What makes good kids go bad? It's always a shame to see people with such promise, such passion and wit, forsake their talents so resoundingly and piss it all away on a life of blogging. Honestly, any good qualities they may possess go straight down the crapper the second they write their first post - intellect, good humour, cleanliness...I mean, I've known three dollar hookers with better personal hygiene than your average bloggist (which reminds me - happy birthday, Mum).
And what happens when they get together, these bloggists, these collective slaps in the face of the evolutionary process? They have a damn good time, that's what, and to hell with anybody that gets in their way.
A thoughtful observer - one that had not turned tail at first sight and second smell of the Grogbloggers congregating in Lygon Street on Saturday night - might have noticed some early frustration beginning to set in amongst the group. Having been denied entrance to Papa Gino's restaurant (some trifling matter to do with a lack of bookings) the small horde were beginning to turn ugly(er). As a result, Papa Gino's learned the hard way the perils of blackballing Melbourne's bloggists, and there were to be no second chances for them to make amends: by the time the broken glass had been picked up, the fires put out, and a small waiter coaxed down from where he quivered in a chandelier, I and my fellow Grogbloggers had stalked off to the Clyde Hotel, pausing only to spit at an elderly lady on the way.
And what went down at the Clyde after that shakey but amusingly violent start? Degeneracy and licentiousness, that's what. At least, I think so. Truth to be told, my recollections aren't particularly clear. Those memories left un-clouded by booze fumes I've largely managed to repress - though the nightmares and cold sweats persist; and, anyway, some things are best left unmentioned. Suffice it to say that the rumours about me demonstrating my prowess at interpretive dance on top of the bar are entirely untrue, and the knife fight which broke out at about half-past eleven was completely blown out of proportion by the media (we got the severed appendage on ice in time).
It is true, however, that I learned much that was arcane and/or fascinating about the 788 route to Mornington from Peter, about the cricket from Russell, and about the televisual industry from Bruce, when he wasn't hurling abuse at Brett Lee. Ben, I have found, is capable of the most admirable deadpan expression I've seen in some time, and knows of the strange connections betwixt Connect-Four and prostitution. And if Will doesn't take down that photo of me, I fully intend to sue him.
I'm unsure whether it was Alex's fault or mine that the evening devolved into some sort of demonic ceremony designed to raise the ghosts of the New Kids On The Block - although it's not going to matter who's responsible, as I doubt the angry spirit of Donnie Walhberg will discriminate when he comes to wreak a terrible vengeance. Much to my chagrin, pig's blood doesn't come out of my hair as easily as I had hoped.
Chris , well done for organising the event, well done indeed, sir. And a big shout out to all the other bloggists I have failed to mention, and probably failed to talk to on the night, largely due to the titular grog curtailing firstly my ability to move, and secondly my ability to talk (about anything other than the lyrics of Step by Step). I look forward to forgetting all your names again at the next shin-dig.