It happened again. I misunderstood the invite and turned up to a party dressed in theme. But this wasn’t any old student house party where you can blend into the mis-matched furniture. This was the national launch for Yellowglen bubbly, at The Floating Pavillion, with lots of famous people. I did my best to make it look that I’d done it on purpose, but I felt like a dork.

The party fizzed for 2 hours longer than planned, then management forced General Lee to pull the plug on the CDJs. The team at Ogilvy PR did a topnotch job, the right combo of everything; I didn’t want to leave. Yellowglen is a superb alternative in the affordable bubbly steaks to the traditional Lindauer, but it is Australian.

The Phantom Of The Opera was nowhere near what I imagined. It was like when you meet someone that you’ve admired for years, a celeb of some sort perhaps, and they turn out to be a slob, tramp, junkie, numbskull or just a general idiot. I was buzzing at the thought of attending my first opera, and the one I knew the most about to. I got into my best suit and asked my most alluring female friend to enjoy the experience with me. I mean if over the last 21 years 80 million people have seen Mr Webber’s show it must be something out of this world, right?

When the lights came on, signaling the conclusion of the first half, I semi hoped it was the end. I’m sorry, but over the whole performance I didn’t catch myself going “wow” once. I repeatedly found it difficult to decipher who was singing (maybe due my 2nd tier seating), and when they sung together it was just muddled noise. I hoped for more from the staging to, I’d rate it alongside a well constructed secondary school production. Having said that though the chandelier, punt journey under the theatre, candelabra pyrotechnics were well done, and The Phantom’s love interest’s voice was heavenly.

What I like, and what local entrepreneur Luke Dallow provides, is very much in sync. The Chapel Bar used to be my local, a place where I could go any night of the week and be assured of an appealing atmosphere, now his his latest invention, The Sales Street Brewery Bar, that has my undivided attention.

Last Thursday Chapel turned 3, it wasn’t a huge huli, just a nice bunch of guests and apt entertainment in the form of circus stilt walkers, and the Sentimental Soundsystem drunkard duo of Dave and Thane. I had to leave at 9 to hit up his other joint. Funnily, Lara, Silmara and Brad had chosen the same venue and date to celebrate their birthday. It was like 20 others were celebrating to, the place was heaving, happy faces everywhere.

It began to empty just shy of pumpkin time. I drove home past Chapel, like a true trooper it was as busy as when I’d left it.

I invited a bunch of guide-getters to (most of whom I only knew by their email handle) the Quad Bar (the Quadrant Hotel’s sweet house bar). The promoter had asked me to bring some people down to enjoy a $600 tab, and check out the new regular Friday night party night slot there; I thought I’d share the whopper with some fresh faces. Most of us got on very well and I saw quite a few numbers flung back and forth.

Electric’s 7th birthday at Ink and Coherent on K’ Rd, came next. Luckily we found a close park so the persistent rain wouldn’t damage the looks of my cargo. It did however damage the clubs night, we arrived to a very sparse audience and buckets scattered about the place catching leaks. I’d purposely come in time to see P-Money take the helm. It was another Phantom Of The Opera moment, I couldn’t believe my ears. He played commercial songs so old, I remembered a few of them from my 7th form formal, the mixing wasn’t even all that slick. Stick to the hip-hop nights till you get a better grasp of the electronic scene Mr Money. Needless to say we left early and had a look in at NZ Rave’s AGM at Kiss, then a quick circuit of Spy.

We packed the car as if we were going away for a week, not 24 hours, fully ladened we took off, destination Matakana. The pre-party team were rinsed from their previous nights liveliness, but we caught up and soon were all on the same page.

At 5.45pm we arrived at Heron’s Flight Vineyard for Sundown. The organisers were stretched from the word go with a spree of naughty peeps with ID that wasn’t theirs, however everything else was like a dream. This new vineyard party destination doesn’t have the dreamy sensation that the old horse Stonyridge has, however it’s a close second. All the old faces were there, and they were all totally on party form.

The 2 hours of daylight partying was dynamite, and Karn Hall’s track selection was even better. Time flew and before long it was time to pick an after party. I chose an intimate one and was voted to be DJ/Barman for 5 hours, a role I lapped up, but grew tired of when my energy levels became dangerously low, and the night’s sky diminished into dawn. Calling “shotgun” I nestled into the front seat like a butterfly with sunburnt feet.

The rest of my long weekend was one of just that, rest. Soaking up vitamin D, reading periodicals, eating very well and long walks on the beach.

There are just 69 sleeps till 2009, and in this time Documentary New Zealand will be on my tail filming my antics in the spotlight, and behind the scenes. The last time I was on film I performed poorly, and it ended in tears, fingers crossed for a reversal of fortune. Also, if you’re stuck for a NYE option come on my 24 hour party bus trip to Matakana, for Highlife Entertainment’s huge dance event. Look at http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=33575155317. Email me for more details.

They’ve got names like Betty Bo Peep, Lillian De Lace and Judy Garment. They performed last Thursday at Toto’s to a full enthusiastic house. I’ve seen the Hootchy Kootchy Burlesque Girls perform 3 times over the years, this was the slickest by far. MC Toni Bambini guided the show with wit I never get tired of, and with the help of duet singers The Lemon Honeys, soloist Gilda Goldentone and sweet seller Candy Kane, entertained the 200 strong audience as the lusty ladies slipped out of, and into, their various old school lingerie layered outfits. The introduction of interactive props to the show, like Japanese umbrellas, large pink bouncy balls and a mini shopping trolley was successful in leaving us with much to talk about when we returned to the new Sale St bar for a few night caps.

I hadn’t been to New Lynn in over a year. We got lost, and felt uneasy as we followed our noses along the dark streets. Arriving at the address, I began to apologise to my sidekicks, nobody likes a wild goose chase, but it was too late, we’d been spotted by the host. This indeed was the place, but we were the only one’s there (perhaps a start time on the invite would’ve been a good idea Miss Holley), with chins up, we knuckled down (I must admit that the faint flicker of the Sky Tower on the horizon put me more at ease). The hospitality was faultless, and when others arrived I was very content.

I was given BBQ chef duties, a role I took great pride in and snarled if anyone offered to help. Tequila and OJ in a cask, and ready salted crisps were replaced by Jager shots and Cuban cigars, and the party ignited.

I thought it a bit strange that the bloke I’d chatted to the most, cleaned the grill down, re-lit the flame and cooked his own meal. I hadn’t realised that he was indeed an All Black, and off to Hong Kong in a few weeks for the final Bledisloe test match. So he had a very special diet. This is fine, but why was he drinking Corona?

Reluctantly we had to go. Bidding new, and old, friends adieu, we bopped to the Beamer. Being clear-headed I drove, while the ladies did a full outfit change, and make-up application, around me, oh for a spare set of eyes.

We were early to George FM’s Doorlist Party at Galatos, this gave us time to say gidday to the hosts, and acclimatise ourselves. By 11.30 it was busy, and 30 minutes later packed. Revelers ranged from pretty promo bunnies in high heels, to unkept westie mechanics, but we all got along swimmingly. Being mostly sober wasn’t as much fun as I’d remembered, so we had a look in at the clubs down Fort Lane and surrounding blocks, it was like a ghost town. Unimpressed, I beamed it home, muttering something about how people should get out and party more. I was 3 hours late for my midnight snack, but it meant I could make my Body Attack class later that morning.

I made it to class, but limped off upset and cursing after the 4th track. My cartwheel injury from 2 weeks ago, and old football knee ailment had flared up, geez I’m flippin’ falling apart. I couldn’t wait for night time to douse my frustration, so got cracking early. The duty-free grog I picked up from my recent Samoa trip was nipped into at an afternoon drinking session in Parnell. As daylight faded I moved on for more pre-drinks in Ponsonby, then a great schmooze-fest nearby celebrating Kyla’s birthday.

My friends bailed before me as I was on a conversational roll. I tumbled down Franklin Road and into the Sale St Bar. Ned Roy was playing rocking party beats for the throngs, again I didn’t want to leave, but I was behind schedule, and I had it on good authority that the next stop was pumping.

It was, Met & Code’s 5th birthday party featuring Aussie’s Sam La More on the decks. The place was on fire, I hadn’t seen the venue this alive since MOS’s Potbellez party back in June.

When I arrived there was a bunch of youngsters having a Melbourne Shuffle-off, I joined in, but my alcohol ladened legs wouldn’t move properly, so I bowed out. Both floors were packed, we danced for hours, mainly downstairs where Mr La More was spinning. I was uber impressed with his tunes and mixing, but when will these big time DJ’s start to put some animation into their performance? Great tunes and mixes are super, but if you can get on down while behind the decks you’ll be a superstar.

My only downer for the night was being told off by a burly bouncer for rearranging furniture and fake shrubs. I’d created the feeling you were dancing in a private jungle, my effort was dispersed, but mission accomplished really.

Moving on to the traditional end of night meeting point of Spy Bar, we danced till 7, then surfaced to a glorious Sunday. You can’t waste a day like this by sleeping! We made some calls, warned a sleepy bed dweller that we were on the way, and vollar, there we were, on a lovely deck dancing, glugging chilled Miller, sipping Tequila on the rocks, and slip, slop, slapping.

We were fast becoming beached, so headed over to the shore, and revved up a quiet drinks gathering in Milford (their sun-trap had a pool). I dove in before I got pushed. Chitter-chatting and dancing till dusk it was time to move once more. This time though, back to The Viaduct to check out the Diwali Festival Of Lights. There were a few lights, ton’s of food and nik-nack stalls and thousands of people. It was too intense for me, so I opted out, and ducked home for Renkon Thai cuisine and Top Gun.

My dilemma this week was whether or not to go and party with Hugh Hefner, and his Playboy bunnies, in L.A. I decided to go. The house, and white picket fence, can wait a year longer, this is a serious once in a lifetime opportunity. Even though I had a blast partying with our NZ celebs at last weeks Vodafone NZ Music Awards, this will be a step up.
 
After much leg-work I located 4 tickets for the VNZMA. I felt powerful having Jana, Dianna and Alysha accompany me, arriving an hour late meant we missed the red carpet entry, but we did catch Tiki perform, who was the first act. The youngest 2 girls didn’t sit still long, bailing soon after finding our seats in search of a camera they’d left in the loos earlier.
 
One presenter stood out as significant, he was the barefooted Michael Franti, he briefly spoke about world issues, his troubles with customs, our beautiful country and its music scene. The performance that held my attention for longest was kiwi dub and roots band Kora, I counted 5 drummers, 2 guys on keys, 2 guitarists and a vocalist, there could’ve been more but there was so much going on, I loved it.

The night kicked into overdrive when we were slipped VIP tags. Without these the evening would’ve just been great, now it became awesome. Free drinks city, movers and shakers of all varieties. Fortunately my lone guest knew most of the artists by face, and an alarmingly amount of background on them, so we bounced around merrily till the after party called (ie. they stopped serving us).
 
On the way we tried Pony, for Brooke’s birthday drinks, but it was Crow Bar where the real party was at. My word it was humming, too much really, buying a beverage was near impossible, as was dancing, so it was onward and upward. Our party bundled into the back of a red Bedford van and zipped’n'zapped to a lovely Ponsonby pad. Franko serenaded us in the living room, while the host jammed to sexy house in the kitchen.
 
Aqualine on Prince’s Pier the following night was out-of-this-world. Shamefully, I felt as agile as a tetraplegic, so the glamour, pomp and ceremony was wasted on me. I did take time though to marvel at all the beautiful ladies, help plan Mercedes Benz’s next E class launch, sample the amazing complimentary culinary fair at each of the 3 unified bars, and appreciate the quality appropriate live music. I’m so getting an early night before the next one, bummer that it’s 6 months away.
 
Friday is my favourite day (I don’t think I need to explain why). Meeting some of my favourite friends at Deshlers on High Street began my evening, it was a surprise birthday gathering for Mel’s Dave. Moving along, we chose Honey Bar to reinforce our clan. There was a private party on the roof, some of them were guide-getters so came and joined us, cheers Colin and Eddie, not Liam though. Sorry man, but you have to work on your lady skills.

Technical Sessions’s launch at Fu followed for a bottle of bubbles and catch-up, then Kiss Bar for their 10th birthday party. All the old skool DJ’s had their vinyl out and they really pumped it nice’n'hard.

Rising Saturday was easier than normal, I’d limited the toxic intake, so could drive and get the weekend off on the right foot. Lucky I did as the first event I went to was brilliant. It was the Lingerie Model Of The Year media party at Denim Bar. Wow, it was only 6pm but the place was alive. The long awaited opening of The Sale Street Brewery Bar was our next stop. Holy moley it was crammed, with all the right people that will see it ultimately succeed, and go on to win many awards.

Staying with award winning bars we went to Pasha for Audrey’s 25th birthday party, then on to Forte for my party anthem DJ set. The Vestax equipment was completely foreign, but I coped with a little help from my friends.
 
We couldn’t stay too long as One Love was on at Toto, word on the street said it was going off. The word was correct. We ducked the queue and immersed ourselves in fantastic beats and happy people. Spy Bar came, then sunrise, then the inevitable… a crack-on.

We had a new venue this week, and it proved popular. There were many new faces, and not a frown in sight. At 10ish we successfully moved the gathering to a more familiar residence, for an utterly epic session of antics that you’ll have to come and experience for yourself this weekend to see what I’m getting at.

Spurred by the stored energy gathered from the previous week’s chilled overseas escape, I expelled a hefty wad on Wednesday, a lesser sum Thursday and enough to sink the Rainbow Warrior on Friday. Since then though, after the injury, it’s been deep heat, wheat bags, physio and quiet times. See my effort here http://nz.youtube.com/watch?v=MAa-HhE2ieQ kindly filmed by Kyle D. The brave lady I knocked over was Amy, and I have apologised, she runs a wicked hair-cutting service check out www.travelingscissors.co.nz.

Wearing a shirt as bright as a solar eclipse, and matching shoes, my posse gathered at Denim Bar in Parnell. The plush interior design showroom of Inovo, down the road a little, signaled for our presence, we obliged, they were launching a new Audi model. We missed the awkward bit where you timidly wander trying to find people you know, and the speeches, but we were just in time for the fashion show, band and good times. New friends were made, hello Kimberley Matthewson, and others reunited with, welcome back Ali Scott.

We bolstered numbers, and looked in at The Eden Cloakroom for a Mojito, but they’d run out of mint, so it tasted disgusting. The sour taste in my mouth was forgotten when I met another new friend, Kat Wallis. Just as I was settling in my driver sounded the trumpet, and vrrroom, we were off, destination Pony, eta = in a world record.

This was the second Group Therapy Wednesday night affair that Rob Bruce had put on, and it was actually jolly good. It doubled as a George FM DJ mix-off, the winner getting a slot on the radio. The comp raged for hours, the cash register whirred, we all had a bomb of a time and Reuben R, from The Beat Mafia, came away with the goods.

With the shirt ruined (damn those break-dancing skills), and the shoes battle scared, I took Thursday easy and went to Alanah Hill’s VIP shopping night. Instantly I felt under-dressed, all the ladies looked absolutely stunning, my feeling of meekness wasn’t helped any by being the only bloke there, apart from Norrie flashing away merrily.

I’d been awaiting Fri Oct 3 ‘08 to roll around for nearly 3 months, so I went to a bit of an effort and organised a pre-party for 40-odd friends, at the closely located Easy Tiger. Godskitchen comes to NZ once a year and this time they were headlining with the mighty energy trance master Sander Van Doorn. The massive Vector Arena’s always been a tough place to build atmosphere, but the crowd, 90% of which were kitted out in white with accessories galore, and the energy beats managed it.

It was backstage at this gig, that I managed to knacker my left shoulder rendering anything requiring 2 hands impossible (even to this day). I’d had quite a number of drinks, done a great job of foiling security and was now in the international acts dressing room. I couldn’t think of a better time to attempt a kart-wheel (especially as I’ve never been all that flash at them). I pathetically collapsed, probably the Gods telling me to calm the f*#k down. It sort of worked and I pulled my head in. For a little while.

Funny buggers and after parties came next. Sarah’s one on New North Rd, Lisa’s in Ponsonby, then John’s cranking one in Parnell. They all eventually petered out, but my FOMO kicked in. I had plans for tonight and they would not be pushed around. We nipped into PSC, where paranoia crept up on me, I zoomed to Bungalow8 to see Timmy Vegas spin, then on to Mint at Seba for an improved vibe, always staying one step ahead of the dreaded excessive suspicion disorder.

It caught up with me big time at Flight Lounge, so I jogged to my safe haven, Spy Bar. I eluded that nasty devil for a long as I could, before bundling myself into a taxi, in search of a warm pie and my car.

After wandering Ponsonby for what seemed like weeks, I pieced a few events together and caught another taxi to Herne Bay, where I found my silver 4 door just as I’d left it almost 2 days before. I cocooned up in it’s waiting arms.

As I sobered, the agony of my shoulder injury truly set in, I writhed groaning, cursing my folly. Oh well, I thought of that old saying about making ones bed and then having to ly in it. I bit the bullet and made my way home, stopping only for cheese & bacon hot bread, rashuns and pineapple juice (as I needed a consoling treat).

Since then I’ve been quite sedate. How long can it last?

I hadn’t had a holiday for the sole purpose of relaxing since ‘04, so I was overdue. Having returned with mountains of sleep, eaten great food, with an overweight suitcase, memorable aquatic experiences and sporting a superman tan (that’s bound to peel), I’m aligned, refocused and rearing to go. Thus I’m putting my feelers out for some Marketing, Sales, Events or PR opportunities. Who wants a piece of me? I’ll still keep up appearances at all the parties, it’s just time I left my cousin alone, and got a home of my own.

When I traveled as a youth the primary question I needed answering was “What’s the in-flight movie going to be?”, (I would even alter flights if I wasn’t impressed with the choice). Now it’s “How much duty free alcohol am I allowed again please?”.

I checked-in on time and saw a uniformed pilot friend, a promo girl buddy in mufti and a guy working in a cafe that thought I knew, on the way to customs. That formality completed without questions (odd as I was sure the pigs and border patrol shared info) it was on to longingly window shop the goodies available without hefty government tax walloped on top. There were 1125ml flagons of Coruba rum for $16, blocks of 20 packets of Holiday smokes for $42 and mini iPods for $89.

In one of my lengthy gazes at an eau de toilette cabinet, my utopia was blown up by a stocky lava lava wearing island lady. Fumbling for her wallet she clumped her well-fortified suitcase carelessly down on my jandal clad foot, causing me to yelp out loud and dropped my Panasonic Toughbook, it bounced and smiled back unharmed. She didn’t do it on purpose I am sure, but the episode was made all the more memorable when she barked her apology, loose saliva sprayed like a burst dam. I limped off dripping to the information kiosk, to ask what the hold up was with my plane. The dear part-time volunteer had no idea, neither did the person she radioed. This was my first experience with “Island time”, which is essentially any time, if you’re unlucky, never.

Somehow I managed to become extremely intoxicated on the plane. Avoiding the high cost of the Pacific Blue on board stuff, I cracked into my own. I shared it with Pietar (well that’s how it sounded), a young Israeli lady sitting a few rows ahead, who possessed a look like she had a dubious/saucy moral set of guidelines. Once I found out she was going to reunite with her fiancé in Apia I saddened some, but rallied and made the most of my fair-skinned filly.

The noisy air-con unit in Aggie Greys resort caused a restless first nights sleep, but the scrumptious buffet breaky in the morning made up for it. Sitting in my sun-lounger later that day, sunburnt form my maiden attempt at snorkeling in search of Nemo, I saw a large centipede, a couple of curious cockroaches and an albino gecko. I also had another go at licking my elbow, with no avail, but I still reckon it’s possible.

From Apia it was on to Pago Pago (a 45 minute mini plane leap), the capital of American Samoa, to stay with friends for 4 days. During this time I read 3 educational books, climbed a mountain in a down-pour, played golf where were I was thrown from the cart into a bunker, shopped in kick-ass jumbo warehouse shops, toured the biggest tuna factory in the world, got swooped on by bats while riding in the back of the ute, was impressed by the locally made Samo beer called Vailima and rode in the caboose of an Inga bus (a pimped out makeshift owner-operated mode of public transport).

By far the most interesting person I met while on this island was “The Candyman”, he ran Tisia’s Barefoot Bar. He’s not called this for the 2 reasons you can probably think of, but due to him being rather quirky, similar to Willy Wonka. He certainly looked and acted a little different, but when he told a “true” story about a 2 metre friendly barracuda that lives in the reef (where I just been diving) I agreed with his tag.

It was at the couples exclusive retreat of Virgin Cove (why I didn’t take a lady still baffles me) that I became known as Tamaloa Valea by the villagers, loosely translated this means Crazy Man. I’m not quite sure why, I was just being myself, but I’m sure it was meant in good spirits, and I kind of like the term anyway.

The first day in camp I learnt how to weave giant leaves, start a fire from scratch and dance with the local ladies. The second I went skin-diving, belly-danced too close to the serrated coral, cut myself, and spent the next few hours paranoid that Jaws would show up seeking revenge. My Saturday night was one-of-a-kind, I played cards, tried oka, starfruit and polisami, worked on enlarging by beer belly via the tasty 6.7% Vailima and star-gazed in the most pristine sky I have ever seen.

I was sort of “off duty” so took very few pix, in fact I’d probably take more pix on a slow Thursday night around Auckland central than I did over my 8 day adventure. This means that most of the 12 selected photos in this weeks guide as from friends who stayed behind.

Finally, there was one sign that caught my eye on the first morning of my escape that I won’t forget in a hurry. It was above the entrance to one of the 4 bars in Apia. It read “Work Hard. Party Harder!” Something that I fully believe in, and so should you.

Thanks for reading. I’ll be out in force this week, so take heed to my recommendations and come and have some pure fun with me.