Diary of a schoolie

Felicity, 17, returns today from a one-week trip to Surfers Paradise with nine friends. All were students at a north shore private school.


Rumour has it the girls in 3303 were evicted from their sub-penthouse at Q1 on the first day. That doesn't seem too hard in this building, considering the strict rules and regulations dictating our stay at Surfers:

No guests after 8pm.

Strictly no glass.

Yelling from the windows will result in eviction.

No bare feet/chests in the foyer to maintain the reputation of this four-star hotel.

We arrived at the Q1 Resort and Spa in a limousine we booked three months ago and walked straight into a sea of teenagers. But there was no time to make friends - before we even got to our rooms we were sent off for a 10-minute lecture disguised as a ''debriefing''. Suitably warned, we register and get our IDs that we must keep on us.

Next: Woolies for a shop for the week, which costs us $440.

After a dunch (dinner-lunch) of chicken rolls washed down with shots, we head out to find tickets for the under-18 and over-18 beach parties. It's a bust: we wander around for 45 minutes before giving up and heading back to the Q1 for shots, an outfit change and dancing around the room.


A friend texts - she has met some guys staying in the penthouse. We head up there - only to get kicked out five minutes later after a noise complaint. The guys receive a $220 fine for having too many people in the room.

Oh well. We meet three guys in the lift and head to the other penthouse. There's 15 people here. We hang there for 30 minutes then it's back to our room for more shots and Spider-Man on TV.

It's late by the time we head to the beach. There are hundreds of people there. It's not too wild - we hear Queensland week was more out of control because most of the students were 16 or 17 and running around the streets ''off their faces''.

On the way home, four slightly older guys invite us to the penthouse of The Moroccan. One of my more sporty friends points out we are with the entourage of the tennis player Bernard Tomic. Spa baths, Smirnoff Blacks and toolies result in a random turn of events and some new friends.

We're home by 3am but we've forgotten our key so we call some guys we know on level 40, head up there, play spin-the-bottle and watch the sun rise. At 5am, it's back to the beach for a dip and a micro sleep. We're exhausted.


Awake at 10.45am with a knock at the door. It's our Melburnian neighbours, asking us to join them for breakfast. The 10 boys introduce us to some Melbourne tunes, cook us bacon and eggs and wait on us hand and foot.

Then it's beach time: burritos, mojitos, photos with the Playboy bunnies outside Condom Kingdom and - finally - someone selling schoolies tickets for the over and under 18s parties.

We're invited to The Islander - it's disgusting! Both the rooms we visit are trashed. There's no food, only alcohol, beds are tipped over, toilet paper hangs off the balcony, there's blood pooled by the lifts, beer all over the floors and stained couches.

We hotfoot it out of there and head to the Beachcomber but lockout is from 5pm so it's home for vodka, tequila and another penthouse visit - this one is packed with boys from The Scots College. Now we've partied at three of the four penthouses!

The over-age party is starting at Shooters so us underage chicks head back to the grotty Islander to party with our new friends. I have to sweet talk the security guard to get in: the lockout time is 7pm and it's well after midnight. He's a pushover.

We rendezvous with the over-18s girls at Maccas and are home at 3am. Sleep comes easily.


Wake up to the smell of pancakes. We gorge on them in bed while watching Friends on the TV. Then there's a knock on the door and the Red Frogs burst in and say ''we're making pancakes!'' so round two, here we go. The two guys and two girls, aged between 19 and 25, make choc-chip pancakes, clean our kitchen, wash the dishes, make our beds and then perform magic tricks for our entertainment. Why do they do it? ''At uni, a lot of my friends would get wasted all the time and I just wasn't into the party scene, so I would help them after going out,'' Gabriel tells me. ''Once I found out about Red Frogs, I thought it would be a good opportunity to help other kids stay safe and out of trouble.''

We booked them to come the next morning too because, well, they were amazing.

The afternoon is filled with jelly vodka shots and a bath for five, with bubbles overflowing onto the floor.

At 8.45pm, we head to the Surfers Paradise RSL for $5 drinks and a dance floor that goes off every night. Being underage, I take the wrist band from a girl leaving, in the hope security won't check my ID. They still ask for it but fall for my fakie and I'm in.

Next stop is Kitty O'Sheas to meet up with eight guys. One of my guy friends and I tell the bartender we just got married; he gives us each a tequila shot, my fake ID not failing me for the second time that night.

Back at the boys' hotel, The Chevron, the security guard refuses us girls entry as it's well after lockout at 1am.

My ''husband'' and I decide to try the front entrance and distract the guard so the other 14 people can sneak in the back.

We walk through the door and tell him we we're ''just married!'' - as he offers his congratulations the others sneak past. Then I tell the guard I left my phone upstairs and I'd be two seconds if I could get it, so in we went.

There's red wine on offer, plus Vodka and red cordial.

By 4am, I'm exhausted. The boys walk us back to our hotel and we call it a night.


No one emerged from bed before 12.40pm today. It's a lazy day - Hard Rock Cafe for the lunch deals, vodka and cranberries all afternoon, sushi for dinner, drinking games with the Newington guys staying in our building and, finally, dancing on the beach.

There's a kebab shop across the road from the RSL blasting pop tunes - perfect for late night refuelling. Home about 3am, after a relatively quiet night.


Twenty of us hit up Wet 'n' Wild for the day, then it's straight to the RSL. The fire alarm goes off at midnight and we have to evacuate the building. It's the perfect excuse to bail - despite the YOSO (You Only Schoolies Once) chants of my buddies. I'm all partied out but I still wish the week never had to end.