“Last drinks, get it up ya,” cries a self-professed nomad. “Everyone say Labor”—“Laaaay-bor” comes the response as they take a happy snap in the Hermann’s courtyard. “We’re moving on to the Landsdowne,” where mock rage pervades a pool comp. “Sorry friend, could I ask you to move aside for this shot?” “Ah depends on the faction, left or right?” “Is left right?” Centre right nails the shot. You can get a free beer if you add an organiser on Facebook, one pool player says in an aside. At the bar, one of the organisers claims there are no factions in Young Labor. Later, in the hallway, the head of the left warns us “this night was organised by the right and they will try and tell you the left doesn’t exist”. He reckons the bloke proudly running for Pittwater will get tossed under the bus. Back inside, a drunk engineer asks Pittwater about the girl in the white dress: “Oh god, if one more dude asks me about her I swear”. “Up the rabbits” comes a cry from his neighbour in a pink shirt.