Them's Fightin' Words

Shit guys. I don’t even know where to start with this one. I think I’ve thought up about a hundred different ways I could slice this post, but it would all be lies I tell you. Shame-faced lies.

Which is probably the route I should take here because if blogging has taught me anything, it’s to never, EVER abuse the freebies you get by being too honest (Synergy review, I’m looking at you…).

But unfortunately in this case I don’t really have any other option. I love you 5Gum, I think you guys host killer events and look forward to all your parties and telling everyone I know about them, but yeah. I botched Saturday’s party completely so please forgive me for what I’m about to write…

It all started at about 2.30 in the afternoon last Saturday. The sun was shining, the weather was sweet and J-Rab and I were hitting up a good buddy’s 30th birthday party.

Soon after arriving, I realised that I was the biggest ou at the party by a country mile which is a very bad thing because without the threat of someone bigger than me putting me back in my place if I get a little rowdy, well, I get a little rowdy.

So I began putting the double whiskies away like nobody’s business and administering life to the party like some kind of human defibrillator.

Sure, I might have been a little douchey, but at this stage I was still on the level so a great time was had by all until we had to duck out at 6pm to start getting ready for Terror Island.

The tickets we had said dress Halloweeny and the party was called Terror Island, so naturally my drunk-ass brain put two and two together and was like “PIRATE!”

But my brain was like: “No… That’s not Halloweeny enough…”

Which of course lead to: “GHOST PIRATE!” and me spending the next hour in the bathroom with these Bostick face-paints we had leftover from the Soccer World Cup, trying to do my make-up like some sad, sorry, drunken clown getting ready for a 6 year-old’s birthday party.

J-Rab came in half-way in to find out what the hell was taking me so long with the white stick of face-paint and as I turned to show her the killer job I was doing of turning myself into Carolyn Manson (Marilyn’s lesser-known cousin), what was left of the white stick of face-paint fell out of its lipstick-like holder and plopped into the loo.

In a flash I was elbows-deep in that basterd to save the white face-paint (don’t worry, J-Rab and I are meticulous flushers so there was nothing dodgey in there) which I did and um… dried it off and um… why am I telling you guys this?!?!

Anyway, we got our shit together and cabbed it to Grand Central for the big party only to realise that maybe 20% of the people at the party actually made an effort to dress up.

Not that I gave two shits at that point. I was a GHOST PIRATE MUTHUFUKKAH! Shiver me muthufukkin’ TIMBERS, BITCHES YEAH!

That’s the closest approximation I can give to what my internal dialogue sounded like at that point. It was 7.30.

We were eventually shown the way to go to the #5GumExperience which involved walking past a gigantic taxi rank on our left ripe with the smell of old urine.

It added perfectly to the terror J-Rab was feeling at this point and rightly so. Her knight in shining armour had been replaced by the village drunk who would have been as effective as a balloon sword in a knife fight if any shit went down.

Luckily none did though and the evening started off really well as J-Rab and I befriended all the crazy party people who had also gone all out to dress up in the Halloween theme.

Which resulted in the following pictures:

By my estimate we probably jammed with the people in the pictures above for about two hours, after which point I headed to VIP to say WAZZUP to THE MAEN!

At this stage, I think I’d drunk about three quarters of a bottle of whisky over a 7-hour period. I was gone daddy gone. Then this picture happened, apparently:

After that we headed to the main stage where someone was playing.

I got down on the dancefloor (READ: flailed my limbs around like a frog in a blender) until I had cleared a sizeable circle around me, then I schloomfed off with J-Rab to get some food, then I ate that food in a terrifying massacre of melted cheese and salami and then I felt like a nap so we went home.

It was hands down the worst attempt at rocking out at a gig since I went to watch Saron Gas when I was 17 and had five tequilas and about 10 Redds (Redds! Hahahaha!) before we’d even arrived.

Twenty minutes after we arrived I proceeded to smash my head against a low concrete ceiling on the upstairs balcony at The Doors in Edenvale which scrambled my brains so badly I staggered inside, puked on the actual bar, was promptly thrown the fuck out and had to be driven back home with all my buddies because we’d shared a car to get there.

Fun times.

To the organisers of the Terror Island in CT, I am truly, deeply sorry. It’s not my style to be the guy so blitzed he can’t remember if he had a killer time or not and you have my word if you guys throw another one, I’ll at least show up sober like a normal human and actually write a decent event review.

At this point, I’d be hugely grateful to anyone, anyone at all, who can jump onto the comments section below and tell me how Terror Island actually was.

There’s a lesson to be learned here kids. NEVER put on face-paint that’s been in the loo. It instantly becomes toxic I tells ya!

Face –> palm.

-ST