All Play & No Work: Crashing Ben's Christmas Party.

This Christmas tale begins with a certain work function for a certain husband. That husband.. Was mine! *Scary music.* [I get confused over genre.]

Last Friday night, I was invited to catch an old train out to Woodend [ooh, this does sound scary] for Ben’s company Christmas party. Strictly informed that latecomers would not be waited on, my time-conscious husband hustled me to the meeting point 10 hours pre-departure time with the promise of a drink. He clipped my heels along to the upstairs bar at Spencer St, where we would watch for our group like hawks, but the perfect plan (and Ben) deflated when we found the bar had morphed into a Hungry Jacks. While I was still gathering my bearings, Ben quickly sniffed out another bar and back downstairs we went.

                                          Cheeky workmates.

A queue finally gathered beside the ‘Red Rat’(tler) train which silently awaited our breathe of life. Ben thoughtlessly brushed his fingers over the old girl and said of his handful of dust, “Yep. She’s authentic, alright.” I was shepherded away from the ‘big boss’ in the queue, so an to avoid an awkward train ride, and our cabin was finally comprised of Ben’s own department, their manager and his wife. I had some momentary concern over the wife, who looked a lovely, Julie Andrews type, but my inhibitions were lost once plied with liquor on an empty stomach.

A young man, comedian by day, came by with some very loose, deadpan safety instructions:
“Don’t lean too far out the window.”
“How far is too far..?”
“Don’t stick anything important out. Maybe just your head.”
This seeming to conclude our important warning, it was asked, “Where's the closest toilet?”
Our host pointed, “There are toilets down that end, and toilets down that end, and sometimes one in the middle. But ya can’t use all of ‘em.”
“Well, which can’t we use?!”
“Mm, not sure. They’ll be locked.”
Great!
Someone suggested that it’d be easier to pee out the window and I warned, “Just don’t stick your dick out too far!” then again became hyper aware of the manager’s wife. I felt better when I later heard a crude story from Julie Andrews herself: She'd had a garage sale and her brother brought over some things to sell. "I’ve always felt bad that a little old lady bought his collection of glasses when one of them said, ‘How many donuts do you think I can fit on my dick?’ Who knows, though? – Maybe she only bought the clean ones to get that glass.”

Our pre-dinner train nibbles were finally brought out a little after 8pm, by which time I was ravenous. I greedily took two sandwiches quarters from the first tray and proceeded to slop mustard pickle down my top (all watched closely by the very presentable Mary Poppins!). I went to clean myself up in one of functional toilets (which could be this way, that way or somewhere in the middle) and had that all too familiar sense of ‘that’d be right’ when the bathroom stocked sanitiser, but no water. I did what I could with paper towel, cleaned my hands with the gel (which felt oddly soapy..) then noticed a weird, round, antique contraption secured against the wall. I pushed down a lever at the top and, voila! – Down came a sink. My top cleaned-up nicely and dried-off, successfully quashing my look of ‘sloppy bitch’ (at least in regard to my dress).
Clearly having received the same vague bathroom directions as the rest of us, a large, loud character popped his head into our cabin and asked, “Is this the bathroom?”
The joke was repeated as he passed by the other cabins and met with the same shrill laughter that we produced. Ah, toilet humour. Never gets old.

Another visitor to our cabin was the company boss who stood in our doorway speaking seriously, completely unaware that there was a streamer hanging across his head. At the time, this was the funniest thing I'd ever seen and my hysterical reaction caught on to one of Ben's workmates, whose subsequent laughter rekindled my own, and back and forth we went (again, the streamer-headed gentleman remained in the dark, but I'm sure my apparent nonsensical behaviour will win Ben a raise. I guess it wouldn't have helped, anyway, to explain, "Don't worry, I'm not crazy. I just think you look ridiculous.").

We arrived at Woodend after 9 and jiggled our ravenous bellies into the warm, country pub for dinner. Main meal aside, I was finally pleased that my husband loathes dessert – Although I’d normally be too coy to order sweets for one, alternate plates were placed wordlessly before us and I drunkenly laid into Ben’s red velvet cake and my lemon meringue without a sober thought of calories. Delicious (and a little sickening, once I took a moment to breathe). I had a chat over dessert with a transsexual employee who, I thought interesting, continued on in her warehouse career despite the now overt femininity. Not that work should be gender specific or that transsexuals must be mentioned, but hey, these things still twang in my tiny mind.
Another woman returning to her table with sweat upon her brow, mentioned only that it was rather hot in the tiny room designated for dancing. All I heard was ‘dance,’ and asked, “Are you dancing? Have you just been for a dance? Do you wanna dance? Dance? Spinning? Jumping? Bopping? Dance?” The poor thing (and complete stranger) begrudging asked that I wait while she finished her drink, then led me back out to the groove floor where I did m’ thang like a maniac.

Back on the train, I realised my hopping and bopping had lost me an earring. In love as I was with my spangly accessories, my hard, anti-hoarding line overrode this and out went the other earring, through the window and onto the tracks. Let some kid find it and wonder how the hell it got there. Once sober, however, I sadly realised that I could’ve simply phoned the pub and ask that they collect my earring from the small square of floor where I was fairly certain it would be. But, thinkin’ and drinkin’ never are one. Bye-bye, darling earrings. Go separate ways and live your lives. Despite this devastation, my dancing career wasn’t over. Our group walked the length of the train to check out what they called, ‘the Cattle Car,’ a barbed wire lined carriage for dancing. Despite copious amounts of alcohol, people only stood along the walls, indeed as dull as cattle. I asked Ben, “Dare me to dance through everybody like a dickhead?!”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t care.”
“Oh.. Well, I’m gonna do it, anyway. Woo!” and off I went. I did rouse the masses for a moment there, which was a small reward for my self-inflicted embarrassment.

When the Red Rat hit the city, our proceeding journey home was quite the story in itself. Thinking we’d do better than the free bus that might’ve left us about a 10 minute walk from our house, we trod into the city to stalk the streets for a cab. Without a single vacancy light in sight, Ben stomped down the road in palpable frustration and attempted to wave down the unlighted cabs. Well aware of taxi drivers’ caution when it comes to big, white, drunken males in the middle of the night, I asked Ben to hang back and let me do the scouting. Still angry and determined, however, he didn’t move far from my side and I’m sure the drivers were aware of our trick. Soon enough, we’d walked from Spencer St to Flinders St Station, where we noted not a single cab in the rank. We were further surprised to see that the trains were still running at that time and checked for our own line’s departure. With only two minutes to spare, we ran to our platform and managed to catch a very direct ride home, transforming our mission from utterly hopeless to practically perfect. Perfect, it would've been, if the station announcements on the train had been correct! Exhausted and intoxicated, we paid no attention to the outside world and when our station was called, Ben tried to pull open the doors but saw only tracks where there should’ve been a platform. Confused, we figured we must still be one stop from home, but didn’t recognise the next station, either, as part of our run. A kind stranger who asked of our destination regretfully informed us we'd passed it three stations ago. We’d exchanged a one-minute walk from our own stop for a 40 minute trek through the suburbs! Just to top it off, as we approached the first main road, a lit-up taxi passed us by, never wise to our existence. Ben, who had been utterly wrecked on the train, was clearly furious over this nightmarish, added leg to our journey, so I accepted a silent end to our raucous evening. I also knew I wouldn't make it home in my heels and walked the filthy footpath barefoot.

Hey, at least our night wasn’t over when we stepped off the train, right? This was one of the best Christmas parties I’ve attended (and it wasn’t even mine! Maybe that’s the secret) so it was well worth the very brick-like legs when I finally hit my bed. Just fantabulous. Merry f’ing Christmas, y’all.

Closet Bogans

Approaching Etihad to finally cash in on our 6 month held tickets, last night, the crowd suddenly split in two. I chose right over left which led us directly to our seats, confirming that I am completely psychic and should be employed on a true crime show (tomorrow).

Act 1, for this long awaited show, was a man whose lyrics consisted purely of his own name: Kid & Rock. Sharing only the Americana of our key performer, he was otherwise the savoury, selfless man’s antithesis. We were bombarded by pics of the Kid with a slathering of the bootilicious and then, to draw on our mindless emotion for the sake of his finale, a barely relevant projection of the late Nelson Mandela. He changed hats several times throughout the set, sporting an ‘American Badass’ cap as he lit up a cigar and chugged some whiskey, an unconvincing image in the fully lit, half empty stadium.  As the disinterested crowd still hunted their seats, I can at least give the kid full credit for his unwavering energy. I almost felt sorry when he threw his arms in the air, right and then left, which was supposed to be met with screams of, “Kid! [Kid].. Rock! [Rock],” but smacked straight into silence. Energy or no, however, my impatience for the main act was successfully amped by the time he was done! The stadium crew finally came to cleanse his smut from the stage, which was nicely designed to resemble the hood of a car, true to our main man’s open road theme.

Watching the last of the ticket holders trickle in, I was cruelly amused by the sight of some larger ladies after Ben had predicted, “There are gonna be some middle-aged mamas throwing their giant panties onto the stage, tonight!” Ancient women in their ancient tour tees carefully cluttered down the stairs, one poor dear spilling her drink at every step despite holding on to the shoulders of every seated person she passed. Bums found seats, lights went down and the roar of the crowd signalled the entrance of.. Bon Jovi! - Singing a slow song I’ve never heard. It was quite the anti-climax. Next up was You Give Love a Bad Name (which Ben and I love to repeat back at home as “BAED name!”), however, and all was forgiven. The sea of middle-aged creakingly rose and a lady before me danced with a typical mumsy butt-sway and head toss. By track 3, another slowy, the ladies before us looked around and we all giggled in unspoken agreement, ‘We don’t wanna stand on these old feet any longer than we have to. Sitting time!’ and back down we went. It was going to be a very comfortable show!

Bon Jovi was just as lovely as you’d imagine. His big, frequent smile emanated kindness and his denim jacket, with stars and stripes at the waist, was much more convincing of a good-boy image than were Kid Rock’s attempts at bad-boy. Without a trace of narcissism, he clearly loved his fans and thrived on his crowd’s attention, busting some eccentric moves which Ben deemed as ‘a road to Jagger-town’ to cheers of approval. Having just come from our nephew’s third birthday party, where he’d persisted in crushing a green marshmallow into his mouth and hands because I’d been laughing so hard, I was reminded of this child-like propensity for silliness upon encouragement. I could imagine Bon Jovi saying, “and now look at THIS, mum!” as he strutted about like a chicken. When the band seamlessly detoured into The Rolling Stones’ Jumping Jack Flash, I sniggered over Ben’s earlier Jagger prediction.

For some time, now, whenever we’d hear Bon Jovi on the radio, Ben and I would exchange a ridiculously serious look and a nod, and sing along intently with our best redneck accents. Despite this good-natured marital fun, I never considered myself a fan, but when I heard of their upcoming tour, I realised, “Shit, yeah, that’d be rool good, ‘n’ stuff. I know all the werrrds,” and demanded Ben buy tickets as my birthday ‘surprise.’ I learned, on Saturday night, just how well so many other Aussies know Bon Jovi’s lyrics, the chorus of the crowd drowning out the man and his band during every classic tune. I could see how frustrating it might become to perform all the ‘old stuff,’ for this reason, and forgave them for excluding one or two of my favourites (even though they could’ve gone out with a bang by ending on Blaze of Glory. ‘Sall I’m sayin’). I also learned that I cannot escape the fact of my fandom, after emitting an involuntary squeal over the intro of Bad Medicine. That was a good one to old-lady-dance to.

Just as the band had begun right on schedule, in accordance with their middle aged crowd’s sensibilities, they didn’t have us waiting long for an encore following their obligatory false finish. Which unheard classic would they reward us with for our two minute wait?! Softly, Jon Bon attempted to treat us with a lovely, acoustic opening for Livin’ On a Prayer.. and was again overridden by his fans, who altered the tempo to its traditional speed. The good-natured guy appeased his offbeat followers and joined us in an old school, rock style version.

Barring the mind-numbing opening act, the show was just as fun as expected (LOTS of). It was fitting that I was horribly sore from the gym, yesterday, and hobbled my way out of the stadium with all the other old girls. This is the only show I’ve been to where the women’s bathroom has actually run out of toilet paper; based on the sheer volume of female fans, I am now less embarrassed to count myself among ‘em. I only wish I’d brought along my pair of giant undies to throw in approval.

Thanks for my ‘surprise,’ Benny.

                              

                                 A sea of light, at Bon Jovi's request.

Ben, feigning interest in Kid Rock.

Bourbon cheers.