Plan of the day: keep stress to a minimum and do not think about the show.

..Milo.. is being stirred and Vegemite is being spread and I have done nothing but think the show. The show and fixing my, ahem, fixing Dean’s floor tom, putting new heads on it, putting the floor tom back together, working out how to tune a floor tom, getting to the Tote, the soundcheck, sound problems, juno2 problems, throat problems, time problems, problem problems and every other problem in the world. Focus. Fix floor tom and print posters.

Fat, hairy men at the music shop, who more than likely masturbate over scantily clad women in video games, are really fucking rude and don’t help me fix the tom. Father Christmas is taking a lifetime to print off an excel spreadsheet at Officeworks. He believes that screaming in the faces of the staff will help solve everything. He eventually commandeers the computer and the rest of us are done for. I have no posters and Matt will be at mine soon. I’m rushed, sweaty and annoyed.

For the first time ever, ever, ever we have a soundcheck. Matt’s wires don’t behave. Nick is amazing. I get introduced to the rider and we flirt outrageously.

Paris and Nicci are the most sophisticatedly dressed DJs to ever grace the Tote. Cocktail dresses and fox fur proceed to drop 90s hit after hit and I’m thrust into a trip down memory lane to a period of puberty, clumsy sexual encounters, lots of gel in my hair, and lots of Lynx on my body. I wake up, stood nodding my head to Biggie and I can still remember all the lyrics to ‘Hypnotize.’ I remember memorising them along with the lyrics along to ‘California Love’, ‘All About the Benjamins’, and ‘Mo Money, Mo Problems' and thinking I had 'mad flow.'

We play, people dance, eat bananas, and I forget all my killer MJ jokes. We’re all very happy and sweaty.

Listening to some sound bites recorded outside the Tote at the end of the evening I hear a female, who shall remain nameless, eloquently pipe up and say, ‘Where can we get some fuckin’ booze? I just wanna paaarty.’ Lucky for them there was a party on nearby and so any Tantrums were avoided.

We played ‘how many people can you fit into one tiny bedroom’, Grant dropped his own rhymes for an audience sat outside to which they responded with a perfect rendition of ‘Whatta man’ by Salt n Pepper, and Rhiana slept like a baby. I leave the party at 3, decide to nip into the Tankerville (hey, it was open) for some warming whisky and I’m kind of freaked out by just how many people want to get smashed and gamble at this hour. I eventually retire and hug my oil heater.

A huge thank you to everyone that came and listened. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves, managed to get your hands on a sausage, and enjoyed the bananas.

Thank you so much to Love Connection, Your Animal, Pets with Pets, and Miles Rabies for doing what you do, and doing it so damn well. I along with everyone else there was equally blown away and inspired. Thank you to Paris and Nicci for playing the soundtrack to my teenage years and a huuuuuuuuuge thank you to Nick who worked his tiny arse off all night. You can now add ‘light show technician’ to your repertoire.

And thank you J, for your review of the evening the following morning,

‘Bananas and backwards singing mate, mega.’

Lots of love,

Possum. xoxo