One part of Australia which I have left deplorably bereft of mention in this blog is the country’s love of fancy dress. Time and again I’ve been forced out of my floral comfort zone to don various guises for themed parties as wide ranging as “Where the Wild Things Are” to “3rd World War Robots in Hawaii.”
Perhaps the most successful costume to date though was becoming a strawberry for the Australian version of The Secret Garden Party. The Secret Garden party is a newcomer to the Australian festival circuit, largely organised by friends of friends and seemingly attended by just about everyone I’ve met in Australia so far.
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| Amy Robinson's fantastic photography This year it was on the verge of being cancelled thanks to the flashfloods that have characterised this Sydney summer, but instead was reduced to one stage and no live bands. A write-off you might think? No my friend. Not so easily will an Australian be put-off a chance to dress up. I went along in a monster of a vehicle, blasting out 90s songs (all of a sudden worryingly ‘retro’) and piled high with Croatian-Australians happily slipping from one language to the next. True to the title, it was an impossible site to find, a mudbath hidden behind walls of bushes in a field on the outskirts of Sydney, but absolutely heaving with excitement. People had gone to TOWN with their costumes and mercifully there wasn’t a single sexy cat in sight. |
I clambered into the giant foam strawberry lent to me by Heather (now dressed as one half of a Double Rainbow) who had handed it over saying “you will enjoy this” with a knowing glint in her eye. She was right, I have NEVER had so many unsolicited hugs in my life. The comic effect of my frugality only maximised my approachability. Where most people had sensibly bought some “gum” boots to face this knee-high mud, I insisted on wearing flimsy shoes encased in plastic bags. I don’t think Aussies have ever come across this method before, a trick, I told them, that was all down to my Scottish ingenuity.
What followed next was comparable only to a Bacchic revel (without the sleazy inferences), or some unintended mud-wrestling championship, in front of the remaining stage. Not only were we treated to some epic DJ-ing, but the organisers knew how to make this festival truly stand out by organising a flashmob synchronised dance to Whitney Houston's "I wanna dance with somebody." Quite potentially one of the best moments of my life.
Just a small aside, did I mention there was unlimited free booze?
Talking of Bacchic revels (again, sans the whole orgiastic nonsense), I was lucky enough to be invited to my old housemate Lau’s 21st themed “Where the Wild Things Are.” Situated down in the Southern Highlands, it bore some uncanny resemblances to my 21st : fields, fires, hog roast, massive speakers, obscure theme and wonderful people (I’m just buttering you all up now!). I was plagued with nostalgia!
In order to waylay the oncoming hypothermia from the chilling winds of the south, we spent the night dancing like idiots amongst the smoke and flying hay, or all but clambering into the heaving mass of bonfire. The boys took it upon themselves to keep this bonfire stocked up and so would go off in animal onesie-clad roving parties to triumphantly bring back the biggest log they could haul between them. The last log to be found was so gargantuan that the last of the revellers were able to dance on top of it, surrounded by the sizzling embers.
We camped amongst the nearby woods, each tent overflowing with bodies, fur coats and beery fumes - a fitting tribute to Where The Wild Things Are!
ah memories! such fun.
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