Real (stupid) men drink till 4:30am, then wake up and climb a mountain

Last night, me and my brother and my aunty and uncle drank and danced until the sun came up. I woke up on the floor, feeling as if an Asian karate man had been kicking my head in, and then decided to do what no hungover man should – climb up a massive mountain.

I’m a fuckwit.

Mount Wellington looms large over Hobart, a 1,269m slab of rock coated in snow. If you ever come to Hobart, you simply have to climb it, just don’t do it with a massive hangover.

After scoffing down a greasy chicken burger, me and Ben hopped onto a bus and rolled out to the village of Fern Tree, which sits behind only Flowerpot and Penguin as Tasmania’s best-named place. Unfortunately, the winding ride up the mountain left me feeling as crook as a dog, and as soon as we hopped off, I made a sick in a bush.

With Tasmania’s pristine wilderness decorated with my breakfast, we started making our way up the mountain, and shit it was steep! I was huffing and puffing like a fat girl on a treadmill, and a few hours later I was higher than Grant Denyer and the view was amazing. While the weather wasn’t amazing, I could see forever out over Hobart.

The mountain took longer to get up than a pensioner in a Thai brothel, and as I neared the summit, I came across a large, bald gentleman sitting in the middle of the track. “You help, you help,” the dude said, in a thick Eastern European accent. I’m a good bloke and a bit of a hero of the common wan, so I trotted over and helped the fella up. He pointed to his ankle and waved his hands around like Al Jolson, so I sort of let him lean on me as we slowly continued up the mountain.

“Hungry, hungry,” said Stavros, and I took out a packet of Bujha crackers I’d been looking forward to eating. I offered some to old mate, and 30 seconds later the cheeky cunt handed back the bag – empty!

“Thirsty, thirsty,” said Stavros, and against my better judgement I handed him my bottle of water. Yep, you guessed it, he emptied it, then tossed the bottle under a tree. After retrieving it, I continued to help the big fella towards the summit. We made it into the clouds, and the temperature dropped, as the whole world got wet.

“Is cold, you give jumper,” said Stavros, and I pretended to not hear him. “Is cold! You give jumper!” snapped Stavros, and when I told him I wasn’t going to give him my jumper, he spat on the ground.

The mountain truly is magical. As we went higher, the thick bush gave way to a barren, rocky landscape full of colour and beauty. Snow started to line the path, which was wonderful, because I haven’t seen the white stuff for half a lifetime. Below us, the whole world opened up, blue and green and pretty. I took a moment just to enjoy the serenity, but it was shattered when Stavros poked me in the ribs and said, “Move, move. Is hungry, you have food?”

Against my better judgement, I told him that my brother had some pizza in his bag at the top, and Stavros started licking his lips and moving a bit faster. Finally we made it close to the peak, and bloody Stavros sat down on a rock to have a breather. “I rest,” he said. I promised Stavros that I would continue to the peak and return with his pizza… and then got the fuck outta there as quickly as possible.

The top of the mountain was freezing cold and absolutely amazing. The view extended in every direction, and it felt like I could see every part of Tasmania. My fingers felt like they were going to drop off, by I loved exploring the top. My uncle was kind enough to drive up to get us, and Ben and I climbed into the back of his car, happy to make it to a warm place before we died of hypothermia. I grabbed my pizza and took a big bite, then looked out the window to see a very angry Stavros staring at me.

“You abandon me on mountain!” he snarled, and I gave him a thumbs up and took another bite of pizza. He went nuts and started charging at the car, his leg magically healed, and we burned out of there just before he could slam into the car.

So, yeah, walking up Mount Wellington is highly recommended, but if you see an injured foreigner sitting in the middle of the track, leave the prick.