Every year the Swan Valley is transformed from idyllic Australiania to a nauseating pig pen of cackling hens sipping mini Yellowglen Pink out of a cock-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 grape 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 Fran Drescher going barnyard style with a Hyena while high on shrooms.
To add to the experience, the interior smells intensely like the Clubba toilets as the tacky red seats have seen more bodily fluids and teary-eyed regret than the back seat of the Bang Bus.
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 fuck-eyed for free.
By the third winery, the group realises they are not getting drunker fast enough. Mercedes has it covered, “who do I have to fuck around here for a bottle of sharrrr-don-ayyyyy?” A winemaker sheds a tear as the group heads 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? Fucks knows, mate, fuck knows.
Next, it’s onto Feral 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 fuckwit states, that you must out-fuckwit the other fuckwits, or go home a beta-fuckwit.
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 fuckwit 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.
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