Organising the Snowbombing adventure for me and ten of my mates was the first big trip I’d organised myself. There are enough trips happening that I was hardly ever required to do much organising. Usually I just say yes to the adventure, pay the money and show up at the time and place I was told to. Which is usually a good thing, because I’m horrid host/organiser. I get host/organiser anxiety about being in control, and making sure everything is fine and it is as brilliant as I sold it when I was recruiting adventurers. Things that don’t go quite right (like checking in to the registration desk, but the wristband desk isn’t open and we’d have to come back later) throw me for six and I get all angsty. Sometimes small things, like holding the departure transfer tickets makes me feel better. Or throwing money at whatever it is. I’m that host that always has too much food, and too much everything, really. I over prepare.

At Snowbombing, it was someone shoving me out of the kitchen with a quite firm “You’re not in control here” that made me say fuck it. At that point I left organising all the people to the wolves and pretty much just went and partied by myself. Drinking all the jager and dancing all the dances made me feel much better about things. It was a good plan, because although I didn’t see at the time (I was quite put out and resentful, actually, that said Chef didn’t appreciate all the organising I’d done, and did so by pointing out my faults) turns out people like doing their own thing in their own time. They were all adults and perfectly capable of organising themselves.

Which is why I was surprised when a friend who came to Snowbombing asked for what weekends I have free. Apparently it’s a surprise, to say “thanks” for organising everything. Except, here is the thing. I HATE surprises. I hate not knowing. Even worse is that I got a few random hints. It’s a group thing, though some people I know will probably be coming. It’s on a Sunday, an afternoon/early evening thing. It’s got some cost involved, apparently. That’s it. My cousin Morf is coming, too. I thought I’d be able to scrounge a few details out of him at least, but he told me that if he gave anything away that I’d have an expectation that he didn’t really want to have responsibility for.

The Elly that likes to be things to be in her sphere of control is really really struggling with being okay about this. I asked for reassurance from Morf that I shouldn’t worry, and that it would all be fine, and he gave it to me in the exact same words that I used to ask. Goober. I’m also a bit too proud to be asking questions and making a fuss. I don’t really want people to know that I’m angsting as something as minor as this. A surprise is meant to be fun, right? I shouldn’t ask all my friends in subtle little ways whether their coming to this thing, and find out through them what ever this surprise is. Except that I did try. I gave up after asking the first friend, realising that if he was in on it, he probably wasn’t going to tell me he was.

In the end I figured I’ll be around friends, whoever they are, that’s enough. I don’t really need to worry about the details, and thinking about it only makes me anxious. Holding on to that one comforting thought, I’ll be with friends, reduced the anxiety so I could move on and not worry about it. It’s just under a week away. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Work sent me and two others on a First Aid course, so in case of the Zombie Apocalypse (or your garden variety work place equivalent) we have three persons qualified in preserving life. They say that, because our job (as heavily, in bold and underlined, mentioned on our one day course) is not to save lives by radical means, but to keep people alive until the life-saving paramedics show up.

It was pretty fun, actually. It was a day out of work, and was pretty interactive so yeah, I enjoyed it. We covered all sorts. The basics of DR ABC (Danger, Response, (Get Help) Airway, Breathing (call an ambulance) and Circulation). Basically, what to do if you come across someone whose fallen over and is unconscious (that’s the response bit, as in, there is none) and what to do if they are breathing (put them in the recovery position) or not breathing (CPR etc etc). It was pretty ridiculous, because apart from the CPR where they use Annie the Mannequin, the rest of it was done on your fellow course attendees. Pretty good way of getting all up close and personal with strangers, which was unexpected.

Also, turns out that CPR? Harder than I thought. To compress the heart (which is mostly under your sternum in the middle, not way off to the left like I thought. In Braveheart, when they put their hands over their hearts? Yeah, they missed) you have to push down 5-6 centimetres. That’s a lot more than I thought! It’s also really hard work, so I’m hoping that I fingers crossed, am never in a situation when I have to give CPR to someone. Also, apparently you’re not to worry if their bones start making cracking noises, because they might. It might also be an indication that you’re breaking their ribs, but as bones are on the bottom of your priority list, and breathing is that the top, it’s better to do CPR bad and break ribs than not do it.

The best bit I thought was the afternoon, when we covered blood + bandages (well more fun than the burns + seizure sections). There’s a whole list of things you’re meant to go ask as you’re bandaging someone up (AMPLE – Allergies, Medical History, Prescriptions, Last food/liquid, Event History) and that last one, Event History, is where you ask them how they hurt themselves. When you’re all hyped up on a Friday afternoon, you can come up with some pretty mad explanations. How’d I get this glass shard in my forehead? Well I’m a Pirate Captain, and some swashbangling boot-bucket from another ship stabbed me as I swiped his booty! Oh, this bite mark right here? I’m an underwater explorer and this great white didn’t like it when I was trying to explore his mouth. Yeah, you can see how ridiculous it got. Fun, though.

So yes, qualified to preserve lives! Like a boss!

I’ve been London for about a year now, and I hadn’t yet had a chance to see anything more than the outside of Shakespeares Globe Theatre. Mostly because the shows they put on are expensive, and fill up ridiculously fast. Call me a snob, but I wasn’t interested in being a groundling (the people who stand in the courtyard for a fiver, rather than sit on a bench for the duration of the play). So, when my friend Liz suggested we go, I jumped at the chance! Also, true to my snobbery, I hired a cushion and a red fleece blanket for £4 and was glad of the comfort when it started raining, and the groundling’s got all wet.

I saw Troilus and Cressida. Except, that it had a twist. The Globe Theatre was doing 37 shows of Shakespeare’s works in 37 different languages by 37 international theatre companies. Woah buddy. I saw Troilus and Cressida in Maori, so it was actually “A Toroihi Raaua Ko Kaahira”. And colour me ridiculously proud to see Maori perform on the stage of Shakespeares Globe. Ti hei mauriora!

I think that’s important to note that I don’t speak Maori. I understood about of quarter of what was being said, but that was clearly more than a fair chunk of the crowd. A Toroihi Raaua Ko Kaahira was both a bit dramatic, but also had it’s hilarious moments. There were a few jokes that I got, and you could tell who else spoke Maori because they cracked up at the same time I did (one joke in particular was after Toroihi and Kaahira had consummated their marriage, and he was all proud, and Kaahira was slightly mocking. I heard the words ‘tane’ and ‘kauri’ and it wasn’t hard to put the rest of it together. I thought it was funny, anyway).

Still, they had scene summaries up so you knew what was going on, but mostly they weren’t necessary. The acting was phenomenal, and even if you didn’t understand the words, it wasn’t hard to see the body language. It was pretty easy follow, especially because we looked up the synopsis on wiki before the show started. It was also pretty amusing to see some familiar (aka, Shortland Street) faces. I have to say, up close on stage suited them much better than anything I’ve ever seen on Shortland Street.

The best bit, though? The best bit was how the whole crowd came together to show their pride at our Maori actors being brilliant. I was surrounded by kiwi accents, and all of them, all of them were expressing pride and amazement at the close of the show. There was a closing haka by the actors, and unsurprisingly there were two haka responses from the crowd. Haka’s are amazing. They are loud, and intimidating, and an immense show of respect, really. I got a little bit teary eyed and felt a little bit homesick. Mostly pride, though. Pride that people from my heritage, with all the sterotypes and colonisation history are here, in the heart of England, on one of the most historical and amazing stages, rocking their culture like nobodies business.

It. Was. Amazing.

So yeah, Number 89 Done!

Note: Our tickets, with their amazing seats (mid gallery, part way around to the left of the stage) was £25 + booking fee. Pretty sweet, aye? The Maori shows are all done, but they’re doing other languages right up until the 9th of June, 2012. If you’re in London, check it out. Seriously, affordable and amazing theatre shows in this amazing building – you won’t find better!

A while ago, I went to Snowbombing. A festival, in the mountains of Austria. They put you up in an apartment, give you a lift ticket and organise a bunch of gigs with amazing djs to get your dance on at. And let me tell you, I got my dance on. I LOVE dancing! I’m not an amazing dancer by any means, I have zero co-ordination and my fist pumps don’t quite match the beat but fuck it. I like shaking my tail feather, moving my body zealously from side to side and throwing my arms up in the air. I look like an idiot, but an idiot who has the biggest grin on her face – getting down to some sweet tunes is ridiculously fun.

And oh man, was I ever treated to some amazing sets – Fat Boy Slim at an amazing street party (in the rain, with lazers. I partied in a dinosaur costume and it was ridiculous), Dizzie Rascal + Labrinth in a forrest (Dizzie had fireworks, yo! The set was amazing, he played Bonkers twice in the finale cause he didn’t want his set to end!), Example (rocked out to from the heights of some boys shoulders till security decided that it wasn’t safe enough. After that I rocked out barrier side, and oh Example – I hear he’s a bit of a bastard, but music wise he might be rival Frank for my London guy spot!), and of course the brilliant DJ Yoda. DJ Yoda actually blew my mind – I tried to find a clip of his amazing you-tube awesomeness that he played but apparently you need to see him in person. I was barrier side for SubFocus, and high fived their MC. I saw Norman Jay 1600 feet above sea level, in the Austrian Alps! I rocked out to MistaJam in an igloo. AN IGLOO! It. Was. Amazing.

And oh, oh oh oh the snow! It dumped down on our first day, and the third day, and everyday bar the last we were riding some form of fresh, amazing powder. We were out finding fresh tracks, riding off piste, sometimes it was bluebird, sometimes the skies opened up to give us more pow. And it was AMAZING! Best European snow I’ve been on yet.

Add in the costumes (I was an indian, the white rabit, a fox and a dinosaur), the fun times that comes with convincing ten of your mates that yes, they did want to come party with you in Austria, and you get a brilliantly good time. It. Was. Amazing. One of the more fun festivals I’ve ever been to.

I had a great time, a phenomenal time. I was with an amazing group of people who made things like dressing up and rocking out and drinking copious amounts of jager status quo. There was always someone keen to party with, always someone keen to go see this gig with, or ride with. They were a good crew (and there was only a tinsy bit of heckling that time when I didn’t get back till the sun was well up and I couldn’t get myself into the apartment…) and I was seriously glad we all went.

And, just because my drunken point-and-click photos really don’t show you how amazing it was, here are two photos stolen from the Snowbombing Feed (taken by the brilliant Dany North).

Fat Boy Slim at the Fat Boy Slim Street Party

Dizzie Rascal in the Eristoff Forest. See the guy in the indian headdress in the foreground? That’s our crew. At this point I’m pretty sure I’m dancing in a dinosaur costume up the front somewhere.

It really was as amazing as it looks.

Note: Snowbombing happens every year about April – you can book a few months before hand on their site. Costs vary depending on what your doing. Just the basics with no extra’s you’re looking at something like £500 (includes festival ticket + accommodation). For a week that includes the fest ticket, accommodation, both parties, lift tickets, gear for the week and lessons, and you’re looking at the £1000 mark). Doesn’t include flights or food (or all the fancy alcohol you’ll be drinking. No worries, because Jager is especially cheap in Austria…)

It was late, some ridiculous oclock in the morning, and I was drunk. Happily drunk. My cousin had had a garden party, and it was lovely. There were fires in handcut gas canisters and fairy lights in the trees, and candles all over the place. The stars were out, and the grass was dry + pleasant. I’d spent the evening trying to make conversation with all his English friends, and the more I did the more I realised how very hard work it was. Trying to bridge their walls, and befriend them and all their giant overwhelming history… Instead I mostly tried to convince people they should join me in a cup of something alcoholic, and when they declined I’d go off into the dark by myself to refill my cup and then I’d join another group huddled around a different fire.

Which is why, when the night wound down I was surprised that I had to be someone else’s moral compass, and that annoys me a little. Should I be taking on someone else’s responsibilities, because they seem incapable of doing so by themselves? Correct answer is no. But I wanted to make the effort for my cousin, delight in his shiny new place, have a few drinks, light a few things on fire and generally have an okay time. I would have been content with the drunken handstands on the lawn. Instead the night refused to end there and I spent too many hours in the early morning talking about some very english boys battle axe of a girlfriend. Siiiiigh!

Still, other than the moral compass bit (I am an absolute fucking angel, by the way) it was good night. I got to ride in Z4 with the top down. There was tequila, and jager, and looking at the stars, and pouring bio-diesel on open flames to cause flame columns. There was feeding the dogs lasagna, and talks about sailing in September. I met some lovely english people who might let me come visit their ships at some point. My cousins new place is extremely shiny, and even though I made a fuss about going, I was glad I was there.

Note: Both images of the night stolen from the brilliant Ben Sanchez’s facebook photo feed. Because all the ones Drunk Elly took are blurry and not anywhere near as pretty.

Sauze was lovely. The snow was average, and disappearing by the day but the blue skies and warmth made up for it. I made friends with a group of English Rugby boys on a stag do. I threw tantrums at people who did the equivalent of kicking over my sand castle for a laugh (bastards – they won’t do that again). I learnt to order tequila rounds in Italian. I gave snowboarding lessons to a friend or two and got them making turns. I went dog sledding, and did a night ride (which was fun, and also super scary). I drank lots, and danced lots, snowboarded some and generally had a good time.

This is what it looked like:

If you ever get a chance to hit up Sauze, do it. It’s brilliant.

Note: We did it with Neilson and thanks to some pretty sweet connections got a nice discount. Without discounts, you’re probably looking at a week with half board, flights, transfers and lift tickets for about £550 per person. Super easy, super amazing. Our rep Mark made everything so easy. There was loads of Neilson apre ski related stuff, a pub crawl on the first night, a ride to France day, the night ride etc etc. If you get the chance, do it.

It was freezing, the news had threatened snow, the sky was open, the stars were out, and the wind had a pretty mean edge. And yet there we were, huddled side by side on a concrete doorstep. We’d missed the start of the party cause we’d arrived while they were off on one of their ‘need to get provisions’ missions. In short, a house party worth of people were down the road getting booze while we were waiting patiently outside.

We poured cheap vodka into our cans of red bull, found some fun tracks on our phones and had our own little party. On my friends doorstep, in the cold.

By the time my friends had come up the street with their circus, making a racket and dancing along, us two had mostly caught them up: the booze was running high + happy and I was already loud and a little bit obnoxious. It was to be a messy messy night. Sure enough the time came where the floor was blurring with the ceiling. I’d reached the point of too much booze, too many drugs, and the little voice in the back of my head was positively demanding that it was time to make the frozen walk home.

I don’t really remember much of the party, I remember there was Moet (I wrote my name + the date on the cork!), and some one tried to cook something deep fried in the oven (we’re a mix of classy hobos, really). I have vague memories of the walk home (and a friend trying to convince me that it was a good idea to meet him in town. I’m not sure my argument against was especially coherent). But of all the fun things I do remember, what I appreciate most is that private little party on the doorstep. Cold, but perfectly merry.

This is definitely what London is right now. A mix of the outrageously ridiculous and the sometimes but not very classy fun times.