It did not take long before the younger/more enthusiastic/less crippled members of our part got all enthusiastic and decided to call a maxi taxi and set off on the short journey to Terrigal, which according to faux Cenny Coast local Simmo would be pumping with choicks doiging it left, right and centre. So before we knew it we were fanging along the highway with write offs flying thick and fast and bursts of song including more renditions of When the Saints Go Marching In and impromptu freestyle versions of that old Come on Aussie Come On song injecting the names and characteristics of the members of our own team. After driving for what must have been at least 93292389238932 minutes (probably only really about 15) we saw this silhouette in the distance sticking out his hand on the side of the road. As we approach we realize that it is Murph and promptly lose our minds, Opening the door chanting his name and banging our hands on the side of the bus and stamping our feet on the floor. We were digging it and I still I have no clear recollection of how or why he was there but I know he was fanging around with some random chick in a van and fortuitously got off on that very street.
Eventually we reach Terrigal and on the other side of the main road I see some sort of pub that looked like it was fully pumping, I am not sure if I was in fact simply hallucinating but Simmo dismissed this place and decided we would head to another cub up the road. When we arrived I looked at the 90 buzzard meter and we all nearly lost our minds, only for Gormo to pull out his company card and put it down as a business expense, what a ledge. Once again the exact events that occurred. I do remember there being distinctly less people at this place and after a short period the fellas decided to go upstairs in a Glass House-esque kind of situation where you had to pay 15 buzzards for some dancefloor of doom and not Juance was I getting involved in a second cover charge for a shoit house Central Coast dance floor in one night. Pat an I stayed down stairs and before long we see Hardwick getting escorted from the building LAPD style with his hands locked behind his back and him looking like he was fully off his teets.
Eventually we all filtered back to the Entrance where we re-entred the aforementioned club only to discover that it had filled out quite significantly, with come of the most heccin/out of control humans I have ever witnessed. The fellas were in fine form fanging around the dance floor and generally going skits on any female that even came close to them. Freddie was even stoked when retelling the story of how one female sidled up next to him, patted him on his curly locks and remarked "you look like a sheep" before roaring with laughter and fanging off.
My Dad had lost his mind shuffling up to any babe who would listen, telling them with pride and joy he was on a cricket trip away. I watched this with a particular ambivalence because seeing your 49 year old father dancing away with hectic 20 year old bogan chicks and fully digging it made me not know weather to laugh or cry. Eventually Pat coaxed me into bailing because he cracked his head somewhere during the night and was negging so we retired back to the caravan park.
The following morn we all awoke moinished beyond comprehension and did the typical debrief of the night before while playing cricket between the cabins. One of the most glorious additions to the trip was Pats idea to banish two words from our vocabulary for the weekend, with any offending hellman having to drop to the ground and smash out five push ups of doom. The designated words were "cricket" and "mine" and as a result people were dropping down like bitches. This morning was particularly brutal as people were taking advantage of everyones lethargic state like a pack of ruthless mother bitches and after throwing back the prescribed hangover cure of egg and bacon roll and power aid we were back on to the beers and heckling each other, with the battle between Freddy and Scotty, the two bitches punching dramatically, above their weight. Anyway, after clocking up fines equating to about 74399397757583990203958 push ups Murph tried to exchange a humble shooey in return for not having to get down on the dirt. However after shooeys being downed all over the shop and with Pat even killing a thongie, this was deemed to be not enough. As a result it was suggested that Murph get involved in the mythical sockie and he took to it with enthusiasm. The intrinsic nature of a sock that has been worn for a day on a mans foot meant that no good can really come of drinking a beer out of it and Murph really felt it, throwing down his second consecutive day spew. Something I have not seen the likes of before.
Eventually we headed back down the club, half expecting not to get let in. This time we were far more subdued however and the fellas got involved in some betting and as far as I could decipher we ran about even and had enough to buy a couple of cases when we left. What made this sesh particularly enjoyable was the fact that coronas were under five buzlingtons (and that Corpse was not there to accost me for drinking them, not his beloved VB) and that somehow, against all hope we won some sort of out of control meat tray.
So that afternoon was spent watching footy, drinking more boirs and enjoying on of the greatest visits to the Island of Barbados that has occurred in many a moon and I am pretty sure I hate half my body weight in meat. As the night progressed most of the boys were feeling pretty tired so we just hung out talking and coming up with some pretty out of control write offs. The highlight of the night had to be when everyone just started going to town on the state of Scotties hair, or lack there of after Freddy dubbed him with two glorious nicknames, Bald Patch Adams and Capil Devon. After that everyone lost their mind and seriously sat around for hours smashing out devon related calls including his favourite cricketer Michael Devon, favourtie tennis player Lindsey Devonport, Favourite songs Stair Way to Devon, Devon is a Place on Earth and my personal favourite, Knocking on Devon's Door, and other shit like the devon horses of the apocalypse, Oceans e-devon, the magnificent Devon, Voting for Devon 07 and it just just escalated. Eventually another rule was put in place whereby each time the number 7 or eleven was involved devon had to be used as a substitute and eventually all numbers had to be said in their relation to devon ie 1 was devon minus 6 and so one. It was rediculous. The straw that broke the camels back however came in the form of a completely devon headed security guard, who was massive and rocking a goatee, who came up and implored us to keep our noise level down. We all lost our minds and descended into fits of laughter. We all feared we were going to be kicked out and Scotty tried to reason with him, explaining to him about the devon situation. In one of the greatest retorts of all time the security gaurd told us he didn't care what the devon head had to say, just to keep it down. We all lost it once again and soon enough were all hitting the sack.
The next morning we said our goodbyes, got our bond back and were all incredibly stoked not to here the word devon for more than 4 seconds for the first time in devon plus one hours. Such a bullshit trip away and I am pretty sure the only reason I am playing cricket in the same team next year is to go on another trip of doom
Here is evidence of the sockie and a visual essay that captures our manished state mid Saturday morning, the fellas hanging at the club and the infamous tower burger.
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