How to celebrate the festive season appropriately

It is now February and the "festive season" is now well and truly behind us. I, for one, say thank christ.

It is not an easy time for those of us who dedicate ourselves to hedonism and substance abuse. Suddenly, everyone else decides to get in on the act.

In other circumstances, this would of course be welcomed with glee. But the context gives it a mocking character. "One more, it is the festive season after all..."

Well, fuck you.

What about those of us for whom this is not some "once-a-year" holiday, but who battle week-in and week-out all year round to destroy ourselves in sacrifice to the God of intoxication?

The worst is New Years' Eve.

It is the only day of the year I encourage responsible drinking. That way, there will be less out-of-control drunks to trip over when staggering home some time on January 1.

If you love getting wrecked so much, why don't you do make the effort all year round? Fucking "booze tourists" is all these people are. Making a mockery of alcohol abuse.

Either take you booze seriously, or stop getting in the fucking way at the bar.

Nonetheless, I have to say, I have learned something important this last festive season. There is indeed a proper, respectable way to celebrate it.

The events detailed below occurred on Boxing Day. They occurred in Perth, which is a little known town on the west coast of Australia. Not much happens there and their pubs are uniformly shit-house, so you probably have never heard of it.

As to whether the person in the story is my sister, I can neither confirm nor deny. My lawyer has advised me to make no further comment on the matter at this point in time.

What I will say is no one can deny she pays her dues in the drinking game.

So, my eye was taken by a Facebook status message posted by my sister (or not, as the case may be).

It read: "really should not wee in public."

Now, I saw that and thought to myself, oh dear, she's gotten a little tiddly and had to go and found some ill-conceived bushes and some people walked by and she doesn't think they saw her but she can't be sure, little embarrassing that.

No.

I was wrong.

When I asked where in public she had gone to wee the answer I got was: "On a car."

Her car?

No, a strangers.

It was, to be precise, a 4WD. And you have to say, on grounds of environmental consciousness, the action can hardly be faulted.

It seems that she and some friends were on their way to a party, having already partaken in perhaps a drink or two. Possibly, she was already a little affected.

Regardless, she had a definite need to go.

She wasn't the only one and as they made their way to the party, one of her friends spoke up first. Desperate for relief, she said "I'm going between those cars".

Never one to be outdone, my sister shouted, "Yeah, I'm going to go off a car!"

The 4WD conveniently had a ladder down its side. This was a key defence used by my sister when describing these events: "It had a ladder!"

Frankly, I think being a 4WD is asking for it enough, but a ladder to the roof is no doubt extra temptation.

So she climbed up and her pants came down.

I inquired as to whether she was caught by the owners.

"No”, she said. "But an old couple walked by".

"And", she added, "you should have seen the look on their faces".

"I've seen everything now", said the man.

"Is that your car?", asked the woman.

When the answer came back negative, the elderly woman said: "Then maybe you should down from there then."

My sister could only oblige, pulling up her pants and descending the ladder.

Reaching the bottom and looking around her, she realised her friends were long gone.

The key thing is she found her way to the party.

Her night ended, she told me, with her partner yelling at her: "No one care's about Boonie!" and going to bed. You have to know my sister to understand that last point.

So there we have the standard set by an expert in the field of excess. This provides a fine example of the appropriate way to celebrate the festive season, a task that is far from simple.

A benchmark has been set. "How were your holidays?" If you can't answer along the lines of "I stood on a strangers car and urinated", then you should be ashamed of yourself.

That I cannot offer a similar example of my own from the just-past season of festivities is something I have to live with ever day. I can only pledge to make amends when the Christmas-New Year period comes upon us once more.

The true story of why I have never been to Brazil

I get asked this question all the time. Especially from all my Brazilian fans.

Well, the true story is, I did once very nearly end up in Brazil.

Rio de Janeiro to be precise.

To start this story, I have a confession to make. I don't believe I have every made it before, at least not on this blog.

I know rumours have been circulating for some time. And yes, I can, with a heavy heart, confess they are true.

I did grow up in Perth.

And I can confirm that Perth is barely one step up from a graveyard when it comes to looking for a "good night out".

Perth pubs tend to divide into two categories: those that cater for rednecks (decreasing in number) or white-collar yuppie scum (taking over everything).

One horrible offshoot of this is that Perth has a sizeable Goth community, made up those horrified by everything else around them.

I understand their grievance, even if I cannot approve their solution.

I mean, I'm all for people's right to freely choose their own fashion statement/sub culture. But, I mean c'mon on, unless you look like a) Johnny Depp or b) Helena Bohnam Carter — and you happen to be staring in a film being directed by Tim Burton — I really don't see the point.

That aside, there is little in Perth.

If you live in Kensington, as I may or may not have (why the fuck do you want to know?), then sooner or later you will end up (unless you are one of those weird teetotaler freaks) at that bastion of faux-Irishness that is Rosie O'Grady's (South Perth franchise).

I may or may not have been drinking there one evening (you demand a lot of information don't you?) with a friend (or so I thought).

We got talking to some white-collar worker who hated his job and was drinking to forget it.

He was determined to buy us whatever drinks we wanted, as impoverished bums. (Art students, I think, at that stage of our degeneration).

My so-called friend was going through a weird "health kick" that involved not destroying himself with booze at every opportunity and left early because he had to "drive home".

(Last I heard this guy got married — you see where that sort of attitude leads you?)

Anyway, our new found friend (let's call him Jason because it rings a vague bell) was propped up at the bar and keen to adopt us as his drinking partners for the night, happily plying us without whatever booze we desired.

He was also something of a prat.

If, for example, racial politics happened to come up in the natural course of conversation and you happened to say something perfectly obvious like: "Well, I don't think Aboriginals are incurably lazy alcoholic scum of society, but I do think they are subjected to systematic oppression", he would reply with a drunken lean forward, a raise of the eyebrow and, on a number of occasions, a point of finger, as he declared: "Touche!"

He also regaled us earnestly with tales of his past life as a DJ on Adelaide FM radio.

I mean it hard to imagine anything lower on the social ladder than this (and he was in Perth drinking in Rosie O'Grady's) but he seemed quite proud of it.

He told us stories of the Beastie Boys coming into the studio and being completely obnoxious and smoking cigars — and just how cool that was (fair enough).


He also insisted on talking to us about Miles Davis and the significance of jazz.

Like I said — a fucking prat.

But, like I also said, he was buying the drinks.

With my so-called friend fleeing from the free drinks (for fuck's sake), the two of use were left holding up our respective end of the bargain. I laughed, oohed and generally fawned as required, and he kindly kept the gin and tonics flowing.

At a certain point he decided we should go and try and "pick up some chicks". (Insert vomit here).

This being Rosie's in fucking South Perth on a fucking Tuesday night, it wasn't exactly a likely proposition, but he was buying the drinks so I wasn't about to cause any trouble.

The inevitable disasters followed, but he never seemed disheartened. I loyally followed, looking embarrassed and awkward, but clutching my g + t with what was genuine gratitude.

The more we drank, the more the concept of just, you know, escaping from Perth. and all these petty things like jobs that pay rent, took hold of us.

He was determined to go to Rio.

I tried suggesting Amsterdam ("It's got everything you could possibly need!"), but it was the middle of winter in Europe and his heart was set on sun.

Plus, it was his credit card.

He was determined, "You gotta come with me, it's all right, I gotta credit card. We'll hang out on beaches, drink rum and try and pick up!"

After the pub closed, we retired to his apartment just down the road, where, on his balcony with Crown Lagers in hand, we sought to make our plans reality.

He actually called a taxi for the airport, with the plan of stopping of at my place on the way to pick up my passport. (As I still lived at home, this would involve not waking my parents, a difficult task given the state I was in).

We suffered our first setback when he realised his credit card was back in the pub, now well and truly shut.

We started planning our break in.

However, I think our plans were ultimately scuttled by him passing out.

Which, in hindsight, was probably for the best as he did have to go to work in just a couple of hours.

I think I slept on his couch for an hour or two, let myself out and made my way home.

And that is real the story of how I have never been to Brazil.

Guess what I did last Wedesday! (Perth explained)

[I am posting an email that I got sent from someone else from a few years back now.

It is actually two stories and I have included both, although I like the second one the most. The second story is a perfect description of Perth and its so-called social life.]


"Guess what I did on Wednesday," I say to Sally with my dirty smirk.

"What!" she giggles.

"The National Queer Officer for NUS!"

"Mor hor hor," Sally laughs and she sounds like a fat man listening to a tit joke.


Just thirty minutes after I had left a disorientated and sleepy **** NUS-person at the busport I run into Grant in the Ref shoplifting chocmilks.

"Hey did you see Kate at the meeting last night," he asks and I go, "yeah, I did, she walked in with that other National Broad Left guy and I thought, hello, eastern staters here."

This was very true. They arrived to the meeting late and immediately, though I didn't recongise Kate, I immediately felt there eastern stateness. And to set the record straight on one Perth version of events, I did not take the seat next to ****, he arrived late, so he took the one next to me.

"And hey," says Grant,"have you talked to that **** guy who is with her. Dodgy."

"What do you mean dodgy?"

"Oh he was just really fucked all througth the NBL, quite anti-Resistance, lots of stupid autonomous marxist ideas."

"Oh."

"Yeah, an idiot."

Nothing I could do now, I thought, the stains of autonomous marxism were already on my sheets. I fill Grant in the details and he does a similar tit-joke oh ho ho at the end.

"You're quite dodgy, Justin" he says, but I can tell from his eyes he is quite proud.

A five month drought. Not a single smut, grope or fondle since early March. I was quite pleased all Thursday. My skin has cleaned up amazingly. It has generally done my health the world of good. I think it shows a certain style as well. A very Justin style.

I walked past Jane selling papers on Friday. "I've been hearing stories about you Justin," she says, but she is too embarrassed to say what they were.

His politics weren't great, but they were at least politics. It makes me realise the huge absense in Perth of left-wing young men who have sex with left-wing young men. It is so refreashing that when bedroom action comes to a standstill, you can always have a fight about working class autonomy or blockading as a stratergy or tactic. And when that gets boring, you can go back to giving head.

He is back at NUS office land at UQ now.

* * *

But anyway, that puts me in a good mood for going out.

Jill rings at the start of the week, "Nevermore (the 80's goth club night) Justin," she whispers, "its just a few days away, are you going?"

"But we always go Jill, every week."

"Yes but its so good."

"No its boring. Lets go to the casino."

"Oh, but, oh, I dont know. Nevermore Justin, its,.."

And a few days after that...

"Nevermore Justin," whispers Andy, "are you going?"

"I already said, no boring Nevermore. Bic and I are gambling our pay away on the money wheel."

And this is true. True in intent.

Somewhere along the line things got changed to going to a party in Como and a party in Nedlands. It was a med student party and I was told the address while drunk at a cocktail bar the Saturday previous.

"Its an easy street to remember". the girl told me. "It sounds like a really big street but its actually really small."

EASY!!!!

Anyway it is Saturday and we are in Como. I have participated in the drinking of six bottles of passion pop and some irish cream and some bourbon. I am making friends with some people who keep putting TLC on the CD player. There is a drug dealer with a coat hanger on his head and my pocket has a big dexie bottle in it. I am here with Bic and she is flirting with the coat hangered drug dealer.

Hannah, a seventeen-year old from work is there, and she keeps letting herself get pulled away into the toilets by really seedy older guys. Bic and I go get her and say "Save it for the carpark honey, people are drinking and need that loo to piss".

God damn Hannah was giving me the shits. We did get her kind of drunk, but that didn't mean she had to keep falling on me. In desperation I gave her a handfull of dexies on the proviso she wouldn't bother me anymore, and we didn't see her for about forty five minutes.

Then things got dodgy.

Christine and I were having a dandy time, munching away, pupils dilated. The clock ticks to 12 and we go, (Deanne as designated driver) "lets go to Nedlands party".

Jarvis, (Becs boyfreind) is suddenly all alarmed because Alannah is missing and gets all tireingly big brotherish.. ie: "little Hannah, where is she?"

We find Geet because she is going with us, and just to describe Geet she looked fantastic because she has this really dark skin with this bright red dress with flashing lights on the chest. But anyway.

Hannah we found doing walking boglaps outside.

"Get in the car Hannah," I say and she goes, "No! Lets just walk around all night!" and Jarvis goes, "Crap, who was stupid enougth to let Hannah have dexies" and I
think he he, waits till he knows how many his girlfriend has had.

You see Jarvis's a bit of bloke who likes to look after his shelias. The ways he looks after them we shall later see.

Anyway we are all in the car ready to go, after we physically restrained Hannah and shoved her in the back seat. But then Bec remembers that there is a male stripper arriving soon, so she decides we can't leave.

I say, "if I show you my nipple, can we miss the stripper" and Bec says yes. I show my nipple and Bec goes "nah, I'm still going inside".

It took over thirty minutes to get them in the car and in around thirty seconds they were all gone again.

A gay man with muscles walks into the house, and a bit later comes out again with less. Everyone gets back in the car, except Hannah, who I think Geet had to go get back out of the toilet.

Just as the back door is about to shut the drug dealer with the coat hanger on his head turns up.

"Hey can I get a lift to Nedlands too?" he asks.

"We have five in the back already. Sorry mate", says Christine. "We only leave with the ones we came with."

Then he gets shitty. "Well take me to the bank because Jarvis, you owe me $115 for that bottle of dexies, and I want that money now."

"I told you man," says Jarvis, "I'm paying you tomorrow".

"But I want it now, we're going to the bank."

"Excuse me," says hardcore little Christine, "this is my fucking car and your not getting in it and there will be no going to a bank. So fuck off!"

Then there is this noise which is Jarvis geting pulled out the car and punched in the stomach. Then there is the noise of Jarvis dry retching. Then there is the rustle of Geet's red dress as she flies out of the car and knocks the guy to the ground. He punches her in the jaw.

"He hit my sister," cries Jarvis all bloke indignant, but its a bit of a lost
cause because now there's a strangling noise because drug dealer is now again on his back, with Bic sitting on his chest, chocking him while Geet kicks him in the head with her boots.

I stay in the car and play with the cassettes. Christine gets out and tries to find Hannah. The fight goes on for at least twenty minuyes. At one point a stranger comes up and asks me whats going on.

"Its okay", I say, "we're just all going to a party in Nedlands".

Eventually the misunderstanding was cleared up, with our gang clearly triumphant. We were all quite pleased and I patted the offending bottle of dexamphetamine with love. We cranked up the car radio and, with all of us in the car Deanne turned the ignition.

The battery was flat.

It was really nice of the people we had bashed to help us find jumper leads.

However by this stage, Christine was less that cooperative, as she had kept talking dexies all through the drama and as soon as the car was started was a little edgy.

"ILL DROP YOU ALL HOME", she yells. "JUSTIN AND I WILL GO OUT."

As it turns out I wish we hadn't because when she got home Bec passed out, so Jarvis felt up Hannah while Bic lay sleeping next to him.

DODGY!

But not that it mattered at that time because Christine and I got to speed off back to the city, to go of all places, Nevermore. (Andy and Jill looked relieved I couldn't really have meant the rude things I said about it.)

As it is I realise your attention must be waning. I will try to abbreviate the rest. I told everyone I saw, (including good old Anne P,) that I had been part of a street brawl in como where i kicked in a scull.

Nat and Gavin break up. I stay out till 6am. Gavin gives me more dexies.

We walk home and talk shit. "Hey Jus", "Hey Gav". At 8am we get home and have tequilla sunrises. Nat tells me about her career at the sex shop and Gavin describes how his penis pump works.

I get home at 11am and go through my pockets. I find an email address for this cute boy at Amplifier Bar. I told him I was producing a radio show for 100FM, did he want to be a radio star? He said yes.