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Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives…

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Otherwise, read on below…

International megastar musicans Crazy P, Norman Jay and Nic Francuilli all entertained crowds in Auckland last Thursday. I caught them all. This was followed by a Smokey and the Bandit style run to the airport, to catch a flight bound for the time of my life.

It was a somewhat blessing that I’d missed my first plane on Thursday morning, costly, but a blessing. I’d booked the flight not knowing how much of a stacked evening I’d be missing out on.

Wednesday night wasn’t even that big, just a few street performer’s shows from the busking festival in Market Square, and a couple of night caps. It’s just that early starts have never been my forte. The drive out to the airport was a race against the clock, after couple of General Lee manouvers there was hope. Too little too late, the flight closed 2 minutes prior to my dash for the line. The worst thing was (as I stood debating how important it was that I should be allowed on) that I was wearing the costume I intended to wear to the rugby 7’s. Sheepishly I sulked to a lone bench and hailed my driver to return.

Following a solid day of work, the mornings episode was all but forgotten and I was prepping for a large one on the town, intending to be home in plenty of time for a power deep sleep (I’ll get to that bit in a sec).

Crazy P, at the freshly refurbished Opium (that looked very very similar to before), was first on the list. They got cracking an hour late, but it was worth it, the room rose to their feet and bopped to the remix intro of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 2 minutes after the power blew. I love the unpredictable, so for 40 minutes the anticipation grew, then whamo I heard the best live electro-disco-funk music of my life. Crazy P, you’ve just notched up another massive fan.

Norman Jay at The Sale Street Brewery Bar was next on the cards. The place was half full, but the buzz was flat. The DF had 200 people standing barely moving to the retro funky tunes. Norman, with his trademark Dr. Suess hat on, did his job, but his performance was nothing compared to other times I’d seen him jam. 30 minutes later we pushed on to The Studio.

Ah, so this was where everyone was. Shaveer (Decline Events) had done it again. The finest pedigree of house music DJ and producer, in the form of Nic Franciulli, had attracted the masses.

Nic was already behind the decks when I arrived. Rather than risking injury by weaving to the front, or even death by attempting a backstage run, I viewed the master from afar. The quality of mixing, and music, was vividly evident. I was in awe, I didn’t even drink as this would have take my attention away from ‘the master’. So when 4am rolled around, I was wide awake and feeling great. In fact I only noticed the time, and snapped out of it, when I noticed the cavernous club was a quarter full, and losing ravers at a fast rate of knots.

At 5 I called it an evening, and a superb one at that. I now had the awful decision to make; To sleep or not to sleep.

I tried but to no avail, I was about to dock at my first Wellington rugby 7’s celebration. Getting to the port this time was easy, thanks to the practice the previous day. I landed at 10.05am and boarded the Petone Express, or Hutt Valley Flyer, it was a fast bus service anyway. My pimped out mates greeted me at the stop, forced a strong drink down me and gave me 8min to get ready before our magic bus left.

I finished my drink and getting decked out at the stop, then we we’re off, me in my Michael Pattison original kingpin classy stripper attire and my boys donned in big daddy pimpin’ hoe costumes. The bus was riddled with peeps on the same mission as us, which we unamimously agreed to be “Do everything possible to have the time of our lives”.

The first stop was The Loaded Hog on Jervois Quay, where the hoards gathered to mingle and build up to entering the stadium (a 15min walk away). Apart from the amazing scene of 1000 people dresses up in outfits ranging from bee-keepers to ChiPs and minnie mice to iPods, it was a bunch of blokes in pink tutus who entertained by luring passers by to stop in front of us all and flash their breasts in exchange for gifts of Jager and rugby balls. Many actually did, many also scuttled off shocked at the thought.

It was from about here on, till I arrived back in Auckland, that the blur began. Occasionally I’d take my glasses off and just look around at the sheer mayhem and madness that was going on around me. As far as I could see it was bloodshot eyes and big smiles for all in the stadium.

The rugby was going on but very few minded, it was all about wandering about, drinking, pointing at great costumes and whispering about others who could have done better.

After 17 hours binge drinking it was tough to get going the next day, in fact if I hadn’t had a ticket I may have flagged it. But a stern talking to, and a slap, by the ring leader snapped me out of the gloom, and had me in tip top nick to tackle another boombasstic day.

We took the train in this time, it was even more fun than the bus, I nattered to some hicks dressed as backward duck hunters about the price of fish for the journey, then latched on to some penguins for the waddle to The Hog.

The Hog surely was ‘the place to be’. The pink tutu guys were still at it, and had a great hit to miss ratio, all the ladies appeared keen.

The walk to the stadium was a run, as we were behind schedule to catch NZ play it’s first game. We made it and OMG it was all on again, but this time doubled. Sorry for being vague but even now with a clear head I still can’t recall a heck of a lot.

The tear-jerking, devastating loss to England didn’t bother many. We hit town with force tailed by 30,000 liquored fans, and that’s where it got even more bizarre.

The CBD was shut down and the streets were one big party. I couldn’t believe that it had taken me 10 years to attend such an amazing occasion. I made it back to a pad in Thorndon for more drinks before heading back to good old Petone to die.

The pimps had other ideas and round 3 erupted, but on a mellower tip. The day was a scorcher, so the pool, cocktails and shade were welcome, as we all tried to piece together what had happened over the past 48 hours.

Some of the fun Argentinian posse we’d met were sprawled out on bean-bags at St John (a converted St John’s HQ, now a glossy bar). We hitched in, and joined them around 3ish. Food seemed a grand idea, but unachievable.

At half 9, tipsy and tired, we walked in the door. The cricket was on (NZ v OZ), they’d attained 301 and I liked our chances of toppling them for the 3rd time in a row so I put my feet up.

Walking up sometime later I realised we’d lost the cricket, and I was being eaten by a hungry swarm of mosquitoes. I rolled into bed wondering when this very actioned packed adventure would cease.

It actually stopped then, because besides the visit to The Weta Workshop Cave in Miramar the next 2 days were spent in the recovery position rehydrating and building up enough strength to fly.

Something that touched my funny bone this week was this funny sent in to me from a longtime guide-getter, Leon Austin.

You are on the bus when you suddenly realize … you need to fart.

The music is really loud, so you time your farts with the beat. After a couple of songs, you start to feel better as you approach your stop.

As you are leaving the bus, people are really staring you down, and that’s when you remember: you’ve been listening to your iPod.

Have a happy, fun, party filled week guys