_*_: November 2011

Do Wop Shoo wada wada....

Alright fellas?

Good to hear.

Firstly, In ground breaking nudes – The Briohny Bites are featured in the Triple J unearthed artist spotlight this week, along with Brisbanes “The Mank” – which is a sccchhweet name, I once did a Uni elective with two dudes who did an animated spoof of Mary Poppins entitled “Manky Gobbins”, which is perhaps why I am remotely fond of that particular band name. Manky Gobbins – huge effort. Good news.

In other exciting news, we five kings of orient are...getting set to release our new single, ideally unleashing it in early January; in time for the summer cricket series, the outdoor festival pot-pouri, the Glenelg Jazz festival, 3rd degree sunburns and biddies that be wearing short-shorts where you can see a little bit of bum-bum at the bottom. See? It’s well calculated and it may even feature on some 16 year olds “summer shenanigans” i-photo montage. Fingers crossed aye? *nod*

On Sat-dee before taking to the stage before Papa Vs Pretty and The Vasco Era, TSB KRU (RIP drift Pig_113) are also doing a photo-shoot. One like Kyle Sandilands might have done before live-to-air he exclaimed:

“Some fat slag on the Telegraph website, sorry, has already branded it a disaster. You can tell by reading the article she just hates us, and has always hated us. She trawled through the twitter comments and pulled out all the bad comments and ran them. What a fat bitter thing you are, you deputy editor of an online thing. You’ve got a nothing job anyway. You’re a piece of shit.”
He then went on to say how he thought her "titties" were too small for her blouse.

He didn’t exactly “Hold back” on the female journalist did he? Good on him you know. Down with chicks – up with bro’s!! Maybe a possible chant? Start a hash tag – see how we go. Cool.

I started writing this blog with no intent, plot or punch line on offer – but I’m doing Ok I think.

Some good points of recent:

I noticed someone’s status update the other day querying why people who use hands-free accessories on their mobile phone still hold the handset 20cm from their face? GREAT POINT.

Might as well toss the ear piece? Oh wait, you’re a twat. I should have known from the pencil beard.

Another thing that has kept me awake during Big Bang Theory – Do fish get thirsty? If so, THEN what?

ALSO

Re-sealable cheese never re-seals. Ever.
I. Am. Feuuuming.

Another thing I have noticed recently is how quietly devastated people get when you “get their name wrong”. I am good with names, good enough anyhow. It’s rare I get a name wrong – because I usually just go with the “eeeyy here he is...” as if we are TOO GOOD pals to even use our names, it’s usually a failsafe system – use their name if you know it – or be olden-day Italian if you don’t. But lately I have been blurting out incorrect names to people who I DEFINITELY know their correct name? For no reason. Sure, I’m usually indulging in an ale when it happens, but still – it’s awkward at best. Like, you’re in a little conversation of maybe four people bouncing around Dad jokes, everyone trying to trump one another – until someone drops a doozie and everyone goes “ooooooohhhh yeah boi” etc. Except I go “fuck Yes Johnny boy” when his name is Dave? But, but I know his name is Dave? But there is no coming back from that. No Shawshank redemption. He thinks you’re a wanker – because he is convinced now that you aren’t as tighter mates as he thought, whereas you are. But you said the wrong name for no apparent reason. You can apologise, and claim you KNOW his name is Dave – but it will be to no avail. Why is that? Surely it has happened to Dave before? I dunno. Shit.

Lately I have gotten right back into Basketball. Mugsly Bogues style. Me and a tight knit group of homies found 8-foot rings nearby. Need a confidence booster in your life? Get down to an 8-foot ring and LET IT RAIN. Hang on that shit until it squeeks like a Payneham Possum. Even better – execute the dunk on the back end of an alley-oop. You won’t regret it. I PROMISE. Money.

Toot Sweet: Get on Dom Alessio's Podcast, he offers some very gratuitous words on our new single Blue Toes, what a ledge. Tune in around 4:15.

If you have read this far - you are a dude.

Buns.

"Mazel Tov"
That’s what a man said to me moments before I boarded the K.I ferry – AKA: Sealinks “Mayfair” in their monopolised bizznak. Yee who is the brains behind that operation needs a firm hand shake – with a nod and poo-face expression. But I’m getting sidetracked....

The weekend gone-just-now saw The Shining Tights embark on a 48-hour fantasy world adventure, one that was to be remembered. Things got off to a flyer. I had my party shirt on, other twonks had their party shirts on, and my plus one – Captain Fun had his on too baby. We were donning shirts that would have made Pablo Escobar put down his rolled up hundred dollar bill for a gander. Yessss, offensive and vibrant - People would walk past and nod at us, as if to say...”I’m a fucking wiener without one of those get-ups aren’t I...” to which we would offer a salute, or some kind of disapproval at their “every-day” threads.

The Cape Jarvis boondocks gave us our first insight into the local clientele. Big Burly men with large beards, lacerated forearms and Rossi boots that they received on their 13^th birthday – but they still wear them because its damn-well queer to get new ones. Amen to that brudda. We joked that these blokes were so manly and badass, that when they reference people like us, they begin the sentence with “You fucking pussies....”

For example:

“You fucking pussies catching the ferry or what?!!?...”

Not in a derogatory way, but merely a timely reminder that we have supple skin, some of us use men’s skin lotion, we are not familiar with how to skin a “roo” in the time it takes your mate to reload your 38 calibre rifle and also, almost all of us have repped some kind of hair wax product at some stage in the not-too-distant past. These were the sort of dudes that you just look at – and feel like a loser.

None-the-less, the locals were actually refreshingly nice, polite and well mannered. They are still at that point in rural development where you still greet everyone with a smile and a wave – or a raised index finger if you pass them on the roads. So – after 600 grams of assorted smiths savoury snacks and an old-fashioned Special Patrol sing-along, we arrived at the Vivonne Bay barracks/watering hole/festival. After Barts and Chissy-poo plummer spoke to security like they were being interrogated by the feds, knowing full well the barrage of sloppily hidden alcohol in their vehicles, we meandered down to the “artist camping area”, yeah you heard. Bitch.

After doing mega drifties in the dirt for a while I endeavoured to erect my free-of-charge Canadian Club promo tent I was given by my old boss, in exchange for a stubby of Hahn Super Dry. Still in its packet, me and Captain Fun made the rookie error of assuming the unopened, unused tent would be a “breeze” to put up, at 10pm at night, on a rocky outcrop in the depths of Kangaroo Islands Funnel Web breeding grounds. Oh and it was windy. Oh and it turns out I’m a massive retard at understanding the basic logistics of erecting a tent. Cue: Chris Plummer – hiking and outdoor enthusiast, who quickly pointed out the fundamental issues of our attempt, and deemed the tent useless until the morning when we can give that shit a crack again in the light.

Unsure of our sleeping arrangements (we live life on the edge) we waddled on down to the main stage area, where we were welcomed by the soothing vocals of Matt McHugh and The Beautiful Girls – AND his band. See what I did there? Aye? What a fucking lad. Anyway, basically everyone had hundreds of beers by the stage and around the campsite, wound up in a drunken state in their tents, and in my case wearing another man as a backpack. I was straddled like a horse most of the night. Until I awoke to a HUMUNGOUS white thing in my face. I kicked and punched in front of me like an attention deficit child whose turn is up on his mates play-station. Only to realise the whiteness before me was not heavens gates, but was the drooping roof of my shoddily erected tent. Which has slumped right down onto our faces. It Scared the anus off me.

Saturday: I made the treacherous journey down to the actual beach, where old-mate Occy and his pals were carving toobs n shet. I was hung, and the heat was sweltering. But dipping my head in the sub zero slush puppy or “the ocean” at Vivonne Bay hastily re-instated by thirst for ale, and assorted female targeted vodka drinks. Huddled under a red-backs nest...I mean tree, me and the cavalry got back into it. With vigour. But the heat was relentless, rivalled only by our aspirations to see how many pints of water we could skull. Eleven – if you were wondering. And eleven times more replenished as a result. OK?

So.... yada yada, we took to the stage and ripped bumbums. Loaded with both a new tune and a cover, we managed to wangle a pretty respectable set together – even if I do say so myself. This level of dopeness and showmanship was promptly met by the likes of Messrs, The Salvadors and Big Scary – who helped concrete a musical display that had perhaps not been rivalled yet earlier in the festival. A feel good vibe spread throughout. Some home-boy even climbed the jager meister tent, only to soon after be wearing half a litre of capsicum spray as goggles. Although this was probzzz the only example of miss-behaviour. The vibe was too free otherwise you know bro? Right on, right on.

Late Saturday night, things escalated fast. Mutual friends who had never met each other before were making waves in the dirt, in a tight embrace and what have you. Don’t worry – this “hell funny” recount will have visuals later, just keep reading. Me and Tom Opie of The Salvadors (Adelaides bestest band) and two pals, even crossed the bunting into to the General Admission tent city, which is difficult for people like us of such status and poise. We heard the deep murmurs of 90’s Swedish trance from 500 metres off. We made a flying V, and powered into what was revealed to be an ENORMOUS shanty style trance party. Pitch black, distorting speakers, gross music and people whose struggle to fight the MDMA pulsing through their veins was getting the better of them. We lasted about 45 seconds, then power walked back through the filth and general ticket holders campsites – back to the safety and serenity of the Artist camping area. Things get hazy, but I do remember Alex Polski Algurkee Rajkowski losing consciousness whilst attempting to strum Pink Floyds “Wish You Were Here” to a small crowd of onlookers. Good times, jot it down man.

At this point I have completely forgotten the point to this story/blog/rambling. For that I apologize. But you know what? You can suck my plums. ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAIIIIINNNED? Exactly.

Please forward any complaints to alex@theshinybrights.com

It has been a bawl. This is the best Blogs-breath cafe EVAAAA. I know.

Until next time......

“A man does what he must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality.”
- Winston Churchill

Completely unrelated. But Cheers.

Buns.

DA Wavves @ Vivonne Bay