There was an abandoned bike, amongst other worn household items, recklessly stacked on the curb near my home last week. I wheeled it home, named it Maverick, and nursed it back to full working order. Now those Video Ezy, Burger Fuel and Glengarry short drives, to satisfy unrelenting cravings, can be replaced by something more friendly to the wallet and environment.

This past week saw me get fired up over a rugby league game, coax strangers to talk to me, ride in a big rig, critique amateur cocktails, pull a hammy and watch 9 episodes of Scrubs back to back.

Following a Dixie Chicken stomach stretch at The Lone Star I watched my beloved maroon wearing Queensland rugby league team triumph over New South Wales and win this year’s State Of Origin series. Not one to ever get too riled up over a televised sporting fixture, this win had me gloating, even to the bouncer. The commercial truly is correct: it is more fun if you have something riding on it. My lazy tenner had grown into 18.

My Juice TV party show plan is blossoming. Last Thursday we got filming under way for the pilot show. In a nut shell, I do what I’ve always been doing, jetting around parties like a spider monkey, but now I have a microphone in my hand and bulky black lense pointed at me. Both my camera man and I require further skills in the art of interviewing while under the influence, but we should have this deficiency rectified come this weeks gallivanting.

Friday I was woken to the sound of choppers and big rigs. Realising it was the day of the truckies strike, I slowly surfaced (last night’s extra enthusiasm had drained me, and I had a savage hangover that could easily slay a walrus) and zoomed into the CBD on Maverick. Fortunately it was predominately downhill. Unfortunately my full-length jacket wasn’t waterproof, contrary to the label’s assurance. Nevertheless as I watched the rigs trickle by, I saw a grimacing face I recognised. Locking Maverick, I climbed aboard and took great pride when assigned the job of horn operator. I was happier than a kitten chasing a leaky cow.

That night I’d agreed to entertain 30 employees at HRV. Fully prepared I began the 90 minute exercise. It played out like a cross between charades, The Krypton Factor and The Generation Game. The final task was to concoct, name and present a cocktail with the materials provided. One spilt mess (that narrowly missed a computer) named “3.15am” got high marks for originality. Another, with a delicate French name that I can’t recall, was fit for consumption at Singapore’s Raffles.

Sleep is an asset I cherish when given the opportunity. I got a big dose Friday night so went bananas at my aerobics class Saturday morning. After readjusting myself from a near very embarrassing fainting situation in the weights area, I began the class with vigor. 40 minutes in, with sweat flinging from me with every movement, I did one high kick just a little too high and limped to the edge with my tail between my legs. I tried to continue, but it wasn’t going to happen.

Arriving home, I ate, then immediately began rehabilitation: a glass of deep pinot noir. By the end of the bottle the pain had subsided, so I spruced up and went visiting. Marina was first, Hanna second, Rochelle third and the infamous Dougal 4th. With passenger numbers increasing at every stop the smallest was relegated to the boot.

Pontoon’s a very different place when there’s not a huge party on. I got lost navigating my way to Alison’s 23rd birthday soirée. Time not being our friend we moved to Fu and Zen bars for Liquid Recreation’s 2nd birthday party; what a wicked venue. The D&B sound was unfamiliar, and I couldn’t grasp the dance moves needed to look co-ordinated, but I was impressed with the live vocals and electric guitar. Seba was next on the cards for Mint’s 4th fresh monthly outing. Those housey anthems always work and the crowd was smiling from ear to ear. Good news is that I’ll be mixing at the next one, and you’re all invited.

Nearby Dougal Swift played an electrifying set at Forte. Bummer for management was that when he left he took 80% of the crowd with him. Flight Lounge was busy, as was Pony. One bright beacon was Celebration 08 at The Transmission Room. A mainly gay affair with all the colours of the rainbow on display, in regards to music, lighting, decorations and get-ups. No complaints here, the team had created a super event, I just wasn’t in the mood.

The last port of call was Spy. Oddly, the only area where you could move freely was at the bar, so I stayed there and spent time testing the bar staff’s improvised drink making ability. Time flew, when closing came I chose not to head for the after party, but for my flannelette sheets. Does this mean I’m getting old?