The following post is my good friend Marco’s account of my last night in Australia, drum roll please:

It all began, like oh so many of our Wolfie’s posts, with good intentions.
The time was Jon’s last day in Australia, the place Sydney, one of the best cities in the world for nature, parks, art, beauty, people, food and entertainment.
But not tonight, tonight is Jon’s last night, and he has to be fresh and clean for his flight back home. And then again, we had a whole weekend to give in to beverages, wild dances and different levels of debauchery.
All sensible and sound intentions.

So we decided: today is dedicated only to souvenir shopping, last sightseeing in Sydney and then a quiet night in.
And I have to say it went quite according to the plan for most of the day: like when we saw Circular Quay with the Harbor Bridge and the Opera House for the last time or just sat in the Botanic Gardens, talking about philosophy and social experiments (Like people so drunk that pissed in every room in the house).
Then, just when evening was looming rosey on the horizon Jon hinted that his dinner would consist of a couple of muesli bars. Now, for those of you who don’t know it, I am an Italian who enjoys cooking and eating, so to me a friend having MUESLI BARS for dinner is unacceptable. It basically goes against everything I stand for.
So off to my hostel we go for a proper dinner of Aussie sausages and roast potatoes, no alcohol whatsoever, though. Because we have good intentions tonight.

Dinner goes well (of course, I might add), until a couple of the lovely ladies in the hostel take out a deck of cards and a few bottles of beer and combine the two things in a game that combine gambling to drinking. Some of you might have heard of that…
Our intentions however were holding adamant, the lovely ladies’ looks couldn’t lead us astray of our virtuous path. Until someone (I have absolutely no memory whatsoever that it was me, at all) uttered the words: “It’s your last night… Do you want to get pissed?”
I reckon Babel Tower when struck by godly wrath didn’t crumble as quickly as all our good intentions.

So, being men of our words we setted to put immediately words to action going and purchasing the beverages required to play with the aforementioned lovely ladies.
“But not goon, not for the last night”. Motion seconded heartily, we showed our class coming back each with a bottle of white wine, with the evocative names of “Fruitwood” and “Hound Dog”. As I said, class.

So it begun, a night to remember. (If only we could do that!!)
As hinted, few memories are left in both Jon’s and my own brains to add up to a whole evening, so I will try to gather up all the informations and give an as coherent as possible recount.
First we played the famous and entertaining game so aptly named “Fuck the dealer”. Point is that we, being the inventive people we are, could not just settle with the normal and usual rules. In fact, due also to one of the lovely ladies uncanny ability to get the cards right on the first try, it became really a game of “Fuck the Peg”. And so goes the bottle of Fruitwood…
Some other games followed, and I especially enjoyed the one that let me deliver drinking commands left and right, but more often to my front and left, coincidentally where Mr. Bellwood was sitting. Must be that he attracts alcohol, it’s a quite serious condition actually, you know.
And we are back in the hostel with two brand new bottles of wine, chosen basically because they were $7.99… and I reckon at that point everything must have tasted the same anyway, be it goon, beer or Johnnie Walker Blue Label.
New people join the games, but I am quite perplexed (a testament of a brain still somewhat working) when I see some of them playing with water in their glasses. An uncouth impoliteness, if you ask me.
And more games follow, sometimes it seems that we are playing to lose.
Oh, the wine is finished!
I notice Jon slurring to a perplexed Californian, probably about any kind of sport involving oversized morons hitting each other. The amazing thing is that this “dialogue” must involve some kind of further analysis because I notice Jon handling a black permanent marker trying to write his email on a whole newspaper page, which apparently is not big enough, because he needs to use the kitchen bench to finish his scribing. But possibly that could be interpreted as a kind of “Jon was here” thing. Yes, it must be that.
We stroll down King’s Cross because Jon wants to wake up at his hostel room to be ready to pack up and fly home. Fair enough.
The ultimate goal of our somewhat straight “walk” is King’s Cross Station, since we should be just in time to catch the last train to Central and from there is only a short walk to the Wake Up (which is like the worst ever name for a hostel, especially one with a club in the basement).
Oh, the last train has gone, just second before we got to the platform… And Jon’s ability to walk looks dangerously close to the common slug’s, and probably with a brain power to match. By the will of all drunk travellers’ gods we manage to find a free cab, in which I stick Jon, give 15$ to the driver and make him promise to take Wolfie safe in the hostel.
At the moment I really hope the driver understood my alcohol-fuelled English, a thing I have strong doubts of. So, when I finally make it back to the hostel (much to the amazement of the others, who probably already pictured us passed out in a ditch) I decide to call him, just to check. The rushing river of vowels assures me our friend was correctly delivered, and I can finally pass out myself…

All in all we were true to our intentions in a sense. In the end was a night IN.
(And if Jon didn’t get pissed his last night he was a woman, as some wise man said.)

Good things, until the next one,

Marco “The Peg” Pegoraro



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: