Another varied, and action-packed, week has whizzed by, and as far as I can recall, without anything going down commonly frowned upon by the 5-0. My 3 highlights were; the commencement of  my now regular nationwide ALT TV appearance on “The Playhouse” (Tuesday’s 11pm – 12am), seeing Aussie’s #1 exotic dancer put her best foot forward, and having a wet-dreamlike time at The Quadrant Hotel.

Being drunk on live TV probably isn’t the best look in particularly when it’s your maiden show, but I couldn’t help myself. You see the latest sold-out Vine Culture experience at The Grange was cocktail appreciation, I have always appreciated cocktails but now I know a lot more about why they are the way they are. I mean do you know what triple frozen ice is? Or, what a breakfast Martini is garnished with? The 90% female audience (and 90% of that hot) sat around tables and listened, and laughed, to Pernod Ricard’s representative demonstrate the art of correct cocktail construction.

With rosy cheeks, and slight stagger, I ascended ALT TV’s stairs and was debriefed by my Playhouse co-host General Lee (aka Leigh Dolbeer), as luck would have it he’d been drinking to so we were on the same page. The 60 minutes flew, and before I knew it we were out celebrating a job well done, there were slim pickings but we managed. A K’ Rd kebab signaled the end of a fun night and an inevitable Wednesday hangover.

As punishment for my large alcohol intake the previous night I went to my usual 10.10am Body Attack class. 4 tracks in I saw stars and went down on one knee, then the other. Embarrassingly I inched to the side. This episode meant the rest of my days plans were scrapped in favour of R&R, this also included seeing the babes on bikes procession down Queen St, and my Miss Hawaiian Tropic bikini comp. judging obligations, God damn it. There’s no way I’m missing the final this week.

Thursday’s out and about are fun, no matter where you are in the world, traditionally there are no queues and annoying idiots. Last Thursday my CHCH partier-in-crime Monica chose to visit. We did all the bars in Ponsonby and the CBD. She gave Bungalow8 the top trophy, staff almost outweighed patrons, but it didn’t matter, the warm vibe kept us content.

The Red Bull Soundclash was miles better than I’d expected. It pitted funk band Opensouls verse the pop-rocking Elemeno P on 2 facing stages. In the middle was the host, a DJ and most importantly about 700 people. The gig was run a bit like a gameshow, with bands being given random songs to perform, or, one would start a track, the other take over, and back and forth again. Both teams took the clash super seriously that’s why I thought it a bit stink when the bout was declared a draw. However a sensationally staged event, and full credit to the RB team.

I found it easier to run from party to party from here on, maybe all the RB I’d siphoned really had given me wings. First there was Tansea’s 40th at The Late Club, followed closely by Kerryn’s 23rd at Sanctuary, then Emma, Alex, Courtney, Ian and Tom Tom’s radical Las Vegas themed house party. I caught the tail end of Hanna’s ALCA (Alcohol Ladies Champagne Association) night at Pony, where I caught Norrie going OTT snap happy, then jogged on over to Spy Bar. All the running around had left me stone sober, so Spy was a whole new experience. It was novel and fun being able to speak coherently and accurately remember what transpired. I got home just in time to see the Jamaican 4×100m relay team set a new world record, which left me wired and sleep impossible for hours.

I ummed and arred about the pros and cons of sweating it up at Les Mills Saturday morning. I was glad I went, and even gladder when it was over, as this meant I was rearing for this years Erotica Lifestyle Expo. We piled out of the car and joined the100m queue, when we drew near to the front I clicked that this was the line for tickets, I already had them so we strutted on in cursing.

I began to blush almost immediately, there were many things I wanted, but was too self-conscious to purchase, let alone closely peruse. It was the shows on the main stage that won most of my attention, comedians Ewen Gilmore and Jan Maree did a very arousing job, especially for the fake orgasm competition. Expo attendees had 30 seconds to unleash their imaginary load and impress the crowd. The contrast of shows that followed was gargantuous. WWE wrestling to the most stunningly mesmerising striptease I have ever seen, performed by Phoenix, Australia’s #1 exotic dancer. The jaws of everyone in the packed auditorium, male and female alike, were ajar for the full 25 minute routine.

The Quadrant Hotel was the next big thing on my agenda. When I entered the foyer I knew I’d chosen the right hotel, subtle danceable beats emanated from the ceiling. The 17th floor corner apartment was a dream, I felt like royalty, and when I looked across at my company I wondered if life could get any better.

Knowing it’d be a while before our next meal we ordered room-service, mmmm divine, and watched Olympic coverage. The temptation was too much and we cracked a Vodka Ice each, then about a dozen more. Friends came knocking from 7 onwards, the mix was perfect. With a perfect mix things are bound to get a little crazy, when the dress-up box was raided it did. I was given Russian Cossack dancing tuition, challenged to childish sculling races, excluded from a bedroom DMC and persuaded to do my Vanilla Ice impression.

Just before midnight we went to the Fairytales dance party at the Safari Lounge. I recognised a number of luscious ladies from the earlier expo. The first way I chose to impress them by was with my tremendous pool playing abilities. I have no idea when those abilities went walkabout, but I was shit. So I tried the dance-floor, that was going well till I attempted my trademark “Raindrop” move (in a nut shell, leap up high and do the splits), I limped to the bar from there and shelved my show-off mode.

The laser lighting at Salvation’s 5th birthday was nothing short of breath-taking, with 2 Coronas in one hand, and the other fisting the air, I grooved up front until one slipped from my grasp and smashed. Apologetically I bowed out and ducked to the periphery.

Bungalow8 is up there now with Pasha as my favourite place to go. I took some friends there after Salvation, the staff were happy and skillful, the tunes universally appealing (bravo again Lee) and the vibe unbeatable, I doubt anyone could go there and have a crappy time. With this Bungalow created lusty high it was time for a dose of Spy. Spy was the usual, happy times filled with happy faces.

I am not sure what time we got back to the hotel but I am fairly sure the sun wasn’t exposed. My intention was to sleep on the fold out bed, but somehow didn’t have the nouce to fully operate it, so had to bite the bullet and share the master bed with my new best friend.

But I knew that this MTV Snow Jam party was going to be something special.

Being far away from your usual grind enables one to put an altered perspective on things, get re-invigorated and encouraged to set goals. I spent 5 days in Christchurch last week and was thoroughly impressed. I know I missed a number of wicked parties in Auckland (the phone calls and I texts I received claim this as fact), but I think it was worth it.

My travels went a little something like this…

Before I could travel I needed to fulfill my obligation of being a bikini judge at Miss Hawaiian Tropic NZ ‘08. Outside the night was blustery, but inside it was bustery. Carena West, 2006’s winner, is the host of the series, she did a solid job of taming the crowd and keeping the flow. Many were calling for her to strut her stuff (which I would’ve been rather keen to see), some of the hecklers were very well endowed and experienced at this sort of contest themselves, but we were regrettably informed that those days were well behind her.

The next morning I took off to The Garden City. I knew that the Gods were smiling at me when I was seated between a 17 year old Welsh beauty coming to Christchurch to visit her cousin and Sonya, a 26 year old Canadian on a skiing holiday. The flight was made all the more bearable when the 14 month old twins in the row behind me didn’t utter for the full 80 minutes.

I arrived to a beaming city, my $10 Takapuna market aviators were applied, and I spotted Mum skipping towards me arms out stretched. We had a picnic at a park I used to play in after primary school before continuing home. When I realised that the only thing I’d forgotten were my cuff-links, my feeling that this was going to be a successfully eventful trip was underlined. I gave the Gods another hi-five.

When I used to live in CHCH the place to go on Thursday’s was Zanzibar in Merivale. The hip place remains that zone, however now it appears to be a placed called Number 4 (funnily it can be found at #4 Mansfield Ave) and the newly re-modeled Aikmans (funnily enough found on Aikmans Rd). Both have comfy alfresco areas that let you forget that an owl could swoop past your ear on a whim, and enables pesky smokers to still feel part of the group.

Even though I was home by half twelve, I rose dazed and disorientated. But the king-sized cooked breakfast Mum spread before me brought me back to earth, and it wasn’t even my birthday. I spent the day cycling about in the sun, reminiscing and stopping in for cups of tea with long-time friends. It was good to be back in a city I had left 7 years earlier due to it’s bitter winter climate, and lack of social and vocational opportunity.

Perked with caffeine I popped the cork on a bottle of single malt at 5pm, and poured decent portions for the olds. Dad wanted 2 neat fingers worth, Mum the same but a 50/50 Coke split with ice. We polished off the bottle over roast chicken, talking twaddle but having a great time doing so.

Monica and Yves picked me up at 7 sharp and I was reunited with a handful of friends from “the good ole days”, for pre-drinks. I was eager to get to Sol Square (the party hub for people like us) to see the advancements made since my last visit at Xmas, so Sarah swung in and we made haste to rendezvous with my sozzled sister at Fat Eddies. I didn’t like the name (but with neighbours whose names were Yellow Cross and Fish and Chips, FE got off lightly); having said this though the place was cosy, social and well appointed.

Since my last visit Blue Jean Cuisine had become 205 (strangely, or again funnily, located at 205 Manchester St). Everyone had been talking about this place, so I was chomping to check it out. I instantly gave it a vivid stamp of approval after I was greeted by a friendly doorman, and saw the lavish ceiling to floor slinky transparent fabric dividing the intimate socialising pockets. One of the barman recognised me from the previous night at Aikmans, so that was nice, even nicer when he recalled what I was drinking, as at this stage I had no idea.

Boogie Nights was next, a 21st century take of Auckland’s Boogie Wonderland, I mean the DJ plays out of a 70’s VW Combi covered in fluro carpet, how cool is that.

A visit out on the town is never complete without seeing what Base has to offer. On the way we descended to The Concrete Club, I was wrapped to see my old buddy Arragon on the CDJ’s (by the way mate, I’ll never convert from Technics1200’s). Base had no big event planned, but we did our best to rustle one up. The old horse of CHCH energy dance, Andy Pulzar, was at the helm. I remember blasting away up front to his beats a good 10 years ago, and here I was again. Priceless.

Mr Renie showed us around the soon to be opened re-done back bar (sweet), and treated us to a substantial number of drinks that I greedily accepted. I am not certain what time we prised our alcoholically pickled carcasses from the dance floor, but it wasn’t at a decent hour. I could’ve stayed till lunch time, but I had an interview at midday, so ignored the little devil inside my head that was yelling “After Party! After Party!”, and I made my way to a very inviting bed with a hot-water bottle waiting.

The interview went very well. We were both on the same page and I think the combo just might work (if you’re reading this Miss Interviewer, I’m rather keen . With this out of the way I was free to focus my attention on amping up for the party I had traveled 1200km for.

Due to me feeling significantly less than 100% Mum was our chauffeur. Friends (each 12-15 years in the making) Melissa, Amanda and Antoinette filled the back with chirpy cheer and we were off, destination the luxury resort aptly named Terrace Downs (at the foot of the Southern Alps), for MTV’s Snow Jam 2008.

Mum’s plan had been to stay in the car and read/knit/doze until we were ready to journey home, but I had an extra VIP pass, so we encouraged her to come in for a look. Within 10 minutes of entering she’d met Sophie, one of her favourite Shortland Street stars. The commotion was a little embarrassing, but heart-warming at the same time. From then on she was a hit with everyone, I felt a little jealous due to her popularity on occasions. I chuckled at her reaction when she tried her first Jager-bomb (similar to what our reaction would be if we knocked back a shot of motor oil dropped into a tumbler of orange sea water). The 3 girls fell for studly Dolby from Home & Away (who actually was pretty cool), now we just needed someone for me to go wow over, it later turned out that my WOW! Was to be the entire event.

I didn’t care that Fat Joe and Donovan Frankenreiter woosed out. I still got to see Op Shop, P-Money, The Vines and my ultimate favourite The Potbellez. From 3 – 8pm my chosen drop was Export Gold, from then on I added Jagermeister, Sauvignon Blanc, Tequila and Red Bull to the mix. Twice this flammable combination overpowered my stomach and I sprinted to the loo, however I was always back asap for fear of missing out (FOMO) on something life-changing.

For a free event in one of the most picturesque settings in the world I expected more GP, but it was flippin freezing cold and I suppose 5,000 is a sizable crowd at any event. When the choreographed fireworks erupted behind the stage to fitting Potbellez stage hijinx, lighting up the snow-doused mountains behind I yodeled in sheer adulation. The after party carried on well into the night at the Terrace Downs clubrooms, then later still in a couple of the chalets, with most of the big time performers having another lash. With the Olympics silenced on the big screens, heavyweights impromptu busting beats for all and the complimentary drinks and food never letting up, this was one party I will never forget.

Writing this now I wish I could experience the day all over again, I wouldn’t do anything differently, except maybe make more of an effort to get a photo with Blue MC from The Potbellez.

The next few days in Christchurch was family orientated. Thankfully Dad synchronised his 59th birthday with MTV so I could conquer 2 birds with one flight. I am already looking forward to taking the 80 minute flight again in November for Cup Week. Please email if anyone else is interested in making the journey with me. A substantially awesome time is guaranteed.

When I was growing up there was a coded chat amongst similarly aged young-guns called “Pigme”. You switch the first and last letter of every word. Designed to fool adults, we could communicate openly and freely, or so we assumed. On the weekend FYI, friends, without mental illnesses, were chopping down one-liners to a bunch of letters and having conversations. A simple sentence like “The taxi’s waiting outside” was contracted to TTWO. A more complicated one like “When you make my drink can I have extra ice please”, became WYMMDCIHEIP. Is this to shield information from fellow revelers, or has our quest to be faster, cleverer and more curt etc, gone a little OTT?

My weekend stretched 5 days last week, or looking at it another way, my working week lasted 2.

Whenever I meet famous people I clam up and act like a mutant, even for well known NZ people it’s the same deal. This is why I prefer not to read gossip columns, or watch the E channel. This means that when I meet them, and find out what they do, I go “Really? That’s nice”, then we talk about more pressing topics. Meeting The Veronica’s last Wednesday unfortunately was no exception to the mutant rule. I had planned a spiel how it would be a fantastic idea for them to come and party with me the following night, but it came out gibberish and I was lucky to even get a picture.

Rallying from that dismal show I was invited to judge heat one of the Miss Hawaiian Tropic bikini comp, at The Safari Lounge. The venue was larger than I remembered, but ideal, and the 9 girls, some very seasoned, some novice, put on an entertaining and alluring performance. I can’t wait for this, and next weeks, heat, oh and the final.

I tried to make cheese scones on Thursday, they were only really edible when doused in butter, more cheese and a rash of bacon. This week I’m stepping up to the lofty height of concocting a banana cake with passion fruit icing.

When evening rolled around we moved to Bungalow8 for Cocktails & Decks. I’d arranged for forty friends to meet and mingle, while I spun a selection of my favourite tunes. Fortunately Dougal Swift was there to take over, as I found chatting more fascinating. In retrospect I should have gone home then, but no. We hit up Pony Club; to our joy we found that Ben had been lured back to work the door, and there was a new resident DJ doing a sterling job. I guess management have begun listening to the rumours. Now all we need is for The Neons to play there regularly, and for more than 45min, and we’d have a club I’d go to always.

Thursday merged into Friday, then dusk came. Time had definitely flown. If I hadn’t arranged for friends to come over for pre-drinks ages ago I would’ve gone to bed and chilled in the recovery position for a very long time. They showed up early and the games began (for them, but resumed for me).

By 9.30 we were at Flight Lounge for Mel’s 30th, there was a friendly turn-out and the food catering was remarkable. An hour or so later the place began to flood with people for Club Couture’s Mid-Winter Dreams party. I danced for nearly 6 hours and saw some amazing dance-floor antics; DJ Mr Phillips blindly mixing while texting, DJ Mr Hall who incredible hulked a couple of t’shirts, now the 50cm tears down the fronts need to be mended, or was that deliberate? Also those naughty naughty nurses, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such displays of PDA.

I had been looking forward to Saturday for weeks, so it sucked that I felt like death. But like clockwork 8 friends came knocking at 6pm. Popping a bottle of Deutz every 15 minutes we were all soon on our feet grooving and rifling through my vast dress-up box.

The luxury Lincoln Limousine came and whisked us away at 8pm. I felt like Busta Rhymes living larger than large, enhanced when Karen couldn’t help but dance out through the sun-roof, Jessica spilt champagne down her front and Anita lip-synced to Sirmixalot.

The purpose of the limo was to transport us to SkyCity for the Les Mills 40th birthday party. The theme was the 1960’s and dressing up was mandatory. I thought we’d arrived too early, but nah, we were bang-on. The Beat Girls started in the main zone and Karn Hall in the techno room, then were replaced by Spacifix and Lucas respectively.

I could see why the 1000 tickets had sold out. Those 1000 people had the nous to know that the party would be flamin’ amazing with no visible flaws. I had a superb time, bravo Isaac on your effort.

The party ended at 1am sharp, not to worry, we went to Coherent for Shake. Once again, charging universal beats and a full house. After SpyBar I went to a joint dress birthday party on Great North Rd. They were all still eager for more, so we fitted in well. It was like the house had been built for just this purpose, and everyone was so nice. One person who wasn’t though was the lady who owned the yoga studio next door.

Things began to fizzle about lunch time, not that we were hungry, so the troops were rounded up and marched over to Harry’s. Reinforcements came with our rations and the heat was on.

I’m glad someone more sensible bundled me into a car at dinner time, and cooked me a yummy butter chicken dish that I devoured hungrily, else I may still be going.

I’ve been in my fair share and gee having gleaming spacious ones makes a difference (this also applies for residential long-drops). Everyone knows that if you attract and impress the AYF (Attractive Young Females) you’ll have a winning venue. Why then are bars opening up with pokey un-user friendly bathrooms; many established ones keeping them only just above health and safety standards. For a long time the ones at Bar3 took the cake, but it looks as if they’ve just been super-seeded by a new Ponsonby establishment about to open up called Prohibition. I hear fittings are gold plated, and there’s even a wash-room attendant.
 
So, yes, I went to piles of places last week and thus many bathrooms. Last Wednesday was the monthly Dinner & Movie night at Toto. There was the biggest audience I’d ever seen for one of these. The movie was Spike Lee’s “Do The Right Thing”, not my favourite movie ever, but it gave me ample chance to enjoy my date and the new and improved menu. When the credits rolled I dashed for the door, knowing my flexible arm would surely be hassled. I made it.
 
Alice Jenkins flew back into town last Thursday, her sister from another mother had organised a surprise dinner party at Nishiki. “Pass the sake please” was the phrase of the evening. While they carried on to Karaoke, I nipped over to the shore to check out Mesh Bar for their long running Torque party night, that I seem to always forget about. Not this time though, I snooped around Takapuna for an hour while Mesh heated up. In doing so ran into all sorts people, some I knew and some I didn’t (but they’re now new FB friends). I’ll be checking out Thursday Shore sessions again very soon, maybe even sort a sleep-over and see how it plays on Fridays.
 
I hadn’t been to a university lecture for 12 years up until last Friday. I was invited to the biology department to hear about how science is perceived by society. It was rather fun and stimulating, making me think that a part-time return to study may be on the cards. Post-match it was CEO city, I didn’t add too much to the conversation, but was energised into doing more for myself and the community.
 
These wines led onto Derelict @ Denim. I drank my quart of Tui from a brown paper bag and chatted to the “homeless”. The concept was novel, the cardboard and newspaper strewn aptly and the tunes fitting. Good job guys.
 
Aquamatta is an authentic Italian restaurant that I was introduced to a couple of months ago. Now it’s a place a go when I want to impress. I was after a magic evening and Aquamatta delivered. I have never spent 4 hours just chatting, wining and dining before, normally it’s just swallow, pay and leave, but this place calmed me down and seduced me with quality service, atmosphere and most of all divine food. The plan was to head to Flight Lounge next for Vegas Nights, but I didn’t want to spoil the bliss I was in. Bed beckoned and I answered.
 
Waking well rested and ready to rock is like winning Lotto for me, it’s that rare. Last Saturday I rolled over at 7.30am and checked my phone. 30 odd missed calls and texts. Checking them all I deduced the majority of the people where at one particular DJ’s place in Ponsonby. I showered up and headed over to inspect the carnage, and join in.
 
There was the odd random lurking, but everyone else was “on fire”, spurred mainly by the King sisters’ coaxing. We played all day, but when the host took a severe power-nap the show was over. I moved on to The L’Oreal Awards at the ASB Theatre. For the first hour we schmoozed and binged, then the show began, feathers, dancers and a whole lot of effort. Petra Bagust did a super job leading ceremonies, Peter Urlich wasn’t far behind.
 
We zapped off to catch the second half of the test at Tim’s place in The Viaduct, bopped a bit after the victory, then packed into Grazie’s car and checked out the L’Oreal after party. What a stunning event. Heaven, everyone was in a gleeful state and interacting very well.
 
Mint at Seba was next, it was so good I stayed much longer than planned, my inattention to time probably due to my fun blonde company. SpyBar usually closes out any late night on the tiles, it was as popular as ever.
 
Matt from Parnell had one of the most populated after parties in a while. When some departed, they were replaced by even more. Around 9 or so we were in search for something more intimate, so found a venue and began filling it. Dusk rolled around all too quickly and this meant Monday was next.
 
Monday did come, as did reflections on what on earth had happened over the last 48 hours. One surprise to rise to was a grazed shoulder blade, nicely skinned elbow and a painfully swollen right knee; damn my delusions of break-dancing grandeur.