Out of the 19 parties I went to last week the ones that shone were, the opening The Backyard Bar,  Playstation’s Singstar ABBA launch, Strippers R Us’s Christmas hoedown, the Sleepless party at Spy and Demon Energy’s Carnival Of Freaks. Meaning that there was a lot of mediocrity out there, but let’s gloss over those and stay positive.

I was itching for some thrills after the twilight summer horse racing series at Ellerslie failed to excite, the grand opening of The Backyard Bar in Northcote provided them. The gaggle of glamorous girls that management had mustered caught my eye first, wowzers, it was a shame I had to leave in less than an hour. The tiered lush wooden layout registered next, with multiple bars (including a tapinyaki one) and comfy booths. It was the indoor/outdoor flow towards the inviting pool that took the mega wow for me, all I could picture was me, in the weekends, shirt off, loving the live music, sipping a Long Island and getting a massive dose of vitamin E. Hats off to Steve Gillett and Gary Braid, for pulling off another big bar sure-to-be winner.

Moving house is something I loathe doing (mainly because of my 32 cubic metres of stuff), on Thursday I did it for my 8th time since coming to AKL 3.5 years ago. I shouldn’t complain really, it had been over a year since my cousin kindly took me in, so with the help of my trusty comrade Dave we stepped up. A healthy reward followed the blood sweat and tears, 6 Christmas party invites. The top 2 without a doubt were Playstation’s Singstar ABBA launch at Boogie Wonderland and the Strippers R Us’s Xmas extravaganza. The former began at 7pm and showed no signs of letting up when I left at 1.30am. I asked the host what the craic was with quitting time, she simply replied “When the bl**dy tab runs out (which I estimated to be approaching $20,000). My kind of answer.

I used Boogie as my base and whipped around a few CBD Christmas soirees. Not being a fan of strip clubs, the eye-popper for me was the Strippers R Us bash. I’d not seen women do these kind of things since my Sunday School teacher’s stag night some 10 years ago in a rickerty bus atop the Christchurch Port Hills. But these birds were 10 times hotter, and much more highly trained. With steam still escaping from under my collar I did the rounds and dropped of my support crew, as Friday was ‘the big one’ and I’d already encroached on a few hours of it.

The party was called Sleepless, and I’d had a big hand in it’s organisation. The venue was Spy Bar, we wanted to create a fresh feeling in the place, promote interaction, smiles and great memorable times. We seemed to succeed, I feel a large reason was due to Dougal Swift’s set, he has the Spy crowd sorted, to be honest I’d have liked to see him play the entire night (I’m sure this will actually happen early in 09). Watch out Cuffy, your residency may not be so secure.

At 6am we went to celebrate at a familiar villa, then, when that packed up, another on the other side of the suburb. Here I bought out one of my fave after party games, the improvised obstacle course. I narrowly won by 0.2 of a second, but the battle injuries incurred were not worth it. I then challenged my host to guess the number of wooden planks on her deck. Upon counting them, she was weirdly bang-on and my attempt lagged some 50% behind. The ‘Top 5′ game was easier, you got given a category and had to list your top 5 (ie. Top 5 friends, or top 5 junk food items to eat on a Sunday). Hide & Seek sucked, I was left hiding for almost half an hour when people gave up playing without letting me know. I knew I’d come out on top when my forte, Charades, began. I took out the overall games title with my whisk impression.

Now, who knows a team of NZ pro wake-boarders? We got to know them even better at the newest bar in The Viaduct, Four Nations, on Saturday arvo. On arrival we saw the finishing touches being made to a blue marker moko covering the face the eldest member of the group. He’d passed out on a public bench. We all got asked to leave, we went next door to Cargo, the same response. Danny Doughlins took us in, before they to suggested the same.

We waltzed around the bay to The Westin Hotel, one nimble rascal scaled the exterior of the building to his balcony room, then heroically danced a naked gig. We were asked to move on. Bidding bye bye, we splintered, freshened up, were picked up by Apu and driven at careful pace to Adam B’s parents pad for his annual Christmas party.

My Sleepless crew held up remarkably well under the pressure, everyone else was looking as glorious as ever and asking probing questions. Demon Energy had their Santa celebration at Studio, it was called Carnival Of Freaks, and I was absolutely impressed by the whole affair. The comp. drinks helped with my impression, but the entertainment was the main factor, it was a cross between a thrash metal concert, residential house party, playboy mansion and freak show. Total thumbs up to the max.

When that curtailed, we rolled down to Spy for their Xmas party, half of our decorations from the night before were being reused, but a lick of holly, tinsel and bells altered it slightly. Feeling the pinch from a substantial week, we made it home well before dawn and spent Sunday reflecting on what on earth had happened.

See you all at Matakana for New Years, I’ll be there, then back for an early morning geez at Destination 09, and of course a cheeky look in at what Spy Bar has to offer.

I came within a foot of him on more than one occasion during his 5 day gallivant around our city of sails. My camera burned with desire to take a snap, but I obeyed the published rules and just gazed, wondering what it must be like to be one of the most well known people on the planet.

David was smaller in person than what he appeared on the telly (like so many actors), and not as good looking, however he was a lot cooler, and that’s what counts. He was dressed incognito, drank boys beer and was a gent to both guys and his forte, the ladies. I am not sure if his PR people schooled him on how to act, but all the stories I heard about him while he was here makes him out to appear like a cross between a 6 month old cute little Labrador puppy dog, Mother Teresa and Barrack Obama.

Apart from Beck-a-mania the season to be jolly is at full throttle. Last week I went to 3 events at the newly opened bar called Cassette Number 9, on Vulcan Lane. A dark, atmospheric upstairs venue with booths, a well-appointed balcony and a style that could handle a mini-rock concert, hardcore club night or a 21st birthday.

Oakley opened their NZ flagship concept shop on Queen St last Thursday, they call the “O Store”. I’m told the number crunchers from America came down to tweak and pick holes in the place before opening, but the fit-out was so precise all they could recommend was a lick of dusting on the stoop. XBOX launched their version of Playstion’s “Singstar” game on Thursday to, theirs is called “Lips” and has a much more contemporary, user-friendly feel.

Somehow I managed to fit in an hour of Te Radar at the Classic Comedy Club. He was supposed to speak for 1 hour about his hit TV show “Off The Radar”, where he lived on a farm for months and came across all kinds of chores, hurdles and darn right disgusting things. But garrulously he wittingly held court for 2.5 times that, so long so that management had to call for a 15min recess after he’d shot well past the 60min mark, and showed no sign of slowing. He’s a classic NZ comic gem, the thing is, he’s actually getting funnier the wrinklier he becomes, and the longer his ginger locks extend. I feel that before long he’ll become our modern day Billy T.

I was lucky enough to be asked to judge the final of Miss fallen Angel at L.A.X on Thursday. Sitting beside a current All Black and a NZ surfing legend, I felt a big out of my league, but we bonded and got to work scrutinising the ladies as they tried to impress us in their various costumes. Bikini comp junkie, Hannah Norton, took the tit-le, and a deserved Jessica Pendergrast came close behind. The show was sweetly broken up by 2 dance interludes from the super sexy Vixens who had the crowd howling (they did similar routines for my last party with a similar fizzing crowd reaction). Absolutely pooped, I recoiled into bed at the reasonable hour of 2am.

I chose to forgo the Ministry Of Sound warehouse party in Avondale, seeing international hard house master Andy Farley destroy a sold-out Studio (with equal legend Nick Sentience as his accomplice), and cheering for the L.A. Galaxy, as they pussy-foot around the Oceania All-Stars for an easy win, in favour of a jaunt around the Far North (I never knew there was actually a region of NZ called the Far North) with a leggy blonde.

We chose Keri Keri as our base and speed toured around in a late model luxury black Range Rover feeling omnipotent. The treaty grounds at Waitangi was an eye popper, as it was my Great Great Great Grandfather, Henry Williams, who translated the treaty form English into Maori. So I got my picture taken with his portrait. We caught a ferry from Paihai to Russell and had a grand chin-wag with some local guys on board. They were heading over to go lawn bowling as part of the first leg of their work Xmas party. The boys rattled off the do’s and don’t about the picturesque historic village, then after the placid 30min boat stint we bid bye bye with a homeboy handshake.

It felt like we were in another country, time stood still as we peddled around, up hill and down dale on our hired push bikes; The sun blazed and my skin cried out for warp factor 30+. During the Tour de Russell, I was amazed at the sheer number of NZ first’s, oldest’s and most’s there were. It held the country’s first/oldest police station, church, pub, mission, yacht club and residential dwelling, it was situated on the shores of the most scenic harbour in the southern hemisphere, and up top on the point was the most expensive resort (that we couldn’t get into).

The next day, with scorched skin, we went in search of sights, we found an extremely flash golf club (Kauri Cliffs) that when we illicitly snuck in, were chased out by a grizzly man on a red quad bike. Tails between our legs we climbed a massive mound to gork at Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior memorial that overlooks where the wreck now lies on the bottom of the ocean, in Matauri Bay and near a bunch of cute islands. The next tourist attraction I wanted to view was biggest Kauri tree in the country, we couldn’t find it, as both mine, and my co-pilot’s, map-reading skills were gimpish. But we did find a 15min loop track on the side of a metal road that housed some jolly jumbo ones, one had a girth of 13.5m, so that quenched my thirst for locating Tane Mahuta, who holds the world record with a circumference of 20cm more.

Time to chill after all the excitement, and we chose Marsden Estate Winery, a delightful spot to dine, caress and dream amongst the vines and lazy ducks. With a smashing pan fried Orange Roughy within me we aimed for Managawai Heads, and got there 2 hours later. Dipping our extremities in the luke warm water felt fantastic, and my headache evaporated.

1.5 hours after that I reluctantly handed the Rangy back to its rightful owner, black beauty had served us very well indeed. No time to rest on our laurels we had 30min to freshen up, and make it to The Classic for The NZ Guild Comedy Awards. I have no idea what time they all started drinking, but my sobriety made me paranoid amongst the sea of drunk, swaying, comically abusive TV personalities, comedians and other various forms of media. I slurped on a few lagers and mellowed into the evening.

The funniest bit for me was not Brendhan Lovegrove’s arrogant acceptance speech when he won Male Comedian of 2008, and the cutting heckling that jabbed at him throughout it, but it was the inebriated C4 writer/producer/editor/actor who was announcing the winner (names not important, but he’s large and wearing a light blue suit in one of my photos this week). He chronically swayed (to the point of nearly keeling over) against the heavily decorated Christmas tree on the stage, it tipped then settled back into it’s original position. However a couple of decorations had, unbeknown to the prize-giver, attached themselves to his jacket. He got the hugest fright when they both dislodged at the same time a minute later, when he opened Brendhan’s bottle of pricey red pinot and necked half of it during Brendhan’s egotistical rant about being the best in the country. I’d hate to guess what went down after I departed, but I’m sure I’d be shocked, disappointed and just a little bit jealous, but nowhere near as jealous as I am of Beckham.

This was supposed to be my last Guide transmission for 2008, but I think I’ve got enough gusto left in me for one more. Get out there and get amongst it this week, I sure will be. Try and make my party at Spy Bar this Friday, it’s called Sleepless and will be a true eye-opener.

I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m told there are bets on as to when my liver will cave in, anything up to 3 more years they say. I’m banking on a whole lot more than that, but this week I went slightly OTT, but due to what I feel to be valid excuses.

Michael Pattison’s fashion boutique fashion party last Wednesday evening got the desired result. 100 people coming into his shop (most for the first time), schmoozing, grooving and buying. Elixa energy drink boosted my enthusiasm to a level rarely seen, so I cashed in my Kraftwork tickets and continued the good times on at Pasha.

The grudges were put aside, and Pony rocked like olden days for their 3rd birthday. I do remember relieving my stomach into an ice bucket at some stage, also kicking Grant Marshall from the decks, exclaiming that I could do that with one arm tied behind my back. I couldn’t, and I looked stupid (something he’s reminded me of twice since). As you do, when Pony shut, we carried on, and on. I think I was given the wrong drink, as for 4 hours I was at the mercy of my very hospitable hosts, parallel and paralysed.

Crookers played live the following night, it had sold out, but all those I spoke to apart from the die-hard fans felt let down. Maybe we aren’t quite ready for their electro eurostyle funk, or perhaps Booka Shade the previous week set the bar too high.

Friday got better as the day wore on. I began at The Wharf, a fab new venue at the foot of the North Shore side of the harbour bridge, that looks and feels like a million dollars. From there onto my monthly residency at Easy Tiger, where I drink $200 worth of booze with one of you out there. Trench Bar came next, and with it a nice bottle of bubbles, and blonde company. On the up, feeling not so bad, and remembering that it was Friday night (so no real responsibilities the following day), I looked in at Act Yo Age at Met&Code, not recognising anyone in my age bracket I pushed on to Space to see Sharkey get up to his old tricks on the mic and wheels of steel. I saw him at the start of the year going ballastic with Kevin Energy, and wanted more. But Sharkey had been barred from the airport by customs and sent home, this explained why I could hear crickets in the club.

I knew that the Above & Beyond boys were more sensible, so they’d show for sure at Studio. When they came on the boost in music quality, precision and freshness was marked. I hadn’t heard euphoric trance like that since I was in a club called Eden in Ibiza late 2003, when halfway through Dave Pearce’s kingpin set, the side wall opened, doubling the size of the club, and cannons fired foam filling the club waist deep (it was here where I lost my very first camera).

Last Friday, I danced like I used to, no care with hands in the air, upfront and exalting. Just when I was wondering if I should hang up my raving shoes in favour of sheepskin lined slippers, the Above & Beyond boys bought me back to earth and gave me a good old fashioned wake-up reality slap in the face. Bravo boys.

I believe in making hay while the sun shines, that’s why I didn’t go home at a reasonable hour on Friday. I regretted this firm belief of mine when I stirred from my slumber Saturday morning. I had so much to do, and felt like I’d been hit by a water-logged 2 tonne sandpit, and it was still doing it’s best to smother me. But I also believe in snapping out of it and hardening th’ fark up, so I began working my way through my game day list of things not to forget. You see it was Magic Bus Party Adventure day. I had 110 people counting on me.

The day was as flawless as Halle Berry’s skin, I wouldn’t let anything come close to blemishing this Magic excursion. Not even the idiotic texts and calls I always get from people asking handicapped questions. The magical wheels of the party bus were set in motion just post 2.30pm, 100 friends, and friends of friends set sail, first stop The Pumphouse, on the shores of Lake Pupuke. Franko Yates, from Airspace, delighted us with solo rock covers, and one of his classy originals to finish.

The Masonic Tavern welcomed the Magic Bus tour party next, by this stage people were loosening up and tomfoolery began to surface. Vann Dizon’s band, complete with their own groupie section and female drummer, performed for us there, and they were sensational. I thank them immensely for the fantastic show, you even had techno junkie’s like me jiving up front. You’ll go far and I’ll help where I can.

We massed it to, the about to open, Backyard Bar in Northcote, then The Lounge next door, then the bar beside that. We aimed for the CBD from here, but stopped in at Stafford Park to savour the last of the sunshine, roll down the slopes and continue the interaction.

Bang on schedule we hit SkyCity, the last stop and not a tear had been shed all day. The concierge ushered us at haste to the pool deck on top of the hotel. The DJ was already spinning and the laser glinting off the still pool. Then Chico went and bombed it in his Calvins, others followed.

Drinking frozen cocktails with my feet up watching the sun go down over the harbour, with 110 new and old friends having fun dancing behind me gave me one of the warmest fuzzies I have had in years. When I used to put on parties I’d always say never again, it’s not worth it, people don’t appreciate the effort. But after this one, I’m thinking that maybe it is, and maybe they do.

I spent the rest of Sunday continuing to drink with 3 fantastic friends in the stunning sun. We played hop-scotch, scrape the moss from the skylight, skittles, a new game we called petonker, but it was one called nibbles that kept us wanting more.