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.