So it goes like this. A series of happy coincidences has me heading to Auckland to not one, but no less than two humungous feeds. As you can well imagine, the prospect of such a conjunction of fortuitous events has this perpetually hungry blogger feeling very interested.
As it was though a flight wouldn't cut it, on account of having to be in two different towns and a number of suburbs over the course of four days. I found myself driving then, on that seemingly endless trip along State Highway One.
There's a couple of things a man thinks when he's barrelling along the open road at 1[0]0 Km/h.
"I'm bored."
"Damn I wished that stereo worked."
Oh, and also, "when in the hell is someone going to finally build a big diversion around Hamilton/Cambridge/Taupo/Levin?"
Regardless of these minor problems, the need to attend my paternal grandparents Diamond Anniversary meant I was happily suffering the inevitable hassle of driving past hectares of gorgeous scenery I've only seen about a million times before.
A Diamond Anniversary. How many of those things do you think you'll see in this day and age? I'll tell you. Probably none.
So. Many. Lamingtons.
Anyhow, distraction and a pesky good-naturedness drove me to stop for a couple of hitchers. The first guy wasn't too bad. Decent young fulla, learning to be a dive instructor after doing some dole course. He got a passion for the sport, and was forking out something like $11k to make something out of himself. Good news story that.
The next dude was this young student. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed chap. Didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground but. When we picked up another hitcher, he even asked, "what are the Hells Angels?" That one stopped me in my tracks.
You see, the third hitcher was a slightly scary looking dude. The first guy had jumped out to head to Palmerston, and me and the student eventually collected this poor dude stuck in some impossible sun-soaked spot. Nice guy. Only had half his teeth, but dentistry does not maketh the man.
When I deliberately turned the conversation to P he was happy to show us a certificate where the Doctor told him he wasn't allowed to take the stuff anymore. Pesky damn sixth sense... How was I to know it gave him fits though?
Ok. So flash certificate man turns out to have the occasional gang tatt on his arms, black t-shirt, the whole nine yards. He was on his way back from somewhere in the South where he'd been visiting his kids and selling 60 tabs of acid to the neighbours. As you do.
Turns out that the guy was either an ex-Hells Angel or a current affiliate, not sure. He'd gotten a shitload of tabs from somewhere and kindly offered a few of them to us at a special mates rate. I declined, but when the student looked like he was about to part with a serious amount of money I thought that Che was best out of the picture. No witnessing A Class transactions for this driver.
I dropped them at a BP where they went to find some scissors to cut up the sheet, using the weak excuse, "gotta go to the $2 shop to buy a present for X".
For someone who didn't know much, that student was a surprising candidate for a couple of tabs under the eyelids. As it was the Hells Angel had already dropped a quarter before I even left the servo. Viva rock and roll I say, even if it is only 4 in the afternoon.
From there I made my way up to Papamoa to visit some family. Things didn't get any less weird.
Caught up for a meal with my mum and brother, after which me and the bro decided to put in a little time at the local tavern. The place is waaaay the hell out in the middle of no-where, and we guessed the only patrons would be locals. How wrong you can be.
As it was we strolled into the public bar, and stopped dead in our tracks. Instead of a few guys in jandals and singlets, we had a room full of guys dressed in little fairy costumes. Wings, little pants, tight halter-tops and fake boobs, wands. But... the other half of the room is full of guys in these giant Santa suits, red hats, beards, big black boots. Someone should have sent the elves to a beter store.
Of course, I can tell that you've immediately assumed that I must have been financially involved with the Hells Angel, but no. Although, it might have made me laugh a little more, and look a little less nervous.
I whispered to my bro, "Rugby club Christmas?" He just nodded.
We grabbed a pint each, sat in the corner and watched the evening unfold in all its weirdness.
And all this is only Friday.