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.

Fashion Week’s completed. After being at it, and on it, every day I’m severely beached. So to clear my head, and re-evaluate things, I’m going to an island off the coast of Samoa for the next week or so. 5 things that stood out for me this week were; the palava and protocol that comes with the fashion industry, a lengthy fireside chat with our next PM, my packed party at Pony, interviewing the super human DJ Carl Cox, and meeting a bionicly beautiful Brazilian model.

After witnessing 19 fashion shows in 4 days, and with enough goodie bag tit bits to fill Santa’s sleigh, I am now ofay with the dos and don’ts of the fashion industry. Some of the things I found helpful to do were; wear your fanciest garments at all times (even better if you can manage a costume change or 2 throughout the day). Take the time to talk with as many people as possible, you never know where your next leg-up might come from. Act like you are the greatest designer on the face of the earth (why not, everybody else is), it will open a lot of doors, maybe even onto the 100ft launch moored out back. Bring your credit cards, drinks and canapés aren’t always on the house. Bring your camera, you’ll see some sights that you’ll want to remember, a classic get-up or even a celebrity or 2. Go to as many shows as possible, even if you have to sneak in the fire escape, sometimes it’s the one’s you least expect that are the gems. Remember to put your mobile on silent, I forgot during Anna Stretton’s show, it rang at the most inconvenient time and Ice Ice Baby echoed, oh the embarrassment.

For me it wasn’t the garments that were memorable, most of those sights have long since faded (apart from the glowing shimmer of World’s collection), it was the rare designer that went the extra mile, and put on a bit of a show. For instance Lucie Boshier’s cabaret fully choreographed extravaganza, she used promo girls and a very stocky drag queen to show-off her style. Or, the epervessant Michael Patterson, who in 7 minutes put on a show I will always remember. A freaky evil carnival clown on stilts storming the catwalk, then a hunchback gimp midget on a scooter zooms through his legs chuckling. Michael’s 2009 range is uber fresh, yet not far fetched, check it out. It’s these designer’s names that people talk about, remember and order stock from, coz that’s what it’s all about at the end of the day.

One thing that startled me was the re-occurance of what I call the cheese grater (where the fabric is nicked all over, so the material droops in that spot), and flower power (multiple petal-like decorative flaps). I recall 4 designers using the same “cutting-edge” technique, I think there’s been some secret espionage a foot, or they all went to the same show in Milan earlier in the year.

Amongst all the lashings of pre, post and wrap parties, I was asked to be in The National Party’s campaign commercial. They filmed it at the ornate, and quaint, Hopetoun Alpha. It was a surreal occasion, there were children signing, NZ flags, complimentary biscuits, copious clapping cheering smiling and waving. What took the cake was when the leader, John Key, chose me to kill time with before shooting began. Fortunately I had brought my ‘A’ game, we spoke about why Labour chose Nov 8th as the election date, what his campaign will be based around, how he stays alert and sane, the last time we’d met, his plans for Fashion Week and if he reads my guide at all (he’s been getting it for over a year). Just before I began to struggle for conversation content the director piped up, calling for order.

I don’t put on many parties (I prefer to attend other peoples), and whenever I do I say to myself “Right that’s it, never again, it’s not worth it”, this one was no exception. Last Wednesday I put on “Hump” at The Pony Club, the usual stress leading up to the start was intense, but when the lasers, plasmas and mannequins were ignited, and place began to fill, that all fizzled away and I felt like a million dollars. And like usual, I thought “what did I need to worry about, things always work out OK”. Things worked out better than OK, I’d never seen Pony so alive, and with such vibrant happy people. I’d planned to quash things about 2am, it was a school night after all, but due to the sensational mixing of Kyle and Elmo we went till 5.30, giving the club one of the most successful Wednesdays ever.

I was instantly nervous when I got the call from Rhythm & Vines headquarters. I’d never interviewed an idol before. I had just over 24 hours to prepare for the15 minute interview. I searched every associated website and got advice from seasoned journalists; I was going to be as prepared as was humanly possible. 9.35 Friday night rolled around, I’d already been to 2 parties, where the drinks had been complimentary, so I was exceptionally enthusiastic. For the next 16 minutes it was like talking to a long lost friend, who just happened to be a 46 year old superstar DJ with an English accent.

Carl Cox is the headline act for this years Rhythm & Vines 3 day music festival in Gisborne. He’s not just zooming in though, playing, and jetting out, maximising the massive earning potential of NYE, oh no he’s doing a motorcycle road trip at a very leisurely rate.

I learned that dance music’s ambassador will continue to push the musical boundaries till the day he “carks it”, he’ll never grow too big for his boots and always have time for fans.

The chat could not have gone any better, what could have was the recording device that I’d Macgyvered together. In a nut shell it was faulty, now I have no record that the conversation ever took place, apart from a hefty Vodafone bill.

Feeling on top of the world I went back into Huffer clothing’s after party at The Hilton. Probably the only catwalk model that I found remotely attractive during Fashion Week was a Brazilian bombshell, brought in by Clyne Models for a few major contracts, FW being one of these. I’d taken quite a number of photos of her during the shows, and had thought about her often, but now all of a sudden here she was a hop skip and a jump ahead of me. With pep in my step, and new found, Carl created, confidence oozing I approached with caution and a smile. She has to be the most captivating lady I have ever laid eyes on, in the flesh. Then all my Christmas’s came at once, it turns out that she likes to party. We exchanged numbers and have been in communications for the past few days. When I get back from overseas I am so taking her out. I’ll keep you posted on that front.

That’s me really, many more fun times were had over the past 168 hours, some I can’t tell you about, others I could but it’s just more of the stuff that I have written about before.

Remember, that when you see me out and about, please come and say hi. I may have a lovely Brazilian on my arm, here’s hoping

The whole Fashion Week (FW) shabang launched on Monday evening with PM Helen monotonely addressing the guests. As I’ve now grown accustomed to though, this glitzy soiree came after a 7 night escapade that took in; meaningful art from Otis, fashion that stopped traffic, the Silver Scroll Awards, stand-up comedy, a golf cart sized Hummer, 3 bad boy NYC rappers, a house party where the DJ was 7 years old, the Qantas Film & TV Awards, a park bench and a Sunday Roast. All while maintaining a 1.5 pie per day consumption habit.

I used to have Mondays off the party scene, now I can’t afford to due to my FOMO condition (fear of missing out). Last Monday Absolute Vodka unveiled Otis Frizzell’s Absolute inspired Auckland installation at Lenin Bar. Like a dreamily stenciled multi-coloured Tiki, with an outline of a bottle in it’s belly, the piece looked possessed; but a friendly informative chat with Otis later uncovered his meaning, which actually stemmed from Hawaii. The event had been classy, so I kept the level high and nipped in for a Rosebud cocktail at Chow, this was chased by their infamous Vick’s Formula 44 taste-alike sensation, that I continually forget the name of. I recovered by enjoying soft conversation with my date, and nibbling on a few items from their winning menu.

Tuesday was one of my oldest friend’s 32nd birthday. I got delayed in transit by 50 gorgeous girls with placards lined up along Parnell Rise. While I enjoyed the Grandeur hospitality, the girls, 10 at a time, carefully crossed the road in a square-like circle continually for 45 minutes, indeed stopping traffic and creating quite a spectacle. Kiran’s party at La Zeppa came next, he was already beaming as he slid me his tab card. (Geez I love celebrating, there’s such a happy vibe in the air, not an ounce of negativity). Kiran kept the ball rolling while I went off to complete a couple of un-postponable missions. We rendevoused again up at the ALT TV studio. He was in a slurring state, but passable, so we put him on the window sill muted in the background for 30 minutes staring at a wall poster, then beckoned him over for a chat on air. Hilarious times, try catching the show next week, Tuesday’s 11pm – 12am on ALT.

I felt sensational the next evening, I had my 3 most stunning (inside and out) hottie friends on my arms. They got instant paparazzi attention when we entered the Town Hall for the APRA Silver Scroll Awards (all about Kiwi music). Once the ceremony began our attention wandered, it wandered out the door, up the street and into The Classic. I’ve always loved comedy, especially stand-up, it seemed that Tracey did to as no sooner had the show begun than she stood, flicked her hair and did some serious heckling. I cringed, wishing I’d only bought out 2 stunning babes, but she calmed down and the MC picked on 2 annoying girls closer to the stage.

Back at the awards, we arrived to catch my favourite PM (tongue in cheek) giving a speech, and the last of the big awards distributed. I managed to get a brief convo with The Thompson Twins (they’d just been elected into the NZ Hall of Fame) and Henry, an incredibly camp R&B songwriter on the verge of being discovered, but it was my brief run in with my all time fave Shortland Street actor, Craig Parker (aka Guy Warner), in the bathroom that really impressed me. What a gent.

By this stage in the week I felt like a dehydrated camel, but Good Water replenished I trucked on into Thursday. Went to Mr Rickard-Bell’s now legendary underground Green Room session (imagine your ultimate play den as a youth, it’s a bit like that), then to Pasha to witness the new MiniHummer, picture an uber flash golf cart, but with surprisingly few bells and whistles.

My next stop was impromptu, but I was raised on rap music, well ever since I was old enough to make my own musical decisions, and biff Herb Albert and Boney M. So when I was offered tickets to see Project X, that consisted of the rap legend Kool Keith, and his homeys Tim Dog and Marc Loud, I said hell yeah mofo. I chanted up front for a good hour to these NYC guys who I’ll swear were all packing. I reckon that if I’d gone to that concert when I was in my Public Enemy and NWA phase I’d have wet my pants with excitement, but I soon grew tired and jogged over to the familiar turf of The Pony Club.

It was Jo and Leighton’s turn to host the crew at their place, and in no way shape of form did they disappoint. Jo’s 7 year old son Enzo got the crowd’s attention with an ability on the CDJ’s normally associated with someone with months of experience, not a matter of minutes. When it was his bedtime Dougal and I took over. I didn’t want to leave, in fact I postponed the taxi twice, but plans are plans and it was time to see Groove Terminator spin.

It seems that whenever you add the 3 famous words “Ministry Of Sound” to a party it’s an absolute success. Recent gigs at Met & Code have had the line-ups, but not the punters, or MOS. This one had everything, so us oldies actually stayed and sweated it out up front with the younguns, showing them a thing or two about the hardcore.

Enthused, we drove back over to the shore, Leighton was horizontal on the sofa and Jo tucked up in her room. Never one to let sleeping dogs lie we picked up where we’d left off, Dougal and me serenading the house to battle stations. Mid-morning, with Mission accomplished, we mozied back over the bridge and found a pocket of smiling faces, we merged and had a memorable afternoon.

I had no idea what to wear, to be honest there weren’t many options, especially ones that didn’t require ironing. I had just arrived home after an intermitent siesta and had 40 minutes to SS & S, put on the glad rags and be at Pasha. Making it I immediately ordered a Mojito, it was all I could stomach, and rounded up my friends that I’d chosen to join me, they’d all gone to great lengths and all the guys in the group approved.

We were treated to decadence at Pasha, with knowledgeable helpful service, I mean one lovely waitress (Hannah) even showed me how to tie a Windsor knot, which I was mega appreciative of. In one swoop we were at The Qantas Film & TV Awards at the glorious Civic Theatre. There were so many familiar faces, I didn’t know where to glance, half I knew, the other half I’d seen on screen. Most of the “famous” people would talk to you, and pose for pix, but when they discovered that you probably couldn’t assist their careers the convo was over.

TVNZ and TV3 had separate after parties at Flight and Pony, but they were jammed and a bit wanky so it was on to Spy. I rarely turn down drinks, but I was hanging by a thread, so when my stomach churned at the thought of another alcoholic beverage I knew it was time to depart. I made 3 blocks before the cabbie was urged to pull over. I drifted to a bench in a cute courtyard for some z’s, then to my car where I dozed till 10am and was woken by a parking warden. Dial-a-driver did the next leg of my journey (proud of me Mum?) and I was back in quarantine.

Not even the very tasty lure of true friends, a home-cooked roast and a wicked Warriors win pulled me from my house that day. I was in serious need of R’n'R’n'R’n'R plus even a few more. Besides FW was to begin the very next day.

It launched with a few speeches from VIP’s, lashings of Moet and oodles of orgasmic canapes. About 300 people circulated at a rate of knots, looking you up and down making mental judgements as to your worth. Down the hall the FW art show kicked off as did the bubbliscious new Moet drop. I do suggest you all to try and see one catwalk show, or even have a gander around the site (down Halsey St in The Viaduct), the atmosphere is unsual, but in a good way.

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.

Above are just a few things that cropped up and shaped my last 7 days. Even though I am a planner, with every week day fully organised, I found that it was the things I didn’t plan for that really rocked my world.

I listen to a lot of talkback, mainly radio sport, last Wednesday morning I tuned in to discover that our Olympic team was arriving home within the hour. I spruced up, fought mild traffic, found a vivid marker in the glove-box and an old A4 unlined refill in the back seat pocket and scampered in. In my haste I’d left my trusty Cybershot charging at home, so an old school autograph and a smile would have to do.
 
I only wanted to meet Sarah Ulmer and “the twins”, (yes I have a thing for blonde female athletes). This all went according to plan, it was when I tried to slide Sarah my card I hit my first roadblock. Like a trained professional she slid it back with a friendly smile. I feel sure I’ll run into her again, so at least I’ve broken the ice. I paid my $12 for 35min parking and went about my day.
 
During winter my letterbox gets checked bi-weekly at most, I checked it last Thursday. I recognised the handwriting of one instantly, we email or call daily but Mum still likes to write. One of the items enclosed this time was a letter from my high school. I was stunned, my 20 years on reunion is in Feb next year. Time to rustle up a cure for cancer, or risk feeling lower than a bow-legged caterpillar.

I like the Academy Cinema, many wouldn’t know that it’s under the Auckland Central Library, but it is. It’s quaint, arty and friendly so I go often avoiding its giant competitors. I saw “Where In The World Is Osama Bin Larden”, a clever often humorous documentary (in the style of Michael Moore) about a guy who goes in search of the world’s most wanted man, so his soon to be born child will grow up in a safer place.
 
I’d been to an early session, and it was Thursday after all, so I thought let’s paint at least a few of the CBD’s buildings red. My new fave haunt, Bungalow8 got the call. Vodafone were having a mini-function there so the vibe was alive. We ate, danced and enjoyed many skillfully concocted cocktails after a number of hours I heard a whisper that Ink on K’ Rd was charging. 2 minutes after walking in the birthday girl picked me up and fell with me onto the dancefloor. My drink went west and cellphone east, but it was her special day so no real harm done.
 
Grant Marshall had been mixing for 6 hours when I arrived at George FM HQ on Friday, and I’d say drinking for a good portion of that time. The sun was out and the vibe was chipper to say the least. Around 10 of us were up there paying tribute to the man who was celebrating DJing for 20 years. I’d made plans to meet at Easy Tiger at 5pm so nipped off and met some smiley guide-getters. I love Fridays at this time, everyone’s so jovial and optimistic about the next 48 hours, and what can be accomplished.
 
I drank there for longer than the 3 hours I’d planned to due to a friends last-minute cancellation, so tickets for a show I’d pulled a lot of strings for went unused. But this meant I met motivational speaker Steve Catz, 5 foot something guy with a shaved head, bristly mustache, who drank straight vodka and offered me a ride on his Harley. Seeing my plans for the next 3 hours were dashed I got on the blower and found a fine establishment to continue my merry way.
 
Steve and I zipped through town and over to Erica’s an apartment in Ponsonby, I’d never been on a Harley before, my shrieks of glee making this very evident. We arrived to find a host of dolled-up ladies and 2 gay guys, so we slotted in easily.
 
We all made it to Spy Bar at different times. I think I got the last complimentary drink handed out so it must have been around midnight. Things were much the same as normal, so we had a look in at Met & Code for Grant’s 20th DJ celebration party before having a look at Flight, Coco and Pony.
 
I’d been invited to 11 parties on Saturday, I knew I couldn’t do them all, not without a Star Trek teleporter. I began my evening at Traffic Bar for their SevenTease party. Costumes like a vivacious rollergirl, grand master pimp and a stoned acid dealer spurred the well catered and decorated bash. It was the tarot card mystical reader in the veiled corner that was my highlight, her insight and wisdom was very welcome, or was it meeting Monique and Sarah who work for Fonterra and research the habits of cows.
 
Again my plans were thwarted by yet another friend letting me down, luckily reliable Sammy was near, so she popped in and we were off to see UK DJ hard dance kingpin James Lawson rock Space Bar. He was nothing like I remembered him (perhaps his set in CHCH the previous night had sapped him). 5 years ago he tore decks and crowds up. Tonight at Space he appeared unenthused and his track selection was far from fresh, sorry mate, but next time you’re in town I won’t be making the effort.
 
Good old Bacio came next. Thomas put on a welcome retro techno night for all the oldies. I was in sheer heaven. I danced and sucked back Corona’s for 3 solid hours. It was just one awesome track after another. When I saw Pene (an old school raver buddy) I knew we were back to the G.O.D, he was raving up CHCH even before me.
 
Rehab at Coherent followed, where I tried to scale a brick wall, failed and badly grazed my arms. Then yet another trek down to Spy Bar, and an inevitable after party. This after party was different, not only were there many fun new recruits, but it was the first day of spring. Our tops came off as we lapped up the rays and listened to summer styled beats that I think even the neighbours enjoyed.

Another varied, and action-packed, week has whizzed by, and as far as I can recall, without anything going down commonly frowned upon by the 5-0. My 3 highlights were; the commencement of  my now regular nationwide ALT TV appearance on “The Playhouse” (Tuesday’s 11pm – 12am), seeing Aussie’s #1 exotic dancer put her best foot forward, and having a wet-dreamlike time at The Quadrant Hotel.

Being drunk on live TV probably isn’t the best look in particularly when it’s your maiden show, but I couldn’t help myself. You see the latest sold-out Vine Culture experience at The Grange was cocktail appreciation, I have always appreciated cocktails but now I know a lot more about why they are the way they are. I mean do you know what triple frozen ice is? Or, what a breakfast Martini is garnished with? The 90% female audience (and 90% of that hot) sat around tables and listened, and laughed, to Pernod Ricard’s representative demonstrate the art of correct cocktail construction.

With rosy cheeks, and slight stagger, I ascended ALT TV’s stairs and was debriefed by my Playhouse co-host General Lee (aka Leigh Dolbeer), as luck would have it he’d been drinking to so we were on the same page. The 60 minutes flew, and before I knew it we were out celebrating a job well done, there were slim pickings but we managed. A K’ Rd kebab signaled the end of a fun night and an inevitable Wednesday hangover.

As punishment for my large alcohol intake the previous night I went to my usual 10.10am Body Attack class. 4 tracks in I saw stars and went down on one knee, then the other. Embarrassingly I inched to the side. This episode meant the rest of my days plans were scrapped in favour of R&R, this also included seeing the babes on bikes procession down Queen St, and my Miss Hawaiian Tropic bikini comp. judging obligations, God damn it. There’s no way I’m missing the final this week.

Thursday’s out and about are fun, no matter where you are in the world, traditionally there are no queues and annoying idiots. Last Thursday my CHCH partier-in-crime Monica chose to visit. We did all the bars in Ponsonby and the CBD. She gave Bungalow8 the top trophy, staff almost outweighed patrons, but it didn’t matter, the warm vibe kept us content.

The Red Bull Soundclash was miles better than I’d expected. It pitted funk band Opensouls verse the pop-rocking Elemeno P on 2 facing stages. In the middle was the host, a DJ and most importantly about 700 people. The gig was run a bit like a gameshow, with bands being given random songs to perform, or, one would start a track, the other take over, and back and forth again. Both teams took the clash super seriously that’s why I thought it a bit stink when the bout was declared a draw. However a sensationally staged event, and full credit to the RB team.

I found it easier to run from party to party from here on, maybe all the RB I’d siphoned really had given me wings. First there was Tansea’s 40th at The Late Club, followed closely by Kerryn’s 23rd at Sanctuary, then Emma, Alex, Courtney, Ian and Tom Tom’s radical Las Vegas themed house party. I caught the tail end of Hanna’s ALCA (Alcohol Ladies Champagne Association) night at Pony, where I caught Norrie going OTT snap happy, then jogged on over to Spy Bar. All the running around had left me stone sober, so Spy was a whole new experience. It was novel and fun being able to speak coherently and accurately remember what transpired. I got home just in time to see the Jamaican 4×100m relay team set a new world record, which left me wired and sleep impossible for hours.

I ummed and arred about the pros and cons of sweating it up at Les Mills Saturday morning. I was glad I went, and even gladder when it was over, as this meant I was rearing for this years Erotica Lifestyle Expo. We piled out of the car and joined the100m queue, when we drew near to the front I clicked that this was the line for tickets, I already had them so we strutted on in cursing.

I began to blush almost immediately, there were many things I wanted, but was too self-conscious to purchase, let alone closely peruse. It was the shows on the main stage that won most of my attention, comedians Ewen Gilmore and Jan Maree did a very arousing job, especially for the fake orgasm competition. Expo attendees had 30 seconds to unleash their imaginary load and impress the crowd. The contrast of shows that followed was gargantuous. WWE wrestling to the most stunningly mesmerising striptease I have ever seen, performed by Phoenix, Australia’s #1 exotic dancer. The jaws of everyone in the packed auditorium, male and female alike, were ajar for the full 25 minute routine.

The Quadrant Hotel was the next big thing on my agenda. When I entered the foyer I knew I’d chosen the right hotel, subtle danceable beats emanated from the ceiling. The 17th floor corner apartment was a dream, I felt like royalty, and when I looked across at my company I wondered if life could get any better.

Knowing it’d be a while before our next meal we ordered room-service, mmmm divine, and watched Olympic coverage. The temptation was too much and we cracked a Vodka Ice each, then about a dozen more. Friends came knocking from 7 onwards, the mix was perfect. With a perfect mix things are bound to get a little crazy, when the dress-up box was raided it did. I was given Russian Cossack dancing tuition, challenged to childish sculling races, excluded from a bedroom DMC and persuaded to do my Vanilla Ice impression.

Just before midnight we went to the Fairytales dance party at the Safari Lounge. I recognised a number of luscious ladies from the earlier expo. The first way I chose to impress them by was with my tremendous pool playing abilities. I have no idea when those abilities went walkabout, but I was shit. So I tried the dance-floor, that was going well till I attempted my trademark “Raindrop” move (in a nut shell, leap up high and do the splits), I limped to the bar from there and shelved my show-off mode.

The laser lighting at Salvation’s 5th birthday was nothing short of breath-taking, with 2 Coronas in one hand, and the other fisting the air, I grooved up front until one slipped from my grasp and smashed. Apologetically I bowed out and ducked to the periphery.

Bungalow8 is up there now with Pasha as my favourite place to go. I took some friends there after Salvation, the staff were happy and skillful, the tunes universally appealing (bravo again Lee) and the vibe unbeatable, I doubt anyone could go there and have a crappy time. With this Bungalow created lusty high it was time for a dose of Spy. Spy was the usual, happy times filled with happy faces.

I am not sure what time we got back to the hotel but I am fairly sure the sun wasn’t exposed. My intention was to sleep on the fold out bed, but somehow didn’t have the nouce to fully operate it, so had to bite the bullet and share the master bed with my new best friend.

But I knew that this MTV Snow Jam party was going to be something special.

Being far away from your usual grind enables one to put an altered perspective on things, get re-invigorated and encouraged to set goals. I spent 5 days in Christchurch last week and was thoroughly impressed. I know I missed a number of wicked parties in Auckland (the phone calls and I texts I received claim this as fact), but I think it was worth it.

My travels went a little something like this…

Before I could travel I needed to fulfill my obligation of being a bikini judge at Miss Hawaiian Tropic NZ ‘08. Outside the night was blustery, but inside it was bustery. Carena West, 2006’s winner, is the host of the series, she did a solid job of taming the crowd and keeping the flow. Many were calling for her to strut her stuff (which I would’ve been rather keen to see), some of the hecklers were very well endowed and experienced at this sort of contest themselves, but we were regrettably informed that those days were well behind her.

The next morning I took off to The Garden City. I knew that the Gods were smiling at me when I was seated between a 17 year old Welsh beauty coming to Christchurch to visit her cousin and Sonya, a 26 year old Canadian on a skiing holiday. The flight was made all the more bearable when the 14 month old twins in the row behind me didn’t utter for the full 80 minutes.

I arrived to a beaming city, my $10 Takapuna market aviators were applied, and I spotted Mum skipping towards me arms out stretched. We had a picnic at a park I used to play in after primary school before continuing home. When I realised that the only thing I’d forgotten were my cuff-links, my feeling that this was going to be a successfully eventful trip was underlined. I gave the Gods another hi-five.

When I used to live in CHCH the place to go on Thursday’s was Zanzibar in Merivale. The hip place remains that zone, however now it appears to be a placed called Number 4 (funnily it can be found at #4 Mansfield Ave) and the newly re-modeled Aikmans (funnily enough found on Aikmans Rd). Both have comfy alfresco areas that let you forget that an owl could swoop past your ear on a whim, and enables pesky smokers to still feel part of the group.

Even though I was home by half twelve, I rose dazed and disorientated. But the king-sized cooked breakfast Mum spread before me brought me back to earth, and it wasn’t even my birthday. I spent the day cycling about in the sun, reminiscing and stopping in for cups of tea with long-time friends. It was good to be back in a city I had left 7 years earlier due to it’s bitter winter climate, and lack of social and vocational opportunity.

Perked with caffeine I popped the cork on a bottle of single malt at 5pm, and poured decent portions for the olds. Dad wanted 2 neat fingers worth, Mum the same but a 50/50 Coke split with ice. We polished off the bottle over roast chicken, talking twaddle but having a great time doing so.

Monica and Yves picked me up at 7 sharp and I was reunited with a handful of friends from “the good ole days”, for pre-drinks. I was eager to get to Sol Square (the party hub for people like us) to see the advancements made since my last visit at Xmas, so Sarah swung in and we made haste to rendezvous with my sozzled sister at Fat Eddies. I didn’t like the name (but with neighbours whose names were Yellow Cross and Fish and Chips, FE got off lightly); having said this though the place was cosy, social and well appointed.

Since my last visit Blue Jean Cuisine had become 205 (strangely, or again funnily, located at 205 Manchester St). Everyone had been talking about this place, so I was chomping to check it out. I instantly gave it a vivid stamp of approval after I was greeted by a friendly doorman, and saw the lavish ceiling to floor slinky transparent fabric dividing the intimate socialising pockets. One of the barman recognised me from the previous night at Aikmans, so that was nice, even nicer when he recalled what I was drinking, as at this stage I had no idea.

Boogie Nights was next, a 21st century take of Auckland’s Boogie Wonderland, I mean the DJ plays out of a 70’s VW Combi covered in fluro carpet, how cool is that.

A visit out on the town is never complete without seeing what Base has to offer. On the way we descended to The Concrete Club, I was wrapped to see my old buddy Arragon on the CDJ’s (by the way mate, I’ll never convert from Technics1200’s). Base had no big event planned, but we did our best to rustle one up. The old horse of CHCH energy dance, Andy Pulzar, was at the helm. I remember blasting away up front to his beats a good 10 years ago, and here I was again. Priceless.

Mr Renie showed us around the soon to be opened re-done back bar (sweet), and treated us to a substantial number of drinks that I greedily accepted. I am not certain what time we prised our alcoholically pickled carcasses from the dance floor, but it wasn’t at a decent hour. I could’ve stayed till lunch time, but I had an interview at midday, so ignored the little devil inside my head that was yelling “After Party! After Party!”, and I made my way to a very inviting bed with a hot-water bottle waiting.

The interview went very well. We were both on the same page and I think the combo just might work (if you’re reading this Miss Interviewer, I’m rather keen . With this out of the way I was free to focus my attention on amping up for the party I had traveled 1200km for.

Due to me feeling significantly less than 100% Mum was our chauffeur. Friends (each 12-15 years in the making) Melissa, Amanda and Antoinette filled the back with chirpy cheer and we were off, destination the luxury resort aptly named Terrace Downs (at the foot of the Southern Alps), for MTV’s Snow Jam 2008.

Mum’s plan had been to stay in the car and read/knit/doze until we were ready to journey home, but I had an extra VIP pass, so we encouraged her to come in for a look. Within 10 minutes of entering she’d met Sophie, one of her favourite Shortland Street stars. The commotion was a little embarrassing, but heart-warming at the same time. From then on she was a hit with everyone, I felt a little jealous due to her popularity on occasions. I chuckled at her reaction when she tried her first Jager-bomb (similar to what our reaction would be if we knocked back a shot of motor oil dropped into a tumbler of orange sea water). The 3 girls fell for studly Dolby from Home & Away (who actually was pretty cool), now we just needed someone for me to go wow over, it later turned out that my WOW! Was to be the entire event.

I didn’t care that Fat Joe and Donovan Frankenreiter woosed out. I still got to see Op Shop, P-Money, The Vines and my ultimate favourite The Potbellez. From 3 – 8pm my chosen drop was Export Gold, from then on I added Jagermeister, Sauvignon Blanc, Tequila and Red Bull to the mix. Twice this flammable combination overpowered my stomach and I sprinted to the loo, however I was always back asap for fear of missing out (FOMO) on something life-changing.

For a free event in one of the most picturesque settings in the world I expected more GP, but it was flippin freezing cold and I suppose 5,000 is a sizable crowd at any event. When the choreographed fireworks erupted behind the stage to fitting Potbellez stage hijinx, lighting up the snow-doused mountains behind I yodeled in sheer adulation. The after party carried on well into the night at the Terrace Downs clubrooms, then later still in a couple of the chalets, with most of the big time performers having another lash. With the Olympics silenced on the big screens, heavyweights impromptu busting beats for all and the complimentary drinks and food never letting up, this was one party I will never forget.

Writing this now I wish I could experience the day all over again, I wouldn’t do anything differently, except maybe make more of an effort to get a photo with Blue MC from The Potbellez.

The next few days in Christchurch was family orientated. Thankfully Dad synchronised his 59th birthday with MTV so I could conquer 2 birds with one flight. I am already looking forward to taking the 80 minute flight again in November for Cup Week. Please email if anyone else is interested in making the journey with me. A substantially awesome time is guaranteed.

When I was growing up there was a coded chat amongst similarly aged young-guns called “Pigme”. You switch the first and last letter of every word. Designed to fool adults, we could communicate openly and freely, or so we assumed. On the weekend FYI, friends, without mental illnesses, were chopping down one-liners to a bunch of letters and having conversations. A simple sentence like “The taxi’s waiting outside” was contracted to TTWO. A more complicated one like “When you make my drink can I have extra ice please”, became WYMMDCIHEIP. Is this to shield information from fellow revelers, or has our quest to be faster, cleverer and more curt etc, gone a little OTT?

My weekend stretched 5 days last week, or looking at it another way, my working week lasted 2.

Whenever I meet famous people I clam up and act like a mutant, even for well known NZ people it’s the same deal. This is why I prefer not to read gossip columns, or watch the E channel. This means that when I meet them, and find out what they do, I go “Really? That’s nice”, then we talk about more pressing topics. Meeting The Veronica’s last Wednesday unfortunately was no exception to the mutant rule. I had planned a spiel how it would be a fantastic idea for them to come and party with me the following night, but it came out gibberish and I was lucky to even get a picture.

Rallying from that dismal show I was invited to judge heat one of the Miss Hawaiian Tropic bikini comp, at The Safari Lounge. The venue was larger than I remembered, but ideal, and the 9 girls, some very seasoned, some novice, put on an entertaining and alluring performance. I can’t wait for this, and next weeks, heat, oh and the final.

I tried to make cheese scones on Thursday, they were only really edible when doused in butter, more cheese and a rash of bacon. This week I’m stepping up to the lofty height of concocting a banana cake with passion fruit icing.

When evening rolled around we moved to Bungalow8 for Cocktails & Decks. I’d arranged for forty friends to meet and mingle, while I spun a selection of my favourite tunes. Fortunately Dougal Swift was there to take over, as I found chatting more fascinating. In retrospect I should have gone home then, but no. We hit up Pony Club; to our joy we found that Ben had been lured back to work the door, and there was a new resident DJ doing a sterling job. I guess management have begun listening to the rumours. Now all we need is for The Neons to play there regularly, and for more than 45min, and we’d have a club I’d go to always.

Thursday merged into Friday, then dusk came. Time had definitely flown. If I hadn’t arranged for friends to come over for pre-drinks ages ago I would’ve gone to bed and chilled in the recovery position for a very long time. They showed up early and the games began (for them, but resumed for me).

By 9.30 we were at Flight Lounge for Mel’s 30th, there was a friendly turn-out and the food catering was remarkable. An hour or so later the place began to flood with people for Club Couture’s Mid-Winter Dreams party. I danced for nearly 6 hours and saw some amazing dance-floor antics; DJ Mr Phillips blindly mixing while texting, DJ Mr Hall who incredible hulked a couple of t’shirts, now the 50cm tears down the fronts need to be mended, or was that deliberate? Also those naughty naughty nurses, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such displays of PDA.

I had been looking forward to Saturday for weeks, so it sucked that I felt like death. But like clockwork 8 friends came knocking at 6pm. Popping a bottle of Deutz every 15 minutes we were all soon on our feet grooving and rifling through my vast dress-up box.

The luxury Lincoln Limousine came and whisked us away at 8pm. I felt like Busta Rhymes living larger than large, enhanced when Karen couldn’t help but dance out through the sun-roof, Jessica spilt champagne down her front and Anita lip-synced to Sirmixalot.

The purpose of the limo was to transport us to SkyCity for the Les Mills 40th birthday party. The theme was the 1960’s and dressing up was mandatory. I thought we’d arrived too early, but nah, we were bang-on. The Beat Girls started in the main zone and Karn Hall in the techno room, then were replaced by Spacifix and Lucas respectively.

I could see why the 1000 tickets had sold out. Those 1000 people had the nous to know that the party would be flamin’ amazing with no visible flaws. I had a superb time, bravo Isaac on your effort.

The party ended at 1am sharp, not to worry, we went to Coherent for Shake. Once again, charging universal beats and a full house. After SpyBar I went to a joint dress birthday party on Great North Rd. They were all still eager for more, so we fitted in well. It was like the house had been built for just this purpose, and everyone was so nice. One person who wasn’t though was the lady who owned the yoga studio next door.

Things began to fizzle about lunch time, not that we were hungry, so the troops were rounded up and marched over to Harry’s. Reinforcements came with our rations and the heat was on.

I’m glad someone more sensible bundled me into a car at dinner time, and cooked me a yummy butter chicken dish that I devoured hungrily, else I may still be going.