That’s what a man said to me moments before I boarded the K.I ferry – AKA: Sealinks “Mayfair” in their monopolised bizznak. Yee who is the brains behind that operation needs a firm hand shake – with a nod and poo-face expression. But I’m getting sidetracked....
The weekend gone-just-now saw The Shining Tights embark on a 48-hour fantasy world adventure, one that was to be remembered. Things got off to a flyer. I had my party shirt on, other twonks had their party shirts on, and my plus one – Captain Fun had his on too baby. We were donning shirts that would have made Pablo Escobar put down his rolled up hundred dollar bill for a gander. Yessss, offensive and vibrant - People would walk past and nod at us, as if to say...”I’m a fucking wiener without one of those get-ups aren’t I...” to which we would offer a salute, or some kind of disapproval at their “every-day” threads.
The Cape Jarvis boondocks gave us our first insight into the local clientele. Big Burly men with large beards, lacerated forearms and Rossi boots that they received on their 13th birthday – but they still wear them because its damn-well queer to get new ones. Amen to that brudda. We joked that these blokes were so manly and badass, that when they reference people like us, they begin the sentence with “You fucking pussies....”
“You fucking pussies catching the ferry or what?!!?...”
Not in a derogatory way, but merely a timely reminder that we have supple skin, some of us use men’s skin lotion, we are not familiar with how to skin a “roo” in the time it takes your mate to reload your 38 calibre rifle and also, almost all of us have repped some kind of hair wax product at some stage in the not-too-distant past. These were the sort of dudes that you just look at – and feel like a loser.
None-the-less, the locals were actually refreshingly nice, polite and well mannered. They are still at that point in rural development where you still greet everyone with a smile and a wave – or a raised index finger if you pass them on the roads. So – after 600 grams of assorted smiths savoury snacks and an old-fashioned Special Patrol sing-along, we arrived at the Vivonne Bay barracks/watering hole/festival. After Barts and Chissy-poo plummer spoke to security like they were being interrogated by the feds, knowing full well the barrage of sloppily hidden alcohol in their vehicles, we meandered down to the “artist camping area”, yeah you heard. Bitch.
After doing mega drifties in the dirt for a while I endeavoured to erect my free-of-charge Canadian Club promo tent I was given by my old boss, in exchange for a stubby of Hahn Super Dry. Still in its packet, me and Captain Fun made the rookie error of assuming the unopened, unused tent would be a “breeze” to put up, at 10pm at night, on a rocky outcrop in the depths of Kangaroo Islands Funnel Web breeding grounds. Oh and it was windy. Oh and it turns out I’m a massive retard at understanding the basic logistics of erecting a tent. Cue: Chris Plummer – hiking and outdoor enthusiast, who quickly pointed out the fundamental issues of our attempt, and deemed the tent useless until the morning when we can give that shit a crack again in the light.
Unsure of our sleeping arrangements (we live life on the edge) we waddled on down to the main stage area, where we were welcomed by the soothing vocals of Matt McHugh and The Beautiful Girls – AND his band. See what I did there? Aye? What a fucking lad. Anyway, basically everyone had hundreds of beers by the stage and around the campsite, wound up in a drunken state in their tents, and in my case wearing another man as a backpack. I was straddled like a horse most of the night. Until I awoke to a HUMUNGOUS white thing in my face. I kicked and punched in front of me like an attention deficit child whose turn is up on his mates play-station. Only to realise the whiteness before me was not heavens gates, but was the drooping roof of my shoddily erected tent. Which has slumped right down onto our faces. It Scared the anus off me.
Saturday: I made the treacherous journey down to the actual beach, where old-mate Occy and his pals were carving toobs n shet. I was hung, and the heat was sweltering. But dipping my head in the sub zero slush puppy or “the ocean” at Vivonne Bay hastily re-instated by thirst for ale, and assorted female targeted vodka drinks. Huddled under a red-backs nest...I mean tree, me and the cavalry got back into it. With vigour. But the heat was relentless, rivalled only by our aspirations to see how many pints of water we could skull. Eleven – if you were wondering. And eleven times more replenished as a result. OK?
So.... yada yada, we took to the stage and ripped bumbums. Loaded with both a new tune and a cover, we managed to wangle a pretty respectable set together – even if I do say so myself. This level of dopeness and showmanship was promptly met by the likes of Messrs, The Salvadors and Big Scary – who helped concrete a musical display that had perhaps not been rivalled yet earlier in the festival. A feel good vibe spread throughout. Some home-boy even climbed the jager meister tent, only to soon after be wearing half a litre of capsicum spray as goggles. Although this was probzzz the only example of miss-behaviour. The vibe was too free otherwise you know bro? Right on, right on.
Late Saturday night, things escalated fast. Mutual friends who had never met each other before were making waves in the dirt, in a tight embrace and what have you. Don’t worry – this “hell funny” recount will have visuals later, just keep reading. Me and Tom Opie of The Salvadors (Adelaides bestest band) and two pals, even crossed the bunting into to the General Admission tent city, which is difficult for people like us of such status and poise. We heard the deep murmurs of 90’s Swedish trance from 500 metres off. We made a flying V, and powered into what was revealed to be an ENORMOUS shanty style trance party. Pitch black, distorting speakers, gross music and people whose struggle to fight the MDMA pulsing through their veins was getting the better of them. We lasted about 45 seconds, then power walked back through the filth and general ticket holders campsites – back to the safety and serenity of the Artist camping area. Things get hazy, but I do remember Alex Polski Algurkee Rajkowski losing consciousness whilst attempting to strum Pink Floyds “Wish You Were Here” to a small crowd of onlookers. Good times, jot it down man.
At this point I have completely forgotten the point to this story/blog/rambling. For that I apologize. But you know what? You can suck my plums. ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAIIIIINNNED? Exactly.
Please forward any complaints to firstname.lastname@example.org
It has been a bawl. This is the best Blogs-breath cafe EVAAAA. I know.
Until next time......
“A man does what he must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality.”
- Winston Churchill
- Winston Churchill
Completely unrelated. But Cheers.
DA Wavves @ Vivonne Bay
My poo tent attempt and....ladies?
Lippy from The Shinies, Craig from Messrs and Captain Fun share a tight, late-night embrace...
The crowd beckens for RADBAD..
Captain Fun reveals his sensitive side, care of Buns's photography skills...
More evidence of my num chuck skills..
This arab ceremonial head wear was a MUST for Yee who tells a good joke...
A Poor mans photoshop hybrid of RADBAD and two legends from Bad Dreems....Oh and the third person? That's my second chin - Chinzerelli. He's OK.
The Salvadors got motherlovers going in a BIIIIG way...
Sometimes you need to have a long hard look at yourselves, right?
Chissy Poo's handy work...
Jeeeeez this blog is good.
Special props go to The Daylight Braves, who we missed - but were there in spirit. Love.xxxxxx