Margarita madness

After a month on the east coast and a six-week stay in Dunsborough, Thursday was Chloe and John's last night in Australia before jetting off to Bali for two weeks, then back home to Cornwall. Considering how chilled-out our New Year celebrations were (a few glasses of bubbly and giant Jenga at Candice and Chris' and heading to bed after watching the Sydney fireworks), we decided to give Chlo a proper send-off at the local mexican restaurant. The place has a reputation for being a bit tacky and the food isn't anything special, but they do $5 margaritas on a Thursday night, which is incredibly cheap for Australia, let alone Dunsborough, and you have to order food to get the cocktails. Unfortunately, we adopted the theory that cheap margaritas meant you had to make the most of it by having as many as your body could hold, which lead to rather messy consequences.

Jess and I rode into town and were the first to arrive; we were hugely thankful to Candice for booking a table because the place was absolutely packed and we got to jump the queue of grumping-looking tourists and slide straight into a booth. Next to arrive was Melissa, who's a lovely redhead American and girlfriend of Justin, one of the owners of the Pour House, the bar in town that Jess works at. She was at Clancy's the other night and we got on really well, so it was great to see her again. Candice and Chloe rocked up last, having had a little trouble riding all the way from Candice's (about 8km) on Sian's ancient bikes. We order chips and dips and the first of the margaritas were served; they were frozen lemon, a bit like a Slushy, and way too easy to drink. By the time our mains arrived (I had a slightly grim-looking chilli con carne), the nice chat had turned to gossip and general silliness with the increasing volume of tequila consumed. In our defence, Jess and I did attempt to step out of a round or two, mindful of the two days intense festivaling we now have ahead of us. However, Chlo was having none of it and kept playing the "it's my last night" card to guilt trip us into refills. By the time we left the restaurant, the place was deserted and the bar staff were laughing at us struggling to stand. According to the bill, we had 43 margaritas between five of us and, considering Melissa only had a couple, that's pretty impressive.

This point probably would have been the appropriate time to attempt a casuality-free bike ride home and get some sleep in preparation for the moshpits of Southbound. As you can probably guess, this did not happen and we found ourselves wobbling on two wheels down to the Pour House for a few more. There were a few customers around, but they soon filed out and Alastair and Justin closed up, giving us free reign of the roof garden. I have no idea how much time passed here, but I do know that I drank a lot of cider and made lots of new friends among the Pour House staff. Okay, so we had a moment of weakness and continued drinking after the restaurant, but surely we called it a night at this point? Sadly not. A band of highly inebriated bar staff took off on the sketchiest bike ride I've ever experienced out to a house near Yallingup, where some of the guys from the bar live, for a little after party. How no one killed themselves negotiating the boardwalk bridges I do not know, but somehow we escaped with our lives.

Bike ride of death

To cut a long story short, we participated in a lot of drinking table tennis, went to bed around 4am and rode home at 8 this morning. Jess has had to go to work for a few hours and I have until 3pm to get my act together (i.e. out of bed and into the shower), when we'll be driving to Busselton for two days of alcohol-fuelled, musical madness.

Why do we do it?!