Having worked for a business that is largely famous for selling “Party Pills” has definitely informed my perspective of the Sevens. More than anything to do with rugby, it is Wellington’s annual festival of Let’s-Get-Fucking-Blitzed. You can absorb a lot of the spectacle walking through Cuba Mall, but working on the Cuba stretch is a whole other ball game. Shit gets crazy.
To be honest, though, it’s days like this that I really miss working for Cosmic. The parade of wastage gets more over the top each year, and being in the position of selling legal (& safe, actually, media bitches) drugs to people who are gloriously costumed & Council-mandated drunk as hell at 10am was a special kind of WTF/amazing.
It can be a magic weekend, above all because it is a great opportunity to take the piss, and the banter can be fucking hilarious at times; every now and then you’d need to boot someone out of the shop, but mostly err’one is a’ight.
The girls walking around with Pump bottles full of breakfast bourbon always cracked me up – walking emblems of the weekend’s excess, for sure – I mean, at least put something clear in there, ffs! There really is no pretence required over these next two days. It’s like all bets are off – the cops don’t give a fuck over Sevens weekend. The only people who care about the lawless free-for-all are the bunch of unlucky women getting bullied in the street in broad daylight because certain repressed-ass muppets have decided to use the weekend as a license to disguise themselves & behave like pieces of shit. Ahem. Sexual harassment is not supposed to be part of the schtick, motherfuckers.. Seriously. I know Wellington is full of hotties but look, don’t touch.
Other than that… the costumes can be truly priceless; some might have thought that the baby-crotch-Priest scenario was a little on the nose last year, but I thought it was effing brilliant. See also: Lego men, chewbaccas, storm troopers, Jesus bearing an 8-foot cross on wheels, jocks in all kinds of drag, the Inevitable Hair Metallers (see below), the Slut-o-ween bandwagon jumpers, the small town penis metaphors, travellers bemusedly caught up in it all. Epic stuff.
This time around, for the first time since living in this little city, I am not working! If I wanted to experience the madness, I would have to be out amongst it; jesus mofo christ; no behind-a-counter barrier, no sales jive protection. It feels very, very weird to be at home right now. My adjustment strategy involves my brothers homebrew pear cider and adding to my slowly evolving Ultimate Playlist.
As it turns out, my across-the-road neighbour and a bunch of his friends are hair metalling it up for the Sevens today. I couldn’t resist: I impromptu-invited myself over for a drink via shouting at them from my balcony, and ended up hangin’ out talking shit about porno & penii while they were post-BBQ chilling/getting ready to go into Central. Glorious.
I even got a signed “gig poster”…
Yes, they got posters printed. Dedicated shit. “Keep it slutty, slut!” may be my favourite signature, ever. We listened to Motley Crue and Black Sabbath. Needless to say, it was awesome.
Possibly the only time of year when I can look outside and see my neighbours casually donning leopard print spandex, permed wigs and fake dragon tattoos…