From all accounts, this year’s Sleaze Ball was a triumph of bling, baggy pants and ghetto fabulousness. It was the Best. Night. Ever. It was a return to form for Mardi Gras and the retro room went off, in a Sheena Easton kind of way. It was all things to all men (and women). It was, in short, super fun.
Unfortunately, I cannot independently verify any of these statements.
You see, on Saturday night I was quietly transforming from decent urban lesbian to sad, sad nanna, nodding off on my couch with my girlfriend and watching Narnia. That’s right, Narnia. You know, the one that’s got the big lion that’s meant to be Jesus. It was, cough, pretty good, actually.
I wish I had an excuse for this behaviour, but I just don’t. I had a ticket. I had a motive for going (no-big-parties-since-Mardi-Gras-desperation). I was just lacking that vital ingredient, energy.
It wasn’t that the Star didn’t go into its usual pre-Sleaze meltdown. Fake tans lit up the office hallways. Last minute costume dramas distracted the advertising boys. Leather pants were debated. Our resident bear, although avoiding his usual beard-plait, was seen dancing with hands in the air at lunchtime on Wednesday.
By the time the office shut for the week on Friday at 3pm and everyone went to the Oxford for some pre-Priscilla beers, all the signs were there. It was going to be a big one.
Whatever happened to me between then and Narnia, I couldn’t say. Something about the womb-like surrounds of Erskineville dragged me into a sleepy, sleepy long weekend.
The most outrageous thing I did all weekend was say yes to a second cup of tea at a mate’s house in Randwick, Monday afternoon.
But before I’m forced to hand in my leather chaps (no, I don’t actually have any), I would like to promise, in print, that I will never, ever do that again. Next Mardi Gras I will be in there, amongst it, possibly on a podium, hands in air.
You, the Star‘s generally hung-over readers, can be my witness.