sassy does coachella: aka things you learn in the desert

April 29th, 2011

Before we get started, if you’re into reading and shit, I just finished reading Bossypants by Tina Fey and it’s DELIGHTFUL. She’s funny and clever and self-deprecating and tells stories about how awesome Alec Baldwin is. I felt smarter just reading it.

Also, I read it on kindle which is one of my favourite things to do, because I feel like I’m living in the future.

And if you’re into people in armour and all things nerdy, am currently obsessed with Game of Thrones. If I have to go to prison for illegally downloading, I would like it to be for this show.

But I promised a Coachella post, and dammit if I won’t deliver!

Are there some bits I don’t want to tell you about? Perhaps there are. I do some really embarassing stuff, so I like to limit the amount I put on here to just the highlights, like the time I accidentally SMS-ed Ryan Girdler, or the time I woke up with leaves in my hair.

And are there some things I don’t remember? Perhaps there are. Sometimes a girl just needs to cut loose, you know?

As for the rest of it, here goes.


The last few times I’ve been to LA I’ve stayed in Santa Monica and spent my time tooling around on 1970s low-rider bicycles down to Venice Beach, buying friendship bracelets from the nutters on the boulevard, and eating onion rings with margarita chasers.

This time when we stayed in LA, we crashed at the Roosevelt in Hollywood and the LA cliches were all Right There. Lauren Conrad walking through the lobby! (perfect hair and super super skinny legs in leather leggings). Samantha Ronson bowling in the Spare Room! (she looks like you’d think she looks). Billy Zane at the next table over at the Chateau Marmont! (he’s kind of bloated and dresses like a Central American drug trafficker). David Beckham coming to the hotel for lunch!

I don’t get a ladyboner for Becks but I will say that in profile he is one of the most objectively beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Like Jared Leto. Like you could lick that face. It’s the same way I feel about Diane Kruger.

I saw Becks in his button-down shirt and a beanie and sunnies, but apparently when he pulled in to the driveway to give his car to the valet he was wearing an insane shiny black plastic wig over his hair.

I don’t know if this makes me vain, but I think I would rather get caught on camera by TMZ than look like this.

Meanwhile next time I stay there I’m challenging Samantha Ronson to a bowl-off because I am REALLY GOOD AT IT. Who knew? Add it to the list of reasons people assume I’m a massive lez. Right under ‘wears flannies and tracksuit pants from Lowes’, ‘played softball in year eight’ and ‘loves footy’.

Turns out – like most things – bowling is more fun when you can do it while drinking. Also CHECK MAH SWEET RENTAL SHOES.


So on day two we picked up our car and discovered … it wasn’t there. You know when you book a car for 10am? Well in America, bitches better turn up at 10am, or they give it to someone else. Why? Who knows. It’s a mystery, like why you tip the person who brings your bags to your room, but you don’t tip the guy who brings your rental car round from the lot. They’re both JUST DOING THEIR JOBS. WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE? IF I’M NOT MEANT TO TIP EVERYONE JUST GIVE THEM BADGES OR SOMETHING SO I KNOW ALREADY.

The point is you will end up driving the only car they have left, which will be an eight seater Yukon the size of a regular 2 bedroom apartment, on the freeway out to Palm Desert. And you had better not have spent the night before drinking absinthe cocktails and dancing in Hemmingways like I did, or it will be one of the most painful days of your life.

As for Palm Desert, it has lots of old people and golf courses and resorts and flamingos. So it’s kind of like … Florida without the ‘gators. And the desert in general … is really really hot. So hot you want to weep. Mrs Pizzinga was right.


Two days before I left Sydney I poodled on into the bank to get some american dollars so the LAX cab driver wouldn’t yell at me again for trying to pay for my ride with a creddie. The dude asked where I was going, then told me “one of the other tellers went to Coachella. He said it was a …. loose occasion”.

Judging by this photo, I was so worried about the loose occasion, I considered hiding my possessions, prison-style.

Jason obviously knows his stuff, because Coachella is pretty much powered by medicinal marijuana, and acid is apparently back in fashion. Which means there are no aggro drunk guys in watermelon helmets, but lots of stoned people who might accidentally catch your hair on fire. You win some, you lose some.


Thanks to the lovely and generous Anella from EMI, we wrangled some VIP passes for the festival. And can I just say … those VIP bitches have it sweet.

In the 38 degree desert heat, the VIP sections have grass, no lines for booze, an air-conditioned bar, special fans to mist you with cool water, not to mention amazing celeb sightings like Alexa Chung, one of the Clarins sisters, Prince, Paul McCartney, Daria Werbowy, Dan Patch and Gale Harold from Hellcats, McLovin, Ke$ha, and I can’t exactly remember the rest.

I do remember seeing Pacey from Dawson’s Creek though, and I may lost my shit a little. I am so uncool.

If you need us, we’ll be by the taco stand. Mmmmm mexican.

But it’s not all fun and taco stands. I learned that you might make friends with a crazy bartender who looks like Gary Busey dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and a captain’s hat, but just cause he tells you you’re pretty doesn’t mean he’s not ripping you off $4 every drink. To think I tipped that guy! Screw you, seaman!


So many of the bands were so, so good. The Strokes are once again awesome, Sleigh Bells blew my mind, Kanye was incredible until he started playing chariots of fire and being a douchebag, Robyn was a dance-party-extravaganza and so was Chromeo, Bright Eyes and the National (I only saw a few songs) were heartbreaking, Alison Mosshart from the Kills is the hottest bitch ever, Cold War Kids are really good at festivals, but two of my faves were the little Aussie bands.

America is in love with Cut Copy and the Presets and they both killed it. Well done, Aussie boys!


Ferris wheeeeel!

So here’s how the story ends: after the third day and night of the festival, we trekked home, slept, got up and got ready to pick up our car (on time) and head back to LA. About halfway up the freeway I felt a little woozy, then a little nauseated. I announced that maybe it might, you know … be kind of a good idea to pull over, at some point, just anywhere that’s convenient, if …. OH MY GOD PULL OVER NOW NOW NOW I’M NOT GONNA MAKE IT.

Of course on a freeway driving on the wrong side of the road pulling over isn’t that easy.

Which is how I ended up puking chocolate milk into an empty paper Starbucks bag in the passenger seat of a Chevy somewhere outside Palm Springs.

Ron Burgundy was right, I really really regret buying that delicious refreshing chocolate milk.

Ron Burgundy is always right.

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united states of errol: meet the jacksonville axemen

June 30th, 2009

So this is the last part of our Oh Errol American adventure from earlier this year. Ok, that’s a lie. Really, it’s the second last part. However, as the last part involves Savannah and Vegas, this is the last part that we will be describing on the internet. SOZ GUYS.

We’re been saving this bit up until we were well and truly into the league season for 2009 (over here and in the States). A lot of our readers go on holidays over the non-league season and we wouldn’t want all the little lost sheep to miss out.

Basically … you NEED to know about these guys. They call em the Jacksonville Axemen, and this is how the story goes.

After our bizarre jaunt around Disneyworld we jumped into Ron Burgundy – our gigantic, burgundy-coloured, Dodge minivan – and hit the road for Jacksonville, Florida. Why? Well it wasn’t to see Ryan Adams, because as it turns out, his song Jacksonville … not about Florida. Not that that stopped us singing it incessantly. That, and the soundtrack from High School Musical. That shit is great driving music.

He has many leather-bound books and his interior smells of rich mahogany.

Jacksonville is a quaint little beachside city in Florida. Down near the sea it’s full of 50 and 70s style diners and strip malls, and faded bleached-out salt-stained buildings. In the morning and at night the place fills up with fog that washes in off the Atlantic. It’s kinda Central Coast-ish really. It even has, wait for it … a RUGBY LEAGUE TEAM. Fuck off, now that was something we had to see. A league team in America’s wang! It makes sense that they might have them up North where the Yankees play rugby union at college, but in the South? Amazing.

The faithful Ron Burgundy delivered us to Jacksonville Beach right on the eve of Australia Day and found the Axemen waiting at the hotel with a cooler and a playlist of Aussie songs ready to welcome the Oss-tralians. WE HAVE FOUND OUR PEOPLE!

We were so damn excited we bounced about introducing ourselves to every. single. member. of the team … and four guys who just happened to be standing in the foyer and turned out to be US Marines instead of footy players. No wonder they looked confused when we asked where they played.

Much like Hunter S. Thompson, Sassy prefers to conduct all her interviews in hot-tubs.

Let’s just say that the Axemen throw a great clambake. Heh, clam. There were eskies of drinks, an all-Aussie playlist, even giant Aussie flags on the wall.

We even had a special encounter with a couple staying at the hotel. They were just chillin in the hottub having some beers, sitting next to a big pile of clothes … OMG IS THAT PILE OF CLOTHES A BABY? AND IS IT … CRYING? DID YOU GUYS BRING YOUR BABY TO A BAR?

Cut to Sassy and Kiki looking after the kid in the hotel bar while the parents smashed a few drinks. They crooned it Crowded House songs until it finally fell asleep and the parents headed to bed. It totally liked them, especially when the girls sang two part drunken harmonies to you’d better be homeeee, sooooooon.

The Axemen apologised profusely and explained to us … ‘we have white trash here in Florida, you know’. We can tell. Also, as if there’s any need to apologise. We’re Australian! We roll with the punches, or something.

Disclaimer: May not be actual Jacksonville sportscaster.

Now in general, Americans aren’t always the most up-to-date with Australian culture. More than once we were told how well we speak English …. um, thanks?

So you can imagine how shocked Kiki was when, viciously hungover after our Australia Day extravaganza, she was watching the local news and the sportscaster covering the Australian Open said: ‘as a sidenote, it’s Australia Day today down there. Everyone gets drunk and the country pretty much shuts down’.


We thought how impressive it was that Florida natives know so much about our country, then promptly forgot about it. Until we met Spinner that evening for a sneaky pre-dinner drink. He strolled in, looked at us all, and started cracking up and shaking his head. He deadpanned: ‘you were certainly … memorable last night’.

According to Spinner, Jacksonville’s local sportscaster is a Big Deal. And when he was grandly introduced to Kiki, she grabbed his shoulder and announced:


The rest, as they say, is history.

Disclaimer: not actual Spinner.

Meanwhile, the reason for the Aussie welcome extravaganza was the one-of-a-kind Daryl ‘Spinner’ Howland. Why is he called Spinner? According to the boys: “you don’t wanna know”. We couldn’t even get Spinner drunk to force him to confess, so you can just make up your own sordid stories. It’s more fun that way. Spinner’s an Aussie living over in the States (and a DIRTY QUEENSLANDER. The crafty bastard didn’t tell us that before we drove for three hours to meet him).

The way he tells it, he had found his way into a college rugby team somewhere up north, and in the middle of a team trip around the South, Spinner had a … well, a big night on the tiles in Jacksonville Beach, and woke up too late and too disgusting to make his plane back home.

So in true Aussie style, he just made the best of it. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? So he set up in Jacksonville, started a footy team with a mate and called them the Axemen.

Truth is, knowing Spinner is kinda like knowing the mafia. Hiring a car? Mention Spinner’s name for a discount. Renting a hotel room? Mention Spinner. Trying to dispose of a body? Um …

Knowing Spinner is also kinda like knowing the big banana. Or pineapple. Or whatever. Something that is really well-known and from Queensland. He is unmistakably Australian. In part this is because the back of his car is completely plastered with Australian memorabilia even though we’re 99% sure he is the only Aussie in Florida. Every person in the entire city knows who he is. He’s like a bald-headed Queensland version of the Beatles. Universally recognisable! Plus, he knows Russell Crowe.

We got so dependent on Spinner we became almost incapable of doing things on our own. Every time we got lost we phoned him for directions (and every time we were late he phoned us to ask “are you lost?”). When Kiki had a hangover she reached out her arms and cried SPINNER FIX ITTTTT.

He’s also like the mafia in that if he chooses to, he’s the most generous and considerate guy a blogger could meet. He showed us the best mexican restaurant in town, and the best time we had maybe in the whole of our trip. THANK YOU SPINNER!

When Spinner wasn’t in charge … this is what we ate.

And after spending three weeks dealing with Polite Americans who are appalled when you say ‘Jesus Christ’ or words like ‘vagina’, it was so so nice to see an Aussie man again. Within five minutes of meeting us Spinner was hurrying us up by saying “What the fuck are you doing? I told em you’re Aussies and you don’t take long … so hurry the fuck up! Fair suck of the sauce bottle girls.”

In fact our only gripe with Spinner is that he is quite clearly brainwashing the entire team to support Queensland instead of New South Wales. Surely this is a breach of some kind of coaching or humanitarian law? Anyone?

But let’s talk Axemen. We had to know how the hell any of them ended up playing league. There are a few Aussie imports, and a new Aussie head coach but otherwise it’s all-American. Randy Dewey converted after playing rugby union at his Catholic School, Rich Alleger converted after playing union up north. And in our favourite story of all, Florida boy John Turlington was poached on his very first day of university in Jacksonville. He walked in at abouy 6’4, barefoot, massive, and wearing denim overalls with nothing underneath, and the rest of the Axemen thought … YES. This is the kind of man who needs to play rugby league. They were right.

Turlington: Face of a beauty queen …

… feet of a giant.

And the Axemen are going great guns. After starting only three years ago, the team is already breaking even and about to start turning a profit. This might be because they have brilliant marketers who come up with ideas like $1 beers on game day. It might also be because they have two guys in the team called Apple Pope and Taco Pope. Awesome, right?

Next step is to get the Yanks to start a national rugby league. If they do, the Axemen are sooo in it – just look on the website in the poll on the left. Bitches are miles ahead in the public vote for which cities they want in the comp.

Meanwhile thanks to the ~*magic*~ of technology, now we get to watch the Axemen games even though we’re all the way over in Australia. Just get on the website and click ‘Home’ and ‘JaxAxeTV’ … wheee! You’ll definitely want to watch because the Axemen are currently sitting undefeated on top of the ladder in the AMNRL and going great guns.


And now we’ll leave you with the Jacksonville Axemen’s ad; written by and STARRING one Spinner Howland. Enjoy, babies!

Special thanks to Spinner, Jay, Rich and Jono for squiring us about town. And the rest of you, buy a t shirt why don’t you? We all have the KISS MY JAX shirts and wear them with pride.

And if you’d like to hear what the Axemen think about US, well you can here and here!

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fire up for origin babies!

May 21st, 2009

Only a few weeks until State of Origin … and if you are too poor/lazy/unlucky/geographically inconvenienced to go and see the first game in Melbourne, then you have have have to know about this.

Our favourite radio superstars, Brett Oaten and Steven Ferris, will be doing a LIVE broadcast of Fire Up! on the night from the Alexandria Hotel. It’s also a fundraiser for FBi, so if you love good radio, then it’s definitely worth your while.

Here are the deets straight from Oaten’s typing fingers:

In the tradition of “The Rumble In The Jungle” and “The Thriller In Manilla” it is with great excitement that I announce “The Slander In Alexandria”.

Yes, the rumours are true, “Fire Up” is going live on the night of State of Origin 1 (Wednesday 3rd June) at the Alexandria Hotel in Sydney to raise money for our beloved home, FBI 94.5 FM.

The night is sure to be a winner and will include some combination of the following:

(a) a live “Fire Up” show (of some kind);

(b) State of Origin on The Big Screen (I’ve seen it – it’s definitely big, and I live in the Shire, so I’ve seen some big TVs);

(c) “Fire Up” trivia and prizes;

(d) musical performances from “Fire Up” luminaries;

(e) beer.

Tickets are $25 or $20 for FBI members. All proceeds to FBI. Tickets are limited to 100 people only. Thanks to the Alexandria Hotel for accommodating us & to us for having the idea in the first place. Ticketing info will follow in the next day or so, but you can register your interest by emailing your name and number to fireup@fbiradio.com

SEE YA THERE, KITTENS! (And wear blue or we won’t speak to you).

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united states of errol part two: PARTY PARTY PARTY!

February 22nd, 2009

About a year ago, Kiki and Lozzy read that Hanson would be performing on a cruise ship. We mocked this accordingly, then decided to, you know, pay hundreds of dollars and go on it. Yeah, we’re now Official Rock Boaters. We hate ourselves too.

But let’s not get too caught up in the past. The real story starts in Miami … party in the city where the heat is on, all night on the beach till the break of dawn.

Let it be known that Miami is A SHITHOLE. Will Smith may have led you to believe ‘This the type of town I could spend a few days in, Miami the city that keeps the roof blazin’. Will, why do you lie?


We spent two days there and almost lost our damn minds. We thought everybody would be wearing Hawaiian shirts and straw fedoras and grooving down the street to festive Latin music.  Instead it’s like the Gold Coast, if you ripped out the small amount of soul the Goldy has and replaced it with 85 different Ed Hardy stores. No wonder Dexter murders people.  We would too if we lived in a city where people wore embroidered Ed Hardy ugg boots.

Granted our time there was spent almost entirely at  the truly horrendous Miami airport (aka where souls go to die), and in our room watching Confessions of a Teen Idol (ok that part was awesome. Have you guys seen how terrifying Jeremy Jackson is these days? They should put his photo up in schools to deter kids from … well, everything. And Christopher Atkins – still hot.)

Miami is also a city filled with cultural landmines.  The following is an edited transcript of ‘Sassy trying to buy a coffee’.

Sassy: Can I have a cafe latte to take away please?

Waitress: … Cafe?

Sassy: Yes please, cafe latte.

Waitress: Cafe con leche?

Sassy: ….. *tick tock*

Sassy: Cafe … latte?

Waitress: Cafe con leche?

Sassy: ….

Waitress: ….

Sassy: …. I’M FOREIGN.

Waitress: Cafe con leche.

From there we made it through the gauntlet of bag handlers (including the guy who said “… you know you can tip me if you want”. SERIOUSLY. LOOK INTO GETTING BADGES. HOW ELSE ARE WE MEANT TO KNOW WHO TO TIP?) and boarded the Rock Boat from the port side, avast ye mateys.

As far as we can tell, after releasing two (moderately) successful songs in the nineties, Sister Hazel invented The Rock Boat so they could:

a) have a captive audience to play to;

b) get to see the Bahamas;

c) have somewhere to live for at least 5 days a year; or

d) all of the above.

We guess (d). And fair enough!  Not everyone can live off song royalties like Hugh Grant in About a Boy.  They also take care of all the loudspeaker announcements, so as we settled into our state room we were greeted with:


Seriously that’s what he said word for word. We couldn’t believe it either. We all looked at each other in disbelief  then rolled off the beds in hysterics.


We thought nothing could top this. Then, later that night, we hear the singer of some band we don’t know yell the following –

OOOOOOH YEAH! The boat has officially left port and DADDY’S DRIVING NOW!  Daddy’s in controllll.  Oh wow who ordered all those shots? OH IT WAS ME. WOOOOOO.  We’re not in port anymore so LET’S GET FUCKED UP!

Can I get a helllllllll yeaaaaaah?

The crowd all yelled HELL YEAH in unison then all wooooooooed the way only Yanks can for a good 10 minutes.

Oh, Americans.

To our delight/horror it only got more American as we went on.  The boat has not one, not two, but three hot tubs, all filled with pasty Americans in tiny sunglasses (why do they all wear such small sunglasses?), horrible bikinis and too-high boardshorts. Smashing Miller Lites and making the rock handsign. If there’s one thing Americans love more than that weird orange cheese they eat, it’s a hot tub.

pic: sixthman.net

The most disturbing thing about the hot tub obsession was their willingness to get their kit off in Not Very Warm Weather. It really wasn’t hot enough for frolicking poolside in swimwear. Especially when the majority of them were the colour of pale pale milk. It was like cruising with 1200 Ben Hornbys (btw he totally had a baby in the off season. A baby NOT popped out by us. We are tres upset by this development.)


Now this cruise included a day in Half Moon Cay, and a day in Nassau.  Because the weather was miserable, we couldn’t dock at Half Moon Cay (we hear it’s lovely).  And because we were drunkenly passed out in semi-comas …. we slept through Nassau. Seriously, we woke up and were all “ooh we can’t feel the boat moving anymore, hurrah! Sea legs!”, then Lozzy opened the curtain to see that a) we couldn’t feel the boat moving because we were in port, and b) everyone was walking BACK to the boat – not only had we missed a port, but it was 5pm and we’d lost an entire day.

Suffice to say, we saw a lot of the cruise ship, and not much else.  To our surprise, it’s kind of awesome.  We had our very own little Cruise Steward, Mario, just to look after us and our room.

Note: May or may not be the actual Mario

He would wait outside our room in the afternoons until we woke up to make sure that we were alive.  Then while we struggled up to the 24-hour pizza buffet, he would sneak into our room and make us adorable little towel animals to make our hearts smile.  A different one every day!

Towel elephant never forgets towel facts.

Can’t figure out how to use the tv?  Mario knows!  Can’t find your room because you’re drunk?  Mario knows!  Broken the toilet? Mario will say ‘Oops!’ and call a plumber! A REALLY REALLY SCARY PLUMBER who accused us of putting a towel in our toilet. Coz that’s what people do on cruises, you know.

Poor Kiki, being the only one of us who could get out of bed and/or was wearing pants, had to deal with Scary Toilet Man. (For the full lolz please put on a sub continental accent in your brain. Trust us, its funnier.)

STM: (said accusingly) Did you put a towel in this toilet?

K: Errr….no. Why would I put a towel in the toilet?

STM: I don’t believe you. I’ll check now.

*Kiki returns to bed to hide under the covers from the scary man. STM fiddles with the pipes for a while*

*Kiki feels oddly guilty and goes to check on STM*

STM: (looks up with pure hate in his eyes) YOU PUT A TOWEL IN THIS TOILET. WHY DO YOU LIE?

K: What! No! I SWEAR mate! I didn’t do it.

STM: I show you!

K: No I believe you, I’m just saying I didn’t put it in there.

STM-  *pulls a soaking wet towel from the pipes* THIS. THIS IS A TOWEL. YOU SEE?

K: …………………

STM: SEE! TOWEL!  *slams door*

May we just say at this point that yes, we probably were drunk enough that night to pee and mistake a towel as toilet paper, but that was NOT the reason we needed emergency plumbing. We ran into the bathroom and realised THE TOWEL RACK IS OVER THE LOO. Seriously Carnival, that is some of the poorest interior design we have ever seen.

Back to Mario – we would like him in our everyday life, please. When he came in on the last day and made a sooky face to say ‘You’re leaving meeee!‘ we almost went for the hug. Sure he makes towel animals for everyone, but he totally loved us best.

But for all the good stuff, like getting to hang out with the bands in the Casino bar and never having to worry about finding a taxi home, come the bad parts … like knowing that whatever you did last night might have been captured by the cruise photographer, or seeing the shaggy-haired rocker you pashed the night before sporting full rock star regalia while serving up pasta salad at the Sun & Sea lunch buffet.


We decided to latch onto a new married couple of BFFs that we met in the super-classy Cheers bar (hi Jay and Suellen!) and discovered another great thing about cruising: people can’t get away.

On the fourth night we cruise-ship-telephoned them up and took them to the fancypants Galaxy dining room (you have to wear SHOES there and everything) for a lobster and champagne dinner. You know, just the five of us. On a group date. We are so creepy. Totally worth it though to see the Galaxy waiters jump the tables to dirty dance and have a group singalong. We heart cruising.

pic by suellen

If you happen to be curious about what the Hanson boyz got up to while all this was going on, you can read all about it in this hilarious and detailed email that we sent to Ivey and London over at The New Way. It was pretty much the first thing we did once we returned to dry land – in bed together, while eating 100 bucks worth of Jerry’s Deli and cracking ourselves up – and was also the best time we had in our whole stay in Miami.

Taylor* still dresses like a lesbian and wore capri pants – yes, manpris – to Nassau. Zac is such a douchebag that he has been renamed Alan, who we took to booing constantly (seriously, we’re still saying ‘booo alan!’ to express distaste for anything in general life. It’s just so catchy!). Isaac was outraged at not being able to get a freakin Mojito due to lack of mint.  WE HEAR YOU IKE!  And both their shows were AMAZING.


But our favourite night by far was their second gig in the cavernous indoor theatre known as The Palladium. Because 99.9% of all Hanson fans lack lives, they all started lining up for seats at 11am. The show didn’t start until 12 hours later.

That was their method. Ours was to drunkenly wander in at 10:55pm, skip down towards the front, inexplicably find 2 cute boys, flirt with them, drink their beer and then park ourselves next to them for the entire show. Note we were in prime position RIGHT in front of Taylor and his piano. Considering the rabid Hanson fans didn’t gouge our eyes out, we decided they must have thought they were our mans minding seats for us. Sweet.


[Note – I am a fetching shade of orange due to the cruise gift shop fake tan I had to resort to buying. I am usually less carrot like – K]

[Note 2 – I am not featured in this pic because either a) It was an Alan song so I had gone off to pee, or b) I’m actually there on the left of Sassy, but too short to see. Sadface. – L]

[Note 3 – I have my hair tied back and am wearing neutral browns because after my shameful behaviour on the two previous nights I was trying to be ~*incognito*~. It didn’t work. – S]

If you’re wondering about the ‘bitches’ label, these are the two girls who dampened Lozzy’s Hanson experience by sitting down the entire time and rolling their eyes every time she busted out a dance move behind them. To rectify this, Lozzy thought it would be appropriate to tell them “Look, if you’re at a Hanson show you don’t fucking sit down”. They didn’t reply, either because they’re bitches or they couldn’t understand the Aussie accent. Probs a little from column A, a little from column B.

Then at the end Lozzy used her grade-A biting wit to tell them ‘YOU SUCK’, realised that in the light they were both absolute battleaxes and had clearly been in a number of fights in their time, and Sassy had to step in to break it all up. Good times.

Miss Kiki and the boy in the captain’s hat got along famously. And by that we mean she grabbed his ass, told him he was cute then went the pash. In her defence, he certainly didn’t seem to mind. She also grabbed him and whispered I’M MAKING OUT WITH A BOY DURING A HANSON SHOW…IS THIS HEAVEN?


And honestly, that’s not even half of it. We could easily spring a trilogy of Rock Boat posts on you, but we have the rest of the trip to cover.

[*We feel like we should address the pic floating around the internets of our beloved TayTay, to be frank, licking a dick (not safe for work. But shit, if you’re gunna get fired for something, don’t you kind of want it to be for getting caught looking at Taylor Hanson with a dick in his mouth?). Unfortunately, it’s fake. This is most obvious from the palm tree t-shirt the subject is wearing. TayHan would NEVER wear something that ugly and chest-hair covering.

The best part is it’s been dubbed MmmCock. Awesome. – Lozzy]

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united states of errol part one: california dreaming

February 17th, 2009

Well it’s been a week since we set foot back on Aussie soil, and we’re almost over our jetlag/hangovers/really hot throat infections that we all got from each other.  Speaking of, Lozzy swears any illness suffered was from lack of Vegemite and not excessive consumptions of booze and food. WE NEED OUR VITAMIN B.

So here you get Part 1 of our trip, which we’ve narrowed down to include the things we think Errol readers will most appreciate – tales of us being inappropriate, inept, drunk and really really lolz. In dot points, coz that’s how we roll.

* We decided the best way to cure horrendous jetlag (Sassy was extra tired from lol’ing at Carl Barron on the plane. We mean his standup, not like he was ON the plane. Which would’ve been fucking amazing just btw) in LA was to take massive naps, then follow them up by eating mexican, drinking giant margaritas and getting hideously drunk.

Note: approximately one quarter of actual size.

Seriously guys, Americans make THE STRONGEST DRINKS IN THE WORLD. There is clearly no Responsible Service of Alcohol over there. Obviously, unlike Australians, Yanks can be trusted to have a few drinks then go home and … do whatever it is Americans do. Probably watch The Closer (seriously, they are unnaturally obsessed with that show).

If drinks that strong were served at home we would deadset not be a functioning country.  Not to mention that if you could buy booze 24 hours a day from pharmacies and service stations the way you can in the States we would never ever have a reason to stop drinking and go to bed.

Obviously these lethal drinks are directly to blame for us ending up in a fraternity hot tub later that evening. We wish we were joking.

To Sigma Chi (UCLA chapter) – thanks heaps for the hospitality, and living up to our expectations by having red plastic cups and beer pong. IT’S JUST LIKE THE MOVIES! We also hope the fraternity brother who found the two pairs of  abandoned tights  we left behind enjoys them. They may come in handy for their next hazing ritual.

* LA is all over the bootleg Obama merch – we bought t shirts for various lucky bitches back home and even found OBAMA WATER. Sassy scored the last travel mug available in the entire state of California … apparently those babies are massive sellers, and we’re not surprised.  It’s awesome AND practical.

    Yes we can…buy illegal merchandise.

* For some unknown reason, we were an absolute hit with the people of Santa Monica. Especially with black men. Can we say that? ‘Black men’? Well we are! And they loved our work.

Highlights include 2 guys hanging outside a shoe store, hearing our accents then asking if we really have kangaroos in Australia. He then turned to his companion and said ‘YOU SEEN THOSE MOTHERFUCKAS?’ complete with a full kangaroo impression. Including hopping and his hands held up like little paws. AMAZING.

Also the man who yelled at Sassy from across the street DAAAAAMN…WHAT U DOIN WITH THAT BODY MAMI?

* We got to hang out with one of Errol’s biggest fans, the charming Von, who we took on a romantical bike riding group date along Venice Beach. He is quite the Southern gentleman and helped us remember how to ride. He even got behind Kiki and pushed her along until she figured out how to use the pedals.

Aussie men would never do something so chivalrous. Instead they would’ve just pissed themselves laughing at us, and maybe taken photos of us falling off and injuring ourselves horribly.  By the way, that expression ‘like riding a bike’, is such a lie.  Riding bikes is HARD. We had sore lady parts for days afterwards.

    To Von – thanks for not being completely horrified when Kiki licked your face over dinner. Also for being generally adorable and letting us grope your sweet sweet muscles. We’ll return the favour when you come to Australia. Maybe without the face licking. We know it makes you uncomfortable.  In our defence, living with two other people, 24 hours a day, kind of erodes your personal boundaries, and we didn’t have many of those before we left Australia.

    Our bike date led us to a truly amazing bar on the Santa Monica Boardwalk called Big Dean’s that has literally not changed since the 70’s, except that now it’s the local of Luis from Passions. Seriously, he was there.
    Oh,  sorry…. did you say you’re not familiar with the soap opera Passions? LIAR.  Everyone loves Passions.Big Dean’s is famous for serving ‘the first beer of the day’ in Santa Monica, which is how we knew it was our kind of place.  We hit it off with a strange man named Huck and Eddie the Hot Bartender – we would tell you all about how we decided they should be in a new strand of Law & Order called Cat Detectives, but you kind of had to be there.

    We then all walked (except for Sassy who RODE Huck’s pink bicycle really really fast. It was terrifying. If it were Kiki doing it there would’ve been broken limbs galore) to the classy establishment Bubba Gump Shrimp Co (JUST LIKE IN THE MOVIES!). There, of course, we made a spectacle of ourselves by getting drunk and dancing in the aisles to The Veronicas while everyone else there was just eating dinner.

    Eating ten thousand calories a day gives you loads of energy for bike-riding. Thanks, American food!

    Thanks to the Bubba Gump bar guy who told us since we were Australian we should forget the entire cocktail menu and just get Blue Hawaiians … “they’re the strongest drink on the menu”.  Clearly he has encountered Australians before. Our heads the next morning were not so grateful.

    NO THANKS to Huck for riding off into the night with Sassy’s sunglasses after realising none of us were going to shag him. They were Really Good Glasses.

    NO THANKS to Kiki’s brother.  When she rocked up at the hotel door and rang him to let her into the house he was very unhelpful, and very meanly pointed out: ‘you’re in America, you drunken fool’.

* You’re probably wondering why we spent all our time in Venice Beach and Santa Monica, when there’s you know … the whole rest of the giant Los Angeles metropolis to explore. The truth is, Venice is pretty much our spiritual home.  We like to pretend it’s still the seventies, and Jay Adams might appear unexpectedly over the crest of the hill and board down to the beach.

    We also love that it’s a little pocket of America that’s completely free of khaki shorts, Juicy Couture tracksuits and Republicans.  Instead, you get awesomeness like this:

    Sup? Nothin …. just playin my flute shirtless in the street.

    Thanks to the lovely local who stopped us in our tracks to tell us “the sun … it shines for YOU, girl.”  THAT’S HOW NICE PEOPLE ARE IN DOGTOWN. Granted most of them are homeless and possibly mentally ill but whatevs. They make pretty crafts and dance to the music in the head. Happy crazies!


* Fear not though, explorers that we are, we jumped in our white Corolla (according to Thrifty Rental it’s “sporty”), put Sassy behind the wheel and some 1990s Coolio on the stereo, and hopped on the freeway to Hollywood.  It looked a lot like this:

    We sang the Melrose Place song as we drove past Melrose Place, we bought vitally important things like vintage tutus, white denim shorts, and esoteric books and tarot cards from The Bodhi Tree bookstore …  Sassy even managed to throw a fit of cultural arrogance and earn a $45 parking ticket by parking on the wrong side of the road.
    Thanks to the Los Angeleno who saw us arguing about the parking ticket (I TOLD YOU NOT TO PARK THERE! … BUT YOU CAN DO IT IN AUSTRALIA!) and just cracked up.  It was very Australian of you. Of course, we replied with the sentence we used every time people were confused/offended/disturbed by us: “It’s OK, we’re Australian”.

* Because we are awesome cultural investigators and anthropologists, we learned some valuable lessons about the United States and American culture that we would like to share with you.

    1. Always keep wads of 1 dollar bills on you. You have to tip pretty much everyone. Yelling YOU SHOULD GET BARACK TO INCREASE MINIMUM WAGE or I’M AUSTRALIAN WE DON’T TIP THERE doesn’t go down very well. We decided everyone who needs to be tipped should wear a big brightly coloured badge saying ‘Please tip me’.
    2. Never, ever, try to imitate Barack Obama giving a speech while speaking to a black person.  It will end up sounding like Robert Downey, Jr. in Tropic Thunder. That is not a good thing.
    3. Do not watch American television. You will become addicted to Law and Order and CSI because one – if not both – of them is screening literally 24 hours a day. You will also develop this really overwhelming feeling that in order for your life to be complete, you need to buy the P90X Extreme Home Fitness System.
    4.  Yanks, for some reason, don’t lick salt off their hands with Tequila shots. When they see you sitting at the bar licking the back of your own hand, they will think you are insane. True story.

Look out for Part Two of our United States of Errol adventures coming soon, kiddies.  And yes, by ‘coming soon’, we mean ‘eventually’.  But IT WILL be WORTH IT.  It’s the Rock Boat edition, so you know it will be good. Love and kisses from us.

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lozzy's big adventure: lady sings the maroon

October 8th, 2008

pic: News Ltd/Gregg Porteous

First of all, right now I kind of feel like a bride who’s spent months in a wedding haze and, now that whole thing’s over, has seeped into a deep black hole of sadness. I DIDN’T KNOW THE OFF SEASON WOULD FEEL THIS SHIT. It’s like being given a puppy, bonding with it and laughing at the silly things it does for months, and then having it snatched away.

but whats i do withouts mah boys?

My post-Grand Final winners buzz is totally dampened by the fact that I MISS THE BOYS ALREADY. I spent Monday afternoon furiously checking Getty Images and HotAussieFootyPlayersShirtless for updates on the celebrations, and I think I’ve read every article on LeagueHQ today in an attempt to fill the void. I’M CHASING THE DRAGON. I NEED A FIIIIIIIIX *licks bathroom floor*

Aside from that, GO MANLY GOOOOOO. Not only was my first footy game EVER a free trip to see my own babies play, they also…well, do I even need to say it? Ok yes, yes I do. 40 NIL PEOPLE. FOR…TY…NIL.

pic: News Ltd/Gregg Porteous

Apparently I am also some kind of amazing prophet, because I started celebrating the gigantic win 24 hours before it happened. I just like to get things done, ok? (I was going to say ‘on top of things’ but John John was sniggering before I even typed ‘of’). I think all I really need to say here is that I was refused entry at The Judgy. But hey, at least I wasn’t partying in a wolf mask *cough*

We decided to reward our staff with a little Errol outing to the Big Game – it’s good for office morale, plus we needed a few sets of arms to fetch our snacks/throw things at Storm fans. So on Sunday we all climbed into the Errol Bus (which in case you’re wondering is exactly like the Priscilla bus but unfortunately with way less drag queens. Pretty much the same amount of disco and sequins though), strapped Lachie into his booster seat and then had to turn around when we realised John John wasn’t wearing any pants. Obviously we’re more than pleased to let him run free and nakey around the office, but we just can’t deal with having an intern in troubz for indecent exposure.

It’s safe to say that since I began my GF day vomming in a garden at the Crowne Plaza* (soz guys! thanks for the hospitality!) my perception of the game happening right in front of me was…cloudy. Nothing angers me more than the whole ‘girls can’t understand the rules’ notion, and I don’t want to encourage it, but shit I was disorientated. Was that a try? Is that one of our players or Melbourne? Why won’t my camera zoom in close enough for arse shots? I NEED COMMENTARYYYYYY. I think next time I’m taking a portable radio with me. Or Sassy and Kiki, which is kind of the same thing but heaps better.

But even with a vicious hangover, not knowing where to look to follow the game properly and being pissed off at the general public – not that they were anything but lovely from what I encountered (oh, except for the guys behind me who apparently turned up thinking some teams named ‘stand up and yell at your mate across the stadium’ and ‘hi i’m a drunk who just fell on you and didn’t apologise’ were playing), I just don’t like people very much – IT WAS SO FUN.

pic: silvertails.net

I was so caught up in the general vibe I didn’t even notice how bad the ‘entertainment’ was. For serious, I read the paper on Monday and was like “oh shit, a bbq routine?”. AND I didn’t even feel any hate towards Storm fans – even the girl next to us decked out in head to toe purple who apparently kept yelling ‘Billlyyyyyyyyyyy’ I was oblivious to. Where my good friend and Oh Errol/Manly supporter Bel heard Billy, I heard ‘yaaaaay football!’.

We even, in a rare display of goodwill, picked two Storm fans up on the way there and shared the most awkward car ride in history. I suppose I could’ve made it less awkward by you know, talking to them, but at that point I was still unable to form sentences.

Ok, so it wasn’t ALL good. To the people who got up and squeezed past us about 1000 times to go GOD KNOWS WHERE – sit the fuck down and yeah that is my toe you just stood on. Seriously it’s like two hours, how can they possibly need to get up and down that many times? DO YOU HAVE ANTS IN YOUR PANTS MISTER? Even Lachie was less fidgety, but that could’ve been because we had him on a leash.

Biggest lolz of the day – the guy who tried to fight the Sea Eagle (really, the Sea Eagle? Not Storm Man?), the entire stadium booing Cameron Smith (though to be fair I actually felt kind of bad. I know I know).

Biggest awws of the day – the Beav love obviously, Steve Bell and bb, Des Hasler’s general existance.

pic: LeagueHQ/Anthony Johnson

For thoughts on the actual game as well as more on the ‘entertainment’, you might get lucky with Kiki and Sassy’s upcoming GF observations. Stay tuned babies.

*Please forward all expressions of interest in dating me to lozzy[at]oherrol.com

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October 7th, 2008


Fear not dear readers, we will begin our Grand Final coverage in due time. I know alot of you have been feverently refreshing the page, desperate for our hilaaaaarious take on the GF but to be honest we are all barely functioning at the moment due to the Errol office’s Mad Monday.

Work Experience Boy Lachie is currently trying to solve the mystery of his missing right eyebrow, I am trying to figure out whose face I got tattooed on my ass and Sassy is staring blankly at the wall humming disco tunes and attempting to extract the numerous objects we glued in her fro when she ‘fell asleep’. Lozzy has almost finished vomiting up her insides and is currently loling at Intern John-John being passed out face down on the beanbag wearing nothing but a pair of lacey panties.

We have alot of posts coming up including a guest post from Ray, our Old South Wales correspondent on her recent conversion to league. Lozzy will be telling you all about her Big Trip To Sydney and I will be detailing my own Grand Final experience. Which consisted of me lying on my loungeroom floor in a Manly jersey from 1996 while Sassy fed me Dixie Drumsticks by hand. God how I wish that was a joke.

We will also be finishing up our Errol Award nominees posts, doing a series of Year in Review posts and most excitingly..Sassy and I will be recording an end of season podcast for you bitches.  And we will have no one to shove us out of the studio! We can talk for as long as we want. ARE YOU EXCITED??


Also, unlike the rest of the football media, we will actually be covering the upcoming World Cup. We have inexplicably been asked to do a bit of coverage for the Irish Rugby League team. And by ‘coverage’ I mean we will go to to their events, get drunk with the players and and then maybe ask them a few questions in shocking Irish accents. Because that is the sort of comprehensive journalism people have come to expect from Errol.

Also nothing is definite yet, but we are working on having an Errol Awards/huge piss up at the end of November. For realz. Stay tuned kiddies.

ps- passed out girls = not us. Our public unconciousness outfits are WAY cuter.

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an audience with the beav

August 22nd, 2008

KITTENS!  CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?  THE NIGHT FINALLY CAME.  The Steven ‘Beaver’ Menzies Tribute Dinner.   A night that is Notable and Important if for no other reason than because opportunities as good as this for embarassing yourself in a spectacular fashion in front of favourite sportsmen or celebrities don’t come along very often and a bitch has to take advantage of them when they do.

And if Kiki’s blog didn’t fully explain how excited we were to ask the Beav for a hug (we did, and he obliged), I think I can sum it up by saying this: our girl Kiki was early.  

[Sitting by yourself all dolled up in a hotel lobby = hello I’m a prostitute! You guys couldnt get there soon enough – K]

I would also like to point out my mammoth effort to be there: I actually wore makeup and proper shoes.  HIGH HEELS, EVEN.  I HOPE YOU APPRECIATED IT BEAVER.  If that didn’t mean more to him than all the accolades from Arko and Gus then I wash my hands of him.

And when we trotted on into the dinner – a few shampoos under our belts for courage and fancy handbags under our arms (something about a Beaver dinner just said MONGRAMMED DIOR to us, you know?) – we weren’t disappointed.  Beaver!  Lyons!  Toovey!  Eagles Angels! Gouldy! Mini cheesecake! Free Beaver books!

Excuse me if I have to sit down for a moment.  I’m a tad overexcited.  Free stuff gets me that way.  (You know they say thriftiness is next to godliness.  Or something).

And I know how eager you have all been for updates, so shall we walk through it in point form?  We can pretend each one is one of the free CDs John Hopoate took home for his kids.  Score for the Hopoate family!

* First, I have to ask some Very Important Questions.

The singing.  This doesn’t happen very often, but I was kinda speechless for a moment when a live singer was ushered onto the stage to sing the national anthem.  Is this normal?  Really?  To have to stand up in your suits and cocktail dresses and sing for two minutes before you’re allowed to get your seafood entree?  Is it cause it’s a FOOTBALL dinner?  You have to sing the anthem as though you’re at a game? 

If there’s anything more awkward than that I have NO IDEA what it is.

On the other hand, I am ALL FOR the auction prizes.  One of which was a silver headgear.  Oh yes, a cast of the Beaver’s headgear in antique silver.  I am dead.  Dead from laughter.  If I had that I think my life would be complete.  I’d charge $5 a pop for people to come and see my antique silver footy headgear.  That kinda thing goes right into the pool room.

* We also have a few thanks to make:

To the crowd in general for kindly not lynching me or our BFF and newly-appointed Errol publicist Marlo when they found out we are Roosters supporters.  So welcoming!  WELU MANLY!

To Reg Reagan, for passing on the name of his VB suit tailor to me.  I am all over that idea.  And I have no doubt my employers will be all over me turning up in a red and green logoed pencil skirt suit.  Faaabulous, non?

To Anthony Watmough, for not clocking any of us when we announced to him that he had a TERRIBLE game last week.  We mean it with love.  

To David Williams, for not placing restraining orders on us when we explained to him in great detail that his brother is our oft-naked intern and we have made him our patron saint (complete with enthusiastic re-enactment of patron saint woodchopping pose).  Oh no, we’re not creepy at alllll. 

We would like to thank Dave for the numerous hugs also.  Bitch gives good cuddle.

[Also for letting me stroke his beard while I purred like a kitten – K]

* Apology notes of the e-variety go to:

Matt Ballin: we ill-advisedly pointed out to him that he is a lucky nominee this year for an Errol for hottest bitch in league.  Poor little kitten.  He was baffled, and slightly scared.  I could see in his eyes that he just really wanted Steven to hurry the fuck up so they could grab the car and head home (they carpooled! I am dead!)  Imagine if we’d spilled that he also personal trains us all, complete with excessive hamstring stretching.   He may have had a stroke.

Matty Johns: you looked terrified of us, but fear not.  We’re not court-order creep-into-your-house-while-you-sleep skin-suit crazy (we’re far too lazy for anything like that).  We’re just your garden variety drunken eccentrics who enjoy accosting strangers.  No need to spend any money on upping your personal security details just yet darlin.

[The Beav – Sorry for not only giving you an Errol card and yelling I’VE BEEN OBSESSED WITH YOU SINCE I WAS 14 then nuzzling your shoulder, but then coming back repeatedly to make sure you still had the card in your pocket. And making you show me before I would leave you alone. Sorry x 1000 – K]

Aww Kizzy.  I think if you can do that to anyone, surely it’s the beav?

* We also want to send some love to our most favouritest people of the night:

De Bortoli.  Naturally.  That was some heartwarming sparkling wine.  I am certain I drank more than my $250 dollars’ worth.  And the mild headache today is totally worth it.  I had a bacon and egg roll and it fixed me right up.

Cliff Lyons – still rocking that mo.  Why fix what ain’t broken?

Suyin – as if she wasn’t fabulous enough in her tasselled minidress, she interrupted Beaver’s heartfelt speech thanking her “… for six years of happiness” with “IT WAS SEVEN!” from the crowd.  Needless to say, we’re a little bit in love.  Also with Wendy Harmer.

And Alex ‘Big Al’ Ma, who completely won our hearts.  Surely he is the most dedicated Manly supporter a girl could ever meet – he never even misses an away game.  Not even in Auckland.  Going to New Zealand for a team you love?  Might as well chop off a leg!

What a legend.  Also hilarious and adorable.  We’re not surprised though, to be honest big Al.  Not now we’ve met your parents – who are equally fabulous (hi Al’s mum and dad!)

I especially enjoyed the look on your mama’s face when she asked if we were footy players girlfriends and we answered in unison GOOD GOD NO.

We don’t shag footy players!  We just mock them on the internets thankyouverymuch!

* Fear not, we didn’t disappoint in the embarassing stakes either, kiddies.  How could you think we ever would?  We are always vaguely drunk and inappropriate.  We like to think it’s part of our charm.  Eh, it helps us sleep at night.

Kiki fell on the forgiving Suyin in a spectacular fashion – exposing the mammoth ladder up the back of her stockings – then pleaded sobriety.  IT WAS THE SHOES!  No one ever believes that.  

[ It was godamnit!! I’m not used to wearing heels! I also told her I’m so glad the Beav didn’t marry some heinous gold digger and now I can rest easy knowing my hero has found himself a good woman. She seemed pleased/slightly creeped out – K] 

Craig Hancock ruffled my fro and announced to probably every former Manly great in attendance that I feel like a sheep.  Special.

I attempted to walk through a window, thinking it was a door.  Worst of all, I hadn’t even had a drink at that stage.  And because we hadn’t made sufficient spectacles of ourselves between seven and midnight, Kiki and I ended the evening with an impromptu Penny Lane dance across the shiny white floors of the Sofitel foyer. Shoeless.

We listen to the wind, to the wind of our soulssssss ….

* And last, but most certainly not least – the highlight of my entire evening.  You thought it would be the Beav, didnt you?  Well he is unparalleled in his loveliness.  He also gives great hug.  And his speech did make me cry – twice. (But then Phil Gould also made me cry.  I think Nick the Greek sitting next to me may have laughed at my weeping, and I don’t really blame him.  I just have a lot of feelings).

Tyra would not be pleased with my fierce face. NOT ENOUGH NECK!

Well the honour goes to Billy Birmingham.  Sorry Beav.  You didn’t tell us we were FIERCE, but the twelfth man seems to think we are.

He said fierce?  Yes, yes he did.  Does that mean he watches America’s Next Top Model?  I like to think yes.  I like to think he follows the time old ritual of spending Tuesday night sitting on the couch with Sushi Train takeaway and a beer painting his nails and bitching about how fabulously delusional Tyra is and which of the competitors may or may not be a man. 

Everyone does that, right?

[Billy was the highlight of my night too. He enjoyed our story about ‘one time we had hot boys in our hotel room and we made them listen to Boned instead of making out’. He said THAT IS THE GREATEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD. We love you Billy! – K]

Thanks for the memories, Beav.  Kiss kiss.


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going up, going down – let's talk about booze

July 25th, 2008

Going up: Longnecks

I have this recurring nightmare. I walk into the Party Factory* at about 11 on a Friday night. I realise I recognise every single person there, and every single person there recognises me, then turns to all their friends and whispers behind a cupped hand about all the horrific things I did last night in the Brighton Bar and (kinda mercifully) don’t remember.

I do have that weird prickly feeling though. You know the one? Where your brain knows something embarassing happened but can’t quite bring itself to remember, so it just tries to warn you to stay in the house until it all blows over and everyone who might have seen the spectacle unfold eventually dies of old age. That feeling.

I hate that feeling. I should also admit that this isn’t so much a nightmare as just a dream version of actual life experience. The downside of having a gigantic white girl fro is that complete strangers can walk up to you in a bar and say ‘I remember you! You’re the girl who …’

Excuse me while I kill myself.

And there’s only one thing that makes this better. Surprisingly, no, it’s not vodka this time. Vodka has no going up, going down. It’s a classic, like a quilted lambskin Chanel.

It’s the humble longneck. Full of nourishing carbohydrate-laden beer to fill your belly and soothe your brain. Swaddled in a paper bag so no one knows whether you’re drinking something disgusting like VB. Ideally shaped to avoid accidental spills. Ergonomically designed to nestle in the crook of your arm like an adorable beer-baby, so you can drunkenly look down at it and think at least somebody loves you.

Oh, longneck. Why’d you stay away so long?

Going down: Jaeger

I hate to admit I’ve even tried Jaeger. It’s the drink of American douchebags who can’t hold their booze, who stagger from the bar with their frat buddies all “DUDE! I JUST HAD TWO SHOTS OF JAEGER AT THE BAR … AND I’M WASTED“. Blech.

But I caved. And all the embarassing things I alluded to just then? They are all Jaeger’s fault. If the devil was a fabric, he’d be satin. Reflecting light on all your fatty bits, redirecting all your money to the dry cleaner, and bunching up in wrinkles at your crotch so you look like your vajayjay is prematurely aged.

And if the devil was a drink, he would be Jaeger. And if you’ve ever seen a boy vomit Jaeger into a bathtub, you’ll know it’s true.

* [Also known as the Oxford Art Factory]

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ladette to lady: now whipping aussies into line

July 24th, 2008

I’m not even going to talk about how offensive, outdated and potentially harmful Ladette to Lady is. I’m certain it’s been covered by almost every feminism focused blog out there (with good reason) with much greater skill than I can manage. I just can’t help but want to talk about this though:

CHANNEL 9 is giving uncouth women a chance to polish their diction and stop causing friction in the Australian version of Ladette to Lady.

Following the highly successful UK version of the reality show, which is set at Eggleston Hall Finishing School in England, Nine is on the prowl for Australian women, most likely the trashy type, to appear a new series of Ladette to Lady.To sign up and see if you have what it takes, or more precisely what you’re lacking in manners, then go to www.ninemsn.com.au/ladette.

If you have false teeth, you may want to remove them before taking your happy snap and emailing it to them.

Do I even need to say how completely ridiculous it is to be offering Aussies a chance to ‘polish their diction and stop causing friction’ (wtf at that sentence, by the way)? We’re a nation of convicts! We swear and drink and are ‘uncouth’ in the womb. Christ, if Oh Errol wasn’t called just that it could be called Oh Uncouth.

We were thinking in celebration of the Australian spirit, why not take the piss out of this whole thing by applying for it? Not seriously, of course – we’re way too awesome for reality. I’m sure every single one of us here at Errol would qualify, and some of our stories might even shock the producers into scrapping the whole idea. I can totally imagine them reading our application and being all I DID NOT SIGN ON FOR THIS KIND OF DEBAUCHERY!!

So we had a quick looksee, all eager and filled with excitement at the possibilities, only to have our hearts sink simultaneously upon downloading the application. It’s super low rent. Shit is like, a Word document that looks frighteningly similar to the ‘surveys’ I used to make my younger sister do for ‘fun’ in primary school (apparently I had market research aspirations. Ah the good old days). Well done, Channel 9!

We also felt severely overwhelmed trying to decide which trashbag stories to include. We assume they’re looking for controversial, but what exactly does Rachel Moses at Channel 9 think is dramatical enough to get a gal on this show? Let’s evaluate our options.

Should we include –

The one where one of us ended up handcuffed to an aluminium garden chair in the industrial end of Zetland? Not controversial enough surely.

What about being kicked out of a Melbourne hotel for ordering room service Coronas at five am, accidentally sending two naked men to answer the door and dropping the tray of beers?

Is it ladette behaviour to straddle numerous gay shirtless men (then pash their faces off) at Sydney’s infamous Stonewall?

How about getting it on with a seventeen year old in a suburban shopping centre park?

Frequenting a pay-per-hour establishment in the heart of the Gold Coast?

Or accidentally waking up in your own bed spooning a stranger…… or a pantsless dreadlocked man (who makes the bed in the morning without being asked. A courteous manwhore!).

Then we remembered we’re not just inappropriate. We’re also lazy. Soz, Channel 9, you’ll have to manage without us.

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