Done out in deep red with the look of a Vietnamese opium den, the club has lashings of atmosphere, and a rather ambiguous identity. We ordered food, Indian, which was patchy and in some places actually raw – the pakora was inedible. Still, the ambience compensated and we enjoyed a couple of long cocktails before heading out for Matterhorn, apparently a legend in Wullington. No idea why – it was nothing to write home about. We didn’t hang about long, instead moseying over to Motel, a place so exclusive they once turned away Liv Tyler. Obviously those days of exclusivity, and, let’s be frank, mind-boggling stupidity have gone, because they let us in and god knows we have been chucked out of enough places before. Maybe Liv still had her pixie ears on at the time and they mistook her for a Tasmanian. Motel is a great bar; lush retro décor with a big fat Buddha greeting you, then carved, cut-out screens separating the main area, with plush, kitsch soft furnishing throughout. It doesn’t lend itself to dancing, and the only person to engage us in conversation was a bloke who showed us some magic tricks and then offered to take us skiing in his BMW. We were nodding into our G&Ts by this stage so back to the Sharella – and, ooh, those electric blankets!
Category: New Zealand
Wellington Botanical Gardens
Anyway, the shuttle bus wound through wide streets of white-painted timber houses with picket fenced perched on top of leafy hillsides, then through a modern town of warehouses, car showrooms, theatres and pubs. Our destination was the Sharella Motor Inn, which I had booked through Hotelclub.com. The Sharella is a shocking-looking shit-heap in a great location, and for the price, great facilities. I wouldn’t recommend it for a romantic weekend unless the object of your affections is Alan Partridge, but it suited us fine. There’s a great view over the bay and mountains from our window, and it’s located directly opposite the Botanical Gardens.
After a short relax and television break, we tarted ourselves up and ventured into the city centre. We went for the taxi option; they seem to be cheaper than in Sydney. Our destination was Cuba Street which is where we were expecting to find lots of cool hangouts, but we didn’t see anything really amazing, so had a word with a tough-looking bouncer who pointed us to an uninspiring passage in Cuba Mall. We didn’t hold out much hope as we wandered down the steps, but we were in for a pleasant surprise – we’d been fortunate enough to stumble into the Good Luck Club, a little-known secret to which only a select few Wellingtonians are privy. Or so I like to think.
Local Hospitality
One of the things I’ve noticed is how different NZ is from Oz in terms of the locals – and by that I mean the original locals rather than the settlers. Almost straightaway, I noticed Maoris working alongside settlers in ‘normal’ jobs, something you very rarely see in Sydney. There’s also an evident pride in Maori language and culture, amongst all New Zealanders – again, something decidedly absent from mainstream Aussie culture. You’re lucky to see an Aboriginal in a crowd scene in an Aussie ad, and as for the language, I once asked an Aussie girl why they didn’t learn Aboriginal languages at school. “Do they have a language?” she asked without a trace of irony.
Wullington Eerport
When we got to Wellington airport (or ‘Wullingtun Eerport’ as the locals insisted on calling it), we invested in some duty free: a bottle of Jim Beam and one of Absolut for NZ$49, which is about £12. After all, we’re hard-working girls with hard-working livers, and this was going to be a holiday involving plenty of hard drinking. The bourbon leaked all over me, meaning I walked through Customs stinking like Olly Reed after a quiet night in. Not only that, but Jimmy the beagle sniffed out my oranges in the queue and I had to make the walk of shame – or rather, stupidity – through the ‘Dangerous Fruit Smugglers’ aisle of customs.
Once we had made our way to the other side of customs, Jacq went to change some Aussie dollars into Kiwi dollars. Just as she approached the exchange booth, the announcer bellowed, “Will Kerri Tyler please go to Information?” Wondering what might happen now and whether Jimmy the beagle had dobbed me in for the packet of Juicy Fruit in my inside pocket, I made my way to Information. Turned out all I’d done was leave my passport at Customs, but that was enough to embarrass Jacq and send her scuttling for the exit.
Wullington is a small airport, and getting a shuttle bus into town was easy enough and cost NZ$18.
Friday
If any readers have travelled with Virgin, you’ll be aware of the fact that, unlike most airlines who employ people based on customer service and pleasantness of demeanour, Virgin break with convention and select their staff from the local stand-up comedian community. This made for a delightful three-hour flight as our steward Bernie honed his crowd-pleasing skills on his captive audience. At one point, he asked passengers to reach up and point their air conditioning vents to the back of the plane ‘for technical reasons’ (“We should get to our destination a few minutes earlier!” quipped the master of comic timing as three quarters of the passengers dumbly obeyed).
Jacq told me just before I left my house that Virgin didn’t serve food on the flight. A notorious glutton, I threw a couple of oranges into my bag, not realising you could actually BUY food on board. How I wish I hadn’t bothered.