Fashion Week’s completed. After being at it, and on it, every day I’m severely beached. So to clear my head, and re-evaluate things, I’m going to an island off the coast of Samoa for the next week or so. 5 things that stood out for me this week were; the palava and protocol that comes with the fashion industry, a lengthy fireside chat with our next PM, my packed party at Pony, interviewing the super human DJ Carl Cox, and meeting a bionicly beautiful Brazilian model.

After witnessing 19 fashion shows in 4 days, and with enough goodie bag tit bits to fill Santa’s sleigh, I am now ofay with the dos and don’ts of the fashion industry. Some of the things I found helpful to do were; wear your fanciest garments at all times (even better if you can manage a costume change or 2 throughout the day). Take the time to talk with as many people as possible, you never know where your next leg-up might come from. Act like you are the greatest designer on the face of the earth (why not, everybody else is), it will open a lot of doors, maybe even onto the 100ft launch moored out back. Bring your credit cards, drinks and canapés aren’t always on the house. Bring your camera, you’ll see some sights that you’ll want to remember, a classic get-up or even a celebrity or 2. Go to as many shows as possible, even if you have to sneak in the fire escape, sometimes it’s the one’s you least expect that are the gems. Remember to put your mobile on silent, I forgot during Anna Stretton’s show, it rang at the most inconvenient time and Ice Ice Baby echoed, oh the embarrassment.

For me it wasn’t the garments that were memorable, most of those sights have long since faded (apart from the glowing shimmer of World’s collection), it was the rare designer that went the extra mile, and put on a bit of a show. For instance Lucie Boshier’s cabaret fully choreographed extravaganza, she used promo girls and a very stocky drag queen to show-off her style. Or, the epervessant Michael Patterson, who in 7 minutes put on a show I will always remember. A freaky evil carnival clown on stilts storming the catwalk, then a hunchback gimp midget on a scooter zooms through his legs chuckling. Michael’s 2009 range is uber fresh, yet not far fetched, check it out. It’s these designer’s names that people talk about, remember and order stock from, coz that’s what it’s all about at the end of the day.

One thing that startled me was the re-occurance of what I call the cheese grater (where the fabric is nicked all over, so the material droops in that spot), and flower power (multiple petal-like decorative flaps). I recall 4 designers using the same “cutting-edge” technique, I think there’s been some secret espionage a foot, or they all went to the same show in Milan earlier in the year.

Amongst all the lashings of pre, post and wrap parties, I was asked to be in The National Party’s campaign commercial. They filmed it at the ornate, and quaint, Hopetoun Alpha. It was a surreal occasion, there were children signing, NZ flags, complimentary biscuits, copious clapping cheering smiling and waving. What took the cake was when the leader, John Key, chose me to kill time with before shooting began. Fortunately I had brought my ‘A’ game, we spoke about why Labour chose Nov 8th as the election date, what his campaign will be based around, how he stays alert and sane, the last time we’d met, his plans for Fashion Week and if he reads my guide at all (he’s been getting it for over a year). Just before I began to struggle for conversation content the director piped up, calling for order.

I don’t put on many parties (I prefer to attend other peoples), and whenever I do I say to myself “Right that’s it, never again, it’s not worth it”, this one was no exception. Last Wednesday I put on “Hump” at The Pony Club, the usual stress leading up to the start was intense, but when the lasers, plasmas and mannequins were ignited, and place began to fill, that all fizzled away and I felt like a million dollars. And like usual, I thought “what did I need to worry about, things always work out OK”. Things worked out better than OK, I’d never seen Pony so alive, and with such vibrant happy people. I’d planned to quash things about 2am, it was a school night after all, but due to the sensational mixing of Kyle and Elmo we went till 5.30, giving the club one of the most successful Wednesdays ever.

I was instantly nervous when I got the call from Rhythm & Vines headquarters. I’d never interviewed an idol before. I had just over 24 hours to prepare for the15 minute interview. I searched every associated website and got advice from seasoned journalists; I was going to be as prepared as was humanly possible. 9.35 Friday night rolled around, I’d already been to 2 parties, where the drinks had been complimentary, so I was exceptionally enthusiastic. For the next 16 minutes it was like talking to a long lost friend, who just happened to be a 46 year old superstar DJ with an English accent.

Carl Cox is the headline act for this years Rhythm & Vines 3 day music festival in Gisborne. He’s not just zooming in though, playing, and jetting out, maximising the massive earning potential of NYE, oh no he’s doing a motorcycle road trip at a very leisurely rate.

I learned that dance music’s ambassador will continue to push the musical boundaries till the day he “carks it”, he’ll never grow too big for his boots and always have time for fans.

The chat could not have gone any better, what could have was the recording device that I’d Macgyvered together. In a nut shell it was faulty, now I have no record that the conversation ever took place, apart from a hefty Vodafone bill.

Feeling on top of the world I went back into Huffer clothing’s after party at The Hilton. Probably the only catwalk model that I found remotely attractive during Fashion Week was a Brazilian bombshell, brought in by Clyne Models for a few major contracts, FW being one of these. I’d taken quite a number of photos of her during the shows, and had thought about her often, but now all of a sudden here she was a hop skip and a jump ahead of me. With pep in my step, and new found, Carl created, confidence oozing I approached with caution and a smile. She has to be the most captivating lady I have ever laid eyes on, in the flesh. Then all my Christmas’s came at once, it turns out that she likes to party. We exchanged numbers and have been in communications for the past few days. When I get back from overseas I am so taking her out. I’ll keep you posted on that front.

That’s me really, many more fun times were had over the past 168 hours, some I can’t tell you about, others I could but it’s just more of the stuff that I have written about before.

Remember, that when you see me out and about, please come and say hi. I may have a lovely Brazilian on my arm, here’s hoping

The whole Fashion Week (FW) shabang launched on Monday evening with PM Helen monotonely addressing the guests. As I’ve now grown accustomed to though, this glitzy soiree came after a 7 night escapade that took in; meaningful art from Otis, fashion that stopped traffic, the Silver Scroll Awards, stand-up comedy, a golf cart sized Hummer, 3 bad boy NYC rappers, a house party where the DJ was 7 years old, the Qantas Film & TV Awards, a park bench and a Sunday Roast. All while maintaining a 1.5 pie per day consumption habit.

I used to have Mondays off the party scene, now I can’t afford to due to my FOMO condition (fear of missing out). Last Monday Absolute Vodka unveiled Otis Frizzell’s Absolute inspired Auckland installation at Lenin Bar. Like a dreamily stenciled multi-coloured Tiki, with an outline of a bottle in it’s belly, the piece looked possessed; but a friendly informative chat with Otis later uncovered his meaning, which actually stemmed from Hawaii. The event had been classy, so I kept the level high and nipped in for a Rosebud cocktail at Chow, this was chased by their infamous Vick’s Formula 44 taste-alike sensation, that I continually forget the name of. I recovered by enjoying soft conversation with my date, and nibbling on a few items from their winning menu.

Tuesday was one of my oldest friend’s 32nd birthday. I got delayed in transit by 50 gorgeous girls with placards lined up along Parnell Rise. While I enjoyed the Grandeur hospitality, the girls, 10 at a time, carefully crossed the road in a square-like circle continually for 45 minutes, indeed stopping traffic and creating quite a spectacle. Kiran’s party at La Zeppa came next, he was already beaming as he slid me his tab card. (Geez I love celebrating, there’s such a happy vibe in the air, not an ounce of negativity). Kiran kept the ball rolling while I went off to complete a couple of un-postponable missions. We rendevoused again up at the ALT TV studio. He was in a slurring state, but passable, so we put him on the window sill muted in the background for 30 minutes staring at a wall poster, then beckoned him over for a chat on air. Hilarious times, try catching the show next week, Tuesday’s 11pm – 12am on ALT.

I felt sensational the next evening, I had my 3 most stunning (inside and out) hottie friends on my arms. They got instant paparazzi attention when we entered the Town Hall for the APRA Silver Scroll Awards (all about Kiwi music). Once the ceremony began our attention wandered, it wandered out the door, up the street and into The Classic. I’ve always loved comedy, especially stand-up, it seemed that Tracey did to as no sooner had the show begun than she stood, flicked her hair and did some serious heckling. I cringed, wishing I’d only bought out 2 stunning babes, but she calmed down and the MC picked on 2 annoying girls closer to the stage.

Back at the awards, we arrived to catch my favourite PM (tongue in cheek) giving a speech, and the last of the big awards distributed. I managed to get a brief convo with The Thompson Twins (they’d just been elected into the NZ Hall of Fame) and Henry, an incredibly camp R&B songwriter on the verge of being discovered, but it was my brief run in with my all time fave Shortland Street actor, Craig Parker (aka Guy Warner), in the bathroom that really impressed me. What a gent.

By this stage in the week I felt like a dehydrated camel, but Good Water replenished I trucked on into Thursday. Went to Mr Rickard-Bell’s now legendary underground Green Room session (imagine your ultimate play den as a youth, it’s a bit like that), then to Pasha to witness the new MiniHummer, picture an uber flash golf cart, but with surprisingly few bells and whistles.

My next stop was impromptu, but I was raised on rap music, well ever since I was old enough to make my own musical decisions, and biff Herb Albert and Boney M. So when I was offered tickets to see Project X, that consisted of the rap legend Kool Keith, and his homeys Tim Dog and Marc Loud, I said hell yeah mofo. I chanted up front for a good hour to these NYC guys who I’ll swear were all packing. I reckon that if I’d gone to that concert when I was in my Public Enemy and NWA phase I’d have wet my pants with excitement, but I soon grew tired and jogged over to the familiar turf of The Pony Club.

It was Jo and Leighton’s turn to host the crew at their place, and in no way shape of form did they disappoint. Jo’s 7 year old son Enzo got the crowd’s attention with an ability on the CDJ’s normally associated with someone with months of experience, not a matter of minutes. When it was his bedtime Dougal and I took over. I didn’t want to leave, in fact I postponed the taxi twice, but plans are plans and it was time to see Groove Terminator spin.

It seems that whenever you add the 3 famous words “Ministry Of Sound” to a party it’s an absolute success. Recent gigs at Met & Code have had the line-ups, but not the punters, or MOS. This one had everything, so us oldies actually stayed and sweated it out up front with the younguns, showing them a thing or two about the hardcore.

Enthused, we drove back over to the shore, Leighton was horizontal on the sofa and Jo tucked up in her room. Never one to let sleeping dogs lie we picked up where we’d left off, Dougal and me serenading the house to battle stations. Mid-morning, with Mission accomplished, we mozied back over the bridge and found a pocket of smiling faces, we merged and had a memorable afternoon.

I had no idea what to wear, to be honest there weren’t many options, especially ones that didn’t require ironing. I had just arrived home after an intermitent siesta and had 40 minutes to SS & S, put on the glad rags and be at Pasha. Making it I immediately ordered a Mojito, it was all I could stomach, and rounded up my friends that I’d chosen to join me, they’d all gone to great lengths and all the guys in the group approved.

We were treated to decadence at Pasha, with knowledgeable helpful service, I mean one lovely waitress (Hannah) even showed me how to tie a Windsor knot, which I was mega appreciative of. In one swoop we were at The Qantas Film & TV Awards at the glorious Civic Theatre. There were so many familiar faces, I didn’t know where to glance, half I knew, the other half I’d seen on screen. Most of the “famous” people would talk to you, and pose for pix, but when they discovered that you probably couldn’t assist their careers the convo was over.

TVNZ and TV3 had separate after parties at Flight and Pony, but they were jammed and a bit wanky so it was on to Spy. I rarely turn down drinks, but I was hanging by a thread, so when my stomach churned at the thought of another alcoholic beverage I knew it was time to depart. I made 3 blocks before the cabbie was urged to pull over. I drifted to a bench in a cute courtyard for some z’s, then to my car where I dozed till 10am and was woken by a parking warden. Dial-a-driver did the next leg of my journey (proud of me Mum?) and I was back in quarantine.

Not even the very tasty lure of true friends, a home-cooked roast and a wicked Warriors win pulled me from my house that day. I was in serious need of R’n'R’n'R’n'R plus even a few more. Besides FW was to begin the very next day.

It launched with a few speeches from VIP’s, lashings of Moet and oodles of orgasmic canapes. About 300 people circulated at a rate of knots, looking you up and down making mental judgements as to your worth. Down the hall the FW art show kicked off as did the bubbliscious new Moet drop. I do suggest you all to try and see one catwalk show, or even have a gander around the site (down Halsey St in The Viaduct), the atmosphere is unsual, but in a good way.

There were more firsts; Melissa had never been on a train, Mark had never slammed so hard, Hanna & Phil had never boarded, Scotty Rocker had never gone to a gig and left his drums behind, Jayden had never climbed a pine tree so high, Rob had never mixed tequila with Red Bull, the Overlander train service had never run out of Miller beer, Anna had never presented on a train, Bastian had never played Guitar Hero, I had never ridden in the engine room of a train and I’d say that all of us had never quite had a weekend like it.

The week began like most before it. Feeling about as useful as a melted candle on Monday, sweating it out at the gym and regaining a sense of usefulness and normality on Tuesday, then on Wednesday forgetting my self-made Monday pact (of never drinking again, eating healthily and getting some early nights) and hitting my Ponsonby’s bar favourites, then ducking downtown to over indulge.

When Thursday hit I put the pedal to the metal, why wait till the weekend “officially” begins? The good time glow got started in Nuffield St at Fourfontaine’s VIP sale night, and Lucie Boshier’s Fashion Week warm-up. TK opened her second prestigious fashion outlet on Thursday to. Her new High St one is half the size of her Brown St store in Ponsonby, but just as stylish and friendly.

Live jazzy funk played as 3 stunning Brazilian models did split second changes showing the entire range of TK’s gorgeous gowns. Everyone who was anyone was there, and their friends. Meaning guests spilt up the stairs and out onto the street. The champagne, mojito’s and daiquiris never ended nor did the great vibe, but obligations pulled me over to Northcote to the old Poenamo for one last party before it’s fully rinsed out and becomes The Back Yard, a massive sports bar with an unrivaled alfresco flow.

Seeing I had to get up at 5.30am to get organised and catch The Overlander train, I thought why go home just yet. When the party finished on the shore I cautiously made my way back over the bridge, found a couple of late night haunts with neon “open” signs flickering. They were bars that I’d normally associate pimps and marfia with, but they were warm, well stocked. And if you sat in the corner and made no eye contact (not even with the barman), things would be OK.

And they were. I made it home, freshened up, packed (that is a story in it’s own right), cut a hearty lunch (possibly another story there) and was driven by a lovely reliable friend to Britomart. The Juice TV crew were already there, as were the majority of the people I was to spend the next 3 days with.

It wasn’t my idea but 2 minutes after takeoff it was mooted that we get into the Jager Red Bulls, I seconded it, and the motion was carried. In a few shot gulps it was interaction time, name-tags were created for all, and punishments voiced for those losing them, or taking them off.

Fortunately we’d been given our own carriage, as we weren’t at all like the other passengers. This was made more evident when we plugged in our PA for an Xbox 360 Guitar Hero comp. Ipods with party playlists boomed after that, followed by a mini concert from the Streetwise Scarlett boys. You can imagine the bedlam at each of the 12 stops on the way to Ohakune. 30 very different people bundling off the train in search of cigarettes, full-strength alcohol and as much mischief as they can uncover. 7.5 hours passed and we rolled into Kune. Most made their way down onto the platform with the timidness of a 90 year old recovering from a double hip replacement.

The Juice guys had the foresight to pack-out the fridges in our rooms, as on arrival to our quarters we all needed more fuel for the fire, so to speak. There was a lot of toing and froing between rooms, name calling and hair pulling, we were getting along famously.

The Projection Room won our custom. As far as I could gather there was an open bar, well I didn’t pay for any, so the games really began. Guitar Hero raised it’s ugly head again, but then the “musicians”, each in their own blissful alcoholic world, had an impromptu crack. The jam session raged for hours, we could’ve gone all night, but closing time’s closing time and we had to go. Back at the bed depot, governed by loose rules, things were lit, people were dangled, lips were locked and good bonding was achieved by all involved.

Morning came, very few of us felt more than 15-20% alive but we battled up the mountain. There were 2 distinct groups, one that had hit the slopes many times before and had all the gear, the other who had no snow skills, let alone remotely adequate attire. I was in the latter group. When I stepped off the bus I felt my hair-line physically recede ½ an inch. I yearned for my long-johns, balaclava and anything else associated with warmth.

I thought I was a lot better at skiing than what I actually was, when I got to the top I literally trembled, the dense cloud around me and howling gale didn’t help either. I nibbled on my pre-prepared scroggan trying to gain confidence and remember the do’s and don’t of moving downhill on 2 slippery sticks.

There was a big air competition on as I approached the half-way point of my decent, I had no choice but to ski down their lead up chute, I narrowly missed launching off the lip. I dismounted and clumped towards the cafe, calming myself down with a BBQ hot-dog and a 600ml L&P. I watched the grommets torpedo off the cliff-like ramp and wondered if I would ever get that good. Unlikely seeing I’m only making it up once a decade these days.

Sunburnt and withered I endured the day, enjoying all those I met on the lifts and uncontrollably banged into. There was no rest for the wicked, the Juice boys had the booze flowing within minutes of de-robing. Oh, it was on like Kong once again, our mission (and we all chose to accept); to consume all the remaining supplied alcohol, and be as rowdy as possible.

The plan was to rockon at The Kings Court, they had a big D&B party planned. The acts turned up but the punters didn’t. So we had State Of Mind and Bulletproof performing especially for our 30 strong posse. I have never been a D&B fan, and I am still not, but I drank myself silly and bopped with the best.

A stray beam of light seeped through the wooden blinds and woke me with a warm burn on my cheek. I made everyone a cuppa and we drank it on the balcony looking up at a white gleaming Turoa ski field, with the bluest of blue sky from wall to wall. Some contemplated going up for a couple more runs, but we all opted in favour of the bakery and a walk to the big carrot monument.

The train 7.5 hour ride back on Sunday was a sedate affair, most dozed, moaned about their aches, and zoned out to their ipods. One thing we did all agree on was that we’d all had one hell of a weekend and made some superb friends that we probably never would have met.

Above are just a few things that cropped up and shaped my last 7 days. Even though I am a planner, with every week day fully organised, I found that it was the things I didn’t plan for that really rocked my world.

I listen to a lot of talkback, mainly radio sport, last Wednesday morning I tuned in to discover that our Olympic team was arriving home within the hour. I spruced up, fought mild traffic, found a vivid marker in the glove-box and an old A4 unlined refill in the back seat pocket and scampered in. In my haste I’d left my trusty Cybershot charging at home, so an old school autograph and a smile would have to do.
 
I only wanted to meet Sarah Ulmer and “the twins”, (yes I have a thing for blonde female athletes). This all went according to plan, it was when I tried to slide Sarah my card I hit my first roadblock. Like a trained professional she slid it back with a friendly smile. I feel sure I’ll run into her again, so at least I’ve broken the ice. I paid my $12 for 35min parking and went about my day.
 
During winter my letterbox gets checked bi-weekly at most, I checked it last Thursday. I recognised the handwriting of one instantly, we email or call daily but Mum still likes to write. One of the items enclosed this time was a letter from my high school. I was stunned, my 20 years on reunion is in Feb next year. Time to rustle up a cure for cancer, or risk feeling lower than a bow-legged caterpillar.

I like the Academy Cinema, many wouldn’t know that it’s under the Auckland Central Library, but it is. It’s quaint, arty and friendly so I go often avoiding its giant competitors. I saw “Where In The World Is Osama Bin Larden”, a clever often humorous documentary (in the style of Michael Moore) about a guy who goes in search of the world’s most wanted man, so his soon to be born child will grow up in a safer place.
 
I’d been to an early session, and it was Thursday after all, so I thought let’s paint at least a few of the CBD’s buildings red. My new fave haunt, Bungalow8 got the call. Vodafone were having a mini-function there so the vibe was alive. We ate, danced and enjoyed many skillfully concocted cocktails after a number of hours I heard a whisper that Ink on K’ Rd was charging. 2 minutes after walking in the birthday girl picked me up and fell with me onto the dancefloor. My drink went west and cellphone east, but it was her special day so no real harm done.
 
Grant Marshall had been mixing for 6 hours when I arrived at George FM HQ on Friday, and I’d say drinking for a good portion of that time. The sun was out and the vibe was chipper to say the least. Around 10 of us were up there paying tribute to the man who was celebrating DJing for 20 years. I’d made plans to meet at Easy Tiger at 5pm so nipped off and met some smiley guide-getters. I love Fridays at this time, everyone’s so jovial and optimistic about the next 48 hours, and what can be accomplished.
 
I drank there for longer than the 3 hours I’d planned to due to a friends last-minute cancellation, so tickets for a show I’d pulled a lot of strings for went unused. But this meant I met motivational speaker Steve Catz, 5 foot something guy with a shaved head, bristly mustache, who drank straight vodka and offered me a ride on his Harley. Seeing my plans for the next 3 hours were dashed I got on the blower and found a fine establishment to continue my merry way.
 
Steve and I zipped through town and over to Erica’s an apartment in Ponsonby, I’d never been on a Harley before, my shrieks of glee making this very evident. We arrived to find a host of dolled-up ladies and 2 gay guys, so we slotted in easily.
 
We all made it to Spy Bar at different times. I think I got the last complimentary drink handed out so it must have been around midnight. Things were much the same as normal, so we had a look in at Met & Code for Grant’s 20th DJ celebration party before having a look at Flight, Coco and Pony.
 
I’d been invited to 11 parties on Saturday, I knew I couldn’t do them all, not without a Star Trek teleporter. I began my evening at Traffic Bar for their SevenTease party. Costumes like a vivacious rollergirl, grand master pimp and a stoned acid dealer spurred the well catered and decorated bash. It was the tarot card mystical reader in the veiled corner that was my highlight, her insight and wisdom was very welcome, or was it meeting Monique and Sarah who work for Fonterra and research the habits of cows.
 
Again my plans were thwarted by yet another friend letting me down, luckily reliable Sammy was near, so she popped in and we were off to see UK DJ hard dance kingpin James Lawson rock Space Bar. He was nothing like I remembered him (perhaps his set in CHCH the previous night had sapped him). 5 years ago he tore decks and crowds up. Tonight at Space he appeared unenthused and his track selection was far from fresh, sorry mate, but next time you’re in town I won’t be making the effort.
 
Good old Bacio came next. Thomas put on a welcome retro techno night for all the oldies. I was in sheer heaven. I danced and sucked back Corona’s for 3 solid hours. It was just one awesome track after another. When I saw Pene (an old school raver buddy) I knew we were back to the G.O.D, he was raving up CHCH even before me.
 
Rehab at Coherent followed, where I tried to scale a brick wall, failed and badly grazed my arms. Then yet another trek down to Spy Bar, and an inevitable after party. This after party was different, not only were there many fun new recruits, but it was the first day of spring. Our tops came off as we lapped up the rays and listened to summer styled beats that I think even the neighbours enjoyed.