P. Ireland

From November – May our State’s Northern Hi-Vis belt experiences cyclone season. These intense storms range form Category 1 (fark all, mate) to Category 5 (Gina Rinehart after curry night) and generally call for the population to seek shelter from flying debris.

Historically, locals have found many ways to kill the time – playing a few games of pin your tail on your cousin, watching Rex Hunt on repeat until the power shuts off (or your wife divorces you), or of course – holding an infamous cyclone party.

While others rush to stock up on nappies, canned food and fuel, a fair chunk of the population experience sobriety FOMO and descend upon the bottlos like flies on a pile of steaming Big Bang Theory DVDs. Why such a sense of urgency? Well, you could be forced to survive on just the 3 cartons you have in your fridge for the night. Or worse, a yellow alert could be issued and you’d have to stretch those cartons out for 48hours. The horror.

They say a bottle shop worker still gets a chill down their spine when they feel a gust blow. They sleep well most nights but that warm wind takes them back to unruly queues, shopping frenzies and the Pilbara rite of passage – getting choked by a cob’s bare hands when you tell them Export has sold out.

Of course, no one wants to be the kinda guy who knees his neighbour in the dick over a 4pack of Woodstock so after the screams from the bottlo killing fields subside there is always an offer to come round and get pissed until the cyclone blows over. Northern hospitality, baby.

Naturally, not everyone is stoked about the parties. In fact, they have been a headache for police and emergency services since their inception. You wouldn’t think it was necessary to spend money on radio & TV PSAs warning people to not get too pissed they can’t make sensible decisions in an emergency, would you? Well, think again, clean shirt.

Now fully stocked with booze & cigarettes, the locals kill the time getting as pickled as a window on a Maccas party train. Some even have set up live feeds so the internet can keep an eye on how many tins they’ve sunk. Good times are had and the worry of potential danger slowly melts away like a pippy puddle as Damo causes a few clouds to move himself.

It doesn’t take long for people to realise the real danger of a cyclone party – dozens of hungover pissheads filling a small space with a combination of B.O, vomit and the most un-noble of gasses. Basically, it will start smelling like the pool scoop at Crown Towers during school holidays.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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