Ok, so we will continue on from our bikie bucks party story, with the rest, following on from the afternoon. That was just the morning, now we get into the real party.
The bucks party actually happens after the wedding with this group. Probably for good reason as we’ll explain later:
- 2pm: A stretch limo pulls up and seven glamours get out – it’s the bride and her maids. They walk up the aisle to meet 25 and his six groomsmen. As Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters” fades away, they bolt through the quickest wedding ceremony ever. It’s touching the way both bride and groom seem to trip over the “lawful wedded” bit in their vows. Then there’s the ring and the pash and signing the forms and it’s over. Short, sharp and straight to the point – the way a wedding should be.
- 2.20pm: We squeeze in a quick beer before heading to the reception.
- 2.30pm: OK, maybe two beers.
- 2.45pm: The blokes tear out of the hotel and we try to catch them. After hauling arse for a few clicks, we see a long double-line of bikes waiting at a red light. Then the lights change and we’re left behind in a cloud of smoke and four-wheel impotence. We try to keep up as they wind up into the mountains, but we may as well be trying to play a DVD with our dicks.
- 3pm: We pull into the car park of an awesome joint in the mountains and, possibly feeling emotional after the ceremony, or more likely just amped up after their ride, some of the blokes share a joke with us. Or at us.
- 3.15pm: The bridal limo pulls up and the girls get out, beaming with champagne smiles. We present Mr and Missus 25 with our wedding present – official one-of-a-kind tea towels. We’re relieved when they smile and thank us, rather than flicking us with them. Even better, we’re told to help ourselves to the open bar.
- 3.20pm: After helping ourselves to the open bar, we admire the view down over Surfers.
- 3.35pm: Hi, I hear this is an open bar. Better make it two beers. Have you noticed the view?
- 4pm: It’s time for the official photos. Full of fermented confidence, we tag along. The sacrificial goat is bought out, a machete is produced and… actually, that’s bullshit. Like at any wedding, the party stand around and have a laugh, pulling out their best half-cut smiles as the camera clicks away.
- 4.15pm: Someone suggests 25 picks up the journo loitering in the corner. The bloke doesn’t even grunt as he lifts me with one arm, probably thinking about throwing me down mountain and away from the open bar.
- 4.20pm: While I call our editor to explain that I’m still alive, but will probably need the next Monday off, the bridal party – possibly wanting to provide the last wish of a dying man – crowd around me. But before I can fully appreciate the occasion…
- 4.22pm: …The groomsmen jump in to share such physical treats as the fishhook, the eye-gouge, and a few more R-rated moves I don’t catch the name of, mainly because my face is being driven into the lush Queensland beer garden grass. I think this means we’re friends.
- 5pm: It’s time for speeches and drinks and cake, just like at any wedding, except there’s as much cow being worn in the form of leather as there is being eaten in the form of steak. And that’s how shit goes down for the next few hours. There’s eating, drinking, laughs, I get the fishhook a few more times, and Ferret explains that we’ll be right – again.
- 8pm: You know it’s a good wedding when it feels like you’ve just got there and the reception’s already over. And this is a good wedding. Except it’s not time to head home yet – we’ve got a bucks party to go to, so we hit the road in another futile attempt to keep pace with a bunch of Harleys.
- 8.45pm: The scene at the bucks is just like the one we first pulled into, except it’s a lot looser, and there are even more Harleys to accidentally knock over. To make that bit even trickier, the I beers are flowing freely. At least the guys seem to have accepted the dick in the red shirt.
- 9.15pm: By accepted “I mean they find it fun to pick me up, throw me around and stick their fingers into me whenever I try to have a serious conversation about police harassment, anti-association laws and what being in a motorcycle club means to them.
- 10.45pm: You know that feeling where you’re invincible? That’s me. I’m witty and charming, cracking jokes with my new mates. That’s why it’s a shock when they suggest one last photo opportunity – this time pretending to beat the crap out of me.
- 11.50pm: It’s time to split. We’ve survived and seen that blokes in motorcycle clubs aren’t the psychos the media make them out to be. Sure, they’re a bit fast to fishhook blokes they’ve just met, but the fellas we met are just mates who live to ride, and are cool with sharing their beer. And like the song says, “Nothing else matters”.
