Is Jeff Lynne your favourite Travelling Wilbury? Don't you just wish you would hear Chris Rea's 'Let's Dance' just once an actual dance floor? Do you wish that James Taylor was your real Dad? Meet FEMBOTanist!

Sunday, July 06, 2008

End of financial year progress report.

When a Lewis is invited to a costume party, the expectation is sufficiently high to warrant significant stress on behalf of Amy and myself. Having done the ‘fake tan on an albino person’ hilarity to death in recent years, we were faced with the dilemma of Tim’s stereotype party sans tan and sans a good idea. It was only two weeks ago when I found myself waking hungover at 6AM on a Sunday, still wearing my boots and still clutching a slice of wrapped birthday cake that I realised who we should dress up as at Tim’s party.

As far as I can gather, the only difference between a Lewis and Amy Winehouse is big hair, black eyeliner and enough heroin to lose fifteen kilograms in forty-eight hours. Deciding that two out of three ain’t bad, we made do with the first two and substituted the heroin with two hamburgers with the lot. At Charlie’s house we primped ourselves with giant wigs, false tattoos and some not so subtle track marks. After Charlie had pinned a sufficient number of cats to her jacket and placed her belongings in a shopping bag, we jumped in my car and made our way to Tim’s.

Approaching the front door, we expected no less than ever single friend we had ever made to be standing around in hilarious costumes, each more elaborate and well thought out than the next. Sure - it wasn’t Science Ball, but usually people made a pretty big effort at these parties. Instead, we opened the door to find about fifty people we didn’t know and about three people that we did, and nobody was wearing costumes.

So there we were, crazy cat lady and Amy Winehouse times two, standing in a room full of possibly the drunkest people on planet earth. Caught like deer in the headlights, there was only one responsible thing to do – get Simon to start pouring the Long Island ice teas and drink ourselves into oblivion.

This was a pretty sound decision on my part as I had promised myself after a particularly fine performance only two weeks earlier (boots and cake night) to “never binge drink again”. It’s funny – as the evening transpired into madness, I still looked down upon others through my monocle of smugness thinking that everyone else was drunk and I was just a wee bit pissy. And just like drinking three glasses of Tokay, three LIIT’s soon rendered me unable to operate neither horseless carriage nor the nerves that connect my brain to my mouth. I was truly a contender for the Russian presidency when I walked out of Tim’s house.

Making our way down Albion Street, Charlie, Luke and I were soon faced with a dilemma. If we were to follow the roads it would take us a good twenty minutes to get back to my house. If we cut through the building site near my house, we could be safely home in ten. It didn’t take much discussion to decide that where we were going, there were no roads.

After gently placing my wig and boots into my backpack, I threw my belongings over the cyclone fence and preceded to climb, insane eye makeup and slicked back hair rendering me less like Amy Winehouse and more like Jeanie Little. Amazingly, it turns out that pantihose isn’t particularly conducive to fence climbing, and as I gingerly began placing each hoof between the gaps in the wire, I was beginning to feel less confident about being the first over the top.

Apparently, Luke and Charlie were a little concerned about my technique, but assumed I may have had a method of fence climbing that perhaps on botanists knew about.

As if a botanist knows anything about climbing fences.

The details from this point on are sketchy at best. Only one fact is clear – I fell from a height of roughly seven foot with only my spine to cushion my fall. Apparently I landed flat on my back with all four limbs in the air, although medical evidence suggests I landed directly on my coccyx bone whilst simultaneously punching myself in the spine. Despite harboring quite painful injuries, I felt it was more important to save face and laugh it off, and I was soon joined by my friends who were probably quite relieved they didn’t have to watch the fire brigade cutting thought the fence with the jaws of life in order for the ambulance officers to get to me.

Crossing the paddock, I was told that I walked not around, but through every single shrub in the paddock, stockinged legs and bare feet stopping for nothing. We somehow made it over the second fence unscathed. Soon, we were passed out in bed, and even sooner it was 9AM, I was still drunk and we had the unenviable task of looking through the camera and discovering everything that had transpired the previous evening. Oh, the hard rubbish – Oh, the humanity.

I was so drunk when we left for breakfast that I thought I actually looked good in the mirror. Unshowered, I left with tousled hair and last night’s eyeliner still on, thinking I looked every bit the rock star. Upon inspection of my face in the rear view mirror after breakfast, I realised that was indeed partly true. Lets just say I looked something similar to Courtney Love after getting to fifth base with Kurt Cobain all night and then waking up in a pile of heroin on the side of a highway.

At that point I did what any decent person would do – I drove directly to a three year olds birthday party and complained about my spine and laughed like a drain for three hours until Amy had to take me home.

I'm still laughing.

Sober and safe at Charlie's.

The face of the only woman in the room wearing a costume.

It's the power you want to touch, but you must not touch.

Last photo before going over the top.Please note Brunswick's major tourist attraction in the background.