This weekend was unparallelled to anything I have ever experienced before. It contained all your common denominators of boozing, trying to attract the opposite sex and busting out go-to dance moves but something was different, very, very different. It all started on a casual Friday night when me and my flatmate, Alice decided, ‘eff it were gonna go out just for one or two (which typically ends you up in the 20-30 range). We have been on quite the going out hiatus and with our new found passion for red wine, we would grab the moment by its balls and indulge recklessly. It is always the nights when you plan for nothing, hope for nothing, that things fucking rip. And so it begins..

Pre-gaming session starts around 5:00 pm with a fine bottle of vintage 1973 Merlot (that’s a lie: $12.99 Riesling from LiquorLand).  Who should we go out with? We have these drunk Irish neighbors that always want to hang out so after ringing up Alice like they were trying to get hold of a sex hotline we decided we would head down and meet these crazies. (Bit of a background story, one night when Alice and I were super drunk we decided we would break into their place, (the door was not locked, we just walked in) (can you have parenthesis, inside of parenthesis, inside of parenthesis?)) anywhos, we entered and wandered around thinking no one was there and then organized their unnecessary amount of mustard and ketchup bottles left available on their dining table. (wtf, why? whateves.) After that was successfully completed we ripped out a page from their yellow pages (why do these still exist?) and left them a note containing somewhat of the following)))<–I lost count of these.)

Dear Mofos,

We are your neighbors in number 15. We stopped by.

You are not here. Hit us up on the flipside. whacka whacka.

Love,

Alice & Nina

(included on note: a miniature picture of two stick figures standing, holding hands.)

We wanted to leave the note lodged between their two doors, (because god-forbid they do not see this artifact containing important information) which was quite the effort and took ages, so while doing so we contemplated about just sleeping on their floor. Cause how funny would it be if they came home and two completely random people were sleeping on your floor? (I would find that hilairous-sos). After some solid thinking we decided against it merely due to the fact that their apartment smelled like musty humidity swept up inside a mildew cloud peppered with a thick mustard film wrapped up in wank tissues. Guy apartments are gross. So we left and went back up to our place. Ever since they found the note, (which made absolutely no sense) and realized we had broken in (walked into) their apartment, they deemed us as the coolest bitches around (a total of 12 people live in our building) and have made every effort to hang out, which is fair enough. So tonight we would.

Alas! back to this weekend, after 3 to 4 bottles of wine (each) our friend Livvy comes over and we head down to the Irish. Which is seriously like 7 flights of stairs below us and after twirly whirling for like an hour we finally arrive. Upon entering, we see three rather ill dressed guys chilling on their sofas with beers in hand. They greet us and we begin to recap the events of the other night. It is the hardest thing on earth to understand some Irish (just some, Una, I love you), the fucked up thing is you know they are speaking English so you cant really stand there for too long looking completely dumbfounded and like a lost baby emu. After awhile I got a few things straight, one of them is referred to as “The Cat” mainly because he sleeps on the floor and always does the dishes, after which he will fluff his tail and tussle it around the sofa bed… (yes, I know wtf, wha? that is actually what I got from the conversation). One guy is literally drunk every time we see him and he tries to get us to be as well. Yelling at us off the balcony at 11:00 am on Sunday mornings, ” Ah ye what ya doin? Why don’t you come up for a wee drink there, hey, ya, eh?” (Please no. why? not now). Lastly, we gathered that they are all pretty hilarious and would be good move to be in cohutz with the only other young people in the building.

A couple of bottles of wine later we decided to head out– the Irish aren’t coming with us and that’s cool cause were looking to creep. Due to the dodgy weather we decided to hit up our local pub-u-lar,  CBH or (Coogee Bay Hotel) which is this massive establishment that is I kid you not, a hotel, pub, liquor store, giant bottle shop, club, beach bar, outdoor BBQ, restaurant, casino, sports bar and beer garden. Basically, like a giant fucked up bio-dome that you never have to leave, only things missing are an indoor traveling circus act (that doesn’t make sense) and maybe a lagoon of sorts with endangered wildlife living in it. The only time you would need to leave is if you get kicked out–which everyone does at least once because their crazy strict on the drunking laws over here. Not like in the U.S. when the only time you get thrown out is when your puke all over someones face or you punch a bartender. Here if you accidentally trip on something or have something in your eye that makes it turn pinkish-red in color (or pink eye for that matter) – you are out. The bouncers even ask you how much you have had to drink as you get finger printed (yes, fucking fingerprinted, this is like CIA, FBI shit) after you are finger print scanned in, laser eye match-detected and strip searched the bouncer will ask you how many you have had. This always throws me for a loop cause if you say just one or two then he knows your lying but if you say how much you have actually had your fucked. I usually go with… to quote my Swedish friend Elin, “2 liters of wine and some booze” which is vague enough that they don’t really know how to respond and so in you go.

The CBH is like a breeding ground for people to pick up, not in a seedy way but everyone is on the prowl… which I guess is how most bars are. But anywhos it opens up into this massive beer garden where we usually will sit first,  and with all our might savagely seek out a booth closest to the most good looking wolf pack of man-candies. Once in, we will disperse immediately– some to the bathroom for those who have to pee, some to the bar to pick up drinks and others to locate our prime seating location. After all is said and done we reconvene at said booth and immediately begin to rapid-fire converse and laugh hysterically (it is our understanding that men are attracted to women who laugh a lot, finding them relaxed, free, and willy nilly).

After a brief session of laughing our heads off, the second round duty is on me and Alice, we hate going to bar. There is this one bartender who is always there, literally always, (like the gym guy) and always mentions how often we are there. We decided one night after a few cocktails that he was a spitting image of Phillip Phillips and therefore was bangin’ hot and also had a Southern twang to him (none of this is true, our beer goggles were securely on, he is Australian and he actually looks like a prepubescent teen with hair that is cut like Lego man’s) Regardless we decided to slip him a napkin with a note on it (seems like we do this a lot, fwarks.) On it was this:

Dear Mr. Dream Weaver,

We think you are the dreamiest of the weavers.

Call me.    (no number was provided)

Love & Kissies,

Alice & Nina

After this note was handed over he has since then acted very differently around us and very differently around the bar. I would like to take all credit for his new found confidence but who knows. Since then he looks like a new man, I’m pretty sure he must now be using Pro-activ cause his skin looks great, his hair is now tousled in that “look I’m messy and don’t care but really my locks are purposely tendrilized and I look sexy as hell”  (yes, that was the hair talking) and his collar is now always popped (which is a sure sign of confidence or douchebaggery). He shouts at the other bartenders and orders them around like peasant boys, “Hey Yo Fernando, you need to pick up these glasses, and grab me a bottle of Apple Pucker from the back while your at it” “Ladies, ladies, what can I get for you” As he leans into the bar in almost a half ballet squat thing and electric slides over to the beers on tap. “Ummm just a bottle of house white?” (who is this guy? and why is he so incredibly mobile? just stand still.) “Not a problem I’ll just fill this up for you” (ditty dum-dum no bigs, whoopa lala loo). Watching him is like watching a new born giraffe find his feet, he is all over the place and since now he can walk, exuding confidence. He continues his authoritative yells,  “Oi hey Laura, these drinks wont pour themselves, lets get a move on.” Finally, after watching him for what seemed like 2 and a half hours and what was an impromptu performance of modern dance with a side show of puppetry we receive our drinks with a giant smile of (what I like to think), gratitude.

After we buy our round we decide to change scenery and hit up Selina’s, the dance club on the premises. Which most of the time is pretty ‘effin dead due to the mass amount of room (like literally it’s the size of an indoor ice rink) and small amount of patrons (7-12 people tops). Once inside, we scout out the scene and within what seems like milli-seconds Livvy is off dancing with some babe and me and Alice are left to our own devices.

We see a group of guys that we noticed outside in the beer garden and are keen to talk to them. But how? they are way over there…and this is how it began. Me, “I think we should dance over” Alice: “Like in a line?” Me: “Yea” Alice: “Alright.” If any of you have seen The Inbetweeners movie (see link if unfamiliar) this is exactly how it went.. Alice started off in their direction with strong moves and I followed close behind her in a line formation with this jutting out leg swivel with alternating sides along with a finger point towards the legs to accentuate their direction and intended path (wha?). After about two and half minutes of limbs flailing all over the place in a “so crazy it just might work” manner we finally are in the vicinity of the guys and one of them calls us over. “Oh hey.” “Hey.” “Ummm did you guys see us dance over here?” “Well, yea. You came from way over there and this place is empty” “Oh yea…well?” “Yea it was good, what are your names?” (WTF!!?? how did this work and why have I not been doing it for the last 7 years of my life? whhaaa). If I had known you could rhythmically dance over to guys and they would respond favorably I probably would be married with kids by now. We chatted with them for a while and they were cool and all but we wanted to bust out some more dance moves considering we were on this high. As we did.

The DJ’s there all suck… they insist on playing the hits from the 80’s- 90’s (wtf, WHY?) But no one really cares as it gets later and later everyone loves a good tune they can sing-a-long with and just maybe know a choreographed dance to. Enter Thriller. This pictures solidifies the idea that I am 100% the biggest weirdo. My friend Becky took this of her friend Crystal..and that is me in the background, BY MYSELF and unaware any picture is being taken. (WTF, whyyy cant I just be normal) This is when Thriller came on in the club and apparently this is my interpretation of the dance, a freak arm movement and my face actually looks like I have been time warped into the 1983 zombie video.

All in all we learned some good lessons…

1. When in doubt simply dance over

2. Never trust an Irishman nicknamed, “The Cat”

3. Always leave notes with people, especially lacking in confidence bartenders

4. Laugh all the time.

Oh and drink heaps of red wine, preferably Cab. Sav. or Merlot none of that Pinot Noir shit.