All those Fruity Lexia parties we had, I have found, most of it was sad. All that wildness, all those laughs, all that puking our rings, the blowing up of the be-silvered bag, “splitting the infinitives” of the secretaries, the “play” dry humping of male colleauges… It’s as if it were were like the shining silver and gold paper on packages, but there was nothing inside, nothing. Zoltan Kovac, excerpt from retirement speech from the West November 2009.
It’s finally here. The 5 litre box of student leg opener that won’t go to your thighs! Even open thighs! And if your dog eats your lawn pizzas he can be fighting obesity at the same time as well! Ahh, I can still remember when 5 litres of Fruity Lexia was $4.99.
The Worst of Perth 
1st year uni student camp. urghhh. it was 23 years ago and i can still recall the absolute shame. at least i have moved onto more sophisticated drunken weekends now:) with less vomitting.
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It didn’t happen until you were at uni, monkeypants? Shame.
I vaguely remember my year 10 encounter with a flagon of white burgundy in a Bateman park…good times, good times.
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yes, i was a late blooming alcoholic dfoc.
proud of you for kicking off early though.
white burgundy indeed. you didn’t take the stones ginger wine path then?
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The ‘Serving Suggestion’ clearly bears no relation to reality. Fruity Dyslexia, I am sure, has never in history been served with prawns and scallops on the shell. It is, if I recall correctly, a fine accompaniment to mull-cakes, nachos, and dexamphetamine.
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I laughed at the same thing Bento. Although I would add Dominoes Pizza to the list of recollections.
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* I probably do not recall correctly.
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Twas Bodega in my day. We used to drink half a bottle and keep the rest for libations to Saint Bodega.
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Ewwwwwww fruity lexia….
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Classy, TLA, yet bold to flout your popularity.
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Finally. A curse on you, spam filter. In fairness, I can’t really blame it. I’m not sure I’d follow me down some of the net’s darker alleys either.
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The wine cask I most remember from my misspent youth was “Stanley Leasingham”. Not that I indulged, I just vivdly remember one soiree where a lithe debutante was demanding “where’s my fucking Stanley?!”
I was introduced to wine via Houghtons Cab Sav in 1991 and have never looked back.
My first dalliance with mistress alcohol was at 15 years of age, in the cave under Rottnest’s Bathurst light house.
A mate and I went halves in half a carton of Emu Export cans, I actually made the purchase and at the time must have looked all of 12!
Having polished it off, I passed out and later awoke to find much of the content had been regurgitated across the side of my face (I believe it was my regurgitation, but you can’t dust for vomit).
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The cask is a rite of passage into proper grown up drinking.
You start out on the four litre, usually the lighter varieties such as the abovementioned or the Reisling. Then there’s the Moselle, often aided by a splash of soda water. After some time you graduate to the reds. Morris Pressings being at the upper end of the 4 litre goon chain.
Then on to the 2 litre variety, where you can find some genuinely O.K Australian drops. From there one proceeds to Cleanskins. Half dozen Classic Whites for $25.00. Nothing to be sneezed at.
After that point only palate and income limit the tremendous possibilities.
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I first sipped from the Stanley Leasingham flagon as a 13-year-old playing skulling games inside a tent at the Bathurst camp grounds on Rottnest Island.
We were all legless within 10 minutes and spent a joyful couple of hours playing Pacman and listening to Rock ‘n’ Roll all Night on the Rotto milkbar juke box before the puking set in.
I slept inside a surfboard cover next to the fire as some lovely young ladies wiped the sick from my chin.
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Fuck yeah.
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