Thursday 22nd November
The girls crashed in at 6am, cackling and shushing each other. Bev grabbed a carrier-bag and promptly threw up in it. She hooked it over the bedframe next to her top bunk, climbed into bed and then threw up in it again, a great garbled geyser that almost turned her inside out. As she started snoring, she was oblivious that the bag had a safety hole in the bottom to stop it being a suffocation risk. It slowly started to spin in place as it detangled and a high-pressure stream of vomit-juice danced around the room like a fountain. This was particularly unfortunate for the two Germans on the bottom bunks who were awake and on their feet in milliseconds. By the time the toxic spray had dwindled to a gloopy dribble, they’d thrown all their belongings into their bags and legged it, leaving a trail of spewy footprints out the door and the echoing cry of “accchhhtt!” As the door slammed shut, the bag slipped and fell to the floor where it landed with a splat and revealed it had been working as a pretty effective sieve.
I was still cleaning it all up when our two new roommates arrived. A young straight couple.
“Sheesh, who did the liquid yawn?” said the man, wrinkling his nose as they entered the room.
I nodded my head to one of the two comatose lumps behind me.
“I’ll go get fresh sheets,” said the lady, nervously. “And a Glade plug-in.”
Nancy and Steve, a Yorkshire couple in their early-twenties, both seem lovely but have come as a bit of a shock. They’re teachers. How on Earth can people my age be teachers? It still feels like I should be out getting taught!
The speed in which our roommates have been coming and going has made me determined to leave Melbourne within the week. So, after boil-washing all our clothes, I woke the girls and brought it up with them. They’ve left it up to me to arrange, because of course they have. Would it be extravagant of me to book a spa break? We are Champagne Backpackers, after all.
5am-ish
I my be little drunk. We’ve been crawl-pubbing with our new roomies, Stancy and Neve. Who knew teachers could drink sooo much? They’re meant to be, like, proper grown-ups. My fave bar of the night was ‘Revolver’. All brick walls and leather sofas with a live-DJ on the dicks.
“I do love a bit of old-school vinyl!” I shouted to Bev.
“What, like carpet tiles?”
She’s such a knob!
After multiple fishbowl cocktails, we ended up in a club called Strikes. What a place! A pitch-black bowling alley serving fried food and thumping music, all served under ultra-violet trimmings. The kind of lighting that looks cool from a distance but closeup makes people look a bit scabby. Rachel spent a good twenty minutes taking selfies under a UV bulb, sucking radioactive-pink cocktail from a fluorescent straw and trying to dribble it ‘seductively’ from her lips.
“This’ll look well hot,” she garbled, neon liquid bubbling from her mouth.
I’m no expert, but I don’t think it did. She looked like Freddy Krueger with a fancy up-do.
We grabbed a bite after our first game and Nancy is the first person I’ve ever met to turn down a loaded potato-skin. Apparently, she’s a Celiac.
“Oh really? I’m a Pisces,” Bev had replied.
I laughed, but honestly am not much more clued up about celiacs. Is it carb-related? I must remember to ‘Ask Jeeves’ next time I’m online.
Turns out I am a pretty decent bowler when I’m tiddled, but my dancing didn’t earn me many points. Too much pointing, apparently. It did, however, attract the attention of some boys in the next lane who had been gagging for an excuse to talk to Bev, and it turns out taking the mickey out of me was it. Jump to half an hour later, and we’re all squeezed into someone’s front-room playing strip-poker.
Of course, I mean everyone but me was playing strip-poker. Even with fish-tanks of cocktail in my stomach I’d refuse. I ignored Bev’s plea to “lighten up and join in” but NO WAY was I gonna sit in a crowded room full of strangers and remove my clothes. My belly would fold up over my knees like a concertina. Plus, I’m shit at poker so would be in my birthday suit before I’d finished shuffling. Instead, I sat in the corner with a rum that could strip paint, tried not to sulk, and slowly disappeared into an under-stuffed beanbag.
Turns out my girls are proper sneaky strip-poker players. Nearly an hour in, and all they’d removed between them was a pair of shoes, a toe-ring, and a set of fake eyelashes. Teacher Nancy forfeited her game as soon as Teacher Steve had whipped his t-shirt off, dragging him into one of the bedrooms for some uncomfortably noisy sex. And I don’t blame her. He is ripped. The grunting coming through the wall had heightened the sexual tension dramatically, but unfortunately the poor local lads were out of luck. Soon all three of them were down to just their boxers, and with a horrified cry of “Oh man, I just saw your beans!” they called it quits.
