We're going to stake night, we're gonna eat it right

Sunday night. My last hours of pressure-less freedom before another butt-raping week of uni starts again. The 48 hours that makes up the weekend seems like a priceless asset when living life like this, and one can only hope that people spend these limited hours to the fullest of their potential. Did you spend YOUR 48 hours in a worthwhile manner?? Yes? Well did you ride a mechanical bull?? THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT BITCH, THINK AGAIN.

When one thought that there possibly couldn't be a group of friends that had 4 consecutive 18ths in the same month, they obviously hadn't met Tillie, Maddi, Lauren and Alice. Being the anchor to the 18th party race, Alice must have had a few nerves running through her to best the likes of Lauren's strobe lights, or Maddi's....cupcakes. But oh boy did she deliver.

Alice decided upon a Country party, the women would all try look as slutty as possible whilst abiding to the set theme, while the boys would just look like Brokeback Mountain characters. To exaggerate the theme further, we would all camp out on her property in tents and swags.

To invite a good 50 or so people to the extreme country side (2 hour drive) for an 18th is a risky and bold move. But with a person we all love turning 18, a bunch of loyal friends, and to a lesser extent FREE ALCOHOL AND A MECHANICAL BULL, there was never going to be a problem in attendance. Special mention to Tom Clark who trekked the 6 hour journey from Roma. (fuck that).

The party was held at Esk, on the Brabazon property. An isolated lot of land with no neighbours for a few miles. Epic setting or what?? Hitching a lift with Killoran's lovely parents, Myself, Killoran, Imala, Max and Lauren arrived with a sense of eager anticipation and tears in eyes. The latter part can be attributed to me, due to the dawning realisation that Kathy Brunnen wasn't going to be there. My depression was quickly subdued, as we were greeted by a country sunset, bright and beautiful, as if it were saying "Get fucking wasted tonight". The glowing orb sunk into the depth of the horizon. When the final rays of the day's light disappeared, the festivities began.

If the girl's at the party in fact DID go to school, they obviously didn't learn the word 'moderation'. Champagne, beer and cider were all supplied in over-catered abundance, but this did not stop the girls making like little Ethiopian boys fighting over that piece of tree bark they call dinner.

Last night marked the first occasion where I felt regret from last year's performance at LIVE, as I was referred to and remembered as 'The recorder dude', on more than one occasion. Even by Annie Elliot. OH HOT DAMNNNN.

Something as challenging and infertilisation-ising as riding a mechanical bull is hard enough participating in sober, but Albrab waited till everyone was drunk before bringing it out.

Let the retardedness begin.

Notable riders were:

• Sam Killoran - For managing to stay on for a record low of 6 seconds


• Nikki Manche - For being a hot drunk cool bitch


• Ace - For showing us that little people are actually talented at stuff

I secretly pondered how well Laura would go at riding the bull, seeing as rough, jerky, lateral movement is her forte.

Tilly and Claire double teaming the bull from behind

The rest of the night played out like any 18th should, with beats, d-floor, and crossing streams in gardens. When most of the cowboys and cowgirls retired to their respective tents and swags, Killoran, Catherine, Jill, Imala and I totally broke the concept of a 2-man tent, and participated in what can only be described as a hot cuddly country orgy. The shrieks of pleasure and moans of satisfaction could be heard by all, but none of us gave a cows vagina. Eventually our lack of sexual stamina got the best of us, and we all retired to a sex induced coma.

Upon waking up, I had a few important questions that I wanted answered.

• When the fuck was breakfast?


• Why is my tent wet?


• Why is there another person in my tent?

But any who, the rising masses awoke to horrid sounds of a common household tool, Nick Britz, who thought it would be absolutely hilarious if he woke everyone up at an ungodly hour of the morning. I was in the middle of planning an elaborate plan on how to get a cow to eat his penis, when the succulent smell of a bacon, sausage, egg, toast, muffin and juice breakfast interrupted my thoughts. All pettiness was washed away along with my hunger.

All in all, it turned out to be a satisfying party, where ends justified the means. Wishing a very happy 18th Alice, and plead for a re-invitation for next year.

On a more sour note, the hung over Whisperers conceeded 8 goals in a rather embarrasing defeat in our social soccer competition. OH WELLS.

We love you Alice!