Reasons you will hate me

Two thousand and great.

I'm currently sitting in my apartment surrounded by cardboard boxes and waiting for some large and hopefully hirsute men to arrive and 'lug' my 'shit' to Sydney. Whoever decided it would be a grand idea to move two days after New Years is a complete ass and should be shot.



Anyways, despite the eight thousand degree heat, my NYE was surprisingly perfect. Here are the ingredients what made it so:



1. Above-par food to start the evening.



Okay, so it wasn't exactly feasting weather. Our table of ten all looked slightly limp at the prospect of five - count them - ducks being delivered to us through the steamy fug of a Melbourne scorcher. But when you're somewhere as quality as Old Kingdom and you have cold beer and wine to wash down your sublime eatings, it's difficult to be too wan. Gravy, but I'm going to miss that place. Particularly the waiter who likes to jest about taking the duck's head and sticking it up its own arse.




2. Best friend out on the tear.



It's quite a fine thing when your best friend has a baby and you're duty-bound to make house visits based around milking and sleeping times so don't for a moment think I'm setting up complainings, but watching her cut sick in party mode after securing the services of an all-night babysitter is equally delightful. My god, but that woman can jive after a beer and a half. I can't remember the last time the two of us were out in a sticky pub squeezing hands and making nuisances of ourselves. It filled me with inestimable joy.




3. Sensible accoutrements.


Forget your designer drugs - the must-have accessory for Monday night at the Tote was a plastic bottle with which to squirt water on oneself and others. A fine mist of tap water was sprayed across the perspiring mobs and into random ears. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed getting so damp GET YOUR FILTHY MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER THERE ARE CHILDREN READING.



4. Ragingly good musics.


To be honest, the closer the dreaded 'Melbourne Melts 2007' day drew, the more doubtful I was about heading out on the tear amidst the noise and haste. Why bother jamming your overtired body in with festily festive rock and rollers at a baked-oven pub when you could fill your bath with ice and sit in the nude drinking Tanqueray from the bottle?


In the end, it was the quality of the bands that dragged me out. The flat-out reliable bitchingness of Legends of Motorsport, one-man sexband Bob Log III, and as a sweaty, fucked-up finale, the ever-brilliant Digger and the Pussycats making a racket as they played on top of the pool table.


My favourite part about Digger's gig: they demanded that between every single song someone in the audience climb up on to the table and kiss them while someone else bought them a shot.


My second favourite part: The Ginger's best friend Campbell drunkenly clambering up on the pool table and sticking his tongue into Sam Digger's mouth simply because I told him it would probably be a good idea. Banked, etc.



My third favourite part: Throwing caution to the wind and climbing up there myself to plant a wet kiss on both band members*. Hey, you gotta leave Melbourne in style. Right?









Hope yours was equally as fulfilling. Happy Januarings.

































*I wasn't the only blogger who partook in this saucily sordid activity, you know. Was I, miss?

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