Every year the Swan Valley is transformed from idyllic Australifana to a nauseating pig pen of pissed up Perthian’s sipping on peen-shaped novelty straw.
Mercedes has organised a hen’s day, and they all promise to be on their best behaviour. Good intentions are one thing but when you put the lid on the bender blender and hit start, all that is usually left is a thick slurry of dignity that is destined to fertilise someone’s vines.
The party bus rolls down Great Eastern Highway to the ear-splitting sounds of the hen’s cackling. A sound that can be likened to chimpanzee royal rumble inside a leaky helium factory.
To add to the experience, the interior smells intensely like the Clubba toilets as the tacky red seats have seen more bodily fluids and smudged mascara than the back seat of a Commodore.
There is a kerfuffle at the first winery when Mercedes is informed there is a $5 tasting fee. She can’t believe this shit. Wine tastings are supposed to be about the producer showcasing the best they have to offer and then for cretinous wine-plebs to get fuckeyed for free.
By the third winery, the group realise they are not getting drunk fast enough. Mercedes has it covered, “who do I have to root around here for a bottle of sharrrr-don-ayyyyy?” A winemaker sheds a tear as the group head towards the bus necking the wine directly from the bottle.
At the final winery, the girls are frolicking in the vines while taking #blessed selfies. A few of the other girls are sitting under a tree and having a bit of a cry. Crying about what? God knows, mate, god knows.
Next, it’s onto a brewery for some much-needed food. The car park is chock full of pink stretch Hummers, party buses and Maloo Yewwts. It’s a who’s who of general riff-raffery with enough postcode tattoos to form a street directory.
Now, when large groups of bogans migrate to a common watering hole, the laws of being a fuck-wit states, that you must out-fuck-wit the other fuck-wits, or go home a beta-fuck-wit.
Mercedes and her hens have their work cut out for them as a group of ex-Jet Ski owners have begun launching marinated octopus around the beer garden and chanting “yeh the boys!” Strong fuck-wit contenders.
Not wanting to be outdone Mercedes and the hens turn the inside restaurant area into their own dance floor. For the few innocent diners, the experience is as pleasant as a 24-hour flight in front of a chair-kicking brat raised on free range parenting principles.
After getting evicted, the group heads back to Perth, needing to stop 7 times by the side of the road so Mercedes and the girls can go full Melbourne Cup on some bushland.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?