Ohdeargodinheaven

…was the first thing I semi-uttered, semi-groaned at about 6 o’clock when ‘the chocolate brown alarm clock’ [me doggit] jumped on my head [as he does] on Sunday, er, [yes, it was definitely] MORNING! Proceeded by ‘lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick!’ So of course I retreat under the duvet to avoid the saturation of slobber, and he shovels his schnoz under so he can still get to me…

This was shortly followed by ‘aaaaaaaargh’, as I realised I’d barely had an hour’s sleep!

Yes, yes, me quiet Satdee arve drink got a bit out of control, you might say. Thing is, I had 3 things to attend, so figured, if I ‘start early’, it won’t turn into anything drastic and I’ll be in bed before midnight! Yes, well, it’s good to try to fool yourself occasionally… Self-restraint issues, me?!

Furthermore, I thought I’d eliminate the potential overindulgence by combining 2 of the events – one being a birthday bash, the other, watching the Bledisloe Cup. So, I turned up to the birthday bash, where, well, everyone was watching the rugby. So at ten to five, I had a Guinness in me paw – not a big fan of ‘Australian’ Guinness [having sampled ‘the real thing’ for a good four years or so], but it was miserable, rainy, er, Dublish weather, so it seemed fitting enough. Oh, and we were in one of Brisbane’s [40,000] Irish pubs [Dub Vegas anyone?]. By 9ish [who can be sure?], when all was said and done [yes, yes, we lost - again - but hey, it was slightly better than the last match, and well, I’m not a big Union fan ANYWAY… lame excuses notwithstanding... And, it’s always good to hang shit on the kiwis we were seemingly surrounded by regardless of the outcome. Besides, it’s the only game they can play, so we may as well let them have their glory, while we kick their arse in gee, any other sport in the world - bar ‘animal loving’ in a kiwi sense I suspect! And, I’d rather be beaten by the All Blacks than the Sprinboks… [close brackets, breathe], I was ready to move on.

Anyway, I’d switched to VLSs [vodka, lime and soda] by this stage, and we’d sneakily thrown down a ‘shooter’ – a Cocksucking Cowboy for me [oh yeah!] and a ’surprise’ for Chris [Opal Nero, Midori and Cointreau, which, judging by his scrunched up face, he thought it divine! Oops] So I said to Chris, it’s time to move on. We’d had some pub grub, so the stomach was suitably lined, and I had no clue of pubs to visit in the CBD, so I said, ‘let’s go across the road [to the Treasury Casino] and gamble’! Or, did he suggest it? I honestly can’t recall. I said, ‘Sagittarians are renowned for gambling and embezzling funds – bring it on!’. ‘And if I’m gonna stand around gambling, I wanna, drink a Cosmo!’ ‘In a proper glass – y’know, the conical martini type’… So he says encouragingly, ‘you do that’.

We head across and find ourselves in what can only be described as the world’s smallest, and least opulent, casino, with live music drowning out the bleeping and tinkling sounds of a thousand pokies [‘fruit machines’, ‘one-armed bandits’, call them whatyouwill – money guzzlers?] and I have something of a déjà vu. The gorgeous three [four?]-tiered heritage building, with open ceiling and palm trees gracing the balconies, and ‘so’ balmy, despite being indoor, it instantly reminds me of the outdoor plaza [what the hell is it called?!] in Barcelona… The Grand Plaza or some such?, and I point to one of the corner balconies, and say to Chris, ‘if we were in the whatsie plaza in Barcelona, that’d be where I stayed!’ He nods his head and with a bemused expression, says, ‘okay, Jeanette, let’s get you that Cosmo’! With multiple bars to choose from, we elect for the, er, nearest one and ask for a cocktail menu. This is apparently a challenge? Oh, okay, cos this isn’t a major tourist spot and god knows, nobody would contemplate drinking cocktails whilst gambling, ‘cos that just doesn’t go hand-in-hand?! Anyway, the same ‘incredibly helpful’ bartender returns w a whole freakin’ cocktail book, and I just go, man, if they can’t just whip up a cocktail without having to use ‘the recipe’, then dang, I’ll just go the trusty Cosmo as planned. I get one. It comes in ‘the wrong glass’ [dang!], but I ‘suppose it’ll do’. As I’m about to take my first sip, same dickwad bartender goes ‘um, is it okay?’ Wha’? You don’t say that to a customer? If you’ve screwed it up you don’t mention it unless they complain. He then says, ‘I may have overdone the lime?’ Oh, really. If you’ve made a mistake, the only thing I wanna hear you say is, ‘sorry, madam I’ve put too much vodka in it’ and I’d say, ‘not a bother on ya, that’d be just swell!’ But no, not only does he admit his fault, but I discover it’s too much lime as in ‘cordial’, not ‘freshly squeezed’ – sheesh. Oh well, while it’s very ‘tart’, I’m pretty pissed already, so don’t really notice/care, and consider its ‘tartiness’ quite apt as I’m all tarted up in me purple FMBs, which magically match my recently-purchased ‘girly bag’ and trademark ‘furry coat’ which Chris describes as ‘not that I know you very well, but from what I do know, it’s very you’! So I’m all tarted up w a tarty drink and money, er, coinage, to burn…

We find a table, sip and chat and I realise I’m reasonably drunk when I say,er, slur, ‘Chris, see, I told ya a big night out was well overdue [as our recent attempts have been reasonably feeble], now you too can be introduced to Pissed Ging’. When he says, there isn’t much difference between ‘her’ and ‘sober Ging’ I take it as a compliment! Cool. I then fall flat on my face… Kidding!

We head to ‘the wheel’ as it’s the only thing I ‘do’ in casinos and it’s very safe. You still get the rush of winning, though it’s not like there’s a risk of losing hundreds in one go! I know, not very Sagittarian of me, but hey, I was in a casino, w Cosmo in hand, and dammit, I was gonna have a wee gamble for the hellovit. We watch for a bit, as you do [clearly regulars!], to see the ‘pattern’, despite gambling being completely random and the fact that I’m not ‘really’ gambling. I decide to move in [nearly spilling said Cosmo down the back of some woman who doesn’t appreciate my stumbling!], juggling me handbag and purse to get my insanely dangeorus, um, ‘minimum bet of $2 – I know! Wow huh. So I watch for a bit, then tell Chris, who’s highly amused by the ‘intensity’ of my enthusiasm for such silliness, ‘I’m goin’ #3’. I shuffle in, still swaying, whack [‘strayan for ‘place’] my chips on ‘the rainforest’ pic and eagerly wait for the woman to say ‘last bets’. Spin, spin, spin, spin, sp-HIN… tick, tick, tick, tick… tick… t, t, t, It’s number three! Jah! With some surprise, Chris says, ‘did you win?’ I say, ‘damn straight, told ya! I had a feeling!’ He says, ‘everyone says that when they win’. I say, ‘I know.’ My $2 has just become $8 [I knoooooooow!] so I decide to get a refill. Cos clearly what I need is more alcohol!

When we said we were going to the casino, my colleagues had said, ‘oh, to drink $3 daquiris’, I said, ‘er, no, but sure, if they have them I may as well’! Sure enough, there’s these hideous pre-mixed sloshing frozen daquiri machines, which undoubtedly have no/minimal alcohol in them, but what the hell, I still need to have ‘a girly drink’ in paw as I continue my quest to lose the rest of my money. Given the premise that if you go into a casino expecting to come out ‘ahead’, then you really are a loser. I opt for the strawberry, er, red-coloured concoction. Someone has left a tip, I mean, change, on the bar, so I ‘borrow’ their dollar [desperate times for the single mother in the suburbs! Ahem] and Chris slides the 10c over as well. I smirk and note, ‘this cheap-arse crap daquiri is now going to cost me all of $1.90!’ This is probably more amusing to two pissed strayans than anyone, but sure enough, I buy a strawberry daquiri which is as lame as anticipated!

As Event 3 is about to be underway [and I receive a text saying ‘be there or be square, Keno is for losers!] I decide we need to ‘blow my dosh and leave. We do. Not without still being very ‘analytical’ about the whole thing, as if having some sort of strategy to win, then lose the, ooh, eight bucks! I mean, I’m hardly gonna cash it in or save it ‘til next time! The wheels spins up some freaky 11s and 23s and Chris and I both agree, ‘wow, that wheel’s doin’ some freaky shit and they’ve switched dealers in as many spins’… A little odd, but I successfully lose me $8 and given I ‘began’ w 2, got a daquiri for $1.90, I tell Chris, I’ve come out a winner! You go Gambling Ging! I’ve also come out pissed.

We are to meet my friend, who’s friend’s friend is just off a plane from London – or some such. I suggest we walk and have ‘a stopover’ en route… [well, obviously it’d be en route otherwise it’s more of a detour than it is a stopover, yeah?!] I recall Chris questioning ‘if we walk?’ [alluding to the lazy/unadventurous option and getting a cab, perhaps?!], but ignoring him, I continue, ‘well, there’s the Embassy, the Victory, or better still, the Orient’s about halfway.’ We walk and I vaguely remember discussing my penchant/some would say ‘obsession’ for/with underwear and shoes. Hmm, I can’t believe I was disclosing such ‘top secret women’s business’ to Chris! Now the world will know. Ah, particularly if I just ‘throw it in me blog there with no regard!’ Oops. [It’s not like I can’t edit this, sure, ‘ but it was funny. I think. Chris? Did I say anything embarrassing?!] Anyway, we reach the ‘new look’ Orient [yet another Bris-furb of a classic Aussie pub where you 'used to get a good counter meal and pot for under $5' as me dad would probably’ve said!] and discover a g’zillion, absolutely sloshed, 12-year-old-looking clientele… so we both down our walking sticks and order a sherry and a pipe… Chris tells me he’d never been here before anyway. I tell him I used to come here ‘when I could drink a lot’ and down countless $2 cans [tinnies!] of fourex [blargh! back in the days when drinking fourex was a uni student option!] w me mate, Jo, boogie upstairs in the ‘indie’ club [run/djed by my ex-Rave magazine editors] , Disorient [still a good name I reckon!] ‘til the wee hours on a Friday night/Saturday morn, be as ‘hungover as a bastard’ lie in the dark all day, hit 5pmish and have breakfast, then do it all over again. Oh man, to have that kind of liver again! So, we stay for one, and when ‘the generic pub band’ play, god, what was it? Down Under? Or was it classic Cold Chisel? Honestly, Chris, I don’t remember what it was, but it was certainly ‘an aussie pub moment’… Not a memorable one, obviously! I do remember them doing pretty bad covers, though.

The Elephant & Castle [another refurb of the Prince Consortium] is just down the road a bit. It’s packed beyond packed [?], reeks in equal parts of backpackers and cigarette fumes – and I’m not sure which is worse… Ha! Y’see, now that I’m Grounded Ging I’m allowed to slag backpackers, when I’m On the Road Ging I can contribute to the ‘slaggee-ed’! Still, there’s ‘backpackers’ and there’s ‘backpackers’ and we all know what I’m talkin’ about so don’t pretend you don’t and don’t be so precious about it if you don’t! Compre?! Anyway, we weave through ‘til I see me mate [and I’d warned Chris that there will be screaming and possibly, shrieking, and much hugging!] I tap her on the shoulder, she screams, shrieks, then hugs me! This is a friend I’ve not seen for, ooh, a couple of weeks, but, it’s a girl thing, and she’s a good mate [not to self to include in ‘me lingo’ dictionary the distinction between ‘mate’ and ‘good mate’!] There’s a small circle of us – my friend’s partner, my friend’s friend, my friend’s sister, my friend’s sister’s friend [?!], the London visitor, Chris, and I. I hit the bar, we stand around drinking and trying to ‘converse’ in what is a very loud environs, with a live band hammering out more of the same! I ask, ‘what are they called?’ and someone points out, ‘um, see that huge banner behind them with their name on it?’ Oh, I see, but can’t remember it now, anyway! They’re another classic pub cover band, but I try not to notice. Between the guinness, VLSs, cocktails and back to beer, who, let alone, how, am I to notice anything?! We all dance our arses off. And I mean, all of us and I mean ‘off’. So much so that when I am awoken by my doggit the next morning as I mentioned, and go to sit down, I scream, ‘holy crap’ I’ve no arse!’

[I wish] Bloody sore leg muscles though…

So yes, there you have it, Chris and I finally had a BIG night out in Vegas, and the last thing I recall as my head hit my pillow was the neon digits informing me that it was 4.54am or something. Not a bad 12-hour sesh?

How did you ‘call’ the night, Chris?

Pisshead Ging