock ticked over into the evening hours. The managing partner of Fleming McGrath & Reiffel, Mark Ricketson (58), had begun with a spirited performance of ‘Livin’ On A Prayer,’ before handing the microphone over for a whole-team rendition of ‘Africa.’ 

And as the Peroni’s began to flow, and inhibitions began to disappear, the night seemed destined to make a crash-landing on the island of ‘wholesome fun.’ Until David took the microphone.

A self-described ‘rap aficionado,’ many were expecting David to repeat the antics of the 2017 Christmas In July party, wherein his fiery attempt at ‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ was met with equal parts laughter and applause. But tonight, as his chubby fingers punched out the actual N-word, the tone shifted sharply, and one question grew to the forefront of the alcohol-soaked minds of those present.

‘Is he going to sing it word-for-word?’

At press time, with the humorous sample from Blades Of Glory commencing proceedings, there is a certain look of unabashed confidence in David’s eyes that does not bode well.

More to come on this pressing issue.

‘Yeah, I Love Beer!’ Says Liar Drinking A Mid-Strength Great Northern

It can be difficult to be honest. To face up to one’s friends and family, and admit the truth, however troublesome that may be. But the most wretched task of all is admitting the truth to yourself. 

And for fifth-year Commerce/Tourism Management student, Mitchell Salisbury (22), that task is proving more difficult than ever, as he continues his strange pattern of behaviour, which involves necking schooners of Great Northern Super Crisp, whilst simultaneously declaring he ‘loves beer’ to anyone who will listen.

‘Phwoar, how good’s a beer!’ declared the local man, lying to his friends, family and himself, as he continued to exclaim such sickening nonsense as ‘a six-pack of Northerns gets my tummy rumbling!’ and ‘I genuinely enjoy beers guys, look, I just drank two of them.’ 

No matter how much Mitchell tries to convince everyone of his passion for brewed hops, yeast, and barley, the proof is in the pudding. At least, the proof would be in the pudding, if the pudding was a voucher at the bottom of the Coles receipt which declares ‘$12 for a six pack of Great Northern.’ 

At the end of the day, Mitchell is effectively enjoying soda water with a sprinkling of beer flavour. And close, personal acquaintances have confirmed that fact.

‘Yeah, he insists on telling everyone down at The Osbourne how much he loves a cold beer, or a ‘Froth Whitlam’ as he idiotically calls it,’ stated Ollie Davidson (23), a school mate of Mitchell’s from their glory days at Churchie McGrammar.

‘The Osbourne literally has thirty different beers on tap and this bloke’s never ordered anything other than a mid-strength Great Northern. Even when their happy hour is on!’

Whilst Ollie revealed to The Obiter that he’s hardly a beer expert, and can barely pronounce the words ‘stout’ or ‘porter,’ he admitted he is still more experimental than sticking to the one beer without fail.

‘A Balter’s not bad under the right conditions, even,’ he whispered in a needlessly intimate tone.

No more to come on this enduringly clever idea that’s not just a basic attempt to cash into the ‘tagging your mate in beer articles’ genre.

‘Happy Birthday To This One’: An Investigation Into Whether Your Friends Actually Know Your Name

‘Love this for you.’ ‘Happy birthday to this one.’ ‘This one xoxo.’ Is it possible that your friends have actually forgotten your name, and are trying to not make it obvious?

The Obiter have become deeply concerned over the past few weeks, with our crack Socials team constantly monitoring Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn feeds to keep track of this deeply disturbing trend. 

Do your friends actually know your name?

It may seem like a silly question. But it’s one worth asking. It’s such an absurd, comical idea, that you’d never put your mind to it. You’d never give it a second thought. But if you truly rack your mind, searching the deepest recesses of your brain, one question seems to pop up time and time again: why do your friends exclusively call you ‘this one’? Is it a friendly, cute term of endearment? Or are they covering for the simple, if disturbing fact, that they have outright forgotten your name?

After all, if they were fully aware of your name, you’d suspect they’d use it more. They’d say things like ‘I love this for you, Travis,’ or post such heartwarming statuses as ‘Happy birthday to this one, Sarah. Her name is Sarah, and I know that because I am her friend.’

But in the absence of such blunt statements, doubts grow. And given our reputation as Brisbane’s premier home of incisive investigative journalism, we decided to ask a couple of your friends for their thoughts on the matter.

The main response was ‘who?’ and, upon repeating your name, most of your friend’s simply muttered ‘oh yeah, this one. That one. Love her. Love him. Love that for him.’ Deeply suspicious.

And even more suspicious is the fact they all ran away immediately after our intense questioning, despite our very kind offer to buy them a hot chocolate and chat about their grades and which lecturers are the funniest (hint: it’s Russell Hinchy. He tells you to highlight things!).

Stranger things have been seen certainly, but this is an important moment to reflect on how strange this particular thing has become. 

No more to come.

Man Who’d Never Heard Of Dominic Thiem Three Weeks Ago Suddenly An Expert

‘His semi-western forehand grip really frees up the whole court for his groundstrokes. Seriously, look it up.’

The Australian Open has done a fabulous job of keeping the silly season rolling around, with weekends dominated by the rapid daytime consumption of mid-strength alcohol whilst attempting to pronounce the exotic names of players such as ‘Nadal.’ 

And for unemployed, lazy, or just generally strange Australians, the tournament has giftwrapped a great opportunity to temporarily become an expert on players who, realistically, no regular person knew much about beyond ‘he hits a mean forehand.’

Rob Higginson (23), a part-time bartender and full-time punter, is one such Australian. Whilst his friends suggest he’d never so much as uttered the hallowed words ‘Dominic Thiem’ before a few days ago, the degree to which he now spits out knowledge on the Austrian finalist suggests he must’ve had a deep passion for Thiem burning over the last five years.

For anyone unfortunate enough to ask Rob what he’s tipping for tonight’s final, he’ll suck in a few deep, throaty, nicotine-stained breaths before embarking on an analysis of the 26-year-old’s game so complicated and convoluted as to render the initial question almost entirely redundant.

‘His eastern backhand grip, reminiscent of a sort of 2015-era Wawrinka, is intriguing to see in the modern game, and his ‘heavy’ forehand - meaning, of course, fast and with topspin - is incredibly difficult to play for those standing too deep, but challenging for any trying to rush the net,’ Rob suggests, a harsh contrast to his proclamation three weeks ago that he’d ‘never heard of this Austrian fucker.’

Intriguing scenes. Sources close to Rob suggest the core of the issue may be the fact that he doesn’t easily read the difference between Austrian and Australian, due to his rampant dyslexia. 

Apparently his real name isn’t even Rob, it’s Bor!

No more to come.

McDonald’s Valley Mall Boldly Volunteers To Be The ‘Next Flying Cock’

In a brave move that highlights their commitment to innovation, whilst also demonstrating their complete lack of understanding of Brisbane nightlife dynamics, Ronald McDonald, spokesman for the McDonald’s Valley Mall, has recently stated his grand plan to make the Brunswick Street location ‘the next Flying Cock’ for the youth of Brisbane.

Whilst the McDonald’s is an institution on par with the hallowed Cock, its focus on serving fast food, rather than serving up Birdman Randy hits, suggests it may struggle in this gutsy, but misguided attempt to corner the Brisbane youth market.

‘We saw a space left by the closure of the Flying Cock, and thought we should go for it,’ said Mr McDonald, his eyes anxiously darting around to make sure The Hamburglar wasn’t about to ruin his press conference. If there’s one thing The Hamburglar loves more than stealing burgers, it’s ruining press conferences.

Who do you think threw the shoe at George W. Bush?

‘Hiring Grimace as the resident DJ is our first step towards success as the latest nightlife venue for Brisbane youth to let down their hair,’ he continued, with Grimace awkwardly stepping forward and waving, as if they hadn’t really planned this at all.

Critics suggest that Grimace’s commitment to playing nothing but tropical house, in particular the works of Kygo, won’t necessarily nail the clientele this ‘New Cock’ desires, particularly given that the only person who likes Kygo remixes is enough is literally Kygo.

Regardless, this is an intriguing business pivot from a stagnating fast-food joint. The Obiter wonders that if The Beat should ever shut down, Oporto would step into place to be Brisbane’s first gay chicken joint, with eight different dancefloors to go along with the eight different delicious sides. Plenty to ponder

No more to come.