Two buck a chuck night at Fridays

It’s a Tuesday night, so it must be Two Buck a Chuck night at Fridays.

Obviously.

At least this was what I found out yesterday - it being a Tuesday and all.

The day started off adventurously enough for me, having recovered from the 05:00 wake up by going back to bed for a couple of hours – no, not a jog – and then heading down to the world famous Steve Irwin’s Australia Zoo around midday.

Having paid the whopping entrance fee of 46 dollars, I was then happily informed by the young girl who sold me the ticket that I had already missed the main shows, including the crocodiles in the ‘crocoseum’, a purpose-built 5000 seater stadium, which in fact was the main reason for going in the first place.

Deciding that for 46 dollars, I should at least be seeing the crocodile show, I asked for a voucher, so that I could come back another day, this time making sure I arrived a bit earlier.

A little disappointed with this predicament, I consoled myself with an hour spent at Cheesecake Beach, which got it’s name because of a creamy-coloured block of holiday apartments in a shape resembling a slice of cheese cake, before getting ready for a little bit of a session on the booze, with a few of the locals.

Sitting on the balcony, sucking on some cool Pure Blondes and more than a few vodkas, we then decided to go to Fridays for the afore mentioned “Two Buck a Chuck” night, which in the Queen’s English, meant that all drinks cost 2 dollars.

Because this fantastic offer was only running up to eleven o’clock, we jumped into a couple of taxis and arrived at Fridays around ten thirty, dismayed to discover a long slow-moving queue of people anxiously waiting to indulge in some Two Buck Chucks.

The reason for the slow moving queue was that each person that enters the place has to undergo a strict ID check before gaining entry. Australian ID cards are scanned by a burly doorman in a device attached to a laptop and on top of this, a photo is taken of you by a webcam.

Not being Australian and therefore not in possession of an Australian ID card, I was subjected to neither of these but by the time we’d passed security, it was almost the end of the promotion, so a couple of us made a quick bee-line for the bar. Only to discover two things:

  • The promotion was in the nightclub upstairs, after paying an entrance fee of seven dollars.

  • One of the guys didn’t have his ID card, so was not allowed into the place.

For a country with a reputation for big drinking, they certainly make it difficult for you to enjoy yourself.

Down but not defeated, we headed off to a nearby bar for a drink, discussed a plan of action, and decided that we would go to where we had started the night and have a few more beers.

To be honest, I was not too keen to leave in the first place, my voice does not travel to well over the music and I have a bit of a difficulty understanding the Aussies, when they’re chatting amongst themselves in crowded bars.

There was just one problem however; we had a distinct lack of booze back at the apartment, so we needed to find somewhere, where we could get a carry out. Not as easy as one might think.

Jumping into a maxi-taxi, we asked the taxi driver to take us to anywhere that he thought we could get a carry out.

“Maroochydore Surf Club is the only place, but it closes at midnight”

The time was 23:47.

“Do you think you can get us there? Don’t spare the horses”

“OK – I’ll give it a go. Buckle up in the back, folks”

And that was how one of the craziest taxi rides I have ever encountered began.

Rolling around in the back of this taxi, our driver, or Evil Kenevil as I liked to refer to him, sped through Mooloolaba, Alexandra Headland to our destination, Marrochydore Surf Club. It’s quite a scenic drive but to be honest, I didn’t spend too much of the journey, taking it in, too much of my senses being involved in trying to keep me on my seat without falling on the floor of the cab.

We rallied along the esplanade and it was with a triumphant screech of the brakes, that Evil Kinevil stopped outside the Surf Club.

“4 minutes to spare” he announced triumphantly.

A couple of the guys bounced out and got the supplies in, the rest of us remaining in the taxi, extracting our finger nails from the upholstery. On the way out of the surf club, one of the guys noticed a bag, containing a few beers and a bottle of white. Not sure of the reason as to why they were sitting on the footpath, no questions where asked as they were added to our 2 bottles of vodka.

The party was on, dude!

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