Date: 26 November
Location: Hard Pressed cafe.
You know what just so nice? When the stars align and both your two themed parties of a Saturday require extreme fake tanning.
You know what's not so nice? After applying 2 coats of the required fake tan — you know, while doing that awkward 'loiter naked away from clothes and furnishings while my tan dries' dance — snuggling your white cat, only to realise your mistake the next day when your once snowy white cat is now the same shade of burnt umber as you. Anyway, I think she quite fancies herself tanned. She looks slimmer.
The first party up was the annual Tour de Fridge party. This is not, contrary to what my father believed, some cute name for a day when we all trade fridges. (To be fair, each member of our family is moving houses, separately, in the next few weeks so we do all have transporting white goods on the brain.) No, this is an annual party invented by some of boys. It involves 5 houses, 5 countries, 50 people and 50 bikes. Each 'country' is one of the gang's houses and each provides a national beer, wine, spirits, food and music. The party lazily rolls from country to country throughout the day, always ending in a notorious party country at the boys' notorious party hovel/castle in Bell Street.
The only rule is that no country can be repeated. The Tour de Fridge is now in its fourth year so all the obvious ones have been done: Italy, France, USA, China etc. It's starting to get creative.
The year we begun the day in Sweden, spoiled by 10 strapping Vikings serving us meatballs, Pistonhead beers and Absolut vodka to the thrashing sounds of the Swedish House Mafia. It was 11.30am. From there, the peloton progressed to Greece where ouzo shots were not optional, and the kebabs were too good to pass up. A few hours on, a slightly wobblier group headed to Brazil where we, heavily be-glittered, be-feathered and overly bronzed (embracing the South American philosophy of 'MORE IS MORE'), and having just kinda appropriated the whole continent and its neighbour, served up empanadas and cheese bread with Dos Equus and sinisterly strong caprihinias. And put Ricky Martin's Cup Of Life on repeat. At some point someone rearranged the letters in our 'Welcome to Brazil' sign to read 'Blow Ma …' well, use your dirty mind. The party had picked up pace. Across the Pacific/Church St was Ireland where all the coffee was Irish and the Guiness flowed and some even mustered enthusiasm for a touch o' Lord Of The Dance jigging. Finally, as night fell, we were welcomed at Bell St where the resident boys, having taken us to such salubrious locales as Bali and Thailand in previous years, donned wife-beaters, mullet wigs and cigarettes (only half props) to welcome us, with cold VBs and UDLs and pavlova, to Australia.
It was a perfect day, but I have nothing in the way of gossip to report* so I'll leave you there to marvel at the creativity of boys who like basically just like to drink beer, ride bikes and eat lots of food made by the girls. (*Lies. There's plenty of gossip but none that directly relates to anyone you know yet.)
Around 10pm, I let the sounds of Cold Chisel fade back into the night behind me and trekked to Fake Tan Definitely Required Party Number 2: The Bachelor Breakup party.
Bunky and Tassels are breaking up.
Ok, that's being overly dramatic — Tassels is moving barely 2 blocks across East Melbourne from her sister — but being overly dramatic is very in keeping with the theme of the party. The Bachelor Australa's second season was a runaway success here, thanks in no little part to the fabulously snarky episode recap blog of Rosie Waterland (MamaMia) and her gift with her glittery poison pen, to the ex-Bachelorettes lounging smugly all over Instagram and to the Bachelor himself dumping 'the love of his life' and new fiancée before the season finale even aired. What better theme for a break up party? More dancing was had, more drinks. Osher's hair was there. Blake's face was floating around in a balloon. Some reality TV style moments ensued. Someone's belt was found somewhere it ought not have been. That's all I'll say.
Exhaustion blended with every form of alcohol Sweden, Greece, Beazil, Ireland and Australia to produce a gauzy haze over much of the rest of the night. Though, I do remember walking home around three. It was hot. And all of the street lights were out, blanketing East Melbourne in steamy, inky blackness. To make me feel safe Bunky and I chatted in the phone for my whole walk home.
It was a perfect day, followed by a beautiful night.
(Nb. The corresponding low point arrived just a few hours later when I awoke on my couch, blinking out the ghastly morning sun, glitter everywhere, one shoe on, with my cat sleeping on my face. Reason No. 103 Why Alex Is Single.)