Sydney does one thing unbelievably well: New Year’s Eve.
They’re sort of like a typecast actor in that way; everyone knows them for it, so they’re slightly bitter about it. They don’t stop playing up to it though, because that might mean they lose their identity. They just try to be famous for other things instead. They try to be famous for festivals.
Field Day is a day-long festival (which doesn’t actually constitute a festival if you ask me, but you didn’t) held in the heart of Sydney on a day when anyone in their right mind is at home nursing a bad head over a plate of fried eggs and self-loathing. We’re not in our right minds though, so we’re at Field Day.
We’re not in our right minds because we have just spent the most retarded New Year’s Eve possible, and almost missed what Sydney is so famous for altogether. It seemed a good idea at the time, but doing acid at 2pm and pills half an hour later, then drinking for 8 hours and having more than a small amount of weed apparently doesn’t result in a clear head and a willingness to climb an abandoned building to watch the fireworks like we hoped. Instead, it results in thinking you’re stuck to the living room floor, freaking out some visitors, a bit of crying, random but very persistent horniness, a house that won’t stop moving, sitting in kitchen cupboards, admiring a painting for several hours and not wanting to move from either your bed or the back yard ever again.
I started to come round a bit at 10.30, at which point my clean friends had disappeared to Observatory Hill and my fellow fucked-up idiots were either trying to cast shadows on each other whilst sitting amongst a throne of empty beer bottles, or trying to have ‘a quiet moment’ in their room. I suddenly felt the cold hand of the comedown monster grip my spine: I was going to miss the fireworks on my first and possibly only New Year’s Eve in Sydney. I would forever regret this night. Fuck it, I was going.
Bed Friend decided I couldn’t go alone, and with a badly hidden reluctance but genuine concern for my safety decided to come with. We attempted to explain to Back Yard Boys that we were leaving our keys with them in case they wanted to leave, then gave up and left them with some drum and bass and their own heaving realities. We got 2 minutes down the road and they called us, sounding afraid; they were leaving too.
We managed to go back, get them, convince them to come with us across the city rather than wander around on their own, and then I piled my three cohorts onto a train, gathering them from almost crying at the ticket machine and making out with strangers on the platform. Unfortunately a rather large lady on some of her own drugs sat near us, and the Back Yard Boys both stared silently in a terrified manner at her while she emitted an air of social degradation and quiet aggression. It occurred to me that bringing people tripping on acid across Sydney on the busiest night of the year to watch explosions and many colours might not have been my best idea, especially when they were somewhat unwilling to start with.
I realize now that this has turned into a review of my new year’s eve rather than my new year’s day, but bear with me; all will be explained.
Amazingly Bed Friend remembered her way from Wynyard to Observatory Hill, despite me not believing so until we joined the thousands of others at the top at 11.30pm. I’d had to create a ‘safe bubble’ and ‘Team Salmon’ in order to keep everyone from the freak outs that were stalking us all so stealthily, but when we nestled in amongst the empty beer bottles and scary kids at such a great vantage point, it was all worthwhile.
I don’t need to tell you how good the fireworks were, you know that already. I probably do need to tell you that an hour and a half’s walk home and a facemelter of a joint later, two angry, drunk and previously lost-for-three-hours-in-the-city-friends turned up, one of whom went to sleep in my bed, threatening quite seriously to kill me if I attempted to stop her.
At 4 am I laid down with funny things still going on behind my eyes. 5 hours later Bed Friend wandered into my room with someone on the phone and a reminder that we were meant to go to Field Day and do it all again.
So here we find ourselves, tired, overwhelmed and tripping again from the giant coffees that we’ve just had to straighten ourselves out. We wander in to the Domain just as I am re-sweating and feeling like I’d have to sit down. I am ready for the Presets and 2manyDJs, some sick veggie food and probably some sunburn.
What I get is distinctly different. It seems that the Domain is entirely populated by cunts.
These are specific cunts, however. Anyone who lives or has lived in Australia is au fait with their inexplicably awful fashions. 99% of the people at Field Day appear to live their lives according to these rules. A couple of years ago it was neon shorts and singlets; this year it seems to be jeans cut off exactly at the knee and singlets with oversize neck holes for guys, miniscule demin shorts over ugly and intensely unflattering swimsuits or just plain lingerie for girls. For some of the most attractive people on the planet they sure do try their best to look repulsive.
Of course, all the girls have the uniform long and partly pinned up, backcombed hair in the “this is my bed hair but in fact this takes me 3 hours to do every morning and costs $100 in products” style that fools fucking no one.
Every single attendee appears to be on pills, but they aren’t the huggy, lovey, “oh my god you look so good in that top let’s be best friends and touch each other and talk about the world” pill heads that I love. Oh no. They are all, without a doubt (through my cynical, scared eyes) obnoxious fashionistas, all in their cruel little gang, trying desperately to have a good time against the pathetic reality of their sad little existences. I feel like my mum.
We try to eat (in fact, we succeed). We try to watch the movie on the big screen, which may or may not be about a variety of mental subjects from genitals to mutilation (words that should never be that close to meeting), depending on whether you trust my senses at this point. We even try to join in, resulting in the most despondent dancing you’ve ever seen. I have never in my life felt so out of place, so aggravated, so depressed to be amongst people my own age. My buddy feels the same. The potential brilliance of the music is being severely overshadowed by those trying to listen to it.
We end up at the furthest possible point from anyone, sat on a bench at the edge of the site facing away from the action, trying to decide with brains that won’t work at all whether or not to leave. We paid $100 for the tickets. We want to see the Presets, We’re just paranoid and it’ll probably go in an hour. We can’t leave with a passback til 5; its only 3 now, and leaving means not getting back in. We would have to wait 4 hours for the Presets. It’s all or nothing.
Suddenly a clear thought stabs through my foggy headspace. Are we having a good time? No. Then let’s fucking leave.
We meander out of that hellish place, leaving the worst people in Sydney behind us. We buy some more food, slowly trudge back home, and curl up quietly watching a movie. And we couldn’t be happier.
I apologise that this review is not what you expected. That’s life.
Haddock
