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.