When In Rome
Posted on April 1, 2018
All good things must come to an end, some sooner than others. It didn’t take long before me and a substantial part of the Bus Wankers ended up on different schedules. We had to part ways, and even if we’d see each other again somewhere along the track, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad. Thankfully, me, Crazy Blonde, and our other gal pal Tiny Brunette were still together. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a good girl gang. We stayed in Auckland for an extra day, and when going to the night markets, I met some girls Crazy Blonde had travelled with before, not knowing that soon we’d be an inseparable Wolf Gang.
I’ll spare you the details on bus travel, exact geographical determination of places I’ve been, or meals I’ve eaten – I swear reading about that boring ass shit would take longer than it actually took me to live through those moments. I’ll just say there have been many hours on that bloody coach, loads of amazing sights I’ve beheld, and that, yes, I am getting a bit fat – never not a 10, though. As per usual, the thing I’m dying to tell you about most, is boys. This blog is about our Wolf Gang, new and improved when we added the Rugby Lads: Chief Storyteller, Rose Tattoo, and, because he wanted to name himself and did not seem to grasp the concept of descriptive names, Ron.
The first time we met the Rugby Lads was when we went kayaking to Cathedral Cove (slight humblebrag). However, ‘met’ is quite a big word. One of the boys made a stupid joke about loombands whilst kayaking past us, and even though it wasn’t directed at us, I laughed for a solid 10 minutes like a fucking idiot. We sporadically talked for the next two days until we all ended up in the bar together – this might be a good time to mention that every member of this gang, apart from yours truly obvs, is English, so the bar will be a recurring setting. The first guy I talked to was Chief Storyteller, who told me they were all rugby boys, travelling to New Zealand to play for a team in Wellington. Apparently, being a rugby lad doesn’t only mean you drink quite a lot, it also means there’s a set of rules to adhere to when going out drinking. So when I came back from the bar and heard Chief Storyteller ask if the beer on the table was Chief Storyteller’s (because, as I would learn later, you’re not allowed to say certain possessives), I knew these guys were either absolute morons, or our new best friends.
Being a tad boring, I decided to call it a night before everyone else. As I went back to my room having picked up the laundry we had left in the dryer for about a solid eight hours – hate to admit I’m one of those people – I met Rose Tattoo in the hallway. We had talked for a bit in the bar, and I thought he was quite funny. We said goodnight, only for him to come over to the girls’ room a few minutes later. We chatted shit while I was casually folding my knickers and repacking my absolute mess of a bag for the millionth time, and about ten minutes later, the whole crew came up to the dorms and decided to have a party in the boys’ room. To the people below us: soz, mates. I stayed for a bit and then decided to turn in, meeting Rose Tattoo in the hall again (swear he just lived there), offering him a bed in the girls’ room as the party wasn’t anywhere near over. Literally not once had it crossed my mind that I was inviting an attractive guy over to sleep in my bedroom, and what the possible outcome there could be, but hey, when in Rome, right.
Lots of things happened that night as several beds were left unslept in, and that morning was probably the start of the Wolf Gang. The eight – and unfortunately, very soon six – of us were inseparable for pretty much the whole of the North Island. I won’t even begin to describe the cool shit we did, or the stupid jokes we made – because, let’s face it, you couldn’t give one flying fuck about someone else’s banter – but it was great. We had to say goodbye in Wellington, and me and the girls headed further south. I might head back up to catch a game – the thought of leaving New Zealand without having seen actual beautiful men shout war cries at me makes me want to bawl my eyes out – so I might see them again. It’s a funny thing, travelling, you never know who you’ll meet or where you’ll end up. Que sera, sera, I guess, but, as Chief Storyteller used to say: long story short, good time.
Appears to me like a bunch of sound fellas. This chief storyteller sounds very intriguing, how did his name come about, what was he like (and the others), and most importantly; what did he smell like? Maybe you could do a seperate blog just for him, because he smells like fresh fruit for the picking!