By Heather Saul

I never have been good at saying no to free parties, especially when the fiesta concerned just happens to be VICE magazines 10th birthday extravaganza. EastLdn’s Sasha Filimonov and I subsequently found ourselves shivering in a que stretching down a never ending tunnel, all hope of ever being warm again thrown to the wind. I love a good whinge at the best of times, and minus temperatures combined with a two-hour wait quashed my joyous mood quite swiftly.

Luckily, Sasha has survived many a New York winter and was made of stronger stuff than myself. Two impatiently spent hours finally saw us at the front of the (thankfully not quite so) never ending hoard of creeper shoes and stonewash denim jackets.

As a publication, VICE divulges what the average Joanne doesn’t really want to hear. It’s a big fat dose of real life, causing the rather uncomfortable full body squirm when an article rings an all too familiar alarm bell. VICE magazine has gained fame, and more importantly notoriety, for its to the point, no qualms articles on humans just being typical humans. Their reportage parodies modern culture whilst delving into the depths of Western society, analysing party lives, work lives, sex lives, fetish lives, and the journalists’ own perspectives on life.

What makes VICE unique is their ability to get under the skin of not only popular culture, but also wider world issues, whether it be war, abortion, pornography, drugs, love, or excess. Consequently, a VICE celebration would have to be as cutting edge as their razor sharp words, and their faithful readers were not left disappointed.

After the much-lamented time spent standing in sub zero temperatures, there was only one thought on our minds after handing our golden ticket to security staff – alcohol, and lots of it. The claustrophobic mass gathering in front of Cable clubs smallest bar completely justified our pre-emptive decision to purchase two drinks each, and we received a hit of instant gratification when we reached the bar to be greeted by no tills in sight. We were met by bar staff serving copious amounts of rum, whisky and cider in exchange for an order and a smile. So far, so VICE.

Australia’s hottest export Iggy Azalea stormed the hip hop stage in her most revealing cheerleading outfit to perform her latest single ‘Murda Bizness’, whilst a sweaty Mark Ronson hit the decks next door before schmoozing with a large crowd of females, who had been mysteriously drawn to the area closest to the DJ booth.

The Lynx VIP room was protected by two devastatingly beautiful women dressed in what can, at best, be described as ‘swim wear’. Burley bouncers flagged the glitz reserved only for the most exclusive attendees, so your faithful correspondents decided not to make a manic bid for freedom and ‘sneak’ in under a guise such as, “oh, I’m so sorry, I thought this was the bathroom?” We promise to try harder next time.

Our surroundings became a physical embodiment of VICE chaos; overcrowded dance floors, blue lights for the hip hop rooms, red for the dance, almost no lighting for the bands, absolute hipness reigned supreme. Getting from one part to the next required some serious determination/pushing/shoving, until we found a back door route and a cider bar that didn’t involve painful high heels and intimate encounters with other guests.

As the final song played out and the lights came up, myself and Sasha found ourselves stumbling down the circular stair case, giving us a snapshot view of an amazing party; bar staff dancing all over each other, revellers eyeing each other up amorously, Mark Ronson sweating some more, girls fawning over him some more, disco balls spinning and alcohol flying everywhere.

I wish I could tell all about this raucous evening, but VICE are a clever organisation and the ample free booze unfortunately meant that your faithful correspondents couldn’t subject VICE to the same scrutiny they place on others. What you do need to know is that these infamous nights are  debaucherous affairs just like their namesake, and not one to be missed.