Once every two years the rural town of Middlemarch comprises a singles ball attracting hundreds of young people from across the country looking for love

As the develop chugs across the Taieri Plains, female hips garb in sequins press against male thighs in polyester suits. The carriages sway unpredictably, flinging young revellers randomly together in the narrow aisles.

The humen are drunk, but not yet in full Casanova mode, and the women- giggly, peacocky, beautiful- scamper out of their reach, smiles stirring faintly with attraction.

It is Saturday night on a long weekend and out the windows the custardy sundown is dropping fast, muddy paddocks of unshorn sheep with a romantic golden hue.

Welcome aboard New Zealand’s Love Train- eight carriages full of single millennials on the lookout for love, travelling from all over the country to a tiny rural town in the hope of meet a teammate.

Eight carriages full of single millennials take the develop from Dunedin to Middlemarch. Photograph: Niamh Peren for the Guardian

That destination is Middlemarch and a singles ball which, inspired by the matchmaking dances of the 1950 s, has been bringing together thousands of young, largely unattached, people every two years for the past few decades and a half.

The ball has taken on a mythical status in New Zealand, becoming infamous for its debauchery, heavy booze and occasional, long-lasting love matches.

With a well-documented human drought in the South Pacific country of 4.7 million people, the event has become especially appealing to single ladies. That in turn has attracted rural humen- shepherds, inventory agents and farmers in the high country of the underpopulated South Island. Isolated and time-poor, they are often dismissed on dating apps such as Tinder because the GPS pinpoints their place as hundreds of kilometres from the nearest cocktail bar.

So for many the singles ball at Middlemarch( normal population 186) is a significant calendar event, a genuine opportunity to meet a partner, a companion, a husband or wife.

But first they have to get to the ball, and that’s where the Love Train- a 154 km, two-hour journey from Dunedin- be coming back. Some 300 hopeful singles ride the develop to Middlemarch. A further 300 wait at the other end of the line.

Revellers loosen up on the develop to the ball. Photo: Niamh Peren for the Guardian

There’s a flame starting in my heart

As the evening blooms the booze flows and the sound system pumps out Adele, Fleetwood Mac and Dave Dobbyn, humankinds fling fistfuls of cash at the develop saloon for screw-tops of cheap white wine.

” There’s a fire starting in my nerve ,” croon a carriageload of strangers, singing along to Adele’s Rolling in the Deep, as empty cans of Speights and Coruba are crushed beneath six-inch stilettos and smoothed journeying boots, stomping in time to the beat.

” Reaching a fever pitch and it’s bringing me out the dark .”

Latasha Logan, 30, works in a call centre and is travelling from Christchurch to attend the ball, a round-trip of virtually 1,000 km. She has accentuated her pale blue eyes with aqua eye-shadow and a contrasting slick of bright, fuchsia lipstick.

To nail the” Black and Bling” topic of the ball, Logan’s wrists jingle with sparkly bracelets, hoops of green, blue and silver that catch the illumination as she talks.

” My grandparents met at a dance, and the ball is a different way to gratify people that doesn’t involve the internet or the pub ,” says Logan, who once learned Portuguese for an internet date who turned out to be Fijian-Indian.

Latasha Logan:’ My kind has a beard and drives a Hilux .’ Photograph: Niamh Peren for the Guardian

Chatty, gregarious and confident, Logan utilizes one word to describe her dating life- “disastrous”.

” There are a lot of options here tonight … my type has a beard and drives a Hilux[ a pick-up truck ]. A lot of guys are actually shy and I am not, so I don’t mind constructing the first move, asking a guy to dance. It is a contemporary world .”

At the other terminate of the teach, drinking canned Smirnoff, truck driver and swine hunter Ethan Hippolite is on the lookout for a woman he can share a spa with by candlelight.

Having got lucky at the ball two summers ago, Hippolite promoted his teammates to join him this time, saying there’s a lady here “for everyone”.

Year after year, many more girls than humankinds board the Love Train bind for Middlemarch.

Truck driver and animal hunter Ethan Hippolite:’ I simply require my Juliet .’ Photograph: The Guardian

” I am definitely single … I guess I am looking for a bit of companionship ,” says Hippolite, cherubically handsome and moderately sober in a snug-fitting navy suit.

” The best woman is the ones that don’t talk, otherwise someone that get on real well … I simply necessity my Juliet .”

As the Love Train draws into Middlemarch, shyness and reserve are discarded.

Girls trip down the steep carriage paces in their ballgowns and wail is coming from the men as they stride down the main street towards a pavilion, made in a sodden paddock beside the town’s rugby grounds.

Lit up with orange streetlamps, Middlemarch feels like a buffs’ wonderland, with new couples beginning to peel off into the darkness, their breath misting in the cold autumn night.

On the dancefloor, heels are cast aside as the heady crowd grind against one another, the live country band belting out Jimmy Barnes anthems and swoony, upbeat desire songs.

Sliced hot meat and buttered bread are served in the makeshift kitchen, and two worn sofas placed beside the bain-marie groan under the weight of courting lovers.

” That’s where the real enjoy happens ,” says a local woman serving up roasted pork in the kitchen, pointing towards the decrepit sofas.” The pairs that really like one another sit here and talk all night .”

Middlemarch map

At the first-aid tent, a young lady has been found in the car park with a bloodied face, the first casualty of the night. Whether she was pushed or fell , no one is quite sure, so she’s put to sleep on the concrete flooring of the rugby changing rooms, her intricate up-do collapsing into a mass of sweaty, blood-stained curl against her bruised face. With exceptional quantities of booze devoured at the ball, accidents and injuries have become standard.

Alice Lowe, 28, is sitting on a plastic chair on the edge of the dancefloor. Her ankle injures, sort of, but she’s shy too, and the mass of limber bodies fondling one another to the beat of Working Class Man frightens her. No one has asked her to dance.

” This is way out of my comfort zone ,” says Lowe, “whos been” single for four and a half years.” I was excited about it, but now I am absolutely frightened. But I actually struggle to meet new people, so this was something I supposed I should try .”

Coming to the ball with her confident friend, Latasha Logan, has helped.

” We’re total opposites ,” says Lowe, clutching her purse securely in her lap, her red shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.” She can talk to anyone. I should have brought a pack of cards, that would have got people to sit down and talk to me .”

At the corner shop 100 metres up the road, Margaret O’Brien is doing a swift trade in mince and cheese pies. She’ll stay open till after midnight, then tomorrow morning will assist clean up the town, usually awash with neglect shoes, mobile phones, attires and people who have missed the train back to Dunedin.

” The ball is bloody good for the cities ,” she says.” We need some young blood coming through. It started as a real upmarket event; it’s gone a little bit wild now. But you can still see how much people are trying, how much effort they’ve gone to for one single nighttime .”

Bonding on the dancefloor. Photograph: Niamh Peren for the Guardian

As midnight draws closer, the night’s potential begins to fade-out. Those who’ve drunk too much spew their hopes into the bushes, and the girl with the hemorrhaging face is put into a carriage with an ice pack and a container of takeaway food.

On the return to Dunedin, the carriages are quiet and subjugated. The health inspector and the liquor inspector- who invested the excursion up crocheting and reading novels- have fallen asleep, their brains nuzzled in their crossed arms.

Hippolite, spotted cosying up to at least two different girls, has disappeared, and may have found his Juliet, for tonight anyway.

Staring out the window in cab M, Lowe and Logan are downcast, eyeing the bleak southern sky whose stars have been obscured by assembling rain clouds.

” We get hangry ,” says Logan, with a weak laugh, gesturing at the piling of chocolate bar wrappers heaped between them on the wooden table.

Did you meet anyone? Did you like anyone?

No, they say in unison. But they’re looking forward to reaching up the museums in the morning.

” I don’t really know what I like ,” Lowe says.” And I feel exhausted now .”

As the Love Train pulls into the Dunedin railway station at 3am, 250 people making such a route to taxis and motels in the frigid rain. The bloodied girl is taken to the hospital to be assessed for concussion, perhaps a broken jaw and perhaps a shattered snout. Her pal accompanies her, confused and fuming that she lost her new shoes at the ball.

As usual, about 50 people missed the return teach, either loved-up or forgetful, maybe both. They’ll be forced to hitchhike home, or jump on the “Shame Train” which returns at midday on Sunday.

The checklists of the singletons have grown shorter as the qualify empties out. Earlier in the night, people were targeted and aspirational about what they were looking for. A good dancer. Decided. Passionate about life. Loyal. Rich. Likes fishing.

Now, as dawning nudges closer, the scramble for a partner has simplified. A nice person. A warm torso. Someone to talk to in the dark.

Lowe, crossing the road to her backpacker hostel, is tired, but she doesn’t regret coming one bit. She pulls her shawl tightly across her shoulders as the slimy rain soaks through her gown.

” I don’t really do the dating scene much … but tonight, I tried. I did try. I wanted to come .”

Read more: https :// www.theguardian.com/ world/ 2017/ dec/ 29/ love-train-young-single-new-zealanders-romantic-quest-middlemarch

Guess what, guys? For the first time in 2017, we’re here to report GOOD news about something POLITICAL. Unheard of, right? Well buckle up, because 2018 is coming and it might not be the apocalyptic wasteland we were all fearing.

Last night, in a move that many hoped for but few belief possible, Alabama elected a democratic senator for the first time in twenty-five years. Doug Jones will be filling the seat vacated by Jeff Sessions instead of Roy Moore, a boy who( allegedly) dates fourteen-year-old girls and still procured the endorsement of the RNC and President of the United States.

Alabama. A democrat. Can you believe it? Sure, all it took was for the Republican option to be an openly anti-Semitic, racist, child-predator, but let’s just take a win where we can get one, okay? I think we all have to become Alabama football fans now, but frankly that’s a trade I’m willing to induce to keep child molesters out of the Senate. Roll Tide.

Who Do We Have To Thank For Roy Moore Taking An L?

Black people, who showed up to the polls and saved America’s ass yet again, despite strives by Republicans to deter them. Black women in particular deserve your thanks today, as 97% of them voting in favour Jones, as reject the 63% of white women who voted for Moore. @white dames, let’s do better, yeah?

This is an specially large-scale jolt for Trump and his greasy puppeteer Steve Bannon, who were counting on Moore’s vote in the Senate to pass atrocious parliament like the GOP tax reform. But now with the GOP majority down to just one vote, some are viewing this as a turning point, a beacon of what’s to come in the mid-term elections next year. If Alabama can elect a Democrat, literally anything can happen.

What is this unfamiliar impression in my chest? Is it…hope? Will it last? Will I drown it in wine the next time the President tweets? Merely time will tell.

Heads up, you need to keep up with the news. It’s not cute anymore. That’s why we’ve made a 5x weekly newsletter called The ‘Sup that will explain all the news of the week in a hilarious af lane. Because if we weren’t laughing, we’d be screaming. Sign up for The ‘Sup now !

Read more: http :// www.betches.com/ alabama-special-election-results

( CNN) It’s one of the most important events on the Australian athletic calendar.

Amateur crews in small-scale yachts race alongside big-name professional sailors in multimillion dollar rocketships, all intent on arriving in Hobart in one piece with narrations to tell and boozes to be sunk.

This year recognizes the 73 rd edition of the classic “bluewater” race. Here’s what you need to know 😀 TAG 5 TT

Dec 16, 2017 at 1:39 am PST