It's Sunday. It's not really, it's Tuesday. I've cut and pasted this from my soon-to-be deceased myspace page. How are my tenses? PS: Italics represent the NOW.
John Smith's* manager, also known as his mum, is being a cow and won't give me his number and Brad Jones* has yet to call me back so, clearly, I cannot make any progress on my working day.
So, I'm going to have a crack at blogging (please note: Microsoft word does not recognise the word blogging and suggests a better option may be "bogging", ha. Whether you are thinking poo or body in the bog, courtesy of Ms Stroud, it's funny. In other news, another option was flogging – don't get me started).
I have accepted the challenge thrown down by good friend, crazy girl and sexy bi-atch Lovell on July 28 - yeh, it's been a long time coming.
"The challenge," Lovell wrote to her KHS gal pals "…is out for you to do something equally as hi-larious (as 2002 NYE) for the Croatia breakdown."
Sure, the challenge was aimed at Shez banger, but looks like she's running scared so, here I go….
CROATIA – a report by Jacka
The roll call
Shell (the artist formerly known as Chell)
Shez banger (aka El Divo)
From varying corners of Europe, eight high school buddies (below, der, chillin' in the city of walls) reunited in Split, Croatia, in readiness for a seven day sailing tour to Mlijet, Dubrovnik, Trstenik, Korcula, Hvar and back again.
Check in was a breeze and the knowledge we would be aboard the "Madona" was music to our ears. Like a Virgin, Material Girl and Vogue to be precise.
As quickly as we boarded, we seemed to be disembarking _ the KHS chicks happy to put their hands up for some white water rafting.
Given we are a bunch of coordinated and, in most cases, sporty girls, it was a surprise to discover that, as a team, we generally sucked. But with hot instructor Ivan there, no one really gave a shit.
It was not until we saw the photographic proof that we realised Shez Banger had been fearing for her life the whole time. Sorry, divo.
Back on the boat where an unhealthy fetish for 14-year-old deckhand Dewy (no, I have no idea how to spell it, but to paint an accurate picture, the cutie quickly became Deeeww-ee-yeah, expressed in the most inappropriate and exaggerated of voices) developed early.
He will be remembered by his shirt, bow-tie and board short combo, a serious obsession with the song Gasolina (played ad nauseum throughout the week) and a commendable attempt to pass himself off as an 18-year-old on a boat chock-a-block full of 20-something females. Ding dong.
First stop…I forget, but apparently there's not much to do there so Madona threw us a party. All-you-can-drink ensured the Madona became the place to be but those who attempted to join the fun were being turned away at the door. Apparently too many people on one boat might make it sink.
A 10pm lockout saw everyone head to shore where Divo became the first to score despite her best efforts to avoid the situation. Ding doooong!
Dubrovnik tossed up some of the trip's most memorable moments, Di's thong heroics made sure of that.
After a fabulous night, which started with dinner and fireworks in the old city centre and ended with too many gigantor cock-tails at the disco club, Di, Shovell, Shell and myself retired to the deck for a debrief. Shelly, not foreseeing the imminent danger, rested her weary legs on Madona's railing.
The thong debacle (captured on my camera...badly, very badly, below) played out as follows:
"Oh no, my thong, I lost my thong," Shell cried as her one of her Haviana rip-offs, purchased at Target for $4, tumbled into the Adriatic. The four of us jumped up and peered into the greasy water, laughing as the plugger slowly floated away. But hang on, where'd Di go?
Full of rum, the recently married Waggarian was hot on the tail of Shell's shoe.
"If you want me to go after it, I need to hear about it," she cried.
"Di, Di, Di, Di," came the chorus and the former B&S-loving chick was in, splashing, spluttering and, most importantly, saving that precious damn thong.
With the quasi-Havi now safely on deck, Di made her way back to the boat but, without the ladder to assist her, getting back on board proved a challenge too great for the four of us.
Woken by our hysterical laughter-turned nervous concern, O Capitane bolted from his room (with giant posters of naked ladies adorning his walls) in only his jockey Y-fronts (sorry, no pic) to save the day.
Relaying the story to a Kiwi who couldn't comprehend how Shell could lose her g-string overboard (silly shee-lovers call thongs jandals) was almost as funny as the real thing.
In the meantime, Dart was picking up a Croatian or two. Ding dong, ding dong.
No one saw the next morning but the stash of Barpys (a delicious nutella like substance served up in travel-sized, easy to pinch packets) stashed away my our room ensured we would never go hungry. Mmm, Barpys.
A quite night was on the cards in the less eventful but still beautiful Trsenik (is that right, did we go here? I really should have paid more attention). The Madona enjoyed lamb on a spit before the Wagga clan headed out for coffee and cake.
Later that evening, on the vessel next door, a couple of fun-loving kids found something better to do, shagging long and hard in position after position while Sarz and Shell blocked their ears and assumed the foetal position (okay, they actually snuck a peek or two and giggled uncontrollably). Big dong..I mean, ding dong.
What came next?? It was so long ago. Let's go with Korcula, the only place I ever have (and ever will, I'm sure) eat pizza, drink cocktails and enjoy the company of some of the world's best chicks (ohh, you guys) atop a bloody castle.
Then it was off to some nightclub where the KHS girls were introduced to the boys of Cambridge, Oxford, Harvard??? One of those. The relationship continued in Hvar the following evening, probably because the boys weren't short of a quid (or Kuna as it were) and the drinks flowed freely.
A few of the Wagga crew, namely the ones not trying to pick up, spent plenty of time pissing themselves at Hugo, the camp marketing guru with a wicked sense of humour, who actually turned out to be Bob, the heterosexual marketing guru boasting an alter ego or two (his alter ego wasn't Hugo and his real name wasn't Bob but my memory isn't serving me well, bottom line, he was a cack).
Divo picked up again (we'll have to start calling her dong), and then got angry at the guy she picked up for being annoying. She's a heart-breaker our Shezzy.
The first sign of choppy water was on the last day and it didn't fair well with the Wagga contingent. The group disembarked quicker than you can say ding dong and Darty, Shez and I raced to McDonalds where the former had a much-needed spew. No, a real spew, not a McCroat burger.
To aid her recovery and even the ledger with Divo, Darty went for one final ding dong…but I'm sure Shez has leapt ahead since then!!
In conclusion, that was a farken long debrief and I'm sure I've left a million things out. A shout out to all our Madona friends (what a bloody ripper of a cast we had!!) as well as Ed, Trissy and Matt, who made the journey all the more memorable.
Back at the Bulletin, Brad still hasn't called back and Mrs Smith is still a cow.
* Names have been changed to protect my career