BARING ALL DOWN UNDER

HILARIOUS CONFESSIONS OF A BEWILDERED BACKPACKER

STEVE DEEKS

Copyright © 2016 Steve Deeks

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Sarah Deeks and Diana Groves. Pat, Darren, Rob, Mark, Sam, Simon, Ben, Fraser, Joe, Tobias, Steve and Andy.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 – Arriving in Sydney

Chapter 2 – Cultural assimilation

Chapter 3 – Hostel debauchery

Chapter 4 – Homeless

Chapter 5 – A new home

Chapter 6 – Room 301

Chapter 7 – Messy nights

Chapter 8 – The Aussies

Chapter 9 – Hostel tensions

Chapter 10 – Minesweeping

Chapter 11 - Labouring

Chapter 11 – Crime Fighting

Chapter 13 – In the line of fire

Chapter 14 – Liverpool Council burns down

Chapter 15 – The streets

Chapter 16 – Out with a bang

Chapter 17 – Darwin

Chapter 18 – Chasing crocodiles

Chapter 19 – Cairns

CHAPTER 1 – ARRIVING IN SYDNEY

I hate travelling. The thought of leaving my home comforts and all that comes with it – comfy bed, heating, television, home food, electricity, deluxe toilet paper and wash facilities, as well as much needed personal space, to name but a few – and swapping this with a vastly inferior environment on the other side of the world that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, had never remotely appealed to me.

While having been subjected on untold occasions to all of my sisters going on about their endlessly wonderful array of travel exploits across the globe, I had always maintained a smug dismissiveness to such deeds. In fact, to be more accurate, I had often openly scoffed in their faces, questioning why any right minded human would want to go and live in a hovel having spent a fortune to go to some far flung hell-hole thousands of miles away.

All those wonderful things you took for granted in your everyday life would suddenly be replaced by a diet of exhausting daily survival that would now see you forced to deal with a variety of issues you never even knew existed. Normal things like eating food would now become a laborious and, ultimately, deeply unsatisfying experience once you realised that the piece of meat you had just eaten was not beef, as you had been led to believe, but was in fact dog, or perhaps some other local delicacy such as rat or spider.

Then, before you knew what had hit you, your intestines would be in a state of disarray, prompting you to somehow awkwardly attempt to manage your embarrassing, and no doubt rather loud, bodily predicament in your shared toilet with nothing more than tracing-style paper to help you clean up the shocking mess you had created. All this, of course, while you were not even afforded your own designated area of self-pity to recover in, as you are shamelessly forced to share a vile room with an overwhelming collection of weird social retards who don’t even speak your language.

It was such scenarios – and let’s face it, there are countless of others where things could go horrifically wrong – that had always meant undergoing such a sojourn was unthinkable for me and represented something about as favourable as shaving my scrotum with a razor sharp blade, rather than a delightfully liberating foray through some idyllic paradise far, far away.

What was the point of it all anyway? Sure you may get some good weather and see some nice places but you can achieve the same by watching television and going on holiday. I always found that a two-hour flight to Spain once a year provided more than enough culture and travelling for me. I detested such things as camping and music festivals where I had seen enough of strange people’s anatomies and excretions to put anyone off this form of supposed pleasure for a lifetime, which I strongly associated with the pursuit of travelling.

As someone hitting age 30 I very much saw travellers as predominantly part of the younger bleary-eyed generation. The kind who were still idealistic enough to believe that one day the world would be equal and that war and starvation would soon become nothing more than an unfortunate distant memory. Either that or the fraternity was merely made up of hippies and self-indulgent pacifists who had convinced themselves they owed it to humanity to explore the wonders of the world, when really all they wanted was a long holiday away from the stress of normal life where they could get as pissed as they liked without anyone caring. In any case, I had always held the belief that I was, thankfully, the polar opposite to such misguided and deranged individuals.

Yet something changed. Though, I’m not for one second saying that I suddenly turned into a person from the above demographics. That would be unthinkable. But circumstances certainly led me on a direction to try something new. Out of the blue I found myself at a crossroads. With no ties I now had the opportunity to see what else was out there. It was either that or just continue to meekly surrender to the status quo. I had suddenly fostered a bold urge to break with the norm. At least, this was what I kept telling myself. Though, perhaps it just had more to do with my burning desire to escape the UK.

Whatever the reason for my itchy feet, it just somehow felt like this maybe the time to go somewhere else and try something new. Not being a natural linguist, though, and with it often levelled at me that I exhibit an astonishing lack of common sense, I at least hoped I ended up somewhere that vaguely understood me and that was pleasant.

So, after putting a blindfold on, I took a deep breath before bravely stabbing a pen into a map to see where I would be heading. After landing on Iraq and Libya, I shrugged off these not overly appealing destinations and quickly opted for one final thrust to decide my fate. I wearily pulled the blindfold off my face and looked down. I squinted awkwardly in a bid to establish the country my pen was sticking in to. Though, in truth, I could have done with a large magnifying glass, with the country’s size not much more than the ballpoint of my pen.

With my eye now firmly pressed against the map as I struggled to see the name, I was then met with severe difficulties in pronouncing its name. “Van-u-atu…Vanuatu,” I mumbled, scratching my head. It’s fair to say I wasn’t over familiar with the country, which, as it turned out, was none other than one of the tiny pacific islands near Australia and New Zealand.

Following a short period of deliberation I decided that under the terms of my self-imposed agreement to go somewhere I could be understood, I would sadly have to forfeit Vanuatu and instead go to the nearest English speaking country – Australia.

So that was it then. I was officially heading Down Under. I felt strangely liberated, despite having absolutely no idea what was in store for me while, still, wrestling with whether I was in fact doing the right thing. After all, I had never done anything remotely like this before and I was only too aware of the endless possibilities of how things could quickly turn into a living hell. Nonetheless, I manfully did my best to banish such thoughts and figured I would just have to deal with whatever mud was inevitably thrown in my face. And, who knows, maybe even some good would come of this brave adventure I was embarking on.

Following a gruelling 24 hour journey from England which involved me nearly missing my flight, being treated like a member of the Taliban by airport security and spending half the trip sat next to a slimy obese man with arm pits so disgustingly smelly that a tramp would have been ashamed of them, I had now somehow made it against all the odds to my destination, Sydney, Australia.

Although exhausted and bewildered, I took a moment to reflect on my momentous feat of having actually arrived in the country the gods had handpicked for me – well, the nearest English speaking nation to where my pen had landed after several attempts.

After quickly scuttling away from my taxi, having accidentally smashed the door hard into a lamppost, I looked up through the dark drizzly sky at the dilapidated building I had booked into and began to wonder what on earth I was doing in such a far away land. Indeed, what had possessed me to think it was a good idea to stay in a hostel with a bunch of grubby backpackers, such as those loitering irritatingly out the front. I awkwardly picked up my dishevelled backpack I had acquired from a friend back home and summoning all my strength chucked it over my shoulders, causing me to fall back and almost stop breathing as it tightly strangled my neck.

I staggered across the road where I paused and sucked in a large quantity of warm smoggy air, readying myself to take on the hysterical backpackers who were plying themselves with alcohol, while showing a distinct lack of regard for those trying to get past by blocking the front door of the hostel - all as they polluted the air with a fog of thick smoke from their cigarettes.

I shrugged my shoulders before steamrolling through the herd, my sticking-out backpack sending several flying, causing them to squeal petulantly as they dropped their cherished smokes, bringing just a hint of a smile to my weary face. But the harsh reality of my predicament was now beginning to set in. With a purple face and sweat pouring down me like I’d just run a cross-country marathon in Africa barefooted, I made my way to reception where I patiently waited an eternity to be served, despite being the only one in the queue.

After a solid 20 minutes of standing politely in agony, the cheery but stupendously laidback bleach blond-haired receptionist finally saw fit to see what I was doing there. After all, it was now half past midnight. “G’day, can I help you mate?” he said curiously, managing to pull himself away from the naked pictures of women he was admiring on the internet. Patience wearing thin, I looked him in the eye dumbfounded by his appallingly slow service. “Yes you can help me you turd,” I smiled sarcastically, barely able to conceal my anger, while ready to collapse through exhaustion and strangulation. He paused and squinted his eyes. “Sorry, what mate?” Although disappointed he hadn’t heard my disparaging remark in hindsight it was probably just as well.

Just as I was about to launch into a lengthy rant about customer service etiquette I somehow managed to restrain myself at the last minute, perhaps fearing I would be turfed out onto the streets for being an obnoxious arsehole. “I’ve reserved a bed,” I muttered intensely instead. Thankfully he seemed to understand this simple instruction and confirmed my booking.

After being handed my key I made the agonising journey up the steep spiralled steps - with my backpack still suffocatingly around my neck - to the fourth level where after several wrong turns down dead-end corridors I was finally able to locate my room. I put the key into the door relieved I could finally drop my stuff off and get some sleep, before things took an ugly turn for the worse. “Whoops…shit…sorry,” I garbled in a state of shock, after catching a glimpse of something that no person of a rightful mind should ever have to witness as I entered the room. “What are you doing?” a male voice squealed embarrassedly, as he dived for cover. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not knowing where to look, I awkwardly turned around at lightening pace and, after some difficulty, finally removed my backpack, as I tried to act normally like nothing had happened.

But this was no easy feat, especially having just walked in on a man who was sat on his lower bunk bed while crouched over a magazine that appeared to show a naked woman with her legs spread, all as the wonderfully oblivious male vigorously thrusted his manhood like he was shaking a champagne bottle having just won the Tour De France.

I had no idea how to break the ice after witnessing such an atrocity but was outraged that he could possibly be questioning what I was doing when in reality it should have been the other way around. I decided it best to try and a draw a line under what had just occurred. “Hello, I’m new in the room,” I said cautiously, fearing that I was sharing a four-bed dorm with a hardened pervert. “I would shake your hand but….umm…anyway I’m off to the toilet.” And without a hint of eye contact I abruptly left the room stunned at the disgusting turn of events.

When I returned a short while later, still struggling to come to terms with my sordid roommate’s nocturnal activities, I decided the only thing I could do was to try and make a joke of it, but was left surprised by his reaction. “Sorry about that,” he began casually, as if I’d only walked into the room while he was in his underwear and not, as it had turned out, been forced to witness a full-on self mutilation show of his private area. “Although you came in without knocking I should take better care when…you know?” he said, nodding to his genital region in a nonchalant manner that suggested he is rather partial to beating one out in public scenarios.

Despite being unable to banish the torturous images in my head of his hand reverberating over his throbbing anatomy – and the inevitable quick slapping noise that followed – I somehow maintained the pretence that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. “No problem, hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” I joked.

He gave a forced laugh, before his face turned serious. “It’s ok I finished off when you went to the toilet.” I smiled politely thinking he was fooling around, before spotting the sinister look on his face. This person was weird.

The room had a musty, lingering smell, which under the circumstances was not that surprising. There were crumpled clothes, shoes and an assortment of other items that covered the whole floor, including the pornographic magazine that was as wide open as the woman’s legs on the double page spread. The man, whose name I had by now established as Steffan, an Austrian, saw me spot the magazine. “It’s not mine,” he laughed defensively. “It belongs to one of the other guys in the room but he doesn’t mind if others use it,” he added, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well that’s very kind of him,” I replied tentatively, wondering if I had booked into a sperm donation centre instead of a hostel.

Steffan nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sometimes you need to let off steam in a shit-hole like this.”

“Yes I can imagine,” I smiled, as I felt myself drawn into staring at the vast array of large pus craters on his hideous face, reminding me once again of the truism that god did not create us all equally.

I had been informed in England of some of the sordid tales that were alleged to take place in hostels, but not one of those included seeing a stranger’s erect manhood being shaken up like a cocktail as the deviant ogled over a stuck together porn magazine in a room full of strangers. I was beginning to have serious reservations about travelling to the other side of the world already. So despite previously thinking that at my maturing age of 30 I had done the right thing by taking the plunge to come Down Under, I instead started to feel that I shouldn’t have come here at all, and began longing for the snowy dark island I had left. And I was barely two hours into a potential 12-month stay.

Feeling drained following an eventful start to hostel life I decided to try and get some sleep. I climbed into the vacant top bunk and closed my eyes wondering what I had let myself in for, while also praying that I wasn’t awoken in the early hours to the sound of Steffan’s wrist.

It was an odd, unnatural feeling to be sleeping in a room with a bunch of strangers. If the first man was a sexual deviant then how could I be sure the other two weren’t even worse? Obviously one of them owned the porno, which at least meant theoretically he was unlikely to be interested in me, but as for the other one he could have been someone who craved intimacy with men for all I knew. And as fresh meat, lying with my bottom at head level on the top bunk, I was only too aware of my vulnerability. Nonetheless, I tried to put these horrific thoughts out of my mind before pulling the thin sheet over me and eventually drifting off to sleep on the rock-hard bed.

I awoke several hours later in a disorientated cold sweat, initially thinking the previous night had all been one big nightmare, before realising that I really was staying in a down market hostel dorm on the other side of the world where I knew no one. After reaching to check my shorts hadn’t been pulled down by an opportunist, which thankfully they hadn’t, I jumped down from the top bunk desperate to go to toilet, before landing on an object that surprisingly turned out to be someone’s foot. “Ouch,” a deep pained voice shrieked. I looked round and discovered there was a colossal bloke squeezed into the bunk, who for some reason had his legs spread out across the floor area where I had just landed. “That was my foot,” he winced.

After a pause, as I weighed up whether to apologise or slap him round the face for stupidly parking his giant foot in such a hazardous position, I went against my natural instincts and opted for a diplomatic approach. After all, he did appear to be in considerable pain. “That must have hurt,” I replied stating the obvious, not knowing what else to say, before quickly scuttling off to the toilet, which was fast becoming an escape haven from my roommates.

On my return I expertly avoided the conversation of his foot and instead turned to safer topics as we went through the formal introductions. His name was Greg. He was from New Zealand and judging from the glazed and cumbersome look on his bulky face, not to mention the smell of stale booze, he liked a drink. Although friendly enough, it was quickly apparent that he wouldn’t be winning any awards for academic brilliance. Every sentence he spoke seemed to take an age, as he paused blankly scratching his head hoping that his brain would eventually kick into gear so he could remember what he was saying. “We should go out and get shit faced some time?” the giant Kiwi suggested as the conversation drew to a close. With few other options I agreed in principle to his proposition.

Once dressed, I thought I would do some exploring and wandered aimlessly into the city. Ravenously hungry, I decided to treat myself to an $11 spicy meat sandwich and drink from a continental café. It seemed rather pricey, especially given the fact there was a stark lack of meat between the thin slices of bread. After being robbed of my cash I then strolled down the hectic George Street, joining the flock of people curiously studying the smashed up bus that had decided for some reason to use a lamppost to stop.

Continuing my jaunt, I popped into a barber’s shop to get a quick short back and sides from an old Italian man, whose friendliness almost made up for the fact he left me with two giant holes on each side of my head. Insult was then added to injury as he hustled me out of $16 for the speedy botch job. Everything felt so expensive, probably because it was. But also because the actual figures of items were that much higher than in the UK. So, with the exchange rate as it was, for example, the haircut would have cost around £11 back home, which for some reason seemed a lot better than handing over $16, even though the difference would have been loose change that is gladly dispensed in a charity box.

This was an oddity I knew I would struggle to come to terms with, as well as the fact their notes were strikingly familiar to monopoly money, which somehow made it feel as though they weren’t really worth much. It was nice to see the Queen’s face plastered across them, though, which helped me feel slightly more at home.

To cheer myself up and in an attempt to compensate for being royally ripped off so far, I popped into a Seven Eleven shop to take advantage of the $1 coffees – a far more agreeable economic level for me. I ordered a cappuccino and while waiting patiently in line for it to be poured decided to treat myself further by indulging in a chocolate donut. After handing over the requested amount of money I walked out a contented man, especially when it appeared there had been no extra charge for the donut. “That’s kind of them, it must have been a special offer,” I figured, before pausing, having considered there could have been a mix up. But with time pressing on I took a huge mouth-watering bite of my fresh donut and merrily walked off.

Strolling around the city was challenging especially when crossing the road, where cars were allowed to cut in front of you if turning despite there being a green man - as long as the driver deemed there was a big enough gap between themselves and the pedestrians, which naturally they often did. This concept struck me as strangely trusting of the motorist. Surely where there was potential conflict between a person and a two tonne lump of fast moving metal you would think it right to give the benefit to the vulnerable human to avoid them being mowed down repeatedly every day. Not here though.

But in fairness the system did seem to work quite well with drivers, who even if they had gone for a gap that wasn’t quite there, would often quickly halt so the pedestrians wouldn’t be smashed to the floor, which was dam decent of them. Of course, it would have been unthinkable if there wasn’t the odd exchange of hand gestures and expletives from either party on such occasions.

I walked past the giant World Square skyscraper and down Pitt Street – the second most prominent road in the city that ran parallel with the pre-eminent George Street – before stumbling across Elizabeth Street and onto the greenery of Hyde Park, where clusters of people basked happily in the warm sunshine. The park was spacious and dotted with water fountains, war monuments and statues. The standout one being the distinguished looking Captain James Cook, the Englishman who officially discovered Australia in 1770. As I peered up at this towering figure it seemed a strange notion to think of Australia as a country not even 250 years old yet, especially coming from Britain, a country many centuries older where history is bursting at the seams around every corner you turn. But, of course, is infinitely smaller geographically than this vast, sparse continent that only has a population of 22 million.

Despite official records dating the country’s infancy to the Captain Cook era, followed by the subsequent colonial period where criminals from Britain were sent to Australia as punishment for their crimes, it is impossible to consider the country without thinking of the Aboriginals - the indigenous people of the land. Having heard so much about them and of the social problems they faced I was surprised by how few I saw around the city. There was just one, in fact, who I witnessed marching around barefooted, stopping traffic as he blindly crossed the road with his feet caked in black dirt, before scrummaging in bins and picking up tiny cigarette butts from the floor.

A short while later, I spotted him laying down laughing inconsolably to himself on the busy pavement with his arms and legs raised fully in the air as he swigged a large bottle of vodka. People were casting odd stares and shaking their heads as they stepped around or over him before continuing about their business. The only good thing you could say about this was that at least the man seemed happy with his lot. But I suppose that’s the beauty of getting endlessly leathered on spirits.

Feeling weary after all the walking I had done, I stepped into the nearest pub I could find for a drink. After some intense internal debate over whether to go for a soft refreshment or something more daring, I ended up doing the respectable manly thing and ordering a beer. After all, it was vital that I got to grips with the local culture as soon as possible.

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I announced righteously, disturbed by the pathetically small glass of beer the barman eventually served me.

“That’s a scooner mate,” he replied indignantly.

I looked blankly into his hairy face. “A what?” I said, convinced there had been a big misunderstanding.

He shook his head like I was the biggest moron the world had ever known. “A scooner,” he continued, getting increasingly exasperated. “It’s the biggest quantity we can serve you here. It’s what we drink beer out of in Australia.”

“Really? That’s a bit girly isn’t it?” I hit back, forgetting where I was. The reality now kicking in that the lovely pint I had hoped for had been replaced by a pale imitation that was much smaller, no more than two thirds of a pint, I would hazard a guess at. “Everyone must spend all their time at the bar with these?” I added seriously. But sensed the barman mistook it as sarcasm.

“No mate it’s so the beer doesn’t go warm because it’s not freezing cold in this country.”

I got the impression the cheeky old-timer was mocking the climate of England – how dare he? – so I was left with no choice but to launch a knock out counter punch. “Well it’s freezing cold inside buildings here with your Antarctic air conditioning so I’m sure the beer wouldn’t go cold, therefore you could have pints. I do think scooners are a good option for women though.” I smiled smugly and quickly moved away from the bar before becoming embroiled in a needless fight with a pensioner about drink sizes.

Not wanting to outstay my welcome at the tavern, I left abruptly after finishing my inadequately sized, but not too disgusting beer, and continued my saunter along the street when, all of a sudden, I spotted the iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge in the blue sky a short distance away. I felt instantly compelled to head for the much decorated building.

After a longer than expected walk I finally found myself within throwing distance of the bridge, before spending the next half an hour haplessly trying to figure out how to actually access the dam thing, as there were a myriad of small, confusing streets, all of which seemed to take me anywhere but to where I wanted.

Once I had finally found my way on to the bridge I was met by stunning views overlooking the harbour - the largest in the world. The city looked so different from up here, with even the skyscrapers not appearing so domineering. I was also struck by just how big the construction was - the widest of its type in the world - which carries rail, vehicular, bicycle and pedestrian traffic. Opened in 1932, it provides a direct link from the central business district (CBD) to north Sydney and is immeasurably quicker to get across than if you went by ferry, though perhaps not as fun.

Maybe I was suffering from vertigo but for a second I even considered doing the famous bridge climb for the not so affordable price of $175 - where an instructor guides you up the shell of the bridge to the peak – before I slapped myself round the face having realised I didn’t have a spare $200 or so to burn. Instead I settled for the much better priced $20 pylon tour, where you walk up the inside of a supporting structure which tells you all about the history of the bridge, before you reach an outside lookout point at the top having vigorously worked your calf, thigh and hamstring muscles. Although not as high as the bridge climb, it was still high enough and left me with that giddy feeling when looking across the harbour.

Despite the hefty wind that was blowing through my ears like a whistle, I bravely walked around all four corners of the pylon, stopping at each before putting on a brave face and pulling out my cheap and pathetically small mobile phone from which I began taking pictures on. All while stood next to tourists who plucked out top of the range, purpose built digital cameras, probably worth several hundred times more than what my measly phone retailed at. Before departing, and to offer myself some light relief, I made sure I featured in the background of some people’s portrait shots, using an array of creative hand gestures, before slyly retreating into the distance with them none the wiser that their special once-in-a-lifetime picture would forever be tarnished by my appearance.

I made the short walk to the Opera House and stood there staring curiously at it, unsure what to make of this intriguing but slightly odd creation. I was informed by a member of staff that it was something called a “modern expressionist design” – whatever that is? - and was regarded as one of the most pioneering and distinctive creations of the 20th century. It was certainly one of the strangest. This overwhelming sense of self-worth was further heightened by the fact that it staggeringly seated just under 6,000 people in its multi-arena capacity.

Furthermore, I was told, it was one of the busiest performing art centres in the world with more than 1,500 events each year attended by over a million people. It was, of course, also one of Australia’s most popular tourist attractions, with up to seven million people visiting it each year. To add to its prestige it was opened by Queen Elizabeth in 1973 and was situated on the north-eastern tip of the Central Business District peninsula, surrounded by three sides of the harbour, while being adjacent to the Harbour Bridge.

But despite all its grandeur and the fact it was widely considered to be a beacon of architectural brilliance, I found that it looked remarkably like a succession of shark fins. At first I thought this was a deliberate and clever ploy by the designers. After all when you think of Australia, sharks are right near the top of the list, along with kangaroos, spiders, Crocodile Dundee and Shane Warne. But to then go and erect a national landmark in the style of one of your most prominent types of wildlife seemed to be going too far, even by quirky Aussie standards.

Unsure if the selection of roof tops were indeed shark fins or not, I sought out a helpful member of staff for clarification. “No mate,” he said politely. Once he had stopped laughing. “They are sphere concrete shells. But, yeah, I can see what you mean now actually,” he added kindly, after studying the layout for a few seconds. At least there was some vindication for my interpretation and I could not be deemed a complete fool, even if it had been something of a token gesture from the man.

In any event, the Opera House hadn’t quite had the scintillating affect on me that it appeared to have on other overly excited tourists, who fought and wrestled each other for prime photo positions, despite there being enough space for several football pitches around it. Perhaps my insipidness was because I couldn’t shake off the thought it looked eerily like shark fins, or maybe it was due to the fact it was an epicentre of opera, which I had about as much interest in as water polo.

Plus the building itself was only six years older than me, which meant it wasn’t very old in the grand scheme of civilisation and therefore couldn’t compete with the aura, for example, of visiting the Colosseum in Rome, the Tower of London or other such places steeped in history. But with a country that comparatively resembles that of a small child this was always going to be one of the drawbacks. Having looked at the building from all possible angles I made the tiring walk back to the hostel feeling good in the knowledge that I had at least ticked off seeing some of the iconic places up close that the country had to offer. I didn’t think I would be back to see them for a while, though.

CHAPTER 2 – CULTURAL ASSIMILATION

Following a leisurely lunch and stroll in the city I entered the room later that afternoon where Greg was sat on his bed fiddling intently with his backpack. “I thought you were playing with something else then for a minute,” I joked, prompting him to look up blankly, oblivious to the sordid incident I had had the misfortune of witnessing on my arrival, but also, apparently, unsure of whom I was.

After several long confusing seconds with him staring at me it appeared to slowly start coming back to him. “I met you before right?” he asked hesitantly.

“Oh god he’s a nutter,” I thought, wondering how he could have forgotten a conversation that only took place a day ago. “Yes, I jumped on your foot, remember?” I said motioning from my bunk to the floor.

He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. “Oh yeah, I thought my foot was a bit painful.” The penny had seemingly dropped. “Sorry I was still pissed then. You fancy getting on it?”

I glanced about the filthy, bleak room - my new home - and figured I needed a drink. “Why not?” I replied, knowing there was nothing better to do in this dump. So off we went to the liquor store to get some booze, where my education on the alcoholic habits of backpackers began.

“This is the only drink you’ll need out here,” Greg announced like a seasoned backpacker, or alcoholic. Though I was beginning to see there wasn’t much difference between the two. “This stuff is cheap and will get you off your head.” He pointed warmly at a four-litre box that had casked wine inside. “I’ve had so many good nights on this stuff, though you do feel like you’re dying the next day. But once you start drinking it again everything’s ok.”

We got back to the room where Greg ripped the box apart and pulled the sack of wine out, which looked remarkably like a blow-up cushion, and was as squidgy as one too. With a couple of plastic cups nearby he poured out the urine coloured warm wine and swallowed a large gulp, before urging me to do the same. “It tastes like rat’s piss,” I said wincingly, having forced it down. But then, after a few sips it began to flow with greater ease, though still retaining its intrinsic revulsion. “It’s made with fish eggs,” Greg declared curiously, as he polished off his first cupful. It was hard to know if the Kiwi was insane sometimes but I got the impression he may have been telling the truth on this occasion. I checked the box, which duly confirmed this strange fact, adding to the dubiousness of this popular backpacker drink, endearingly known as “goon” in colloquial speech.

After mingling with a few of Greg’s acquaintances in the common area we headed out into the bright lights of the city where we ended up at an infamous Irish pub called Scruffy Murphy’s – a place full of blind drunk people joyfully (in the most part, unless they were trying to start a fight) spilling their drinks everywhere, as they jigged and sang to the raucous band music. I felt like I had suction pads on the bottom of my shoes as I struggled to walk across the sticky floor, caused by a sea of alcohol spillages from the less than sober patrons.

We had a couple of drinks before making our way downstairs where there was a large dance area. Greg, to my surprise, was itching to get involved and before long took his balky frame to the centre where he rather conspicuously began performing break-dance moves, which involved him parking his big frame on the floor with his knees crossed, before spinning around repeatedly like I would imagine a demented asylum escapee would. It was excruciatingly embarrassing to watch and I felt a stabbing pain of humiliation through my association with him. Unsurprisingly, therefore, I made sure I stood as far away as possible at the bar.

Greg was in a state of ecstasy and his bizarre antics had incredibly helped him to interact with members of the opposite sex. I looked over and saw him twirling a girl acrobatically over his head – no easy feat, considering her abnormal size - before getting a dressing down by security, who presumably feared for the woman’s safety had her colossal weight collapsed on the floor from such a height. A few moments later the Kiwi had his tongue stuffed down her throat like he was fervently licking an ice cream. And then, as if he hadn’t already gone far enough, he pushed his hand up her baggy skirt - which looked remarkably reminiscent of a giant dustbin bag - with his arm thrusting backwards and forwards like a pneumatic drill. All of this, naturally, was in full view of everyone dancing. It was far from a pleasant sight, but did provide onlookers with ample entertainment.

After Greg had removed his hand from the female’s lower region, causing her to wander off with a smile, he proudly thundered over and stuck the offending fingers up my nose. “You see that?” he said, eyes lighting up at his accomplishment.

Repulsed, and using all my might not to projectile vomit, I jumped away. “Get your fishy hand away from me,” I screeched.

“Fishy?” he replied, before taking a curious couple of sniffs. “You’re right, it does smell a bit tangy. Nice and juicy though, might give her a portion later,” he added beamingly, before fetching another drink from the bar.

And he was as good as his word, as by the end of the night he was back cavorting with the female man-mountain. “Right we’re off back to hers, see you later,” Greg announced with a wink, as we walked out the pub. I made my way up the street alone and was in bed by the very reasonable time of 3am. It had been an interesting first night out to say the least. I got the impression, though, for Greg it had all been pretty standard.

I awoke the next day at a little past 2pm, having slept for an impressive eleven hours. I felt jaded and had a mildly throbbing head from the previous night, which was not helped by the jetlag I was still coming to terms with. Despite feeling as heavy as a rock and having the energy of a dying snail, I forced myself out of bed, which had already begun to give me significant sharp pain in my lower back.

I then proceeded to the shower room where I turned on the trickling lukewarm (and that’s being generous) water and attempted to invigorate myself, while doing my best to ignore thoughts questioning why I had travelled across the globe at great expense to live like a peasant. “It will be a great life experience,” my positive internal voice would say encouragingly, before hastily being met with stiff opposition. “You’re a big fucking dick head,” my more critical side would yell, before demanding I get the first available flight back home. I knew, though, that pride alone would ensure I at least ground out being in Australia for a month or so. The alternative was to go home with my tail between my legs, which despite all the suffering I had already endured, I didn’t much fancy. Not yet at least.

In sloth-like mode, it took me over an hour and a half to get ready. But not having anything to get ready for it didn’t really matter too much. Zapped of energy and with the afternoon getting on I forced myself out to explore more of the city. After being subjected to the routine fleecing for food and coffee I ambled through the city before stumbling upon the Royal Botanic Gardens, a tropical paradise full of natural beauty with its idyllic water features, colourful plants and trees, and bizarre but engrossing wildlife. All of this with stunning views looking out over the harbour and just a short walk from the chaos of the city. It provided a peaceful sanctuary where people could escape the rigours of work and lay about idly on the pristine grass while breathing in the warm fragrant air.

Walking along I spotted a selection of strange, long beaked birds with fat bodies, supported by long thin stalk legs. Apart from reminding me of a friend who drank too much beer, it struck me how similar in character they were to pigeons, as they meandered about at the pace of a dawdling ant while munching on the smallest crumbs that were available to them. Although the strange creatures, known as Ibis birds, appeared harmless enough I didn’t much fancy getting too close to them. Unfortunately this is the problem when you come to Australia from England; you are taught to think that every bit of wildlife is a potential killer, even when it’s about as harmful as a gerbil. Still, I was taking no chances and cautiously sidestepped a menacing group of them.

A few moments later I heard some deafeningly loud screeching. I looked over to see who was being murdered. But after raising my head I spotted a load of birds, all of different colours who were darting about like spitfires from tree to tree. They seemed incredibly pissed off about something. As I got nearer I saw a few at ground level brazenly walking up to people, demanding they be given some food. At this point I realised they were none other than parrots. It was the punk style haircut that had given it away in the end.

After being tormented for years by an aggressive family parrot that would sadistically fly across the room and eyeball me having landed on my shoulder, before proceeding to peck painfully away at my face and teeth until I pleaded to be rescued, I thought it best to give them a wide birth as well and accelerated past while avoiding absolutely all eye contact. Nonetheless, it was a reminder of the incredibly exotic wildlife that inhabited the country, as opposed to the mundane seagulls and pigeons that we have to put up with back home.

There was a noticeable chill in the air as dusk began to kick in, with the sky turning red from the sunset. With more screeching coming from the sky I looked up, in a state of some discomfort and shock, as I quickly realised it was not from the parrots, but from a colony of giant bats that were flying dangerously close to my head, or at least it felt as though they were. I had never seen anything like it. While ducking down in case any landed on me, I stood open mouthed as this never-ending flock streamed over the gardens and across the city. It was incredible to watch, even if it did feel like I was in the midst of the film Gremlins.

What disturbed me most was that the flying foxes - as they are known, presumably because they were not far off as big as foxes and had unfortunate ginger heads – were massive, with a wingspan of about three feet. In England we are lucky if our bats have a wingspan of three inches. And besides you never see them. Yet here in Sydney there they were brashly flying about like they owned the city. As I walked anxiously through a section of the gardens where no other human was, in typical melodramatic fashion, I started to get horrific images of hungry bats suddenly darting down from above and eating me alive, or carrying me off to wherever they were headed before alleviating their hunger on me like a pack of lions on a water buffalo. “Hopefully they’ve eaten,” I thought, as I picked up the pace, maintaining a fearful eye on them.

Despite what experts say you just never know what can happen with wildlife. And as it turns out there have been several cases in Australia of humans being attacked by these bats, including a brutal case of a Brisbane woman who had the terrifying misfortune to be set upon by a well oiled team of three flying foxes, where one attempted to pull her off balance by going for her lower leg, while the other two wrapped themselves around her head, viciously attacking and spitting on her.

In another case, a Sydney man turned around in his swimming pool to see a whooshing flying fox coming towards him, before crashing into his head, forcing him under water. The bat then paddled to the side of the pool and sat perched sinisterly on a lounger, deadly still with its red eye glaze seemingly waiting to pounce again, before eventually flying off to the man’s great relief. There have been other such cases where people have been attacked for no reason, including a woman who was left with a three inch gash after finally thwarting an angry flying fox that kept coming back for more. A woman also died after rescuing a child that had one on its back.

If you are still braving going to Sydney, though, then perhaps in light of the above you will be pleased to know that since my time in the city the 22,000 flying foxes have been evicted from the gardens and relocated elsewhere after the federal government decided they were destroying important species of trees and palms.

CHAPTER 3 – HOSTEL DEBAUCHERY

With my explorations in the city and being so far from England, I felt strangely liberated, if not a little confused as to my purpose there. I had escaped the mundane normality of daily life back home and replaced it with a diet of daily survival where getting food and eating it felt like a major accomplishment.

As I continued to settle into hostel life it began to feel that my reason for being there, as well as experiencing a new culture and way of life in a city and country I had never been to before, was primarily to get drunk. After my first chaotic night out I had yet to see Greg, until he cumbersomely crashed into the room that afternoon. “You give her a portion then?” I asked, referring to his exploits with the not so beautiful lady. Although there really was no need, as his smirking face gave it all away. “She definitely got her filling. I thought she was having a heart attack at one point,” he said triumphantly.

I shook my head in sorrow. “Well I’m sure that had more to do with the fact she’s the size of a hippo than anything you did.”

Greg laughed. “She dined out on some prime sausage, that’s all I will say.” The Kiwi had no shame.

Over the next few days we varied going to Scruffy’s, as it was affectionately known, with another nearby place called Shark Hotel. And much to my anguish we now had one of Greg’s friends to accompany us; a Finnish man with alternately painted red and black hand and toenails called Veiko, who always looked like he just injected a large dose of heroin into his arm. Again, he was not the blueprint of someone I would ordinarily choose to mix with – in fact in normal life I would be tempted to throw a bucket of disinfectant over him – but I somehow found a way of looking past his disturbing appearance and the fact people would now mistake us as friends when out in public.

After just one drink at Shark Hotel, Greg was off performing his variety of twists and twirls on the dance floor, which meant I was stuck with Veiko at the bar drinking beer. It was far from ideal being marooned with such a freak, especially when he looked suspiciously like a prolific axe murderer. I longed for normal company but instead found my ear getting bent by a strange, curly haired Finn. “I like fat girls too man,” he announced suddenly, in a nostalgic voice, having jealously spotted Greg lifting a large woman. “They are a lot easier to fuck and when I run out of money I usually just hook up with one and stay at her place for a few weeks. It’s a lot cheaper for me that way.”

I looked at him as if he was joking, but his deadly serious expression confirmed he was anything but. “Well, I guess you’re doing the right thing to think about saving your money,” I replied gingerly.

“If I don’t do this,” the Finn continued, just when I thought the conversation had ran its course, “then I have to sleep on a park bench.” I could see his dilemma. If someone else had made the same declaration it wouldn’t have appeared as bad, it was just that with Veiko he seemed to have an evilness about him. Certainly he was not one to give to charity. He would more likely rob the funds.

As with the first night out, Greg ended up going back to a humongous girl’s place for a nightcap. I started to get a sense that he had a thing for rather large women, who also seemed to have the unlucky distinguishing features of looking like they were creatures from horror films. Perhaps it was his antics on the dance floor combined with the fact he was no oil painting himself that led to a mutual understanding with these women, I pondered.

The following night while all three of us were drinking in the room, Greg, having knocked up two of these rather big girls in a matter of days, proudly proclaimed, out of the blue, that he was on course for the “Fat-trick”. He seemed to be thriving on his challenge of getting the “Big Three”. And in this mood it would have taken a brave man to bet against him. As we knocked back our goon, Greg became the focal point of attention and was built up in the manner of a boxer going into a crunch world title fight. Veiko, with his admiration for ladies of a larger persuasion, was leading the way with encouragement. “Make sure you get the fattest one you can man,” he demanded.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Greg quipped, bristling with anticipatory pride.

Feeling intoxicated after coming to the end of our four-litre goon bag, we made our way downstairs to the common area. Not half an hour had passed when, as if by magic, Greg found himself involved in deep conversation with a girl, who it’s fair to say would have needed her clothes to be specially made. With drinking no longer allowed on the premises a whole crowd ended up going outside and congregating down a side street adjacent to the hostel. I glanced over and saw Greg sitting on the floor with his arm around the girl - a notable achievement in itself, such was her body width. The happy couple smiled and larked about for photos, with the Kiwi giving the thumbs up to the camera, as he honed in on his target.

A while later, I glanced round and noticed Greg had disappeared. I instinctively thought he was fulfilling his self-imposed challenge. With everyone else ready to embark on a pub-crawl I quickly ran upstairs to fetch a jumper. As I turned down the corridor to my room I suddenly heard noises that sounded distinctly like someone being tortured. The intermittent screeches got louder the further down the hallway I got, before trailing off. I put it down to high-spirited drunks.

It turned out I was right, but not in the way I had quite envisaged. I swung open the room door where, unexpectedly, I encountered another horrific deed taking place. “What are you doing Steven?” came the startled voice. It was Greg. He quickly yanked a duvet from the bed above in a desperate attempt to cover both himself and the woman up, which, in the latter’s case, was proving almost impossible.

Having unfortunately caught sight of them both, I was instantly reminded of wildlife programs I’d seen where two elephants mate. This was fine in a zoo but not in a hostel room where I had the misfortune of staying. No person should have to witness such a monstrosity, though it was amusing. “I’m getting my jumper,” I smirked. “I didn’t think you’d be here – you normally go to theirs,” I added, without thinking how this may have reflected on Greg, with his lothario exploits now exposed before his latest conquest. Then again, I’m sure it wouldn’t have made much difference to a female with such standards who, in any event, was too preoccupied with trying to cover herself up.

I marched out the room with my jumper, delighted to be out the firing line, but concerned about my uncanny knack of walking in on people in the most compromising of circumstances. Of course they were to blame, not me, but still I wished my timing wasn’t so bad, or good, depending on how you looked at it. From there on the night was one big blur, though I do vaguely recall returning to the room at around 4am after copious amounts of alcohol and being relieved that no one was either masturbating or being shagged.

I awoke sluggishly the next morning just before ten with a substantial hangover. I was supposed to be checking out – within the next 15 minutes in fact - but had taken the decision the previous day I would stay at the hostel. Not because I liked it, far from it – I thought it was a shit-hole - but to avoid having to move my cumbersome backpack, which felt like I was carrying a piano on my back.

I dawdled my way down to reception and requested re-booking for a week, assuming this would be nothing more than a formality. The man pushed a few buttons and looked blankly at his screen. “Sorry mate no more space,” he said abruptly, as if it was no big deal. I wasn’t quite able to take in what he meant at first, before it suddenly became clear that he literally meant what he said. “Are you sure there’s not a single bed in the entire building?” I responded suspiciously, after a lengthy pause. I found it hard to believe that in a hostel of about 400 rooms there wasn’t one free bed, especially when there had occasionally been space in our room, which surely meant the same applied elsewhere. He pushed a few more buttons, staring vacantly at the computer some more. “No nothing at all mate. Sorry buddy”.

I shook my head in total disgust. “Oh great I’m homeless already,” I blurted desperately, hoping my sorrowful plight might pull on his heartstrings and force a dramatic rethink. But I was hit by nothing more than a wall of silence.

He then twisted the knife in some more, “Can I have your key please?” I looked at him in shock. Shock that I, an honourable paying customer, could be so easily discarded onto the streets with no thought for my well-being. After standing open mouthed for a lengthy period I begrudgingly handed over the key in an almighty sulk. But at least I would be reimbursed my $20 deposit to cushion the blow of my exit. Or so I thought. “Umm sorry mate,” he announced apologetically, looking up at the clock. “As you’ve checked out after ten we can’t give you your deposit back now.”

I wanted this cheerful person to be struck by lightening right now. “But it’s only ten past. And besides I was down before ten but there was a queue and then you were trying to find me a bed, so really it’s your fault I’m late,” I replied thumping my index finger on the desk.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry dude, it’s out of my hands.”

Somehow, I bit my tongue, perhaps fearing being arrested by the police had I opened my mouth, and instead shook my head very slowly while looking into his eyes to express my deep displeasure, before storming off to the room.

I woke Greg, who had been asleep sprawled over the bed with half his hairy bum sticking out, and told him my predicament. “Oh take no notice of them,” he said reassuringly. “I do IT work for the hostel so I’ll have a word with them and sort it out later. Anyway there’s nearly always a spare bed in the room. Just leave your stuff here and don’t worry about it.” I looked at Greg, who was clearly in extreme pain with yet another hangover, and wondered if he was the kind of person I could really turn to in a crisis. I also found it curious that someone on planet earth was bold enough to employ him and wondered how he managed to fit any IT work around his drinking, especially as I’d never seen any evidence of him lifting a finger, apart from when pouring goon down his throat, of course. Nonetheless, with options limited, I went with his proposal and left matters in his trusty hands.

After going out for a stroll and eating some food I returned to the room, which Greg said he would leave open from now on with me keyless. The Kiwi was nowhere to be seen, but trusting he had resolved my situation I made myself comfortable in the vacant bed as the clock hit 10pm. I felt aggrieved that the hostel had told me there was absolutely no space anywhere yet there was a perfectly good available bed in the room I had been staying. Feeling exhausted after the last few big nights out I closed my heavy eyes and drifted off to sleep, hoping a new arrival didn’t suddenly turn up at some ungodly hour and demand my bed.

When I saw Greg the next day I asked him if he had used his powers of influence to extend my stay. “What’s that?” he said blankly, seemingly not having a clue what I was going on about, before something was triggered in that big skull of his. “Oh yeah that. Don’t worry it’s all good. I’m just saying you’re working with me.”

Confused, I paused for a second. “So you have told them?”

“I had a word with someone. Yeah I think everything’s cool.”

It didn’t sound incredibly convincing. “You think?”

“Well, I’d imagine they will let us know at some point. But because you’re helping me out we get special rates anyway.” It’s safe to say I didn’t have total faith in Greg’s powers of persuasion or his self-proclaimed indispensability to the hostel hierarchy. But, nonetheless, for some unknown reason I continued trusting the Kiwi.

Over the next few days things went smoothly, with the bed always remaining available. “I misjudged Greg,” I thought, having feared that he had done nothing in the way of sweet-talking the hostel. I wondered why I was so reluctant to leave this place, especially as I looked around the filthy room, where you could still not see the carpet from all the mess that was there, including the porno magazine that was now open on a different page from before. This time it was showing a woman bending over and smiling devilishly while holding a rampant rabbit.

Added to the fact I was living in a dive, I was sharing a room with a pervert in Steffan, an alcoholic who had no self respect in Greg and some other odd bloke, who I’d barely seen, but who, I was told, was the proprietor of the adult literature. And as if all this wasn’t enough, I noticed a mysterious large bald headed man with a nose ring and a giant beard had been taking advantage of sleeping on the couch that was in the corner of the room for the past couple of nights. None of us had a clue who he was or what he was doing in our room. He would appear late at night once the lights had gone out and would then be gone first thing in the morning before any of us had risen. It was an odd situation, but certainly not as odd as anything else I had already experienced in this strange existence that was now my life.

I sensed the individual may be exploiting an opportunity to live rent free. And after bumping into him I duly received confirmation. “There’s always somewhere to stay in this room,” he smiled.

“But how do you get in?” I queried.

“Well, when you guys actually lock the door – which is not that often – I just use a key from a friend who was staying here before. When he checked out they told him he was late so would keep his $20 deposit, so he said, ‘Fine, I’m keeping your key then’. He gave it to me when he left. Bet they wish they hadn’t robbed him of his money now huh?”

I figured that he was a kind of modern day Robin Hood, but of the hostel world. Clearly I was just one among many who had been ripped off by the hierarchy, so could only admire the way someone was fighting back against the establishment. “If you ever need the couch then just take it. I’ve got other rooms I can stay in if need be,” he kindly offered, before adding, “but if you do, then get out of the room before the cleaners come as they make a note of who’s in what bed.” I thanked him for imparting his inside knowledge and wished him good luck, though having not paid a dollar in rent for months I didn’t quite think he was in need of any.

All was seemingly well for a couple of days, with my mood significantly improved by Steffan’s departure. However, things took a turn for the worse when two snivelling French men suddenly moved in to the room. I checked with Greg to ascertain my status in the room but only received a shrug of the shoulders. “Must be some kind of mix up,” he said casually, which really didn’t help me at all. Aloof and snooty, the whispering new pair looked on in abject disgust at the state of the room. “How you live like this?” one, appearing as though he was about to be sick with revulsion, mocked.

“Well, you know it’s a hostel and not The Hilton don’t you?” I replied, with a gentle sprinkling of sarcasm. They both looked at me with a hatred I hadn’t witnessed since I locked someone in a cupboard at school who had it in for me. I sensed the high maintenance Frenchmen could be difficult and that it would be best to maintain a low profile, especially with Greg being circumspect about my entitlement to be there.

Unfortunately when the Kiwi and I returned, somewhat inebriated later that night, matters descended to a new low. While lying on his bed and mumbling something about not feeling too good, the New Zealander, without any warning, unleashed a vile torrent of projectile vomit that sprayed out of his mouth like water from a fireman’s hose and splattered relentlessly against the white wall before rolling down onto the carpet. Then, nonchalantly, and without uttering a single word, he rolled over and went to sleep, leaving a colourful pattern on the wall and an iffy smell lingering in the room.

The only saving grace was that the sick was by Greg’s bed and with it dark the French wouldn’t see it, though there was every chance they would smell it. The next morning having remembered the wall had been defiled the night before, I urged the Kiwi to clean his mess up before popping out. On my return, however, I was met by a whaling noise coming from the uglier one of the two Frenchmen. “Look at this, it is disgusting. Completely unacceptable,” he snivelled, pointing at the sick with fury. Not only had Greg failed to clear his own mess up, but he had also had the cheek to leave me to deal with the moaning onion gropers. I decided to play dumb. “What is it?”

The Frenchman vigorously frowned and pointed again at the mess. “It is sick, look. I go to get someone to clean this up.” And in the blink of an eye they both stormed past me, bumping my shoulder on the way. I thought it might be best to make myself scarce.

The following day, just when it appeared relations couldn’t get any worse, a member of staff was called to the room by the French who were this time complaining of an insect infestation. “No, no, it’s no good. Look at my leg,” one of them sobbed, gesticulating toward some miniscule red mark.

“I’ve never noticed anything bad in here,” Greg added dazedly. Nonetheless, with the concerned member of staff thinking better of the Kiwi’s views, a specialist inspection team dressed like the Ghostbusters were immediately called out on request of the French.

After a thorough inspection the official diagnosis was that an outbreak of bedbugs had spread throughout the room. With the subsequent frenzy among our two Gallic friends, and to a lesser extent the staff, it would have been easy to make the honest mistake that the plague had made a dramatic comeback. This was especially so, as they whipped crime scene tape - or something of a remarkably similar appearance - outside the room, before hurriedly fumigating the area to ensure the evil bugs would not spread. But out of bad comes good and following the highly dangerous incident the two Frenchmen moved to a different dorm after citing the room as “somewhere not good enough for a dirty rat”.

With all that had gone on, our room had become the talking point of the hostel. It was not quite the low profile I had hoped for. I began to grow increasingly suspicious of Greg. In particular, of his work ethic, and more importantly whether I could believe a word that came out of his bumbling mouth. This was especially so after a series of notes started getting placed on the door stating he owed rent for $450, which increased on a daily basis.

But as so often was the case, drinking took precedence to everything else. None more so than when the much hyped Mardi Gras festival – one of the biggest celebrations of gay people on the planet, that is attended by hundreds of thousands from Australia and abroad – was upon us. To me it seemed like the whole city saw this as one almighty excuse to get blind drunk. Main streets were closed off with scores off colourfully dressed people flocking to Oxford Street – the gay suburb – to watch the vast array of floats and acts that were performing, though thankfully none of these were of a sexual nature. Well, none that were taking place on the street in broad daylight that I could see anyway.

I had never witnessed so many unusual costumes or homosexuals congregated in a single area before and so, cautiously, I made my way through the city with Greg and some others from the hostel to see what all the fuss was about after being told it was a “must see” event. I didn’t seem to have the same rampant enthusiasm that everyone else did, however.

Stopping off at various bars before the parade, we swung by a place that was heaving full of drag queens. I assumed that it wasn’t deemed too masculine to drink beer on such a day and gingerly placed my order. While waiting I felt the eyes of a giant man-come-woman stood near me. I focused on the bar in front of me, desperate to avoid any eye contact in case I was apprehended. I clenched my buttocks and put my hands in my back pockets before bracing myself. And as sure as night turns to day, the inevitable approach soon followed. “Hello darling,” came the overly flirtatious voice behind me, before I felt a gentle rubbing on my arm.

Under attack, I knew the best thing I could do was not give him/her any hope. I stood torturously waiting for what felt like an eternity for my beer, before I was struck by the next wave of attack. “Oooo cute bottom Mr,” the voice said cheekily, before I felt a squeeze on my right buttock. That was it. This was going too far, even for someone as liberal as me. I had no choice but to stand my ground. “Do you mind sexually assaulting me?” I raged, before turning round to see a drag queen with seven-inch heels towering over me like I was a small dwarf.

I didn’t much fancy my chances of emerging alive if things turned nasty, so cooled my rant and opted for a daring stare instead. “Oooo darling I would love to sexually assault you. If only you would let me?” the strange voice responded. I felt like a bit of meat. But then, thank god, my beer was ready. I grabbed it and walked quicker then I had ever walked, leaving my admirer shouting at me as I motored away, still clutching my buttocks.

After drinking my beer in a state of deep anxiety, while maintaining a high alert and ensuring my behind remained firmly against the wall, we waited for what seemed like hours for the parade, which frankly, I couldn’t have given a shit about, especially having been violated by one of their members in the bar. Even when the show began it was almost impossible to see anything through the sea of bodies, while squashed on the side of the street as opulent drag queens flaunted and flirted their way through the crowds. I was not having the best of times. But when told by a policeman to pour my bottle of beer away as it was not permitted on the street, that was the final straw. Not wanting to waste any more of my life looking at giant dolled-up men dressed as women, I made my excuses and wandered off, before finding the comfort of my own space and several scooners of beer in a side street pub.

It took me a good day to recover from Mardi Gras – both mentally and physically. But in an attempt to cleanse myself I knew I had to get back on the wagon and put aside all fearful thoughts of drag queens, before hitting the city the following night. After drinking at the hostel we made our way into city, where we found ourselves stood outside the heaving Cheers Bar on the corner of Liverpool Street when a taxi pulled up outside. The window wound down. “Hey lads you fancy coming to this place we know,” a drunk, dishevelled woman who must have been in her late 50s shouted, appearing to look in our direction. I glanced behind me, before realising the question was indeed directed at us. I assumed she was one of Greg’s friends, especially as by the time I had a chance to look round at him he was half in the car. “What are you doing?” I asked him in amazement.

“Come on Steven it will be fun,” Greg insisted.

“You know her right?” I whispered.

“No,” Greg said with a grin on his face.

“Oh brilliant, here we go,” I muttered as I boarded the taxi to god knows where, half expecting to be taken to a desolate place before being robbed and murdered.

After a short journey we arrived at a strange local bar on the outskirts of the city where everyone seemed to be staring menacingly at us as we entered. Greg, unsurprisingly, got a drink and immediately went off with the odd lady. Before long he was lobbing her about on the dance floor in his customary way. Meanwhile I got cornered by a bearded alcoholic propping up the bar who began to tell me his life story, that largely centred around his drug addiction that started when he became a teenager. I nodded politely for a solid hour, hoping that eventually he would become bored of his own voice.

As the night unfolded in this sinister place, the only surprise was that I avoided an unjust beating from one of the on-looking hostile patrons, many of whom seemed to be bikers, with arms as wide as my thighs. Not enjoying the vibe or the company in the place I pulled off a minor miracle when persuading Greg we leave while the woman had popped to the toilet, with the New Zealander therefore foregoing whatever delights he may have had coming from her. As we sped through the city after hauling down a taxi I decided I couldn’t carry on like this and needed to make drastic changes in my new backpacker-style life.

My worst fear was realised the following day when I returned to the room to discover my backpack was no longer there. Strangely, Greg’s stuff had been taken as well. To add to the confusion the door was wide open and the cleaners had changed all the beds. Something was going on. I feared it may have something to do with Greg’s non-show for work - again.

When the Kiwi turned up, bleary eyed, we bumbled down the stairs to have it out with reception. Or rather Greg did. I thought it better if I stayed out the way. I hung back around the corner pretending I was looking at the notice board as my friend proceeded to work his magic. However, it didn’t seem to be going too well for him. “You haven’t paid any rent yet and still haven’t done the IT work we asked of you,” a female voice snarled. “We’ve got all the stuff locked away and have changed the lock to the room. You can have your belongings when you either pay us or do the work you’re meant to do.” It began to kick in that, just as I had suspected, Greg was not quite on top of things as he had been suggesting. But more importantly I now knew they had my backpack, including my passport and valuables.

There was, though, a window of opportunity to regain my possessions when Greg, after much begging, was granted the opportunity to get his stuff and go to a new room. But only after the aggressive woman insisted he handed over his passport, presumably as a precaution against the wily Kiwi absconding without payment.

The frothing female, who I could only assume was the manager, ordered a handyman with keys to the storage room to let Greg get his stuff. Sensing my opportunity, I slyly followed them both down, where a door was unlocked. I was staggered by the amount of backpacks and bags sprawled across the room floor, which made walking about as easy as if you were embarking on an army assault course. “They confiscate a lot of people’s stuff, “ I said under my breath, before realising this was in fact the area where travellers had paid to leave their stuff, or could drop it for a few hours while waiting to depart.

To my surprise the man with the keys – a six foot plus northern Englishman, who was as round as he was tall – made his way over to a corner of the area where he unlocked another, far smaller room. “Ah this must be the confiscated storage,” I mumbled, as I casually sauntered over, pretending I was a random lost soul who happened to be trying to locate his misplaced luggage. I completely ignored Greg, making sure I made absolutely no eye contact in order to preserve the false impression that I did not know him. After all, if he was going down then I was damned if he would take me with him, especially after he had put me in this predicament by not fulfilling his obligations.

With the hefty Englishman twiddling on his phone and Greg lumbering about at the pace of a stoned giant, I nipped into the small room where I spotted my hideous backpack on a rail. I had never been so happy to see this glorified dustbin bag. I discreetly grabbed it, not even bothering to put it on my back. Instead, holding it firmly with both of my hands - like you would a newborn baby - and marched out, repeatedly defying gravity by not falling over all the backpacks along the way. I briefly met eyes with the handyman, who performed a suspicious second take in my direction. I wished him a good day and steamed past, thus preventing a possible interrogation about who I was and what the hell I was doing emerging from the confiscated storage cupboard with a backpack.

After using every fibre of muscle to climb the stairs, I finally made it to the top. With sweat pouring down my face, I took in a gulp of musky air and checked the coast was clear, before slowly easing my way past reception and out of the hostel without anyone blinking an eye. I had made it.

I had left as I had arrived: perplexed and in considerable discomfort. The only difference being that I was now officially homeless in a far away land, an issue I would need to address with some urgency, unless I fancied sleeping rough on a park bench.

CHAPTER 4 – HOMELESS

With all the non-stop drinking and exploring I had been engaged in since I swept into the country I had almost forgotten I had a sister living a few blocks away. Being homeless, this seemed like the ideal time to get in touch and have a catch up. I explained my predicament to her on the phone before being invited over to the nearby apartment block by Central station where she was staying with her boyfriend. And, as I quickly realised, an army of other people. They were in a two bed apartment that overlooked the city. But there must have been at least 12 others that lived in this grubby excuse of a flat, which came complete with thick mould and dirt - not least on the pile of unwashed plates and pans that had food scolded fiercely onto them from previous months.

With all the bodies everywhere, I thought I was back in an 18th century British halfway house for a second, especially as each of the rooms had two bunk beds. With four in each room, it meant there was an impressive eight individual’s sleeping within the space of a few feet, plus any guests or partners that would frequently be over as well. Then, there was a further two staying on the couch in the lounge.

This was the natural progression of a backpacker, I was told: you start off slumming it in hostels where you meet people, before branching out into the luxury of an apartment. But as far as I could see it was simply living just as you would in a hostel, but in a flat with people that, on the whole, were not all total strangers. Where you would normally see a stranger’s bare arse hanging out while they were asleep, this was merely replaced with the buttocks of someone you knew.

After doing enough rounds of drink to leave me in serious danger of collapsing, a group of us decided to hit the town. But such was my state of inebriation that my last recollection of the night was of me holding a heated discussion with a total stranger at the bar. For some reason I was lecturing him on how he had let himself down with his over-zealous drinking. Swaying like a small tree in a gale force wind, while banging my hand down forcefully to make my point, I demanded that he should take greater personal responsibility with his drinking. “What like you?” the cheeky individual countered, highlighting the irony of such a statement coming from someone who could barely stand up.

“Ah yes,” I spluttered decisively, spraying saliva gloriously all across his face. “But I’m not a bell-end.” With the argument won I strolled off victoriously to the bar for another drink.

That little chat was the last thing I could recall from the night as I woke up in a state of some disorientation. This was compounded as I wearily lifted my head and looked around wondering where I was before slowly realising that, for some bizarre reason, I was actually in the television room in the hostel where I had just fled the day before. Parts of my memory slowly started coming back from the previous night, as I remembered my phone running out of battery and then losing everyone, before deciding that my best option for shelter, unless under a cardboard box on the street, was to crash on the comfy bean bags in the television room of the hostel.

As I sat up I noticed there were four others sprawled out. It appeared they too were not there to watch television, and were in fact also utilising the hostel’s amenities, which would have been a generous gesture by the place had they been aware of what was happening.

To make matters worse Veiko was one of the people. After spotting me he was straight over, causing the pain in my head to worsen. “I’ve got no money so I’m staying in the TV room for a while,” he said slowly, in that crazy voice of his, eyes looking pained by his sorrowful existence. “Then I’m going to work on a farm. But if I can’t then I will punch someone so I can get arrested and they will deport me. At least I won’t have to pay for the flight home.”

Unfortunately I found myself, yet again, stuck with the Finn. He informed me that Greg was now finally doing the IT work to pay off his debt to the hostel and would be heading up to Brisbane once he had served his time.

After grabbing something to eat from the free food section in the kitchen and lazing about watching some of the worst television programs ever screened, boredom kicked in, inevitably prompting the purchase of a four litre box of goon and another afternoon and night of drinking. My plans to resolve my accommodation crisis had once again been shelved so I could get slaughtered.

The pattern was repeated the following day as I woke in the TV room with the usual assortment of vagrants and drunks. Not wanting to go a third night of rough sleeping I declared that my major objective for the day was to find somewhere to stay and get out of the clothes I had been in for half a week – enough, I’m sure to have fully qualified me as homeless.

During my drinking exploits, I had stumbled across a tacky old bar which proudly announced on a sign outside its grubby entrance as having the cheapest beers in Sydney – “Dirt cheap drinks all day every day,” it read proudly, or words to that effect, sending alcoholics across the city into a fever pitch of excitement. Intriguingly, there was also a sign for a hostel, no doubt equally as glamorous, above it. I figured this would make the ideal place for me to live.

I made my way to the hostel where I approached reception. My hopes were quickly crushed after I was told there was no space for a couple of weeks. However, I could stay in their sister hostel down the road until then. At $20 a night it was one of the cheapest places around, so naturally I jumped at the chance to move in and re-unite with a bed and shower.

I made my way up the windy staircase and walked gingerly toward my room. It was at the end of a corridor where a TV and a few chairs were, which struck me as odd. I noticed a note on the wall, indicating that this area was in fact the TV room. With no space for a real television room they had imaginatively decided to dump a few chairs and a screen in the middle of a hallway. “Classy,” I thought, as it quickly began to sink in why it was just about the cheapest place around.

To add to its uniqueness, it was eerily quiet and even though it was only midday there was a gloominess created by the serious shortage of windows and the economy light bulbs. I decided to take the plunge and enter my four bed dorm. Or I would have but for the fact I couldn’t figure out how to get in. Reception had given me a key card, which I reasoned went into the small slot by the handle. The only trouble was that every time I slipped it in there was nothing but a red light that showed. After a solid 20 minutes of frantically trying I was finally granted a green light and entered the room.

I threw my backpack on the floor and looked around the room. It was basic but clean. There appeared to be two free beds so I opted for the one nearest the door in case I had to make a quick get-away from any perverts. No one was there so I took the opportunity of peering out the window, with it somehow feeling like a massive luxury to have a view. But as I stuck my head out of the window I realised it was not. In every direction I looked there was nothing but towering concrete buildings, including one overlooking me. The only difference between staying in this room and being in prison was that at least prison was free. And quite possibly had better views.

I went out to the hallway to use the bathroom when I noticed two strange women who were speaking secretively in French. One had several rings through her nose, while the other had a skinhead. When they started putting their tongues done each other’s throat it dawned on me that they were lesbians. I quickly moved on to the kitchen area, which looked like no one had washed up or cleaned for several months. The plates had stale food on them and rubbish was spread around the room. As if that wasn’t bad enough I spotted three cockroaches on the floor, revelling in the filth of the place.

After three days without a wash I psyched myself up and headed for the shower. I luxuriated in the dribbling water, cleansing myself both physically as well as psychologically, in the hope I could rid myself of some of the mental scars I had acquired from this primitive existence I now found myself in. My relative enjoyment under the hose was rudely interrupted when yet another cockroach appeared from beneath the shower, and began meandering dangerously close to my foot. I flicked a bucket load of water in its direction forcing the little fucker to scuttle off.

Feeling slightly less filthy I climbed cautiously out of the shower and made my way via the television room/corridor with nothing more than my towel on for protection, where a selection of assembled odd guests were sitting around. I thought about revealing my hairy backside to them all, as a kind of protest against the hostel, but decided against it after fearing it may have sent out the wrong signals to a couple of the watching men. Plus they knew what room I was in now and you could never be sure what kind of types inhabit such a seedy hovel.

Not wanting to dwell in the hostel I quickly changed and went out for a walk. I returned a couple of hours later with it dark outside. But as it was only 8pm I was somewhat taken aback that the light was already off in the room, with a guy in the far top bunk happily snoring away. It occurred to me that this may not be much of a party room. Indeed, the hostel itself, where people were rarely spotted and didn’t dare speak above a whisper, led me to believe that this whole place had less life than a morgue.

As I scrambled desperately about the room in the pitch black with nothing more than my tiny crap mobile phone as a light, I rummaged through my bag to find my contact lens solution as peacefully as I could, in fear of disturbing the sleeping beauty in the corner. It was a strange scenario and, as a newcomer to the hostel world, I wondered what the etiquette was in such circumstances. After all it was relatively early and still daylight outside so was I entitled to switch the light on, or would this have breached the other guy’s apparent right having been in the room first? Conversely was it acceptable to inflict a totalitarian style of rule over the others, as this guy was doing to everyone else? Or was it the case that the democratic will of the majority would prevail in such circumstances?

Above and beyond this there were a myriad of other issues to contend with, such as, was it ok for me to hang my tops over the bar that separated the top and bottom bunks? Could I speak on the phone when others were in the room and could hear the entire conversation? And what about sex? Was it permitted in the room when others were there? Or was there a code of conduct, such as where slow quiet lovemaking was allowed, but loud energetic sex was outlawed when others were present? Although I had already had my eyes opened to some of the antics that went on, it was clear this was a very different environment. And in any case the room didn’t have Greg, who in fairness was a bit of a one off.

I had already taken the decision that unless the room was empty I would not change into a pair of boxer shorts, as I didn’t particularly want to expose my lower regions to a host of strangers who may come storming into the room at any one time. Even if no one was about it became pretty apparent that you could not afford to dawdle or miss the hole you put your legs through, as it was likely you may stumble and fall, being left to roll around humiliatingly like a beach whale on the floor nakedly stranded as one of your roommates enter. To share such personal activities that you would normally do in the confines of your own private room with total strangers was not something everyone could handle. Myself included. But here I was in amongst a raft of perverts, thieves and god only knew what else.

It wasn’t for a couple of days before I finally spoke to someone in the room. An awkward silence descended as a large skinhead guy, aged about 40, walked in late that afternoon. I sat on my bed trying to look busy while he got changed out of his workman’s attire. All eye contact had been avoided at all costs, before we both accidentally caught each other’s glare, prompting a manly raising of our eyebrows in acknowledgement of one another. This was masculine etiquette and allowed us to communicate through non-verbal means that could not be mistaken for a homosexual advance. Not that I have anything against those who like to brown the wicket, as it were, it’s just I wouldn’t want to be mistaken as someone who bats for the other team.

He sparked up a conversation after spotting a football shirt by my bag. It was a safe subject and put us at ease, as we got to know each other. Just like Greg, Troy, as he was known, was also a big Kiwi. But rather than having a dumb look about him he had a psychotic gaze in his eyes. Apart from the obvious fact that he was not someone to mess with, he was actually a friendly bloke. He had a wicked sense of humour, too, with it soon apparent he disliked just about everyone. “We had this filthy stinking guy - think he was from Pakistan or somewhere - in here a few weeks ago who sucked all the fresh oxygen out of the place with his stench. I told him, ‘You better go before I make you go’. It seemed to do the trick”. He shook his head as he recalled the painful memory, before revealing he had also held a Chinese man captive in the room, who he caught going through other people’s stuff, until the police arrived and took him away after finding numerous stolen credit cards on him.

Quirky and enigmatic, he was a fountain of anecdotes and useless information and before long he was giving me the benefit of his experiences of living in Sydney and all the various nuances and customs that Australia – “Our fifth state”, he stated without flinching – had. Topics ranged from beer to immigration and cheese. Suddenly, he pulled something out of his bag. “You want some Coon Cheese,” he said, with a straight face, showing me a block of cheese with such a title. I was speechless that there could be such a brand. “Told you the Aussies are thick fuckers,” he continued, looking smug at getting one over on his local rivals.

This Australian stereotype of being obscenely laidback was further bolstered when listening on one occasion to a prime time radio station where the presenters were repeatedly swearing – “Mick you silly fuck head,” one said casually. However, one female broadcaster did take things a step too far when she called someone “a cunt” on live air during a breakfast show. Naturally, she was only given a slap on the wrist and told to tone it down a bit by her producer. In England she would have been sacked as soon as she put down the microphone and never worked in radio again, as well as being disowned by anyone who ever had anything remotely to do with her. Yet I found the casual liberalism a breath of fresh air, especially coming from the UK where you couldn’t cough without offending the majority of the population.

Troy went on to tell me a couple had moved in just before I had arrived, with his eyes lighting up with delight that they were rarely about. Perhaps they had sensed this wasn’t really the place for romance, unless they had a death wish. However, the next day I was lying on my bed waiting to go to sleep when the couple came into the room and climbed on their bed and began whispering. Warning signals were beginning to go off in my head as I attempted to get to sleep, though after what Troy had told me I didn’t feel in too much danger of anything untoward happening.

But sadly my confidence was badly misplaced, as after a few minutes, just when I had convinced myself they were playing safe and not indulging in anything more than a gentle fumble below the sheets, I suddenly got wind of a very slow but definite rhythmical squeaking noise that was emanating suspiciously from their bed. I desperately tried to pretend I couldn’t hear anything, before forcing myself to think it was a random noise from the building. But as the bouncing became more vigorous - with the odd quiet groan thrown in for good measure - I could not deny it any more.

I felt strangely violated. Not in a physical way, thankfully, but in a mental capacity. There I was one minute happily minding my own business before suddenly being thrown into the intimate depravity of a strange couple I did not know. I wasn’t handing over my hard earned $20 a night to be thrust into a voyeur porn movie. Not without my permission, at least. I had certainly endured my fix of such scenarios, having heard my older sister having sex many times – it was impossible for our friends and I not to, even if we were a couple of rooms away. I found this equally repugnant. There was just something quite creepy about knowing two complete strangers’ genitalia were in direct contact just a few feet away from your head, with the guilty pair being totally at ease with you being in attendance.

Nonetheless, I gave the couple the benefit of the doubt as they were clearly trying to keep noise to a minimum, therefore showing some appreciation of their surroundings, which counted in their favour when weighing up whether to launch a shoe in their direction or not. It struck me that it wasn’t the cleverest thing doing to do it above Troy, who must have been gently rocking to their sweet rhythm. But fortunately for the pair Troy was a deep sleeper and was oblivious to the sordid happenings. Having put a pillow over my face I eventually drifted off to sleep.

I recounted my experience to Troy the next day. He rolled his eyes, not impressed at such liberties being taken. “If I’m awake or catch them doing it while I’m here, I’ll sling one up her too,” he declared, eyes bulging out of his head.

In amongst drinking, exploring and surviving hostel life, I had gradually developed a routine of sorts and was doing some football coaching for an academy and a school to help slow down my leaking bank balance – a reality all backpackers inevitably face. Deep down, though, I knew that with the way I was throwing away money I would have to do more than just a few hours a week of this.

My boss was a Chilean with the apt name of Franco, though I do not believe he was any relation to the notorious former Spanish dictator. He was a strange dichotomy: uncompromising and arrogant one minute and the next he couldn’t do enough for you. Living in Australia for 30 years, this round shaped man was, frankly, a bit mad. And that’s being generous.

After my first training session he had kindly offered to give me a lift back to the city. While in heavy traffic waiting for a green light he suddenly demanded I open the door and hop out his van to look under a seat and try and find a pen so I could write down my address. “Go. Get out. Find pen. Go now,” he shouted aggressively, leaving my ear bells ringing, and with little choice but to jump out onto the packed freeway with vehicles as far as you could see, revving as the lights began to change. When I jumped back inside - having narrowly avoided getting mowed down by a tsunami of motorists - he grabbed my jaw with a vice like grip. “When we have problem…we find solution,” he snorted, before patting me so hard on the cheek that I was left with an effervescent red slap mark.

Times were hard with cash but I was already beginning to question whether they were so hard that I had to do this job. In a bizarre way I knew he meant well, but as hard as I tried, I couldn’t escape the burning truth; that he was a bit of a prick. As we made our way into the city he slightly redeemed himself when he announced that I would be taking a privileged role in the academy. “You look after the good players yes, don’t worry about the spastic players,” he said nonchalantly. As honoured as I was that he thought so highly of me I was getting the impression Franco was not too concerned with political correctness.

Despite this, just as I knew they would, things inevitably went down hill very quickly between us. At the next training session, in front of mums and dads, Franco gave me a public dressing down for starting training one minute late; all because I had to persuade a bunch of massive rugby players to leave the pitch that we were meant to be training on. “Steven, you start the fucking training session late, this is no good for me. Never again,” he yelled while exasperatedly waving his arms around. “Fuck off you fat tosser,” I mumbled angrily in return.

The final straw came when I had to get myself to an obscure location for a match, with nothing more than a map and weekend public transport to rely on. The journey was fine until on the second bus I caught, I had to figure out where to stop. I told the driver the name of the place I had to be at when I boarded and asked him to let me know when the stop was. But as we got to the area he emphatically revealed there were no sports pitches in the vicinity anymore. With few alternatives I stayed on the bus and rang Franco, who was not impressed. “You have problem, you find solution,” he shouted and hung up the phone.

“Tosspot”, I replied, shaking my head.

With all other passengers having got off the bus, I was now standing right at the front having a full blown conversation with the driver, who rather than going back to the depot was going out of his way and driving aimlessly around trying to find this place no one had ever heard of. With us getting increasingly lost, I told the driver enough was enough, just like when a doctor makes the decision to stop trying to revive someone. I knew Franco would be exploding with rage but if a bus driver with 30 years experience on the road didn’t know where it was then what chance did I have?

I got taken back to the depot where I was ushered into a room with other bus drivers who were chatting and joking. Before long my predicament was the focus of fevered discussion, with the unanimous conclusion being that nobody had a clue where this venue was. The only good thing to come of my aborted two-hour mission around Sydney to nowhere was that I had bonded with the lads from the depot.

I didn’t know if this was in any way down to my sudden development of tourettes. Although I am partial to the occasional use of industrial language in the right environment, for some unexplained reason here I was in front of a group of strangers freely throwing about expletives. “Ever since I made my way out of the fucking hostel, it’s been one fucking thing after a fucking another. I’m going to have to fuck off this football coaching if I can’t fucking get to the fucking matches. That Franco’s a fucker.” My shame was exacerbated by the fact the whole group of guys were hanging on my every word, having found it extraordinary but refreshing that an English man had rocked up with a driver in the staff area of the depot, who, out of the goodness of his own heart, had bravely tried to get me to the match. This, I was told by one, had never happened in the 25 years he had worked for the company, so naturally I felt a sense of honour and pride in such special treatment being bestowed upon me.

It has to be said, though, that in my adrenalin fuelled rant I was largely oblivious to my loose language. I was hardly a shining example of Mother England, but I put this down to multiple strong coffees I’d had and the stressful ordeal that I’d been subjected to. “I’ve never heard someone swear so much in my whole life,” one of the men, approaching pensionable age, commented with wonderment. But, despite this, and somewhat out of the blue, I was then offered a job as a bus driver by whom I presumed was the boss. Needless to say all the other men rallied around in ferocious agreement, desperate to get me to join up. I had never felt so wanted in my whole life. Nearly falling off my chair and spitting out my coffee, I took several minutes to regain my composure, such was my shock at the unexpected offer. They clearly didn’t know me as well as they thought they did.

Nonetheless, I thoughtfully chewed over the proposal for a few moments. As I pondered, however, less than glorious memories of various driving experiences popped into my head, including the time I drove a truck for a delivery job where after successfully dropping off some items the gods were against me when misfortune saw me reverse into a high brick wall, knocking half of it to the floor, before speeding off in a kind of hit and run. Things got worse for me that day as the company whose wall I had knocked down informed the agency that I was working for (it was my first and last day in the job) that one of their drivers had left a mountain of bricks where there had once been a wall.

To further compound matters, on the journey back the driver door had for no reason suddenly swung open while I was motoring at 70mph, leaving me clinging on for dear life. My misery was completed a short while later when I couldn’t work the truck at a busy roundabout for several minutes due to a shockingly stiff clutch, causing a huge tailback of angry honking motorists. I may also have knocked over a road sign, though I couldn’t be totally sure because of the restricted view. Of course, I put all this down to the large, oversized contraption I was driving. So although I wanted to say yes to the bus job, I knew that on the grounds of safety (mine and the public’s) I couldn’t and had to come clean. “I will kill someone if I’m driving a bus in the city,” I said, albeit with a heavy heart.

After delivering the damaging blow to my fans, I was told by the saintly driver that I could be dropped off in the city free of charge in an out of service bus before it collected customers. I gladly accepted the offer and made it clear I would like to thank him officially. I was given a website address and instructions to follow by one individual, who revealed his colleague had been put through the mill recently following a malicious unfounded complaint, which had nearly ruined his career. So after being dropped off in the city I immediately went to an internet café where I filed a glowing report on the driver for his efforts in going “above and beyond what was expected” of him. I later found out he had been put forward for a commendation, which he truly deserved. I don’t know many public servants that would have gone to such lengths to help a member of the public.

While sat at the computer I checked my emails where my eye was conspicuously drawn to a message that appeared from Franco titled, “Ghost??????????”

In the email he had the cheek to question my commitment to the academy while leaving the door open for a return. Having decided that it wasn’t feasible for me to rely on others or indeed public transport to get to matches, I left a reply confirming my departure. Following this, I was told by a friend, Tobias, at the coaching academy that the mere mention of my name was banned and if anyone was heard saying it Franco would erupt like a volcano. “He’s an English son of a whore. No good. Bastard,” were apparently his last words of me. In the interest of stirring things up Tobias took things upon himself to often deliberately talk about me in front of the Chilean and how well I was doing.

CHAPTER 5 – A NEW HOME

Following two weeks of purgatory it was time for me to move into the $18 a night 20-bed dorm hostel down the road that I had been promised. I must admit the thought of sharing a room with 19 strangers did not exactly fill me with joy but the dirt cheapness of it was a massive appeal.

After doing the formalities of signing in I heaved my way up the spiral staircase from reception to level 3 and, after steadying myself, made my way down the corridor to room 301. I didn’t need to use the key card as the door was propped open by a flip-flop, which I found intriguing and sensed was an indication of the room’s happy go lucky nature. I paused warily, before gently pushing open the door and quietly slipping into the giant sized room. I had never seen so many beds in one place and thought I had accidentally been placed in a homeless shelter.

There were bunk beds running parallel all the way down the room, with ridiculously cheap plastic chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a sofa that looked like it had been plucked from the dump – no doubt it probably had. Unsure which bed I was supposed to have, I wandered cautiously about before spotting a bottom bunk bed in the corner that looked free. I glanced around the room and noticed a handful of people on their beds who were listening to music, on their laptops or reading.

I felt like I was in a gold fish bowl, with every move observed by the sea of watching eyes. With my new environment I knew that even such luxuries as a brief scratch to my balls would now have to be performed with great care when no one was looking, rather than the usual elongated hearty rub until I felt immensely satisfied the itch had gone. The same principle applied to my bum, while I also knew I’d have to be wary of releasing bodily odours when close-by to others. After all, I’m English not French.

Not to mention the greater care I would be forced to take in covering my genital regions, particularly when wearing boxer shorts that offered little in the way of coverage. I could just picture the scene where I was introducing myself to fellow backpackers, before returning to my bed only to realise in horror that my manhood had been poking out the side, or one of the many holes, in all its glory. I would then forever be known as “Winkle Steve”.

I decided to check out the facilities. Wandering into the kitchen I pulled a glass from the shelf to refresh myself with some water from the tap. As it flowed out I noticed it was a bright white colour, almost identical to what you get from cows. “This must be the milk tap,” I mocked, holding the glass up. Bravely, I took a gulp hoping I wouldn’t be poisoned, before noticing there were two fridges that had bags with everyone’s food in. There was a large table in the middle with two ovens in the corner. One of which had a sign, “Not working”, that due to the smattering of old food looked like it had been there a while. “They like to keep on top of things here,” I observed and walked out shaking my head in disgust.

Next, I went to the toilets and shower area. Although the toilet seat was hanging off, everything else appeared to be in working order. Having fetched my towel I then entered the shower, where there was an arrow pointing clockwise for hot water. I turned the knob, naturally expecting lovely heated water to come effortlessly flowing out. But instead was only intermittently sprayed by ice drops shipped in from Antarctica. Jumping out of the line of fire I quickly fiddled with the handle and was finally rewarded with the occasional drop of lukewarm water, after figuring out the knob was the wrong-way-round.

To make matters worse there was someone in the shower next to me, clearly enjoying a warm soak while blissfully humming to himself. Looking down at the floor I noticed a gap at the bottom of the separation in which I unwittingly saw the reflection of the man. It was far from a pretty sight. But with me now totally naked I suddenly realised that if I could see his reflection then surely he could see me. Without a second’s thought I grabbed my towel and leapt out of the shower with foam from my shower gel still frothing under my armpits.

After quickly drying off and throwing on some clothes, I popped out for a solitary evening of food and beers before returning to the hostel around midnight. I gently pushed open the door. The lights were off and people were sleeping so rather than wake the whole room up I used my trusty mobile phone light to guide me to my bed. Following careful navigation, where I somehow thwarted several trips over errant boxes of goon and people’s dumped belongings, I finally got to my bed. Just as I was about to climb in I realised that a strange young woman was fast asleep in there. I was speechless at the sheer cheek of it. I had placed my backpack to the side of the bed making it abundantly obvious that bed was mine and had also, if I wasn’t mistaken, left a pair of shorts on the pillow. Apart from leaving a giant sign stating the bed was taken I really couldn’t have done much more.

After strongly considering rolling her out of the bed and onto the floor before tucking myself under the warm covers, I then decided to get some of the Baltic water from the shower and tip it over her instead. It was the only way she would learn, after all. In the end, though, in the interests of international relations I scuttled off into the darkness after one final look of disgust and shake of the head. It was becoming obvious that in hostel life, lower bunks are a sought after commodity and I knew she had exploited my absence to claim the sought after prize. But one thing was for sure, I wouldn’t forget this.

Just when I was beginning to panic there were no free beds and was about to storm down to reception in my holy boxer shorts, as if by magic I spotted a top bunk that was free in the far corner. After double checking to make sure nobody was under the covers I climbed the creaking steps and collapsed into the bed and fell asleep instantly. Several hours later when it was light but still dangerously early I was awoken by a young woman prodding me viciously in the arm. Judging from the exasperated look on her face she had been there for some time trying to wake me.

The combination of early morning light from the giant adjacent window and her constant stabbing had finally had the desired result as I gradually broke into consciousness. “Sorry,” she whispered politely but firmly, “this is my bed”. I realised I had committed bed theft and naturally blamed it on the girl who had stolen mine.

“Sorry I didn’t realise. But if you want someone to blame then it’s her fault because she took mine,” I mumbled, pointing in the direction of my brief former bed, before uneasily climbing out while trying not to expose too much of myself, knowing full well large clumps of my body hair and saliva would have been left in there for her.

Thankfully most people in the room appeared to be asleep or had got up and were not aware of my indiscretion. Yet again I was forced to scour the room for a bed and after tiptoeing about like a strange voyeur, peeping at bunks before realising someone – or sometimes more than one person – was sprawled in amongst the sheets and assortment of dumped belongings, I eventually found another bed in the far corner. It had been an eventful start to life in the room.

Over the next few days I got to know my way around the hostel a bit more. The level below me, where reception was, also had a bar, although this was only occasionally open. There was also a knackered pool table and a couple of televisions in each corner with some second hand furniture where you could sit and gaze out the window at the busy street. Of course the best aspect of the hostel was the bottom level, where the main bar was located - with its dirt cheap drinks. Although I had been there several times since arriving in Sydney, I was now more of a regular and it wasn’t long before I was on first name terms with all of the staff. I had also begun to get to know some of the characters in my room, following that initial process of weighing up which people you might like and the ones who you wished had never been born.

Already having suffered one experience of sharing with a couple, I was extremely wary of having to put up with more here. But unfortunately my luck was out yet again, as I glanced over and spotted a couple opposite my bed. They were from northern England, but worse than that they just would not shut up. The girl, who would randomly break into song while other people were present in the room, thought she had the voice of an angel. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Her singing reminded me of a cross between a foghorn and a squealing pig – with her face not dissimilar to one either. But for some mystifying reason she thought she had talent. I felt slightly sorry for the boyfriend, who had to put up with untold amounts of agony. Then again, come to think of it, it was his choice to be with her so he deserved everything he got. I shook my head and wandered off to the kitchen for a glass of milky water as reality set in that these were the kind of people I would now be living with.

The habits of the room soon became clear with regular drinking games – even though alcohol, according to a large emboldened sign on the wall, was strictly prohibited – an essential part of the culture. Returning from my forays into the city I would regularly have to tiptoe through a giant circle of drunks spread out in the middle of the room who were downing large glasses of goon. As people became more drunk they would use a window in the corner to go and smoke out of to save them going down three levels. No smoke alarm ever went off (I doubt it even worked) and the room was like being stuffed in a chimney, with a never-ending flow of puffers and the inevitable smog that followed. I got the impression that anything went here, which could only be good news for me. Being nearly a decade older than many in the room, I had resisted offers to join in the drinking, though I had a suspicion that sooner or later, whether I liked it or not, I would get sucked in to a booze-fuelled night.

And so it was. After returning from a walk one early evening I was dragged into a drinking session. My options were either lie on my bed and quietly rage about the irritating noise levels for several hours, or join in and drink their alcohol. So I chose the latter. The party seemed especially raucous and resulted in one person throwing up on someone else’s bed and another projectile vomiting out of the window onto the street below and splattering on the head of a variety of hapless by-passers.

With only a few survivors remaining by the end of the night I climbed across a sea of horizontal bodies before making my way to the toilet where I pushed open the door that was slightly ajar. In a state of shocked-amusement I was faced by the shocking sight of an unconscious man slumped over the seat with his trousers and boxer shorts down by his ankles. All this while he cupped his flaccid manhood. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had been occurring before he had apparently lost interest and passed out in his state of intoxication.

Overwhelmed by a schoolboy-type desire to share my finding I naturally got some other people to come and have a look. “Someone’s been bashing the bishop,” one observantly shouted deliriously. Realising the humiliation and suffering that could be caused, another lad pulled out a camera and started taking pictures. “He’ll wish he finished the job now,” he said grinning.

The next day various people in the hostel were shown the photos with the guilty party confronted and asked if he had a good time. “Yeah it was alright,” he responded casually, oblivious that half the hostel knew about his nocturnal activity. Deciding to do the right thing, though, we came clean. As he was informed, remarkably, he kept calm, but aware of the gravity of his unfortunate situation proposed a deal: that he would buy the person with the pictures a couple of beers as long as the incriminating evidence was destroyed. It was agreed.

It’s not often in your life you end up sharing a room with total strangers yet here I was going against every fibre of my being and somehow doing just that. Even for the toughest of individuals it was often a testing and surreal experience, particularly when you turn round and see a strange man’s hairy arse staring you in the face, or accidentally catch sight of a dangling testicle. I found it absurd just how many people thought nothing of stripping off in front of a bunch of strangers. Though, I should say that nearly all of those were continental Europeans. While I am proud of my anatomy I wouldn’t dare inflict a free viewing on others. I remember an old school friend who when naked after physical education would vigorously rub himself down with his towel in the centre of the room, which naturally left us all sniggering while doing our best not to be caught looking anywhere near his general direction. And here in the hostel this was the norm among many.

In saying all this, it could never be a surprise when you saw a men engaging in this sort of practice – mainly because they don’t care, or are vain, or both. But when you have flocks of women doing it, it is truly bizarre. After all don’t they know what men are like? To add to my confusion many of these women supposedly came from countries where they were meant to be somewhat reserved, and act with tact and class, such as those from Sweden or Spain.

Yet as I was lying on my bed one day a Scandinavian, standing by a nearby bed, casually whipped off her top leaving her boobs drooping in full view of the room, before she pulled a top on casually, as if she was in the confines of her own room with no one around. The reality of where she was, though, was somewhat different, especially as there were several men with their mouths open pretending not to look, but who were in fact blatantly staring. The girl would then have three or four of her friends stuffed into the bed where they would chat incessantly while eating cookies. I was beginning to see how strange people were from other countries.

Yet arguably the most bizarre of all these liberal provocateurs was a strange Italian woman – though it could just as easily have been a man with all her facial hair – who only stayed for two nights. After having a shower she would wander into the room with just her towel, dropping it to the floor, leaving her bare flesh totally exposed for a few seconds, before pulling on a g-string. With her considerable chest out for all to see she would then stride across the room and moisturise her face in the mirror, located in the centre of the room, for several minutes before returning. As if she hadn’t gone far enough, she would then proceed to vigorously rub moisturiser all over her body, including right up to her inner thigh and beyond, before lathering her buttocks. Perhaps this was normal behaviour in Italy but it seemed to be pushing the boundaries, even in this room’s no-holds-barred approach to self-exposure.

As with everything else in the hostel, normal straightforward tasks such as cooking became Herculean efforts. Especially in a place that had 300 guests, many of whom would inevitably be fighting over the one functioning oven when it came to meal times. I quickly realised what a luxury it was to find clean cutlery and cooking items and desperately wanted to throw gone off milk in the faces of the anonymous individuals who would leave all their dirty stuff after a meal for others to clean.

Then there were the thieves, who without a single thought, would steal your most prized possessions. There was nothing worse than starving and going to the fridge to get your bag - that had your name and room number on it, just in case anyone was in any doubt who it belonged to - in anticipation of a glorious banquet and then, to your total disbelief, finding someone had taken your prime beef burgers. I could tolerate someone taking a few slices of bread or perhaps some economy butter if they’d run out, or even a drop of milk but helping yourself to such quality items, especially when they were mine, was too much to take. I knew I’d have to fight fire with fire by sourcing items to even things up.

Insult was added to injury when nothing was left of your stuff, which meant venturing down three levels and through the crowded streets to buy more expensive food with my rapidly evaporating money. I took to performing covert surveillance when in the kitchen vicinity, in particular maintaining an eye on any dodgy characters, while also keeping my ear to the ground in case anyone revealed incriminating information.

CHAPTER 6 – ROOM 301

The kitchen was the epicentre of socialising in the hostel – when people weren’t in the dorm getting slaughtered on goon, of course. Most people spoke in English, which although extremely convenient, I found a bit strange with all the eclectic mix of random souls from around the. Some clearly had the knack for it others did not, with the Swedes and Dutch normally the most accomplished, above that of many Welsh, Irish, Scots and regional English, who for all I could gather, were speaking in a foreign language anyway.

My technique for communicating with those I could barely understand would be to hope I could make out two or three words of a sentence, therefore allowing me to take an educated guess on what had been said. Often, to avoid embarrassment after failing to comprehend what on earth they were on about, I would inevitably find myself responding on an entirely different subject – “Yes you’re right, the weather here is lovely” – only to draw a host of blank looks. It’s fair to say that with some people, having your teeth pulled out by a vice would have been a more enjoyable experience. So to alleviate some of the tension I brightened things up by helping them add to their limited vocabularies. “You’re a smelly asshole,” they would repeat after me, stuttering in broken English, as I congratulated them on learning how to greet a friend or someone who was serving them in a bar or restaurant.

I felt a smidgen of sorrow for foreigners, or those of a non-English speaking persuasion, who hoped to improve their English as part of their Australian experience, but had to contend with the regional forms of the language. If I could not understand these people then what chance did some poor Estonian have? I found it astonishing how those whose first language was English would happily talk at lightening pace with no thought for the suffering listener, despite it being abundantly obvious they didn’t have a clue what was going on. These poor individuals, already isolated by their inability to speak the language, would look blankly and occasionally try and get a word in before being subjected to further punishment as the person, exuding staggering arrogance, continued to garble on about some irrelevance, blissfully unaware they had not been understood. Then again, it was no great loss they had missed out on hearing about Eastenders or whatever crap subject they were going on about.

I respected those people who spoke such impressive English, especially as in my country it’s fair to say we’re not renowned for being great linguists. My expertise in foreign languages stretched to random one-liners in French such as, “Bonjour, oui est la picine?” This, when stood by a swimming pool in France, just to see if my French was up to scratch, which many times, surprisingly and to my great delight, it was. But despite my early promise, when averaging 98 per cent in class exams, I was then unceremoniously thrown off the course after my glittering scores suddenly plummeted to around 40 per cent. All this coincided with when my fluent French-speaking friend I had been sitting next to left the school.

Even though I was still relatively new to the country and indeed hostel life I was already beginning to grow tired of the same conversations and the same questions when meeting new people. As a matter of course the usual flow of questions would be, “What’s your name? Where do you come from? How long have you been here? How long are you staying? Where are you going to next?” Such questions became ingrained to the point where I could concisely reel off my well-rehearsed answer in the blink of an eye. “I’m Steve from England. I’ve been here several weeks now. Not sure how long I’m staying for but maybe the whole 12 months or maybe just a few more days, especially if I carry on jerking money like I have been.”

With absolutely no desire to go travelling around the country, I felt at odds to most people solely there to explore Australia, or passing through on an exotic voyage around the world. They were the real backpackers and, frankly, I was perfectly happy it was them and not me. But I was finding the overly enthusiastic conversations between travellers reaching excruciatingly tedious levels. In particular, one phrase - “I’m going down the east coast” – would be wheeled out like food to an American, prompting the listener’s eyebrows to raise with interest, as they would then either tell them about when they went down the east coast or that they were also, coincidentally, soon to be doing the same hallowed journey. A journey that no self-respecting backpacker who came to Australia would dare miss out on. Apart from me, of course. If someone gave me a dollar for every time I heard that sentence I would be a rich man.

Though I was still acclimatising to my new home, as the days went by it struck me how the place was nothing more than a large youth club with sleeping facilities. The only difference being that 16 year olds at youth club would have been behaving in a far more adult fashion than many of the inhabitants here. It soon reached cringingly high levels as every time a new girl ambled into the room wearily with her backpack - probably having made her way down the east coast after flying over from Asia, prior to her South American sojourn - a swarm of overfriendly men with devil horns would introduce themselves.

Time and time again the usual suspects would trot out their bland customary introductions in the hope of getting in the girl’s knickers. “Hey, how you doing? You just arrived?” A look of understandable surprise would be evident on the face of the female, after all she didn’t know these men and hadn’t even found herself a bed in the room yet before they had began hitting on her.

Nonetheless, out of politeness, she would respond. “Hi, yes just been down the east coast and now I’m in Sydney for a bit.” The eyes of the men would light up at the prospect that she may be around for a reasonable amount of time. Enough time, they hoped, to at least finger her.

“Yeah it’s good fun down the east coast. Sydney’s a good crack too. You travelling alone?” the men would then ask, attempting to build rapport while also establishing whether they would be wasting their time, if she had a boyfriend for example.

“I was with a friend but she went home.”

“That’s a shame. You want to come for a drink later?”

“Umm maybe, bit tired after my travels.”

Not wanting to let the opportunity slip through their hands after all their hard work they had put in, the men would instantly respond. “Ok, well let me know if you do. If not tonight then maybe tomorrow. If not tomorrow then maybe the day after that or the next one?” they would say before pointing to their bunk, ”That’s my bed there, come over whenever you fancy.” These men had figured that steaming in like an express train seemed to be the best method, especially with the knowledge that other predators would be ready to swoop at any moment. Although some women were clearly not impressed by the transparency of the approach, others were more naïve. “What a friendly hostel this is, much better than my last one where nobody spoke to each other. I was a bit worried about not knowing anyone but a few people have already invited me out and I’ve only been here five minutes,” I heard a blond German girl say. Little did she know.

In this particular case, the girl’s delight soon turned to horror when a rival guy scuppered any faint possibility of a bonk. “I’d watch out for him, he’s just racked up two girls in the last couple of nights,” he announced, after choosing to tell her once his rival had left the room. She rolled her eyes, as it sank in what the friendliness had really been about.

At the same time, it has to be said, there was the odd new woman who simply did not care about who the man approaching her was. The attitude appeared to be: “Anyone will do.” This was certainly true for an Australian girl with thick black bushy eyebrows and a nose longer than Pinocchio who swept into the hostel like she was working for a sex charity. According to witnesses on the first night she slept with a random man from a different room, before moving onto a quiet individual who everyone thought was gay on the second night, and then finally succumbing to the charms of the individual spurned by the German girl, who secured sloppy thirds. “Good to see she’s made the most of being in Sydney and broadening her horizons,” some of us agreed.

On a personal level, though, things took a turn for the worse when two pouting French girls moved in and wasted no time in getting to know people – mainly of a male variety. One happened to be in the top bunk next to me while her friend was dangerously close in the bunk above. Shyness was clearly not a word in their vocabularies, as they barely concealed their flesh, wearing low cut tops and skirts that looked more like belts. Despite having make-up caked on, there was no hiding their zombie like faces. Within the hour they had been persuaded to join in the drinking games that were underway in the room. As I sat sober on my bed reading, I knew it would be a long night.

To save my sanity I popped out to get some food before returning to a surprisingly peaceful room where I settled into my bed and drifted off to sleep. Until I was rudely awoken at some ungodly hour by shouting men and the French girls, who had been suitably plied with alcohol by now. “Got any more goon,” one lad bellowed.

“Yeah just there in the corner,” another replied eagerly.

“Well get it over here then you twat,” a third yelled. And so on.

I rolled my eyes in disgust at their complete lack of regard for the room. “Why don’t you all just jump out the window instead?” I pleaded under my breath.

Although it was the middle of the night at around 3am you would have thought it was daytime from the way these jerks were storming about. Thankfully there was a reprieve as they went outside to the kitchen area, but I knew only too well it was merely a temporary stay of execution. Fearing the inevitable backlash, I desperately attempted to get to sleep before they returned. But, sadly, amid all the tortuous thoughts of what laid ahead, this was not possible.

After about an hour, the real pain began as they galloped into the room like a herd of rhinos and scrambled up the bunk stairs into their respective beds. Each girl had finally settled on the nearest man having tantalised several others earlier, as they now got down to business. I prayed it would be over quickly.

Developments appeared to be going slowly in the bed above me before the pace quickened. “Ummmmm,” the girl groaned, but just as she was really starting to enjoy herself another guy rattled up the steps, inches from my head, and got in bed with them. “Must be a threesome,” I thought. But within seconds he went down the stairs. And then up again. And down once more. Each time the bed wobbled and creaked at a particularly annoying volume, adding to the growing irritation I was struggling to deal with. He was up and down those stairs like a jack-in-the-box. How I would have dearly loved to punch him square on the nose. Instead I just lay there paralysed, with my anger brewing with every passing second of this agony I had to endure. If it was possible, my mood had been worsened when one of the eager buffoon’s managed to somehow smash a glass on the floor as he sprang from the bunk, causing a spraying of water over my face.

Whispering and giggling from above punctuated the deadly silence in the pitch black room as the bed inevitably began to softly sway. As the thrusting got quicker and quicker my bunk started to bounce around like I was lying on top of a spinning washing machine. Hearing and feeling every movement, every noise, I felt like I was part of the action, especially as I was right underneath the main event. It felt odd to know that a man, possibly two, were wielding their big sticks on this accommodating French female, no more than two feet from my very head. They didn’t seem to care a jot that the whole room would have heard them, were it not for the fact that most were asleep. I shook my head in disbelief that of all the beds this could have taken place in, it had to be in the top bunk above me. At least the other French girl in the bunk next door was being more discreet about the roasting she was receiving. But I wasn’t much in the mood for taking the positives out of the dire situation.

Vigorously rocking like a small boat surrounded by giant ocean waves, things gradually eased off after the climax. However, my hope they would now simply fall asleep exhausted by all their drinking and quick-fire lovemaking was misplaced, as to add insult to injury they then began talking and laughing, as if without a care in the world. Meanwhile I had just been subjected to a form of torture no man should have to go through. Now I wanted them to suffer and I wanted them to suffer badly.

As the excitable chattering continued, and with my genuine fear a re-run could be on the cards shortly once the man had been given a chance to recover, I had a kind of outer body experience where you imagine what you would like to do to such people. However, this time it was happening for real. In a trance like state I suddenly stood up and peered over the bunk and asked the lovers, who were in the midst of a post coital embrace, in a polite but firm manner to be quiet – or words to that effect. But to my total disgust they simply looked at each other and giggled.

My blood, now boiling like water in a kettle after this further insult, prompted an uncompromising response. And like a force of nature I stormed out the room and into the kitchen where I grabbed the nearest large container and proceeded to fill it with cold water. I then purposefully steamed back into the room and once again stood by the couple. “I think you need to be quiet now,” I said, knowing that more giggles would follow, which of course they did. Fortunately they hadn’t seen the water. “Ok have it your way then,” I replied coolly. And then slowly lifted the container up and gently poured all the water over them, leaving the pair as soaked as a drowned rat. “I thought you might need some water to cool down, hope you didn’t mind?” I said jovially.

God it felt good. Having been violated for so long I could now hold my head up high knowing that I had stood up for myself against these bell-ends. Naturally the couple were gobsmacked. “Why you do that? You stupid,” screeched the female.

“Oh sorry, I thought I was helping to cool you down that’s all,” I hit back. “Do you want some more?” Interestingly, there was no reply. The guy, in particular, was conspicuous by his non-response. Perhaps the penny had finally dropped that they had overstepped the boundary. I retreated to my warm, dry bed a happy man. I heard some sniggers in the background from other victims, also clearly pleased with the outcome.

The next day there was some natural awkwardness between myself and the couple but I didn’t let that get in the way of me wishing them a good morning. “Hope you slept well,” I said cheerily. Funnily enough but the French girls were gone by the evening. It turned out several other people had heard the previous night’s antics and expressed their eternal gratitude that I had put an end to the furore, which brought a smile to my face.

CHAPTER 7 - MESSY NIGHTS

Being in the hostel was a bit like being in a halls of residents at university, though I never remember drunk couples barging into busy rooms and stripping down naked and start having sex while others sat a few feet away playing scrabble, as I was delightfully informed one day. Or having sex pest women like an Asian girl with no front teeth and only a smattering of English, who walked round trying to pull men’s towels off when they weren’t looking or rubbing various legs while they were asleep, before eventually getting her rewards, resulting in her being highly regarded by countless men for her altruistic services to them.

In the hostel people were only too aware that it represented a brief stay so felt obliged to do as they pleased. The worst scenario would be getting kicked out but who really cared about that? Even members of staff didn’t seem bothered about what went on. In fact several females reported that some employees were using the place as a kind of knock-up shop. With the use of the master key they had reportedly been entering female dorms before trying it on, or sometimes taking their drunk captures to vacant rooms. A variety of women spoke candidly of the occurrences but saw it as an annoyance rather than anything more sinister. “He lets himself in and starts trying to touch me when I’m in just a towel the slimy twat,” one girl said.

The day, though, when the real carnage and scandal took place was on a designated night once a week when the hostel came together. My debut appearance at one of these much hyped nights out started with free drinks – advertised as sangria but in reality was red goon – in the bar area, where backpackers and hostel staff could be seen guzzling away like it was their last night on earth. Many of the men, including the male members of staff, of course, were fleeting about speaking to anything in a skirt, occasionally taking the sly opportunities that presented themselves to gently squeeze scantily dressed bottoms of the girls in a light-hearted kind of way in order to test the water and see if, after they had been plied with alcohol, they would potentially be fair game for a roasting.

I stood near the bar area, ensuring my drink was always topped up while making small talk with some of the revellers. Feeling like I was in a nursery, I made sure I got more than my allotted allowance of drink before it was time to depart for the bar crawl. Then, after everyone was finally rounded up, we made our way onto the street like a large group of special kids out for a day trip. As we made our way down a packed George Street I felt a lingering sense of humiliation that I was part of this youthful convoy making its way conspicuously through the city.

After about 15 minutes of purgatory we were finally off the streets and now just exclusively with those of our kind, as we entered a venue rammed with some of the biggest morons you’re ever likely to see. I wrestled my way through all the sweaty bodies to the bar, where holding aloft my drink voucher, I was soon rewarded for my efforts with a beer. A selection of the finest cheesy anthems were ringing out, pounding my eardrums along the way, as all but everyone deliriously jigged around like demented fools. I had only just got in there but wanted to get out already.

Although a staunch non-smoker, I decided now was as good a time as any to start-up the habit, so made my way to the outdoor smoking area where I lurched a cigarette off a youngster having the time of his life. There I stood, delightedly puffing on the toxic fumes, just grateful to be away from the noise and people. Although I had drunk a fair bit, I found the whole ordeal had sobered me up somewhat. But despite all this I knew I had to give the night a proper chance, even if just so I could collect more damning evidence on why never to return. I sucked in some more smoke, as if to hype myself up, before bravely striding back into the arena like a soldier going into battle.

Making a beeline for the bar I ordered two beers – one for each hand – and mingled strategically near the exit door. The limited, broken conversations I was partaking in where people would shout and spit in each other’s ears soon came to an end with the announcement of the wet t-shirt competition. Matters were not helped by the customary self-loving pleb on the microphone, who had his shirt fully unbuttoned and thought nothing off continuously grabbing his own balls on stage in front of a couple of hundred people, as if to subliminally reinforce to the ladies out there that he was ready and available for action once his shift finished.

Exuding a special kind of appeal, he endeavoured to round up some contestants. “Hey ladies,” he bellowed excitedly, “who’s getting their tits out tonight then?” And then looked enthusiastically about the room as several shrieking females bounced their way to the front.

The showpiece event started with eight eager girls, all of different body proportions, but all desperate to win the not-so-life-changing prize of a trip to the Blue Mountains, or $100, or something equally derisory. Whatever the winnings, surely it wasn’t worth humiliating yourself in public for? But clearly I was in a minority of one. As a Britney Spears song blazed out, all the girls began gyrating, or not so seductively in some of their cases, as they attempted to out dance each other, before the music was stopped and the girl’s performance put to a public vote where whoever got the least shouts from the depraved public was dumped out of the competition.

And so on it went. By the time it had reached the semi-final things were heating up. As the dancing reached unparalleled levels of debauchery, one girl, the clear outsider, sensing she was facing elimination, went for broke and pulled off her top, leaving her large melon shaped breasts bouncing ferociously like hard rubber balls, much to the delight of the crowd. But despite this bold strategy, it wasn’t mean to be, as she too was cast aside and left to rue what might have been.

As the final kicked off it quickly became apparent that both competitors would stop at nothing to win. But it was about more than just the prize. Both egos were on the line here and the agony of losing could prove catastrophic for either. Strutting their stuff while maintaining a beady eye on each other, things began to unravel just as the promoters had hoped and before long both were topless and squirting water all over themselves, as if they were featuring in a porn movie.

But nothing could prepare the crowd for what followed, as out of the blue one suddenly whipped off her thong, leaving members of the crowd open mouthed at the seemingly unprecedented action. “She’s got her muff out,” an odd looking male next to me observed while excitedly pointing, nodding his head enthusiastically. Not wanting to be out done, though, the other girl then jumped into the crowd and plucked out a succession of random men, whose throats she then stuffed her tongue down, after doing the honourable thing of rubbing them frantically in the groin area. The final was going to the wire.

But in the end the girl who leapt boob-first into the crowd, as widely predicated, just edged it. It was tough on the runner up, who had put so much into the contest but now left with nothing, apart from with her reputation in ruins. Feeling weary after a testing night, at last I could make my way back to the hostel where, if lucky, I might eventually get some sleep.

The following occasion the hostel went out saw a female mud wrestling competition in the bar area of the hostel. I was beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that the night out was really no more than a vehicle for randy men to ogle and hopefully exploit heavily inebriated, bare fleshed women. What was even more remarkable was that some women were more than happy to play along. As far as management were concerned it was a no-brainer.

Following a massive build up to the event, with posters plastered everywhere you could see in the hostel and streets, a sense of excitement had spread like wildfire, with backpackers knowing they were in for a real treat. The reception area had been transformed, with a paddling pool of chocolate sauce mixed with ice particles set up in the central area near the bar. The atmosphere was crackling as a sea of travellers packed out the room desperate to watch the dramatic events unfold. I had only decided to come along as I felt it may provide slightly more entertainment than staring at the blank walls in the dorm.

With barely enough room to breathe in the packed bar, I did well to steal a vacant chair to stand on after someone had foolishly left it unguarded momentarily. Several girls, leaving very little to the imagination, were stood nervously by the side of the pool as they waited for proceedings to get underway. A trip to the Gold Coast was the prize for the winner – a far more generous prospect than the pathetic one on offer at the wet t-shirt competition previously. In order to claim victory, the winner would be decided by whoever was able to pull off the sock from their opponent’s ankle first. Management’s only other stipulation was that all contestants must, of course, wear a bikini in the interests of being able to perform properly.

Egged on by the packed crowd baying for blood, the girls threw themselves at each other like sumo wrestlers - with some of the participants coincidentally not looking too dissimilar, it has to be said. I winced at the force some were striking their rivals, especially one rather stocky sadistic girl who was sticking her bulky knee into the head of opponents gleefully. Though, as with everyone else, I would be a total liar if I denied not taking some morbid enjoyment from watching their very public emotional and physical pain.

As much pleasure as the men took from the fierce battles, it was abundantly clear where the real source of joy came from. Things reached fever pitch on a couple of occasions when, first of all, one girl’s bikini slipped down, leaving her puffy right nipple and breast sorely exposed, much to the great amusement of the viewing public. “I wouldn’t mind a suck on those baps,” a voice shouted excitedly from behind me.

“They look like chocolate digestives,” another yelled. Of course it had been an accident waiting to happen, especially as her bikini offered very little in the way of adequate support.

The second highlight - if that was what you could call it - came when one hopeful, taking a battering after having her head thudded against the floor and struggling to breathe in amongst all the chocolate she was being dunked under, somehow reached across and yanked her rival’s g-string down. Although she was unable to pull it down the leg too far she had, nonetheless, made a valiant effort, leaving her competitor’s large round chocolate covered buttocks out on display for all to see. “You should have wiped your arse,” screamed a voice.

“Yeah put it away I’m trying to eat,” another bellowed. Unfortunately, much to the crowd’s displeasure, the hefty girl had somehow still managed to recover and seal victory and take the crown and, with it, the sought after prize.

Things were a bit less hectic on the following occasion a hostel night took place, but on a personal level brought me far greater satisfaction after I scooped the prestigious Killer Pool competition, having not missed a shot en-route to fending off some stiff competition from the 20 odd challengers. After seeing the winner of the mud wrestling secure an expensive trip to the Gold Coast I expected a similarly rewarding gift. Yet, my prize? Four drinks of my choice from the bar. Following my flawless display of verve and steel I felt somewhat underwhelmed by this measly prize. In fact, to be more precise, I felt as though I had been robbed, or at best like a beggar who had only been thrown some small change by a passing pedestrian merely as an afterthought.

I was struggling to come to terms with my winnings, or lack of, which in reality amounted to a pathetic $12, as all drinks were $3. Determined to seek justice I figured in my half drunken state I could save myself some much needed cash on rent by doing a deal with management and getting a prize that properly reflected my unstinting efforts.

Despite raging inside, I casually strolled over to the manager and pleaded my case that I deserved sufficiently more that what I got. With hindsight I should have realised the futility of my case, after all this was the man who offered backpackers jobs of two nightshifts a week of insanely boring reception work for a week’s free rent, like he was doing them a favour. Clearly a big fan of slave labour and exploitation, he preyed on the naivety and desperation of guests, some of whom actually thought they were lucky to get such a job.

After the inevitable rejection I wandered over to the bar to collect my winnings in the form of four vodka and cokes – naturally having given the manager the finger behind his back – as everyone was rounded up before we headed out for the next phase of the night. “Come on everyone, drink up we’re leaving now,” the organising girl announced sternly. Once more I felt a deep sense of humiliation at being treated like a small five year old.

On arriving outside our destination like a bunch of non-violent prisoners on day release, we were then herded up like a bunch of dumb cattle as we waited in line, before being met by a scowling bouncer. “ID,” the big oath growled.

“There you go,” I said politely, handing him my UK driving licence. He looked at the card and back at me. “How many drinks you had tonight?” Here we go again, I thought. If only I had a pair of breasts and a skirt then I wouldn’t have to go through this crap every time I went to a bar in Sydney. “I’ve had three drinks,” I said sharply.

“Where?” he replied suspiciously.

I named exactly where we’d been, which for some reason seemed to catch him by surprise. He paused, staring at me for what felt like an eternity, as he held up the queue to deliberate and emphasise his power. To my surprise he handed my licence back and flicked his head signalling that I could enter. I thanked the lords and strutted down the stairs to the bar and found our rep to collect my free drink voucher, before moments later convincing her she’d dropped it so she had to give me another one.

I made my way to the pool table in a bid to avoid the dance floor that was overflowing with the usual array of sleaze, jostling for position near anything with a pulse. I teamed up with the Kiwi I had earlier beaten in Killer Pool, as we set about hammering challengers from far and wide who fancied their chances against us. Playing for the right to stay on the table, with the losing duo forced to buy the drinks, brought out the best in my partner, who had upped his game after I thrashed him earlier. It was great for the bank balance, as time and again cocksure individuals would throw down the gauntlet before being sent packing to the bar with tails between their legs to fetch us our victory drinks.

Before long a posse of onlookers had congregated around the table and adjacent to the bar watching intently as we put opponent’s to the sword with ridiculous ease. Apart from all the free drinks we had collected, and having the pride of winning, avoiding the dance floor was all the motivation I needed to continue the winning streak, until we decided to retire unbeaten when holding a cue straight started becoming a challenge.

CHAPTER 8 – THE AUSSIES

In need of escaping the hostel and the impoverished Veiko – who had suddenly reappeared on the scene and invited himself to sleep on the floor in my room – I went down to a nearby bar to play pool with a random I’d just met in the dorm.

After a few games we struck up conversation with some Australian lads on the table next to us. One was holding the cue about as well as a baby elephant and occasionally, when fortunate enough, would strike one of his own balls after lining up a shot with his wobbling hand. His other two friends weren’t much better. They were playing winner stays on and I’m certain that had a chimp been there he would have wiped the floor with them.

We went up some stairs to the tiny balcony smoking area that overlooked the streets, where one of them, Rob, sparked up a cigarette before bursting into a giggle for no apparent reason. I soon noticed that he found a lot of things funny and spent half his time laughing like a schoolgirl and the other half singing the chorus line from various boy band songs. With his slicked hair and sparkling stud in his ear he should have been in one. Darren, showcasing his tattoos and muscular frame in a vest – an item I had noticed was incredibly popular among men in the country – was sipping broodingly on his beer eyeing up any female that came within a stone’s throw of him. Pat, seemed like the sensible one, drinking his beer in a measured fashion. They were all beginning to show obvious signs of drunkenness. “You Pommie cunt,” Darren joked. At least I thought he was joking.

I knew the term was meant as mildly offensive Australian slang to disparage an English person (with it widely thought to be an abbreviation of Prisoner of Mother England). Although I had known fights to kick-off over less, I took it in the way I believed it was intended - as banter, before naturally coming back with a sharp riposte, “Who’s your Queen?” He paused blankly, seemingly unsure what the relevance of my comment was, before glancing round at a woman’s rather large cleavage. But nonetheless I still got the distinct impression that Darren, a young man of not even 20 years old, had other interests outside of history and politics, with it doubtful he even knew that Australia’s Head of State was still Britain’s very own Queen Elizabeth.

Appearing well intoxicated by now, Darren and Rob had assumed responsibility of the cloudy smoking room. Anyone who tried to open the door was assessed from behind the glass, before eventually being granted entry. Most could see it was all one big joke but others, desperately in need of supplementing their craving, didn’t always see the funny side. As they shuffled out, having been made to feel about as welcome as a naked male gymnast, the door would be loudly slammed. “See you wank breath,” Darren would shout, or something of equal resonance, while offering various hand salutes to their back as they went down the stairs.

Before long, anyone walking along the street below had unwittingly become a target. “Can I have a go on those?” Darren, clutching his groin, yelled at an unsuspecting elderly woman, with obvious reference to her breasts. The poor lady looked up and around, unsure where the filthy shouting was coming from, before shaking her head and continuing about her business. The smoking area had been quickly transformed into a something akin to a school playground. It’s funny how alcohol brings out the juvenile in everyone.

Then, all of a sudden, Pat spotted a couple in a room in the adjacent hotel. Without a hint of hesitation he started the inevitable chant, “We know what you’re doing,” before imitating putting a phallic shaped object into his mouth that pushed the side of his cheek out. The mortified woman immediately pulled the curtains shut to avoid any further distress. But no doubt, unless she was deaf, she could still hear the chanting from the collection of strangers ringing in her ears like a foghorn. There was a real spirit of camaraderie and even those with the most limited of English were now being swept along by the raucous behaviour.

One enthusiastic recruit, a smiling Chinaman was in Sydney to improve his knowledge of the language. Yet it wasn’t long before he had added to his English vocabulary following several teachings. A short time later he was jumping up and down clenching his fist shouting along with everyone else, “You like cock…you like cock…you like cock,” to the woman in the hotel room. It had been an eventful night and was the first real time I had spoken at length to any Australians. It had felt weird being in the country and having not met any locals, so this night provided a mini triumph in that respect. Crazy they were, but also were good fun.

I saw the Aussies at the same place the following week having a few quiet games of pool with their beers. I knew it was the calm before the storm. With Pat undefeated I was duly invited to a challenge and then, in the blink of an eye, thrashed him with the Australian having barely had the chance to play a shot. “Why are all Pommies good at pool?” he asked, shaking his head after his winning run had come to an end. “Right you’re banned from playing now.” I thought they were joking at first, but after not being allowed on the table again, realised they were deadly serious.

Following a few more beers and with energy levels and stupidity beginning to take hold, Darren announced that as some friends would soon be arriving at the venue it would be a good idea to play a practical joke on them and pretend I was related to him. Added to this he said he would tell them I was younger than what I was. “We don’t want people thinking we’re hanging out with a grandad, you know mate?” Darren joked.

When Darren’s friends turned up we inevitably got chatting and things seemed to be going fine until one nosey girl said: “I hear you’re 24?” she asked suspiciously having been incorrectly informed by Darren, who I could see smirking behind her. I smiled casually feeling obliged to go along with it before attempting to deflect the discussion away from my relatively considerable age (30) by talking about Neighbours and Home and Away.

Despite my superb efforts in pulling off being a 24 year old, all my hard work was nearly undone as they soon wanted to flex some moves on the dance floor, which I most certainly did not. To make matters worse no one else in the club was dancing, with there also the added disadvantage of the platform being conspicuously raised by several feet in the centre of the busy venue, meaning that should you decide to climb the steps onto the stage then you would have a sea of raised eyebrows intently studying your every move. This was not an ideal situation to be in if you hate jigging about to pop music like I do. So with a not so heavy heart I declined the numerous invitations for me to join the gang and instead sat sipping my beer alone like an old man, cringingly watching them all dance.

Even Pat, who had momentarily opted to stay with me, suddenly sprinted onto the dance floor like a young whippet when a song he was rather fond of came on. I was more than happy where I was and despite intense coercion remained firmly sat in my seat, watching Rob prancing about like Michael Jackson, as Darren puffed his chest out, while Pat bounced around in no particular direction like a rubber ball.

Concerned that I was conspicuous by my absence and that I may be drawing attention to my age by my passionate resistance of joining in, the heat was taken off me when a couple of random girls from the crowd decided to get involved. Whilst it was clear that they would not be winning any beauty pageants, this was no obstacle for Darren, who swiftly moved in for the kill on one. Seconds later his tongue was stuffed down her throat, before his wandering hands soon found their way to her substantial breasts. Clearly not inhibited by self-consciousness in front of the packed venue watching this sordid episode unfold in front of their very eyes, Darren then boldly moved his right hand due south, slowly under the girl’s skirt, as if almost hoping she wouldn’t notice until it was too late, where he then attempted to cash in on her eagerness.

But the girl, who hardly seemed like the shy type, then shocked the crowd as she miraculously pulled away and careered off the stage, leaving Darren stood in frustration with open arms questioning why she would want to walk away at such an advancing moment. Annoyance soon turned to anger when he realised she wasn’t coming back, prompting him to overtly smell his fingers before flapping his hand in disgust to make it clear what he thought of the odour of the girl’s nether regions. Although the night had finished on something of a downer for Darren, at least he had provided everyone with significant entertainment.

On making the short journey back to the hostel I bumped into a small stocky man called Joe from London on the stairs. Within a few minutes of brief jovial conversation we were off to the pub for a drink, both in need of refreshment with the night still young at only 2am. Dodging drunks and an assortment of poverty stricken individuals pleading for spare cigarettes from the chain smoking Joe – only to be met by vicious cold stares – we finally settled on a relaxed bar near Central station. Delving into his wallet, Joe pulled out a giant wad of $50 notes and started counting them, before marching to the bar to get us some drinks. He returned with two vodka and oranges and two vodka and cranberries, as well as a beer each. Within minutes the drinks had been hastily consumed, prompting him to order some more.

Twitchy and always on the move, whether it was going to the bar or popping out for a cigarette, I got the impression Joe wasn’t one to keep still for long and was always on the look out for his next fix of excitement. Despite this, I was still slightly taken aback when he proposed hitting Kings Cross. “I fancy getting a blowey, you coming?” he said matter-of-factly, as if having his lower organ vociferously sucked on by a seedy stranger was the same as nipping down the supermarket and picking up some bread and milk. Sensing my hesitation, he attempted to put my mind at ease, “Look if you don’t want to get sucked off then don’t worry I won’t be long - no more than 20 minutes normally.”

I can’t say that I was that motivated to go but with nothing better to do I decided to go along, anyhow. On arrival I slowly climbed out the taxi, wondering what the hell I had done as I was confronted by a plethora of randy strip clubs that came complete with cheap flashing lights and a selection of horrendous bare fleshed women standing invitingly outside, hoping to allure any passing clientele.

I felt like an ashamed pervert as women and security staff fought to entice us into their establishments. “Hey guys, wanna good time? Good rates,” one smiled, with breasts bulging over her fishnet top as she dragged a cigarette. “No I’m fine, thanks for asking though. I’m just off to get some food,” I replied focusing straight ahead. I couldn’t believe how vile some of these ladies of the night were and wondered who these men were who would pay for an ugly crack-head pensioner in a shell suit? I reasoned that perhaps she represented the economy option compared with her superior competitors, who at least had their teeth in and came to work looking like they meant business rather than looking like a boy about to play football. Nevertheless, she had clearly found a niche market after branding herself differently and was clearly only too aware there would inevitably be the odd drunken man running short of cash who she could entice.

Continuing along the litter-ridden street that had a distinctive odour from the various puddles of sick and kebab that covered much of the area, Joe suddenly darted toward a particular strip joint that he seemed familiar with. A heated chat broke out with the bouncer, who had his arm round the Londoner while doing his best to get him in. After some whispering Joe pulled out his hefty stump of cash, causing the man’s eyes to visibly bulge whilst ensuring an even tighter grip. “Come, come I show you,” the individual muttered, ushering us quickly up the stairs. I felt every last ounce of my dignity drain from me as I followed them through a dark dingy corridor to reception, hoping that no one had recognised me entering the place. In any event, it was bad enough just knowing I was in such a hovel.

Perhaps realising I was being subjected to a severe form of torture, Joe paid the $30 entry fee for me. In truth the note would have gone to more use had it been set alight. We then proceeded into the pit where we walked up some stairs and finally into a dark small room, not dissimilar to a cinema studio, where a spattering of depraved men were engrossingly watching a woman with legs about as high as Joe’s head twirling around a pole while seductively playing with her nipples. A wrinkly woman, quite possibly a prostitute retiree, then came over and asked if we’d like any drinks. “Give me something strong. No, make that very strong,” I mumbled, shaking my head in disbelief that I could be in such a place – my proud unblemished record of having never frequented such a dirt hole now in tatters.

Sat right at the front, I glanced behind me at some of the characters. Most were in a world of their own as they studiously concentrated on every flick of the woman’s hair, as well as every gyration as she teased and tantalised the slimy men, who craved to see her finally remove her thong after ever so slightly pulling it down on several occasions, only to leave it agonisingly on for the frustrated crowd. I spotted a shaven headed man nearby, sat back deep in his chair with his legs wide open licking his lips and holding his groin. He may as well have been jerking off in front of us. With patience being severely tested matters became worse when Joe, with no warning, got up and left. “I’m just going downstairs for a blowey, see you in 20 minutes,” he announced, springing to his feet and storming out the room with the wrinkly waitress, who perhaps was coming out of retirement after all. He seemed to know the staff extremely well and I couldn’t help think he had been here before once or twice.

My plight was now infinitely worse as I bore the resemblance of one of the deviant regulars who pops in to watch a few shows by himself. Taking large sips of my beer I finished the large bottle in quick time before noticing Joe had left over half his drink, prompting me to quickly dispatch it. Not being able to bear the pain any more I sharply made my way to the exit door. Not knowing how to escape this shithole I hurried down a variety of dark dead-end corridors before stumbling upon a seemingly public area where three hookers and two men were sat chatting.

“Hi darling, you looking for something?” one asked looking up at me. Typical. All I had wanted was to get out of this place with no one seeing me and now here I was being cornered by one of the servants. “I’m just looking for the way out,” I replied sheepishly.

“Why don’t you stay a little longer darling?” came the gentle, husky woman’s reply.

“I’d love to but I’ve spent long enough in here already unfortunately.”

“That’s a shame darling. I could show you a good time you know?”

I sighed, feeling increasingly like a hostage. I knew I had to be firm but nice in order to avoid angering the lady. After all I had heard stories where they get the heavies to beat you mercilessly until you pay them more cash, whether you like it or not. “And I could show you a good time too,” I began, attempting to create some rapport and keep her onside. “But sadly due to circumstances beyond my control this won’t be happening as I’m already late for the opera.” Perhaps sensing I was being untruthful, her patience snapped on realising she wouldn’t be getting any of my business, prompting her to point indignantly toward another corridor, before swivelling round to continue her discussion.

As I turned to leave, the other hooker suddenly went berserk and lobbed a glass, narrowly avoiding my head, after an argument broke out. “You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you,” she screamed at one of the petrified men. Not wanting to hang about I accelerated out of the room and sharply down the stairs to the relative safety of the street, where I took a deep sigh of relief and went about putting as much distance between myself and the club.

By now the street was flooded with drunk, obnoxious Neanderthals and screeching overly emotional women, dressed as scantily as the prostitutes, who I did my best to sidestep. Apart from the array of strip clubs, there were countless bars and more traditional nightclubs with packs of angry looking doormen outside from the Pacific Islands. I got a cheeseburger from one of the many fast-food counters to pass some time waiting for Joe to finally finish his business. After a short while he appeared with a giant smile on his face.

“You enjoy yourself then?” I joked.

“Yeah needed that mate…good to let off some steam you know? She took a load in her face.” It was like a whole weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Not wanting to hang about any longer we hopped in a taxi and headed back to the centre of the city. I had rarely been happier to see my hostel.

The following weekend I got a text from Darren. “Party tonight. You coming? Gonna get some puss,” it read. I was beginning to realise that the Australian only ever thought about one subject. When meeting up with the lads in early evening, it soon became clear that this gathering was in the back end of nowhere, in a place called Berowra – about an hour and a half north of Sydney – and was not just outside the city as it had been described to me before I agreed to go along. Just how we would get to this godforsaken house no one seemed to know, as Darren exchanged countless phone calls attempting, to no avail, to figure this out.

Before I could go any further, though, I took the opportunity to nip into a liquor store near Central station where I sought out some much needed alcohol. My mood perked up when out of nowhere I saw a person offering small free cups of white and red wine as part of a promotion. Although I had no interest in purchasing wine I let the old guy talk me into trying it. I gulped down the white wine in one go. “Not bad…quite fruity. How do the others compare?” I said innocently attempting to get more free booze. The old man paused and looked at me like I had a drinking problem, before going ahead and pouring the second cup. I smelt the red wine before taking a small sip like a seasoned wine taster. ”Umm this one’s good, really rich and tangy. Just how I like it actually.”

There was a third wine on promotion, which I strongly hinted at trying. “It will be interesting to see whether this one compares favourably with the others,” I said, with the man apparently reading my mind and resentfully pouring out a third cup. “Not so good I’m afraid,” I winced after taking down a mouthful. “Think I’ll leave the wine and just go for some beer instead.” The man gave me a look of disgust as I waltzed out the shop feeling slightly giddy from the generous free wine.

Deliberations with how to get to our location weren’t getting any easier causing increasing frustration, in contrast with Rob, now emerging from the store singing and dancing with two bottles of wine. “Shut up or I’ll punch you?” a riled Darren shouted, knowing that precious seconds of trying to get into someone’s knickers at the party were slipping away. And then, as if by miracle, my phone rang. It was Joe. He was bored driving round looking for something to do so I suggested he come to the party – and, of course, give us a lift there at the same time. Although Darren was against the idea of another man attending the revelry, for fear it would statistically reduce his chances of pulling, I managed to talk him round, emphasising that his chances of getting some action would range between zero to non-existent if we didn’t actually get there in the first place. “He’ll probably nip off for a blowey at The Cross before long anyway,” I explained, which seemed to put Darren’s mind at ease.

After waiting patiently in the cold darkness Joe finally rolled up in an old Ford estate car. Reaching over to open my door, I realised there was no handle. “This baby’s seen better days that’s for sure,” Joe joked, “but I like to keep things on the down low, you know?” I didn’t have a clue what he was on about but nodded enthusiastically nonetheless. We made our way through the busy Saturday evening traffic, with the Londoner swearing at anyone who dared to come anywhere near his battered car. “Fucking cunt get out of my way,” he shouted menacingly at one motorist, while sticking his head out the window just to ram home the point. A minute later he carved someone up, who had the audacity to toot their horn, prompting a foul-mouthed riposte as he looked over his shoulder at the car, seemingly forgetting about the road ahead.

Drinking their way through wine, beer and whiskey meant the Aussies in the back were now getting firmly into their stride. “Old wankers,” Rob suddenly blurted hysterically at three shocked female pensioners stood by the side of the road. Not wanting to be out done, Pat then decided it would be a good idea to bare some naked flesh and after winding down his window elected to stick his bum out, while Darren was indiscriminately firing hand gestures and insults at startled onlookers. “I fucked your grandma up the backdoor last night… she loved every second,” he yelled at several well dressed middle aged men, who attempted to dish some abuse back in before being flummoxed by the sight of Pat’s white bum glowing in the dark as we sped past. I afforded myself a wry smile at the ongoing antics and sucked in a few large gulps of thick smoky air caused by Joe and Rob’s chain smoking, praying that we would somehow prevail against the odds and make it to the house in one.

As forecast we made it to this largely desolate place after an intensive 90-minute journey. I gingerly got out of the car and felt my legs nearly give way. It had been an exhausting mission and I felt like I needed a good ten-hour sleep rather than a party. However, I soon realised that the wild party it had been sold as, was not quite the reality. After ringing the doorbell several times a large figure eventually came to the door. “I suppose you’re here for the party,” a grumpy middle aged man scowled, before rolling his eyes and turning round to fetch the host, Clare, who it became clear happened to be his daughter. “This should be some party,” I muttered dryly under my breath.

“Should’ve brought my walking frame,” Pat mocked, with disgust etched on his face. You could almost taste the awkwardness as we drunkenly stepped inside the hallway past the father’s grouchy face.

As if things weren’t already bad enough, it suddenly dawned on me that everyone thought I was only 24 after this had been broadcast, much to my displeasure, the previous weekend. I felt myself sobering up slightly, fearing that I would be ousted as a sick, untrustworthy Pommie. I knew I’d have to be on my best behaviour and watch what I said. After all, it was one thing pulling the wool over a bunch of youngsters but to actually do it over fully-fledged grown-ups was a whole different matter. I knew I’d have to get my life chronology right, but was fearful in my state of intoxication this may not be possible. Even if I pulled this off I still had to convince the father that I looked and acted as a 24 year old would. Someone of his experience would easily be able to detect a fraud so I decided the best policy was to stay away from him and all the other adults, who suddenly emerged as we entered the lounge, including Clare’s mother and grandparents, as well as some of their friends.

Maybe the father wasn’t aware of his neurosis but he certainly couldn’t hide the fact that he was an over protective parent, as he launched a barrel of questions at us designed to reveal if we could be trusted at this party.

“How old is your car?” he barked at Joe.

“I got it last week mate but it’s second hand, think it came out in 1997.”

“That’s an old car. Is it road safe?” he probed further.

“Yeah had it checked out when I got it mate,” Joe shrugged casually.

“So what are you doing in the country?” It was beginning to feel like a ruthless interrogation, with not even any hint of pretence about being interested in us, just more a case of whether we were worthy to be in his daughter’s presence.

Despite Joe’s full and honest answers to a plethora of inane questions about his car, visa and nationality, the brooding man still remained unconvinced. Joe had not helped his cause by constantly calling him mate, especially when they were about as far from mates as you could get. But I for one was at least happy the heat had not been directed on me. “I didn’t fucking sign up for this,” Joe whispered bluntly, as we finally escaped the hostile father’s clutches.

“I’ll just pop to the car and get the cake and jelly out,” I quipped back.

Finally, we found the party, though it resembled more of a wake with many of Clare’s dozen or so friends looking like they wished they’d stayed in to watch TV at home with their parents instead. Daringly, we got some food from the buffet and took advantage of the vodka on the side. Pat, forgetting where he was, committed the treacherous act of turning up the music to a volume we could now hear, before a cry from the kitchen made it quite clear this was forbidden. “Turn that crap down,” the father’s voice yelled.

“No,” came the brave and surprising response from Clare, who in her inebriated state had perhaps forgotten she was dealing with one of the world’s biggest tyrants.

After about an hour of stuffing our faces with sausage rolls, crisps and cake Joe decided he’d had enough. “I’m off to The Cross mate,” he declared dismissively.

“For a blowey?” I replied, sensing he wouldn’t be going there to drink fine wine in one of the classier establishments.

“Yeah,” he said laughing. “I need to blow my load in some filthy slut’s face, especially after being put through this. Know what I mean? Plus there’s fuck all here.”

“What are you talking about? What about the grandma? You’re not that fussy,” I replied. But it was no good. His mind was made up. And when no one was looking he sneaked out the front door to make the long journey back to Sydney alone.

As Joe left I downed my beer before starting on the wine. I felt myself wobble ever so slightly. I knew that now more than ever I had to maintain a low profile. Yet, somehow, a short time later I found myself outside talking to Clare’s mum, who seemed remarkably sober, particularly in comparison to me anyway.

Paranoid about putting my foot in it I adopted the safety-first strategy of letting her do most of the talking. But inevitably there were gaps of silence in the conversation where I had to employ my quick-thinking skills to fill the silence and prevent the subject venturing onto the subject of me and, in particular, my age or anything that may expose it. “How long have you lived in Australia?” I then asked with genuine interest, attempting to fill another awkward gap.

“All my life,” she replied, looking at me like I was some kind of eccentric Englishman who asks stupid questions. “You silly twat,” I thought, annoyed that I could ask such a pathetically pointless question, which thanks to my non-functioning brain embarrassingly continued full throttle against my will. “Well you must like it here then?” I then heard myself actually say out loud.

“It’s my home, so yes I do like it,” she added, raising her eyebrows suspiciously at me.

“Umm I’m sure,” I said, trying to think of what next to say. “Nice hot weather you get here and interesting wildlife. Must make it all worthwhile.” And with that, she smiled curiously and explained that she had to go and see to the other guests. I may not have made the best of first impressions but I had at the very least pre-empted any possible inquiry into my age.

With my head spinning, I poured myself a large vodka and made my way outside to get some much needed fresh air. Needing to be alone, I stood away from everybody else, who was stood near the swimming pool merrily drinking and chatting away. I thought the crisp oxygen would have resolved my sudden onslaught of head pain, but if anything the outside lights glittering against the swimming pool in the darkness made my predicament all the worse. And then disaster struck, as like a punch-drunk boxer who’s been on the end of a battering and is desperately fighting to remain on his feet, the overwhelming hammering on my body could no longer sustain the vast concoction of alcohol I had consumed, causing me, as if in slow motion, to fall uncontrollably backwards. Before I knew what had happened I had smacked into the conservatory window and then rebounded, ending up on a heap on the patio.

All conversations came to an abrupt halt as everyone’s eyes immediately turned on me, as I struggled to regain my composure and get to my feet, which finally I managed, albeit with all the ease of a wheelchair-bound 94 year old who only occasionally uses their feet. I spotted the stern father shaking his head glumly from the other side of the pool. To add insult to injury - and I was injured, with several grazes to my elbows and knees - Rob began laughing like a hyena at me. But, spotting my chance to desperately divert attention away from me, I cunningly attempted to use this as a cover up. “There was no need for that Rob,” I said indignantly, shaking my head like a man who had been on the receiving end of a prank, or specifically, in this case, of a tripping up. I then stood there brushing off the dirt from my trousers before swiftly retreating to the sanctuary of the house, still shaking my head like a victim, where I got myself a beer.

I luxuriated in the solace of my own company for a period before bravely returning outside with Rob and Pat. As if my attempts to remain under the radar were not going badly enough, I then heard a shout from the other side of the swimming pool where a bunch of Clare’s friends were bouncing away carelessly on a trampoline. “Hey Steve, you’re not really 24 are you?” Darren’s friend, the loud-mouthed girl who’d questioned my age when I’d met her the previous week, shouted aggressively. “cat’s out of the bag,” I thought. This was hardly the ideal scenario, especially as I was surrounded by a pack of blood thirsty wolves ready to rip into me.

I would have preferred to come clean and reveal my age but with so many people already thinking I was 24 I felt like there was no going back now. I took in a deep breath before opting to use humour as my get-out-of –jail card. “You’re right,” I joked, “I’m only 19. How did you know?”

Unfortunately it didn’t wash. “Come on, we don’t think you’re 24. How old are you?” I felt somewhat disgusted that they could think that I, a youthful looking sort, could definitely not be 24. In reality I was only six years older than they thought I was, which wasn’t that much of a difference, so why the big debate? I laughed off some further attempts to extract my age before Darren, in his drunken state, almost dropped me in it with his stupidity. “Steve, Steve….you’re 24 right,” he whaled laughingly in a moronic voice.

Attempting to put the whole thing to bed one final time I added passionately, “I am 24 thanks, maybe I look a bit younger maybe I look a bit older who knows”.

“Well we think you look about 27,” came the reply. She wasn’t going away easily and was starting to get on my nerves. I shrugged my shoulders and sipped some of my beer. I had rode the storm as an uneasy stalemate descended, with many still not sure what my age really was. In any event I couldn’t believe this fool had made such a big deal about what in her eyes was just three years anyway. True, she had been right that I was older, but ironically her estimate was still three years short of my real age, at least giving me something of a boost in amongst the interrogation.

As the party slowly started to clear out I bumped into Pat who had been outside with Darren. “Good to see all those old wankers finally leaving,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief they had even been there to begin with. “Imagine having a dad like Clare’s though,” he scoffed.

“Yeah bet her mum could do with some fresh cock being stuck with him,” Darren added excitedly, grabbing his crotch.

“Yeah man,” Rob said, motioning like he was thrusting on a horse, ”I’d ride her like Zorro and spunk in her hair.” And then, much to everyone’s deep shock, the mother walked out from behind a door and delivered a steely stare, before abruptly going upstairs. “I think she’s waiting for you lot in her room,” I quipped.

“Shit do you think she heard?” Pat said, fear breaking out across his face.

“Who gives a fuck?” Darren hit back, after a long pause of us all wondering if we would be turfed out onto the streets for the night having assumed, with our lift departed, we would be crashing there.

With the party now clearly at an end we sought confirmation from Clare whether it was alright for us to stay. Naturally she said it was but I wasn’t convinced the power-holders of the household would necessarily be of a like mind. Minutes later we heard intense muttering reverberating downstairs that was clearly not meant for our ears. “We’d both rather they didn’t stay, they’ve been nothing but trouble. Darren’s been like a leach all over every girl, while that English guy nearly broke the conservatory window,” I heard the serious voice of the father say.

“They’re my friends and it’s my birthday though,” Clare replied stubbornly. “If you don’t let them stay then I will leave home and you’ll never see me again.”

It all seemed a bit far fetched, but nonetheless seemed to do the trick. “Ok they can stay just this once,” the father, who was clearly some kind of control freak, answered reluctantly. “But if they do anything then they’ll wish they’d never been born.”

We were conveyed the good news by Clare – “You’re more than welcome to stay” – and were given a selection of worn covers that we could barely stretch over us, as we settled down on the floor next to the dog’s basket ready to conk out.

I woke some hours later with a colossal hangover and a dog licking my ear. To make matters worse the dog had knocked over a glass of water on my socks, which I had taken off once hot enough under my cover. There was no way I was going to walk round with wet feet before making the long painful journey back to the city and fortunately Pat, showing fine initiative, spotted an opportunity with the microwave, which he duly placed them in. When I got them out they were hard and crispy but more importantly they were warm and dry. I spotted the father, who appeared to be doing his best to avoid us, walk past the room shaking his head at the latest escapade.

Ready to leave now, we said our goodbyes and made our way slowly out of the front door with Clare, who was giving us a lift to the nearest train station. Just as we were half way down the pathway, the father came rushing out. “Make sure you drive very carefully,” he warned desperately. Despite thanking him, we were left with nothing more than a stony silence. It was obvious that he hated nobody more than us in the entire world. After a long journey back in silence to Central station, I made my way to the hostel where I collapsed into my bed.

Having miraculously saved my liver and bank balance for a period of days I was reunited with the Aussies the following weekend, where we were off to a place called Northolm, somewhere out to the west, as Darren claimed he knew of a party there. As usual the plan to get there was vague at best. We supposedly had a lift lined up at a nearby station and after stocking up on enough alcohol supplies for a small army began our epic journey to get there, which we were told would take anywhere from an hour and a half to two hours.

I was struggling to get my head round how far away everything was in this giant country and how the Australians would think nothing of a trip this length for a party, whereas in England if you embarked on such a trip for another potentially anti-climatic gathering, you would be considered insane or desperate or both.

The journey, as expected, took an age. Though, we were not helped after choosing a train that stopped at every station. Fortunately to keep us entertained, while knocking back our large bottled beers that we had disguised in tramp-style brown bags, we had Rob singing some pop songs in his distinctively high, squeaky voice, while bursting out into the old jig around the metal pole that most ordinary people use to hold onto when standing. Darren, already feeling the effects of a few beers, was picking on a selection of random targets sat nearby minding their own business. “Hey there mate,” he sniggered to a shy Asian man, who looked up from reading his book. “You getting some pussy tonight?” The spectacled individual frowned and buried his head deeper into his novel, sparking hilarious laughter from the Aussies.

By the time we eventually got to the station I had consumed several of the large bottles of beer. “This crap’s done nothing,” I said brashly as I swayed my way out of the exit. After finding our lift in the car park I was taken aback when a vile female whose face looked like a cow’s rear, confronted me having apparently been at Clare’s party the previous week. “I see you’ve had a shave then this week,” she screeched, attempting to make a public scene. “How old are you again?” she continued, her face all screwed up with fury, as she exuded all the charm of Cruella Deville.

“Is it an offence to shave now then? Perhaps you should try it,” I fired back sarcastically.

My canny response momentarily threw her, before she came back for some more. “Well, I know you’re older than you say you are. Look at him, don’t you think he’s older than 24?” she added venomously, pointing at my face from no more than two feet away to the man who must have been her extremely unfortunate boyfriend, who just shrugged his shoulders.

“Look,” I said, sucking in a lung-full of night air after growing increasingly irritated by her vicious assault on my age. “If I’m honest I think you need radical facial surgery. But you don’t hear me going around shouting about it and waving my finger in your face do you?”

“Oh my god,” she yelled angrily. “You’re such a lying dick.”

“No, I was telling the truth. The sooner you get the surgery the better.” And then I glanced toward the boyfriend. “Mate,” I said comfortingly, “you can do a lot better than this.” I pointed with my eyes at his girlfriend. “I would suggest your quality of life would dramatically increase if you got rid of her. Seriously.” He didn’t say a lot in return, but I sincerely hoped for his sake that he could rescue himself from a life of misery.

The angry girl stormed off shouting expletives in my direction, prompting me to offer her a saintly wave in return. “Right let’s go,” I said, with a huge grin on my face.

“Ummm we were supposed to be following her to the house as she knows the way,” Clare, who had kindly put herself out to come and collect us, declared anxiously after the girl had screeched off in her car.

“Oh really?” I replied, feeling a sense of responsibility for us being stuck in a station car park in the dark wilderness with no clue how to get to our destination. But thankfully all was not lost, as after a round of heated phone calls Clare finally had some vague idea where to head.

As we made our way up the dark, winding forest roads my apprehensiveness of what may lay in wait for me at the party, with the possibility of potential further inquisitions, was not helped by Clare’s shocking driving. We pulled up at some temporary traffic lights showing red, where the small matter of the Highway Code was apparently no obstacle, as without a second’s hesitation she ploughed on through, forcing back a car that had dared to make its way down the one-way road. “Female bloody drivers,” Pat screamed.

Following a good half an hour of holding on for dear life in the back of the car we somehow made it to the party. As we pulled into a field adjacent to the big country house, surrounded by giant overhanging eerie trees, we cautiously followed the bright display lights and noise that was coming from the front. My sense of foreboding was worsened after finding out that none of the Aussies even knew the birthday girl and that we had no official invitation. Making our way along the footpath of the ranch, I noticed there were horse stables and a collection of show jumping areas.

Making our way up the steep wooden stairs to the front of this solitary house it felt like we were in the Wild West. As we got to the top, we made our way around the decking area and safely beyond the outside swimming pool without any of us falling in and then awkwardly toward the group of assembled people, none of whom we knew. As if to indicate our awkwardness, we naturally stood alone, before a friendly middle-aged woman approached us. “Hello, how are you?” she said warmly. “How do you know my daughter?” she continued politely, assuming that we must all be very good friends - perhaps from horse racing or wherever – with us having come so far out of our way to see her on her 21st birthday. We all paused, looking blankly at one another. “Oh we’re all mates with Clare and she invited us,” Pat chipped in after an awkward pause, desperately hoping that would suffice.

It didn’t seem to overly deter the kindly lady, fortunately though. “Oh ok, you better have a drink and come and meet her then.” And then, without having a chance to catch our breath, we were briskly ushered through into the kitchen area where there was another congregation of people, including aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins, who greeted us like family members they hadn’t seen for years. “How are you?” I asked one elderly woman.

“Hello dear, I’m well as I can be considering I don’t walk anymore,” she joked, pointing out her wheelchair. “You look well though?”

“Can’t complain. Really good to see you all,” I responded before pretending I had spotted someone and making my excuses to leave.

As welcoming and kind as everyone had been so far been, again, the party had not quite been as we’d expected. Glancing over my shoulder I spotted Darren roll his eyes as he was introduced to the birthday girl’s grandma, causing an involuntary snigger from Rob, who began performing a rhythmical motion with his groin behind the old lady’s back.

We were guided back outside where the birthday girl was pointed out. Not that this needed to be done as she had several large badges - like a child would - on her top indicating as much. We weren’t able to do the formal introductions at this precise moment, though, as she was otherwise engaged blindfolded while trying to spank a blow-up donkey hanging from the ceiling. Swinging the stick like an aggressive blind person who’d been robbed, she wasn’t having much success. Not until her dad intervened, anyway. Grabbing the stick, he started pounding the donkey like a demented zombie before it finally burst, causing vast amounts of sweets to tumble from it to the floor. Pat and Darren looked like men in a lonely dark place, contemplating how things could have come to this. Personally, I wasn’t surprised one jot.

With a bonfire in full force down the garden, we grabbed our opportunity to get out of the family spotlight and made our way quickly there. To our eternal gratitude there were up to 20 young people drinking and messing about. As I settled down on a seat near the lovely hot fire ready to drink my beer I was suddenly cornered by what appeared to be a rather drunk woman, though she could just as easily been male from her broad jaw and masculine features. Without seeking my permission she then sat on my lap, causing me to almost collapse under her impressive weight.

It turned out she was another keen equestrian and once again, apart from feeling great sorrow for the poor horses that had to cart her about, left me asking the eternal question: why do women who are passionately into horse riding look like their horses? Maybe they spend too much time with their horses and through a kind of osmosis end up looking like one of their animals. Or perhaps it is more to do with them subconsciously presenting themselves in the manner of one of their much cherished fillies. Or then again, maybe they’re just attracted to the animal in the same way that studies reveal how men and women who look alike are supposedly drawn together. In any event, as nice as she was, in a massively overbearing and slightly arrogant way, I wasn’t delighted about her forcing herself on me.

As best friend of the birthday girl - who I’d only just been told was called Hannah - and an honorary member of the family, she felt fit to help herself to whatever she liked. After grabbing me by the arm and pulling me to the kitchen, a succession of tequila shots were lined up and dispatched, leaving me gagging and spluttering on the floor like I was dying of the plague. “Get up you big pounce,” she shouted in my ear as she knocked back a further three shots.

Before long she was telling me her life story and said she worked for her dad, who was a multi-millionaire. “We can rule together, you and me, how does that sound?” she said, seemingly expecting me to get down on one knee and propose by the bonfire. “Yeah sure” I replied, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. And then, to my great horror, I caught sight of her giant horse-like-face moving in for the kill on me like a predator swooping for its prey. “Shit,” I thought, before diving for cover and miraculously managing to get out the way of her dive-bombing tongue. As I looked round while making my get-away I caught sight of her lying with her legs and arms in the air having fallen off the chair following her surprising move.

I urgently needed the toilet so found myself a bush, where as I was ecstatically relieving myself when I heard footsteps behind me. “Only me, thought you might have got lost,” a voice said. I didn’t need to look round to see who it was and knew instantly that it was my stalker. With my exposed manhood dangling freely outside of my trousers I felt seriously concerned about what this crazy girl would try next, especially with her being so temptingly close to it. “Oooh what have we got here then?” she whispered seductively.

“Nothing,” I mumbled fearfully, desperately trying to flick the last few drops of pee out before stuffing my organ back into the sanctuary of my buttoned up trousers. Relieved I had just about protected myself I then suddenly felt a tight squeeze on my buttocks, causing me to jump forward like a jack-in-the-box. “Think I better see where the lads are,” I said anxiously, half expecting to be dragged into the bushes against my will.

I briskly walked up the steps and toward the swimming pool, with my stalker still in hot pursuit, where I noticed some people splashing around. Then from nowhere, Pat, in just a pair of Superman pants, sprinted before bombing into the deep blue water, making a colossal splash, which unfortunately for the poorly placed grandma, left her drenched. She sighed and shook her head with a sheepish smile, before retreating inside for a change of clothes as Pat lined up another dive. “Steve, there you are,” he shouted excitedly. “Get yourself in here.” And without further ado he launched himself into the water again. I politely declined the invitation, especially as Pat was the only one in the pool, and sauntered off sharply. “I’ll be ok thanks,” I mumbled. The only good thing to come out of the tidal wave of water being sprayed everywhere was that it forced my stalker to seek refuge elsewhere, which I was eternally grateful for.

After wandering aimlessly about I eventually found Rob and Darren, who had been drinking in some back room discussing girls. “She’s hot ay. Think I’ve got a chance,” Darren declared as I walked in.

“Yeah man for sure,” Rob, replied reassuringly.

Darren, looking troubled, still wasn’t convinced. “What even though I fingered her mate tonight?” he added holding a couple of fingers up.

Rob, laughing, shook his head. “Yeah for sure man, stop being such a girl about it. She wants it.” And so the conversation went, with Darren attempting to fill a void of doubt created by his wandering fingers.

A short while later he was spotted up against a prominently placed wall close to the house with another female who, with her hand down his trousers, was vigorously thrusting away. It wouldn’t have been so bad but for the fact that a handful of senior members of the party were forced into performing double takes as they awkwardly motioned past.

With the party drawing to a close we were generously invited to stay over by the mother, which was just as well because we had nowhere else to go. We were shown to an adjoining building out the back. As we entered Pat was sprawled out unconscious on a sofa clutching a cushion with just his infamous Superman pants on. We tiptoed in the dark over to the corner where the bed was. It was a single bed so only two people could get in. “You go on the floor,” Darren told Rob.

“No man you go on the floor,” Rob fired back. Without hesitation and not wanting to be the one left on the floor I capitalised on the hesitancy and quickly got under the covers. A mini scuffle broke out to see who would join me. Darren with his bulkier physique brushed Rob off, who was left with a couple of blankets to rest on the hard wooden floor. It wasn’t the most comfy of scenarios but it would more than do under the circumstances.

Waking up to bright sunlight shining directly on me, I rubbed my eyes wearily before slowing getting up and slapping the others. Like a bunch of uninvited guests at a party – which was actually what we were - we made our way awkwardly through to the main area of the house. Despite feeling like drunk trespassers we were again made to feel at home, with our timing totally perfect, as a fry-up breakfast was being prepared. The hospitable mother insisted we sat down alongside the remaining few friends, including my stalker, and family members, who were intently nattering around the table.

One of Hannah’s friends, a young cheeky lad in a wheelchair, was full of the delights of life after having an enjoyable night. “I had sex with…um… what’s her face last night,” he announced proudly to the table and assembled members of family standing nearby in the kitchen. “She had the time of her life,” he added with a grin. I did a double take at the youngster before glancing over to the Aussies who were all open mouthed at what they were hearing.

The looks on their faces told a story as they struggled to come to terms with how someone in a wheelchair could be engaging in intercourse; especially someone, who in the nicest possible way, looked like Harry Potter. On a personal note I wasn’t sure if raising this particular subject at the breakfast table in front of his friend’s parents and grandparents was the right time or place for such a discussion. But it didn’t seem to matter to him. “She wasn’t as good as the one I had last week,” he continued with a snigger, continuing full steam ahead with his tale.

Thinking the parents would step in and reprimand him for crossing the breakfast table boundary, to my great shock I could not of been more wrong. It was at this very moment that I realised what a truly crazy bunch they were. “Not bad for someone who can’t use your legs are you?” the mother - the person who supposedly sets an example - joked, sparking riotous laughter that almost left me deaf in one ear. “Just think how many more notches on the post you’d be getting if you actually had a working pair of legs?” the father shouted hysterically, as he slapped the guy playfully around the head, provoking further screams of laughter – including the lad himself, who was revelling in his condition.

Although it was almost impossible not to get caught up in the hilarity of it all, I still couldn’t help but find the whole thing slightly absurd. Here we had a lothario who couldn’t use his legs but was irresistible to women. But perhaps more oddly, was how the entire family seemed to take a special delight in mocking the fact he would never walk again.

Clearly feeling pleased with his exploits from the night before, the cocksure guy then took things a step further. “Anyone else get any?” he asked smugly, looking about the room, only to be met with a wall of silence and a few sheepish shakes of the head. “Not bad for a cripple huh?” he laughed. “They all love the wheelchair.”

“Hey mate, what’s your secret?” Darren suddenly asked, still at pains to understand how this machine pulls it off.

“So you want my secrets?” he laughed. “Well, some like the fascination of being with a guy in a wheelchair, some like to be in control and some just feel sorry for me,” he explained. “But as long as I’m getting regular pussy then I don’t care how I get it.” Darren nodded vehemently in agreement, making a mental note of the advice. “Typical,” Pat whispered in my ear. “The cripple gets some action but not a crumb for me.”

After breakfast we were ushered into the lounge to wait for my stalker who had offered to give us a lift back to the city in her sports car. As we sat patiently waiting to leave I noticed a gangly spider on the wall and, more out of passing the time, asked what this frail, static creature was. “It’s a Daddy-Long-Leg-spider, the most deadly one we have in this country,” Hannah added in a carefree voice. “But don’t worry they’re harmless.” This seemed like something of a paradox to me and I could only assume the revelation left me with fear and confusion etched on my face as I tried to absorb the information and deal with the reality that a highly venomous spider was only a matter of feet away from me. “They only bite if you attack them,” the mother added, as if to put my mind at ease.

I still wasn’t convinced and hoped we could hurry up and escape this dangerous craphole. But then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the mother added, “We found a tarantula in the room where you stayed a few weeks ago.” I instantly swivelled round and looked her square in the eyes to see if she was joking. Sadly, she wasn’t.

“We caught it walking along the floor. Mind you, as I’m sure you can imagine with a place like this out in the country, we get all sorts around here.” I took a sharp intake of breath and grabbed my balls for reassurance as my naivety was laid bare for all to see. I was aware that Australia is reported to inhabit more deadly species than anywhere else on earth but somehow it just didn’t occur to me they would be near where I was.

I began freaking out, thinking how I could easily have ended up with one of the vicious hairy monsters on me while I lay blissfully asleep with my mouth wide open. I started itching and fidgeting, worried there may even be one lurking beneath the sofa or under the cushion as we spoke. How do these people live out here? Maybe that’s why they’re all so laid back, I concluded, because if they faced up to reality they would be fleeing the country at a rate of knots.

In the end I couldn’t wait to leave and was almost happy to see my stalker emerge ready to give us our lift. We said our goodbyes and walked briskly to the car where I strategically piled into the back to keep as much distance as possible from her as we made the awkward lengthy journey back, breathing a massive sigh of relief when we were dropped off in the city.

Adding to my spider woes, I was alarmed further when informed from a helpful well-wisher back in the UK that there had been a massive increase of the Sydney Funnel-web spiders (a species which reportedly had caused 13 of the 27 recorded spider related deaths in the country), coincidentally at about the same time as I had arrived in the country. The combination of high humidity and particularly wet weather had been the cause, resulting in the Australian Reptile Centre, which collects captured funnel-webs, having roughly 40 of the spiders once I was in the country but only a mere two before I had landed.

“Watch out for the ‘plague’ of funnel-webs out there,” my kind friend emailed. “They’re ‘breeding-up’ apparently and are ‘coming thick and fast’. Watch your back. Good luck mate,” he added, having quoted from sources in the media. For it to be making news back in the UK I knew this outbreak was severe and decided there and then that I would keep us much distance as humanly possible from rocks, shrubs and trees, though even then I may not be safe with spiders seeking refuge inside buildings due to the relentless downpours. I thanked my friend for his helpful update and wished him good luck in avoiding catching rabies when he was in France for his holiday.

CHAPTER 9 – HOSTEL TENSIONS

Over the following days all I could think about was the much anticipated rugby clash between Australia and England at the ANZ stadium, which I was going to with the Aussies and some people from the hostel. It would, incredibly, be the first time Johnny Wilkinson, the hero from the 2003 World Cup victory over Australia, had set foot in the ground since his drop goal all those years before.

Naturally there was a fair bit of banter flying about, with the atmosphere a bit spicy. Fearful of a backlash if we lost, fortunately my prayers were answered when Wilkinson himself strode onto the pitch as an early second half substitute and then, with his first touch, kicked a 50 metre penalty straight over the posts giving us a crucial lead. “Almost as good as you’re drop goal for the World Cup win,” I shouted out boastfully, while surrounded by hundreds of peeved Australians. To make matters even better, the kick turned out to be the winning points, so I wasted no time in rubbing it into my friends. “That must have felt like déjà vu for you lot?” I asked cheekily.

“I’m sick of you bloody Poms,” Pat muttered, though I sensed there was a slight grain of truth to his comment. Rob was feigning crying hysterically while Darren really didn’t give a toss and couldn’t wait to continue his never ending quest for “pussy”. As we left the stadium I grabbed Rob’s Australian flag and put a flame to it, as if to symbolise our triumph, and made sure they all took a selection of photos of me so we could all vividly remember this victory.

The serious business of drinking back at the hostel began. I took advantage of a sign that read, “Guests only beyond this point” by interpreting it as meaning that my friends were allowed upstairs even though I had strong suspicion it may just have been intended as a warning to indicate the reverse. In any event, I felt that legally, should anything go wrong, I was on fairly strong grounds because the term “guest” could just as easily have referred to those invited over as to those who were paying residents. I, therefore, took it upon myself to let my friends upstairs where a large crowd of watery-eyed, red-faced people were playing drinking games in the kitchen and hallway, all while crap European dance music pumped out.

We got two four-litre goon boxes after being worried one wouldn’t be enough and began drinking as though we had been stranded on a dessert for several days. Darren’s white face soon turned to a blotchy red colour as he eyed up his female targets staggering about. Meanwhile, Pat was drinking steadily while passionately discussing the poor state of Australian rugby to anyone who would listen. After going awol, Rob suddenly emerged from the out of bounds roof top area - transformed into a smoking area after the door had been kicked in.

We joined Rob, who was smoking like a chimney, and immediately began to up our intake of goon. I fetched a pair of yellow Australian pants I had found a few days earlier and carefully placed them over my trousers in a Superman-type style. Before long I was proudly posing for photographs from people in the hostel I had never laid eyes on.

Making our way into the hallway, we started on the second goon box with Darren garbling incoherent nonsense to any female with a pulse. The thought of another four litres of the hideous wine seemed to be enough to push him over the edge, as after a few sips the inevitable happened, with a river of projectile spewing from his mouth before he felled like a tree and smashed to the floor. Not wanting to get embroiled in the mess, Pat and Rob sprinted from the scene, while I took full advantage of another great photo opportunity and stood victoriously over Darren’s barely conscious body with one foot proudly resting on his head.

As I walked into the dorm a knife missed my head by inches before thudding into the wood. “Sorry Steve mate, come and play with us,” Pat, looking as though his balance was in serious decline, shouted ecstatically, seemingly unaware a six-inch army knife had narrowly avoided hitting me in the face.

“Bloody hell Pat you’re not in the circus,” I shrieked.

“Yeah I know,” he replied, looking slightly miffed at his poor throwing. “I need more practice.”

“That was probably the worst throw yet man,” Rob added, once he had stopped laughing. Feeling knackered I crashed out on my bed, where all I could hear was the thudding sound of knives being thrown against the door, before I passed out.

I woke the next morning with Pat asleep at the end of my bed and Rob lying snugly next to me. I could see Darren across the room on the couch using his leather jacket as a cover. After gently slapping all three to get them up we nipped into the kitchen for a coffee, where I was informed of what a crazy night it was. In full agreement, I quickly realised from the sniggering that other events had taken place once I was asleep. “You know that weird Finnish girl?” Rob said.

I looked at them, now fearing the worst, “Oh yeah the twitchy one with a moustache.”

A look of embarrassed delight came over Rob’s face. “Well me and Daz…you know?”

“You didn’t?” I replied unable to believe what I was hearing.

Now bursting to get involved, Darren saw fit to elaborate. “Mate,” he started, overwhelmed by enthusiasm. “She was so gagging for it. She was like a river down there, you know what I mean?”

Rob nodded in agreement. “We had no choice Steve. Anyway she loved it, especially when I spunked on her back.”

“She loved it more when I came in her face and all over her glasses though,” Darren, feeling outdone, added.

Rob shrugged his shoulders, “It was funny watching her wiping it off her glasses so she could see.”

With my concerns that management would come up and spot me with the Aussies, who in their hungover dishevelled states of wearing the same clothes as the night before could clearly be identified as non-paying residents, I ushered them quickly out the hostel.

After a quick wash to freshen myself up I returned to the kitchen for some breakfast. I sat myself quietly down on the table, where others were gathered intensely eating and discussing outrageous behaviour from the previous night. My ears perked up when I realised they were in fact talking about the Aussies. “Some guys were throwing knives at the door,” a crater faced German woman hissed disapprovingly. “Something must be done,” the gossip added, banging the table like she was Adolph Hitler’s daughter.

“Oh that’s dreadful,” a whining English girl with a hairy chin concurred. “We must find out who these horrible people are and inform management.” I was surrounded by a load of Mother Theresa clones.

Later that day, after the enquiry had taken full swing, I bumped into management on the stairs. “I here some of your friends were throwing knives at the door last night,” I was told accusingly.

“I was in bed so don’t know what happened,” I replied honestly.

“Well I’ve been told they were your friends so I’m warning you this can’t happen anymore.”

“What so you’re giving me a warning?” I asked the greasy faced manager.

He paused bore nodding patronisingly. “Afraid so. Tread carefully from now on yeah?” And with a raise of the eyebrows he began slowly walking off.

“Smelly tosser,” I said, while making a variety of gestures to his back.

“What’s that mate?” he said, suddenly turning around.

“Oh, have a good day.”

I had my suspicions who had dropped me in it, which were later confirmed by a source. As expected it was the girl in the bunk next to me from Manchester. With one of the most annoyingly whining voices I had ever come across, she was renowned for being a busybody and also had a penchant for putting her foot firmly in it, often causing great offence to anyone within a country mile. And all without knowing it. Nevertheless, I now knew I was skating on thin ice, despite my “long termer” status, having been there for several weeks.

My attempts at keeping a low profile took a further blow a few days later when out with some other people from the hostel. While drinking in various bars before returning to the hostel for a few drinks, things were naturally getting a bit rowdy. When the bar shut we went upstairs and stormed into the kitchen to drink more. “Let’s rock ‘n roll man,” one highly demented member of the group blasted, before grabbing a beer from the fridge and throwing it down his throat. Clearly pumped up, the man suddenly started to lay his hands on a variety of vegetables, sauces and cutlery. For a moment I thought he was hungry and had decided to engage in an impromptu feast, before his real intention soon became obvious.

He yanked a cabbage from the fridge – I had a feeling it didn’t belong to him – before, like a shot-put Olympian, launching it as hard as he could against the wall, causing it to smash to smithereens on impact, with some sticking to the tomato sauce and washing up liquid that had already been sprayed up. “Fucking wanker, putting up my rent,” the individual raged, before lobbing plastic cups and bowls across the room and then, just for good measure, squashing a sausage roll and some eggs on an adjacent wall, which had come to look like a smudged rainbow by now. His whirlwind onslaught continued for several minutes before he finally paused for breath. “That’s better,” he said with relish, followed by school-boyish sniggering. “How much did they put your rent up by?” I asked curiously.

“An extra $10 a week,” he replied with sheer disgust. “Oh well, least they’ve got a bit of payback now.”

The next morning the news was all over the hostel. People were outraged and rumours were rife who had committed such a despicable crime. The usual gossips were in their element and knives were out with fingers pointed at potential suspects. I had that sinking feeling again, knowing full well that my proximity to events could render my place in the hostel in jeopardy. On the positive side of things there were no witnesses but I knew that word spread like firewood in this place. With an inquiry in full swing it was inevitable that questions would be asked.

It soon transpired that the demonic culprit had pre-empted any consequences by jumping before he was pushed. With a strong whiff of suspicion sweeping through the place he had abruptly left the hostel. Naturally everyone assumed that would be the end of the matter. But to my surprise, I was approached by management. “You were seen on CCTV by the kitchen. Did you have anything to do with the mess?” I was asked.

“I think a lot of people were drunk but I didn’t make any mess,” I replied candidly.

“Unless you tell me who did it and what happened then you’ll have to leave,” I was then told, rather harshly I felt.

I couldn’t believe my bad luck. Out of the two incidents I had not done anything and here I was facing the chop. “We think it was the guy that’s left but I want to know for sure,” management continued. Knowing that the guilty individual had moved out, I decided I would not be breaking any street code in confirming his actions. I felt like a police informant who had no choice but to offer the information. Despite my innocence I knew I was a marked man and in last chance saloon to stay in the hostel and so did the only thing I could do. “Of course it was him,” I said shaking my head outrageously, as I thought back to events. “I don’t think you need Sherlock Holmes to figure this one out. He was going on about his rent going up and didn’t seem too happy about it.”

The manager nodded understandingly, “Ok thank you, that’s the end of the matter. You’re safe.”

CHAPTER 10 - MINESWEEPING

Now well into my overdraft and with money at an all time low I was forced to make some dramatic changes to my lifestyle. Even if I had wanted to I couldn’t have afforded to get a flight home so had to somehow dig myself out of the mess I was in. The first way of solving my crisis, I reasoned, was to get some work. The second was to not spend as much when going out. After all, Sydney was dangerously expensive and money just seemed to evaporate on a night out.

On countless occasions I had looked in my worn old wallet the day after a night out expecting to find a few notes only to stare blankly at the gaping emptiness. Hitting the bars, where drink prices would leave you feeling robbed, was the chief source of money loss. Having identified the problem, something had to be done about this.

Whilst talking to a new arrival in the dorm, an equally poor Scottish man named Fraser, we soon began discussing strategies for saving money over $3 beers in the hostel bar. Such was the tight-ship Fraser was sailing with only $20 to his name having just paid his rent, he made it clear he could only afford six beers that evening.

Trying to figure out the riddle to our money problems, our moods were momentarily brightened after spotting a lone man in his sixties across the bar who, with his distinguished grey moustache, looked a dead ringer for Dick Van Dyke from the American hit show Diagnosis Murder. After expertly taking a range of photos of him, with either myself or Fraser in the shot, without his realising, of course, we eventually concluded that the only way we could sustain our drinking (after all, living in such inhumane fashion we were not prepared to give up our only vice) when out in bars was by employing a technique known as minesweeping: the act of taking vacant drinks belonging to others, whether deliberately discarded on the side, or not. “The beauty of it is that people forget which is their drink,” I explained passionately. “So even if they pull you up for taking their drink, you just say ‘Sorry mate I thought it was mine’. Normally you’ll get the benefit of the doubt because, let’s be honest, we’ve all accidentally taken the wrong drink when drunk at one time or another.”

My experiences as a bleary eyed 17 year old out for the first time in pubs with just £5 in my pocket for a night out had given me some early experience of exploiting the drunkenness of others. I remembered the profound sense of satisfaction I got from my first ever minesweep: a fresh pint that was full to the brim with delightful froth spilling over the top, after some towering unsuspecting fool had made the schoolboy error of looking away when I was near. How I used to revel in such opportunism. The adrenalin rush from such a coup was immense, especially after seeing the look on their faces as they belatedly scanned the bar in sheer disbelief at not being able to find their drink, as I blended gently into the background. Often they would then take someone else’s pint to counter their loss - resulting in an ugly confrontation. But mostly they would angrily queue up at the packed bar again.

There was a sliding scale on which drinks to go for depending on how full they were. But it all depended on how low you were prepared to stoop. Sweeping a three quarter full drink was considered a fine result, but taking less than a quarter of a drink, for example, reflected a degree of desperation with that person’s backwash likely to be significant and therefore didn’t carry the same degree of prestige as an infinitely fuller glass. I didn’t really have any boundaries and if it was a slow night with not many drinks on offer I would take the plunge and get what I could, pouring a selection of left over beers into a single pint glass.

Fraser was no one’s fool and had acquired good experience of minesweeping in his earlier days too and began to enlighten me on the benefits of working as a team. “One of you blocks off their view and then the other one swoops in. Or if you want to be really smart you can distract them by striking up a conversation or dancing right in their face,” he explained cheekily. “Once you have the drink never stay in the same place. Ideally you should be on the move when reaching for the drink and when it’s in your hand quickly move away from the area,” he added thoughtfully. It was sound advice. “If you’re not sure who the drink belongs to while you’re standing by it ready to pounce, then it’s important the other person keeps an eye out for whose drink it may be and gives the signal when it’s safe to snatch.”

Following our thorough debriefing we decided to put our plans into action the following night as we headed to a popular backpacker’s club. I knew from past experience that drinks were often left at the top of the stairs after people were forced to leave drinks on the side on their way out for a cigarette. This would be our main area of execution, though we would of course remain vigilant to any opportunities that presented themselves around the bar. “It’s simple, when walking up the stairs you have a look and see what’s available and then on the way back in you barely have to pause before picking one up, or two if you fancy it,” I declared confidently, putting my experience of the venue to good use. “You just need to be aware of the bouncers as you return, though normally they are facing outside watching what’s happening out there so it’s pretty safe.”

After getting in the club we reluctantly forked out for a drink each as we blended in to the crowd, our light jovial demeanour masking our predatory instincts. With it still fairly early we knew we would have to wait a while before the inevitable opportunities began to present themselves. After circling the bar and the whole of the downstairs area for over half an hour we were left disappointed by the lack of options. But we knew the night was young and that we’d just have to be ready to pounce when a chance came our way, like lions seeking their prey. “I’m running low on cash so we need to act soon,” I said anxiously, looking at my bare wallet.

“Aye,” Fraser, with a look of steely intent, replied, as we were forced to purchase a second beer.

After loitering at various vantage points around the club we made our way outside. As we trundled up the stairs I was delighted to see about seven drinks on the side by the door – just as I said there would be. I caught a glimpse of Fraser, whose face had lit up with relish at the prospect of finally getting his hands on a hard earned free drink. Most were about half full with beer but I spotted a couple of shorts that had barely been touched. The knowing smirk on each of our faces was growing considerably as we sat on a carefully selected table where we could keep a close eye on the drinks and bouncers. “The last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves,” I stated rationally, before letting out a false laugh to throw off any security, just in case they had smelt the whiff of our cunning conspiring.

After five minutes – enough time for the doormen to reasonably think we had smoked a cigarette – we casually stood up when there was a flurry of activity and made our way toward the stairs. “We don’t want to leave it any longer as the people might come and take their drink before we do,” I whispered in Fraser’s ear.

“Aye, we need to move quick like,” he replied, looking every inch a man who was born ready for this. Nonchalantly walking past the distracted doormen avoiding all eye contact as we went, I slowed down on approach to the drinks to buy myself a bit more time in selecting which one to go for. It was a toss up between a half full beer or a short that was nearly full, which had some lime in and was clearly a girl’s drink. After a moment of hesitation I went for the latter and briskly removed it from the side and continued on my way down the steps.

When at the bottom I saw Fraser grinning while holding a three quarter full scooner of beer. “Cheers, not bad hey?”

I smiled wholeheartedly in agreement. “Yeah, it’s always a relief to get that first one under your belt,” I said, stirring my drink with the cocktail stick before taking a refreshing sip. “Aha, I’ve got gin and lemonade.” I couldn’t deny that I was pleasantly surprised having wrongly assumed it would be vodka and lemonade. “That can’t have been cheap,” I added, taking another luxurious sip.

Fraser raised a toast, “Aye, and the drinks always taste better when they haven’t been touched.”

I looked at my drink with a hint of concern, “The only problem I’ve got with this drink is that it’s not going to last me long.” And after a few more sips the rest was polished off. “Ready to go again?” I asked, salivating like a junky needing his next fix.

“Aye, just give me a wee minute here to finish this one and then we’ll go.”

Once again we made our way up the stairs to the outside area, but this time it was proving difficult to see what drinks were available as people annoyingly crowded around the entrance. As before, we sat on a table with a clear vantage point before disaster struck, as some drunk and overly friendly Italian men tried starting a conversation with us. “Hello, how are you?” one said.

“A bit drunk,” I answered abruptly, desperate to prevent any chat that could distract me from my plan of action.

“You want cigarette?” he replied.

“No we don’t smoke,” I answered swiftly, before once again turning my gaze to the entrance.

He looked at us both like we were aliens. “But why you outside if you not smoke?” It suddenly dawned on me as I looked at everyone puffing all around us that by sitting there without a cigarette we had unwittingly made ourselves conspicuous. After all, these people were outside to pollute their lungs, while we were just sat there in the cold night for no apparent reason. At least, this was how it would appear to others. “We’re just outside to get a wee bit of fresh air, it’s hot downstairs don’t you think?” Fraser, thinking quickly on his feet, stated smartly. Thankfully his clever response put an end to any more awkward questions.

Sharply rising to our feet we said our goodbyes and headed for the door. As I got to the top of the stairs I couldn’t believe my luck. In amongst the plethora of virtually empty and half full glasses was an identical drink to the one I had before. The gin and lemonade, yet again fully accompanied by a stirrer and a straw, had my name written all over it. Without a second’s hesitation I lifted it up with a minimum of fuss and continued on down the stairs. My heart was thumping after a bouncer half swivelled round but I shielded the drink so he couldn’t see it, preempting any possible suspicions he may have after seeing a man holding a girl’s drink.

It was only once I had made it down to the ground level that I could fully relax after another job well done. “Would you believe it? I announced, unable to hold back my joy. “I’ve got the very same drink as before – and it’s nearly full again. Lady luck is smiling on me today.”

Fraser let out a boyish snigger. “Aye, I’m sure that girl will be loving you for taking her drink again.” The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but when stopping to think about it, it actually made perfect sense, especially as such a drink in this place was rare. “You’re right,” I smiled, coming to terms with the genius of my coup. “She must have gone and bought another one after the first one went missing. How unfortunate for her,” I added, guzzling the drink down.

The irony of me having such a beverage, apart from the ludicrous expense, was that ever since my 18th birthday I had despised gin with a deep, unrelenting passion. On that fateful occasion a friend and I thought it a good idea to purchase a large bottle of the stuff and then proceed to force it down our throats at whirlwind speed. Unfortunately for me, apparently I began to look and sound very unwell before being found a short while later barely conscious and slumped on the downstairs toilet seat with the door open by my friend’s startled old dear. She never really liked her son drinking excessively and I couldn’t help but feel that she saw me as a negative influence in this regard. Though, in my defence, all I will say is that gin is very strong.

A while later and against all the odds, it must be said, I somehow roused myself to make it out into town where I spent the entire evening asking everyone what the England football score had been earlier, despite having watched the whole 90 minutes at my friend’s house. Then, while walking down the street, I somehow became embroiled in a heated dispute with a large nose-ringed thug who was proudly informing me how he had just got out of prison and would happily go back there again just to put me in my place. Not deterred or frightened in any way, I hit back by administering a haughty lecture telling him that it was his lack of breeding that ultimately resulted in his incarceration and that his actions that had put him there weren’t acceptable and should be addressed as a matter of urgency.

Anyway. It’s fair to say that I’ve had some bad hangovers in my time but that one certainly came right out the top draw, after leaving me feeling like I was undergoing a particularly slow and painful death. Ever since, unsurprisingly, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid gin, with even a hint of the smell putting me off. However, this tantalising opportunity had inevitably prompted a rethink. First of all it was free and, secondly, I wasn’t drinking a large bottle of the vile stuff. It was a no-brainer.

The night continued with us going back and forwards outside with all the regularity of chain smokers. Without fail there would always be a drink of some sort there. Although I didn’t get any more gin and lemonades – I think my victim must have been on high alert after being duped twice – I still racked up a number of scooners, some of which were nearly full. By the end of the night I calculated that I had saved up to $40. Fraser reckoned he had saved $35. The minesweeping experience had added a whole new dimension of fun and frivolity to the night. As well as being a great source of camaraderie to each of us, we had a great time for free while others around us were forking out small fortunes, which made it even more pleasurable.

Our minesweeping tour of the city continued a few nights later as we targeted a different venue just across the road from the hostel. Unlike the first establishment this place was multi-levelled and a lot bigger, and didn’t have an outside area, which theoretically could have posed some difficulties. Accompanied by two new men who were keen to learn the art of minesweeping, myself and Fraser made our way to the middle level. After eventually fighting our way to the front of the packed bar we purchased a beer each, buying us time to scope out the joint.

Fraser gave me a subtle wink after spotting a table in the corner that to our disbelief had four reasonably full drinks just sat there alone. Moving quickly, we claimed the table before anyone else got there. “You think the people who left these drinks here are coming back?” one of the new additions asked.

“No, but even if they did they’ve lost all rights to their drinks and the table by leaving it unattended,” I replied brutally. “But to avoid any potential trouble we’ll have our drinks first and then if nobody returns for the drinks we have them.” The four drinks consisted of two half full beers and two vodka and oranges, just over half full. After slyly selecting our drinks by slowly pulling them right to the edge of the table, I then gracefully slurped down the vodka and orange like a man who firmly believed that drink belonged to me.

With no other potential drinks in the immediate vicinity we decided to take a wander, after intensely surveying various spots we finally came to settle on the edge of the dance floor. Taking up this excellent vantage point was a no-brainer, as people would regularly put down their drinks before going off to strut their stuff. It was also useful because there were three escape routes, with one adjacent to an area where the dance floor merged with those standing about mingling. As if this was not enough, tables and shelves to rest glasses on were plentiful, while artificial smoke was being pumped out from by the stage making visibility poor. We anticipated ripe pickings.

Amongst the four of us there was a competitive element to see who could get the best and most drinks, but at the same time we agreed to work together as a unit. Starting off with a few easy confidence boosters - half or a third of a drink here and there – it was Fraser who scooped the first major drink of the night; an invitingly fresh beer that someone had taken a sip from before putting down to go to the toilet. I had little sympathy with such people losing their drink. After all, it was foolishness in the extreme to do such a thing and I, for one, would never contemplate such a reckless action with one of my own drinks. Without fail I would always take my beverage into the toilet and place it down near my foot under the urinal so there would not be any spray that fell into my glass.

It was great watching a colleague in action. Fraser would eye up the beer, then look over as he assessed the surrounding landscape and who it might belong to before, in that natural way of his, inch ever closer before one last glance and then pounce like a fox catching a rabbit. In the blink of an eye he had disappeared somewhere into the background. It was a joy to watch, with his deep look of concentration and childlike innocence, along with a hint of fear, as he moved in for the kill, before a gleaming smile would appear across his face once he was in the clear.

Locating myself across the bar area and opposite Fraser with a perfect view, I took pride in knowing that I had given the signal to move in once the unsuspecting paying customer had made his way to the toilet. On his return he scratched his head wondering where his lovely full scooner had gone, then looked from side to side, before shrugging his shoulders and picking up another nearby drink that was just under half full and walking off – sucking another innocent person into its murky web.

The two new lads were soon wearing glazed cheeky looks on their faces as they established their flow of pulling various drinks. I offered a proud smile in return at my protégés who were buzzing more with every drink. Needing to up my game, I lined up a near full beer belonging to a pissed up twat who had been bouncing into anyone within shouting distance. When he continued spitting into the ear of the girl he was trying to chat up, I gently reached across and began to pull the glass toward me with my right hand. “So long you big oaf,” I muttered ecstatically, before quickly moving away from the danger area. I was back on track, with it spurring me on to greater success, including a double whiskey and coke followed by a cider in the space of half an hour.

The only drawback to such an activity was that it could be quite lonely at times, especially when taking it as seriously as we were. Nothing else mattered. We all had to go where the drinks were and unfortunately that sometimes meant working in separate areas, or certainly far enough away from each other so you couldn’t socialise. Often communication became intuitive or was achieved through body language.

But, as with any craft, there can always be drawbacks no matter how refined your skill level. Fraser had narrowly avoided being caught in the act after not seeing the owner of the drink when moving in for one sweep. But for a stern shake of my head to abort the mission, as the Scot’s hand was creeping along the table, things could have turned ugly, especially as the big meathead seemed to be aware of what was happening. I turned away to conceal my laughter to myself.

My hysterics, however, were to be short-lived, as the joke was soon on me. Despite feeling rather smug after swiftly dispatching an appealingly full scooner, no sooner had I turned to walk off when I felt a solid hand on my arm. “That’s my drink you’ve got there,” came the deep, hostile voice of a man roughly twice as wide as me. Slightly startled that I, a master minesweeper had been caught red-handed, I quickly resorted to the back-up plan and studied the glass with disbelief, before looking up at his irked face. “I think you’ll find this belongs to me,” I replied indignantly, hoping my bluff would force him to back down.

“No that’s definitely his, I saw him put it there,” a reasonable sounding woman, standing with the giant, reasoned. With an eyewitness account and it being two-to-one I knew I was in big trouble now. But nonetheless decided my best way out of avoiding either a beating or an escort off the premises was to maintain the pretence that it may still be mine. “Well, where’s my drink gone? There must be some mistake,” I said, still looking perplexed at the glass, but hoping at the very least they would think it was a genuine mistake.

“I don’t know but that’s mine. Maybe someone took yours,” he growled, growing increasingly irritated at my reluctance to hand back his beer.

“Well I suppose I’ll just have to go and get another one,” I added, shaking my head with disgust that someone could have taken my drink, before handing his beer to him as I scuttled away.

I found Fraser, who had been watching hysterically from afar at my misfortune. “I saw you in a wee spot of bother there,” he grinned. “One of the pitfalls of minesweeping. But least you didn’t get laid out. Back home in Glasgow you’d be on the floor by now,” he added comfortingly. Time was getting late so we called it a night. Despite ending on a sour note, overall I felt I could leave with my head held high, happy with my efforts for the night.

The following day after waking up feeling somewhat groggy, Fraser and I decided to hit the world famous Bondi Beach to catch some rays. We went to a Seven Eleven shop where Fraser purchased his bus ticket (in Australia for some strange reason you generally have to buy your ticket at a shop before the journey and not on the bus). As someone had handed me what I thought was a perfectly good ticket I didn’t bother splashing out the $3.50 for another one. In any case, with there being a ticket swipe machine - which you could conveniently ignore - and with the bus driver having about as much interest in checking your tickets as smelling your bum, it meant the opportunity for a free ride was often appealingly overwhelming. Not that I had ever done it, of course. Though, from my experiences, thousands of others seemed to regularly indulge in this popular national habit. There were stories that ticket inspectors frequented the odd bus, but sightings of these were apparently rarer than a spotting of the Loch Ness Monster. Certainly my Aussie friends had never witnessed such an inspector in all the years they had been using this mode of transport.

So, taking on board all these compelling reasons, as I climbed on the packed bus I didn’t bother swiping my ticket. It looked different to the one Fraser had, which I found odd. “Aye, you riding for free then I see,” the Scot smirked.

“Well, they did put the swipe machine a long way away,” I replied smugly, as we settled into the journey.

After about 20 minutes we went through Bondi Junction, which I presumed meant we were near to Bondi beach, when I looked up from my phone to see two large men covered in hair wearing striking blue uniforms, who were acting like police, boarding the bus. As I sat there wondering why the cops would get on a bus and then just stand around talking, disaster struck. Once their heated discussions had drawn to a close they began making their way methodically down the bus checking tickets. “Holy shit,” I grunted as the penny dropped that they were in fact bus inspectors. Fortunately we were sat near the middle so I had time to figure out my plan of action as they made their slowly way down the aisle studiously checking everyone’s ticket.

As the bus pulled into a stop I was struck by the sheer volume of people from behind me who suddenly, and somewhat hurriedly, got off. “That’s a bit weird,” I mumbled and turned to Fraser to discuss what to do, but he was still talking to his mum in Scotland, so I really didn’t feel that I could interrupt him. Nor did I feel that I could suddenly just jump off the vehicle with no explanation.

When the bus was back in motion I figured I would just have to quickly waft my ticket in front of the inspector and hope he was none the wiser. After all, this approach had brought me a degree of success in England as a teenager.

Nevertheless, a sense of dread came over me as they got nearer, before all too quickly it was my time. “Can I see you’re tickets please,” the hostile man – someone who clearly relished his smidgen of power – said, while towering over me like I was an ant. I pulled the ticket from out of my wallet and gave it a quick but casual wave before putting it hastily away.

A frown came over his face. “Let me see that again please?” he said sternly.

“Sure,” I replied, trying to keep things casual as I handed it over to him.

He looked at the ticket for an unhealthy amount of time before looking suspiciously back at me. “This is a concession ticket so can I see your concession identification please?” he asked, holding out his hand.

I got my wallet out and trawled through the never-ending array of cards, hoping to convince him I was genuine. “I can’t appear to find it,” I said shaking my head in confusion. “Maybe I’ve left it at home.” He didn’t look convinced. After all, it was unlikely that I could pass as a student and, although I was not as young as I used to be, I don’t think he could have been persuaded that I was a pensioner.

It seemed my best option was to pretend I had a disability but again, sadly, was not in a position to be able to prove. “You’ve got a concession ticket, so I need to see your concession pass,” he demanded, with the eyes and ears of the entire bus now firmly transfixed on me as I somehow sought to circumnavigate this increasingly tricky and humiliating ordeal.

“I don’t know what’s happened to it, someone must have stolen it,” I replied blankly, shrugging my shoulders.

After pausing and looking at his colleague, who by now had joined him in standing aggressively over me, I was suddenly asked to pass my identification over to them. Without a second’s thought I handed him my UK driving licence and instantly regretted it. “Right Mr Deeks, if you can’t show me your concession pass then I’ll have to issue you a fine,” he said forcefully.

“But I’ll happily pay you the $2 I’m short by,” I suggested enthusiastically, hoping I’d struck a fair compromise deal for all of us.

“Oh no Mr Deeks that’s not how things work here.” And before I knew it he was writing out a fine.

Disgust at this jobsworth suddenly started flooding out of every pour of my body. “You fat tossers. Were you bullied at school? Or do you just like cock?” I found myself saying aloud. But neither of them flinched. I suppose a bit of stick comes with the territory. As the bus came to a standstill my predicament worsened as I was suddenly ushered off the bus. Fraser, still on the phone, glanced over from the seat in front and had a look of genuine confusion over his face. “We need to get off, there’s been a mix up,” I said bullishly, desperately trying to save face in front of the viewing public, whose attention soon turned to outside once they had me on the pavement. The only saving grace in amongst my abject misery and humiliation was that two elderly women, who couldn’t prove they were pensioners, had also been forced off and were having fines written out. This made me feel a lot better, as at the very least it showed that no one was safe from these scumbags.

Despite the ticket being written up, I continued to forcefully argue my case but it wasn’t getting me very far. “You can appeal if you’re not happy or if you’re concession pass shows up,” the inspector said. I braced myself for the fine that was coming my way. I didn’t think it would be cheap, maybe around the $20 mark I reasoned, which wasn’t far off the £10 I had to pay for not having a train ticket in England when I was a teenager. “So if you pay before the first deadline it’s only $120,” the ever so helpful inspector said. “It goes up to $170 after that. Then you go to court if you still haven’t paid.” My jaw hit the ground. I looked at Fraser in disbelief who in turn, sensing my agony, seemed equally perplexed. “So I have to pay $120 even though I’m only technically just $2 short of the fare?” I raged, steam coming out of my ears. “Why don’t you just rob me? Oh no you have already,” I said as sarcastically as I possibly could. With anger burning through me the insults started to flow effortlessly. “Were you a member of the Hitler youth by any chance?”

After being handed the form the inspectors jumped on the next bus that pulled up. I somehow managed to cool off slightly after several minutes before the next bus appeared. Although I had been royally shafted I was still determined to get to our destination and enjoy the day. I still had my one concession ticket in my pocket but as we were so close to the beach I chose not to swipe it in the machine. “Wouldn’t it be your luck if the inspectors got on again huh?” Fraser joked.

“Well there was no way those tossers were getting another dollar out of me after dishing out that fine,” I declared angrily. “Besides what are the chances of them getting on and getting me again?” But as we pulled up at the next stop I was forced to rub my eyes at what I saw. To my total horror it was the same two inspectors. And just like before they climbed on board and started asking for tickets.

Fraser and I looked at each other, both silently gobsmacked. I couldn’t take in what was happening. After a lengthy pause Fraser found some words to sum things up, “Looks like this ride to Bondi could have been cheaper by limo.” I sat there quietly having an out of body experience, as I struggled to face up to the apparent certainty that a single journey to Bondi was going to cost me $240 when it should have been $3.50. I waited glumly for the inevitable formalities like someone preparing to face a firing squad. After a tortuous few minutes the inspector pulled up alongside me and after some awkward eye contact, offered me a strangely friendly nod of the head. “Alright,” he smiled, and to my utter shock, and relief, then moved on to the next person. I could scarcely believe it, especially after I’d ripped him apart. Obviously he must have assumed I wasn’t foolish enough to not get a ticket this time. How wrong he was. “Lady luck was smiling on you then,” Fraser announced, still sniggering at the chain of events.

“Somehow I don’t feel lucky.” But although my dwindling funds would be further obliterated, I had to remind myself it could have been even a lot worse.

I breathed a massive sigh of relief as we finally got off the bus. As we made our way toward the beach, Fraser, sensing my ongoing internal agony, tried to put things in perspective for me as he recounted a spot of bother he had landed himself in a few months previously in Queensland. After reaching double figures in beers one evening he thought it would be a good idea to go out for a spin in a rented car. Driving through Brisbane city centre he reached a crossroads. “I thought it would be fun to try a wee handbrake turn in the middle of the road,” Fraser recounted. “Unfortunately I ended up rolling the car and came to rest on a verge. What made things worse was that a stationary police car had been watching the whole thing. They came over and gave me a piece of paper and said, ‘You have to go to court tomorrow’. I said, ‘But I’m leaving tomorrow’. They replied, ‘You’re required by law to be there’. I added, ‘I can’t, my flight is booked’. I was good for my word and didn’t show up at court. And I’m still walking round a free man.”

I had heard from various backpackers with considerable experience of such matters that nothing happened if you didn’t pay a fine. Apparently the Australian government were so overwhelmed by court orders and fixed penalty notices that they simply didn’t have the resources to chase up all the outstanding bills. In any event, most backpackers, in stark contrast to myself, would not give out their real address – or if they did it would no doubt have changed by the time the fine was processed and sent out – and proper identification. If they did have your identity confirmed and you failed to show up at court or pay a fixed penalty notice then you would apparently be banned from the country for either three or ten years depending on the severity of your crime. If, like Fraser, you had no intentions of coming back, though, it did not matter a jot.

As soon as we got back from an afternoon of the most expensive sunbathing imaginable I immediately went to an internet café and paid my penalty notice off. At least my conscience, as well as my bank account by now, was clear.

CHAPTER 11 - LABOURING

While it seemed to be a regular feature of backpackers running out of cash and having to get by on $1 noodle packs, I had not envisaged myself falling into that trap. Yet here I was coming towards the end of my overdraft limit. I had been advised by veteran travellers how things can quickly unravel with your finances. “One minute you’ve got a few grand in the bank then you’re down to your last few dollars,” l had been warned by one experienced campaigner. And how true it was. The routine of partying and getting shit faced often led to many a scratch of the head when studying the contents of your bank account.

Essentially the backpacker has two choices: be like Veiko, the Finnish peasant, and bury your head in the sand until the day comes that you view sleeping on park benches or in hostel television rooms as some form of luxury. Or find work. The drawback, though, with most backpacker jobs in Australia was that you needed an expensive - and totally pointless, it must be said - licence to perform the most simplistic of jobs, normally costing you around $100, which was about $100 more than I had.

In a desperate bid to claw my way out of my worrying predicament I began trawling through endless websites, hoping I could get something where I didn’t need a licence. It was a painstaking operation, not helped by most jobs being for labourers where you needed a white card: a licence you proudly achieved after being lectured for a day on the basics of how to use a dustbin, pick things up and sweep up. As useful as it would be for me to spend over $100 to learn about how to sweep a floor properly or how to put rubbish in a skip, I had a sneaking suspicion that such courses might really be to provide the government with some much needed cash.

Even for bar work I discovered you needed to attend a one-day course on the fundamentals of serving a beer. In any case, I reasoned, the course couldn’t be very good as I thought back to significant numbers of bar staff across the city who still hadn’t mastered the art of serving a drink, often leaving no froth at the top of a drink that had given me no choice on countless occasions but to demand a top up complete with a head. Even with the course’s “responsible service of alcohol” criteria, many bar staff would happily continue to serve the biggest pisshead in the bar while refusing someone they didn’t like, who hadn’t even touched a drop. It was clear there were many flaws with training to become a bona fide barman. But thankfully I knew that serving the general public booze was not an option for me, having hated every second of working behind a bar for two weeks when I was a teenager.

As if by magic, though, my torture was shortly ended when a friend said his old job was up for grabs as he was leaving the country. I rang the number and got called in for an interview the next day. It was my lucky day. With a fully working pair of arms and legs I was duly awarded the job. I would be helping out with setting up conferences. It certainly wasn’t flash but at least I would earn some much needed cash.

But before I could start I was told I needed a pair of metal-capped boots as part of the health and safety requirements. After being advised to go to the warehouse shop over the road I naturally looked for the cheapest pair I could find. With the cheapest pair costing an astronomical $60 I was convinced I was in the wrong section, prompting to find a member of staff. “Excuse me, can you show me where your cheapest boots are?” I asked politely.

“Those boots there are the cheapest,” the assistant replied, pointing at the $60 pair with depressing inevitability. For a pair of crap plain boots this seemed well over the odds but with it being a fundamental requirement for the job I agonisingly handed over the cash.

The next day was my first day in the exciting world of conference erections. I made the walk from my hostel to Central station before getting on a ludicrously expensive 20-minute train ride (my destination just so happened to be on the privately funded, therefore extortionately priced, airport line), followed by a further 15-minute march to the warehouse. Finally, after over three quarters of an hour of toil I reached the base with sweat pouring down my face where, after quickly signing in, I was helpfully informed I would be attending a job in the city – about a five minute walk away from my hostel where I had just come from. I let out a giant volley of expletives toward the frog faced female supervisor for her stupidity. Well, in my head I did at least, as she seemed like she had all the people skills of a crocodile. It struck me that logic and communication might not be at the forefront of the company’s ethos as I climbed aboard a truck taking me back to where I had just come from.

After a 40-minute drive we made it to the conference centre in Darling Harbour. Following a quick calculation, I figured it had taken me over an hour and a half, plus $15 of cash that I didn’t have to get back to where I started. When I walked into the giant centre and eventually located where I had to be I felt like I had already put in a decent shift.

My first particular job didn’t really require the use of my hard-earned degree, as I was directed to clean a panel of giant windows using a small cloth and some detergent spray. It was a good thing that I was left to my own devices as more stains were left on the glass after than were there before, such was my talent for window cleaning. Things were looking up, though, as next I had to transfer tables and chairs to specific grid locations across the giant conference area. The most enjoyable part of this was pulling the items along on a trailer style object and intermittently jumping on board for a ride.

As someone not overly renowned for my handyman skills, putting tables together proved to be something of a gargantuan effort. With all the fiddly bits and the different parts jamming, I was often left overcompensating when trying to engage some pieces, resulting in my fingers getting smashed repeatedly. To add to my woes I was only wearing ankle high socks and my new boots had started to rub on my heels. Soon enough I was walking like I had a major deformity, with macho members of the team beginning to give me quizzical looks.

Unable to go any further without addressing the excruciating pain, I pulled up and purveyed the damage after pulling my boots off. To my horror all I could see was ripped bare flesh and blood that had drenched my socks. “Always best to wear soccer socks with a new pair of boots,” an Aussie worker, spotting my pain helpfully pointed out.

“Thanks dick face,” I muttered, wincing from the unbearable torture I was feeling. I pushed the boots back on over the holes where skin used to be and bravely continued lugging around bits of office furniture for a good few hours. Eventually, to my eternal relief, I had finally completed my four-hour shift, only to then find out that I was meant to be doing six hours. Mouth wide open at the sudden extension of my shift, my supervisor, perhaps realising I had the mobility of a beach whale, reluctantly decided to let me leave early.

Unluckily for me, the nature of the job meant you had to work all kinds of hours and on my next shift I was told I would be starting at 11pm and going right through the night to early morning. After making the arduous journey to base for the graveyard shift I was told to wait outside by a truck. A scruffy looking man in his late 50s with a cigarette permanently attached to his mouth eventually limped round the corner and introduced himself as Pete. Worryingly, he was in charge of the shift. I was dealt a further blow when he warned a busy night lay in store. So without further delay we loaded the truck, before I was unexpectedly handed a stop sign. “There you go,” Pete snarled. I looked blankly back at him. Sensing my severe confusion, he took a large inhale of smoke before offering the briefest of assistances, “Watch my back getting out.” After a lengthy pause I translated this as meaning I had to go out onto the main road and direct traffic so Pete could reverse the huge truck out.

Never in my life had I performed the role of lollipop man and never did it once cross my mind that I would be forced into such a role. But life takes you on some strange and unexpected journeys. After psyching myself up, I strode purposefully onto the road hoping some maniac wouldn’t run me over while I attempted to direct traffic. I don’t know what came over me, but like some kind of seasoned traffic controlling veteran, I miraculously brought traffic to a standstill having expertly held up the stop sign to one oncoming motorist, while forcefully holding my left hand out to two cars coming from the other direction. I then confidently waved at my patiently waiting subjects in acknowledgement of their efforts as Pete backed onto the road, before I hopped aboard as we sped off like the A-Team - with my door still wide open. I must have looked like a vastly experienced trucker such was my expert execution, I proudly reflected as we raced down the motorway.

We seemed to be in a hurry as Pete consistently accelerated toward red lights and around sharp corners like we were in a rally car, not an 18 tonne truck. I got the impression this gruff individual didn’t have much regard for life and double-checked that my seat belt was on. I was forced to take great consolation from the fact that if we did hit anything the chances were that we would come off significantly better. To add to my dismay I noticed that Pete had a bog eye and any misplaced confidence I had stupidly placed in him to begin with had soon evaporated as we narrowly avoided smashing into various parked cars and the rear of vehicles after screeching to standstills at the very last minute. All this was taking place while he pumped out his heavy metal, thudding his foot to the beat like a lunatic. Driving, it seemed, was very much his secondary focus as we winded our way through the dark city streets.

After some awkward small talk, Pete then oddly launched into a discussion on the difficulties of leaving the country with large sums of money. “It’s not easy these days you know,” he began mysteriously, before sucking in another chimney’s worth of smoke. “The problem is they want to see where you’ve got the cash from now,” he growled with disgust. I looked at this strange creature of a man out of the corner of my eyes and wondered what the hell he was going on about. “That’s the big brother world we live in I suppose,” I replied hesitantly, hoping this counted as an appropriate response. I scoured my brain for logical reasons why someone would come out with such a comment but after much thought concluded I couldn’t find any, apart from that Pete must have been planning an armed raid.

When we arrived at the hotel for the job I breathed a huge sigh of relief that, firstly, I had made it alive and not been coerced into a robbery and, secondly, that I could get away from such close proximity to Pete, who also had a suspicious odour wafting from his direction. After mentioning to one of my colleagues about the interesting journey I had just had, he looked at me like he had just seen the devil. “Pete drives like a lunatic, that’s why I refuse to go in a truck with him,” he explained, his face going white, before coldly adding, “He’s had a few smash-ups from going too fast and one time he hit and killed someone. No one knows to this day how he got away with it.” My ears pricked up to hear such a tale, but having been subjected to his own special brand of driving I could not say I was surprised. I had never felt keener to start work I hated so much, grateful of still being alive and having use of my limbs.

I hardly saw Pete that night, which was no bad thing, and quietly went about my work the best I could. However, yet again I did feel as though a monkey plucked from the wild could have comfortably done a better job than me. But as long as I remained busy and visible, then no one could complain about my endeavour. Fortunately the shift ended without incident and, much to my relief, I was given a lift into the city by someone other than Pete.

Over the course of the next few days I began to notice that while I was getting work from the company, it was sporadic and often only four-hour shifts in the middle of the night in some hovel miles away from civilisation. Despite wanting more hours to increase my income I struggled to hold back my sheer delight when a job finished earlier than planned. As hard as I tried to conceal my happiness in front of the supervisor it was all too abundantly clear that I hated the job. But then what right-minded person wouldn’t?

The work, as you may have realised by now, didn’t come naturally to me and instructions, delivered in strange jargon or with a vague point of the eyes, would often fly right over my head. “Do that will you bro?” they would say expectedly, like it could be done with your eyes shut.

“Do what?” I would reply, having assessed a variety of possible things they may have been suggesting before concluding I had no idea what they were on about. They may as well have been speaking in Arabic to me, yet strangely some of the team leaders actually thought I knew what I was doing. Did they not know who I was? With a huge work staff it meant I was often working with different supervisors each time, which I’m sure didn’t help my plight. But the company communication was so bad that they were probably under the misguided impression I was a regular, not some Neanderthal learning the ropes in need of a steering hand.

When given a task that was proving beyond my capabilities – which was quite often – sometimes, if I was lucky, someone would help out having spotted me labouring on the same thing for an eternity, or sense my frustration when booting a shelf as a last resort in hoping it would help click a table or desk together. “Fucking wanker stay together,” I would urge the disobeying shelf before booting it again, only for it to fall apart once more. I knew one thing for certain: that my future career did not lie in the erecting and dismantling of exhibition objects. But, in any event, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be long in the job.

Having heard nothing from the company for days I finally got a call asking if I could do a shift later that night starting at 1am in some ridiculous place in the middle of nowhere. I had already made plans to go out for someone’s leaving do, which it’s obvious to say had infinitely more appeal than carting exhibition furniture around through the night. But in need of the money I decided I could do both. Also, I knew that as a “casual” employee if I turned down work the chances of them using me again were remote at best, especially with my limited skill-set in the industry. I came up with a compromise solution whereby I could have the best of both worlds: I would join the hostel group for some drinks first and then get a taxi to work at 12.30am. I just hoped the taxi driver had a rough idea where this place was because I certainly didn’t.

We started off with a few beers in the kitchen before making our way down to hostel bar where I continued to refresh myself as if badly dehydrated. Although I had planned to leave a good while before getting my taxi I remember thinking it a shame to stop and leave the party before it was absolutely necessary. I blocked out that I had work until it was time to get the taxi by which point, as it was repeatedly highlighted to me, my voice was now echoing the length of the room when talking.

Reluctantly I left the gathering and climbed aboard my taxi. It was only when sitting still in silence that I begun to feel my head spinning. I had some mint chewing gum so poured a few of these into my mouth and started munching hoping the smell of alcohol would dissipate. I feared it would be a long night and hoped I would not be found sleeping on the job.

Strangely, the heaviness I was feeling in the taxi was replaced by a zestfulness as I set about working like a machine. Carrying heavy panels above my head up flights of marble stairs for two hours non-stop was not the ideal scenario for someone in my state but I manfully stuck to the task despite. Despite my unstinting efforts I soon noticed that not all were putting in the same required work levels, specifically including our team leader, an obese Maori New Zealander who spent the whole time sweating and gasping for breath like he was being starved of oxygen but didn’t actually lift a finger himself. He spent most of his time telling others what to do and the rest of it chatting to his mates as they grafted.

Working non-stop for over five hours, tiredness inevitably began to kick-in, especially as the effects of the alcohol were wearing off. I thought nobody had realised I had had a couple of cheeky pre-work drinks until near the end of the shift. “Blimey mate, you smell like a brewery,” a fellow worker observed, wafting his hand swiftly across his face. Concerned that everyone would now think I was a raging alcoholic I slipped into a side room for my first break of the shift and began knocking back coffee like a junkie, until sunlight begun to flood into the room, further reinforcing my sense of weariness.

All the work had been done, so all that remained was for me to count down the remaining minutes of the shift. Then, much to my disgust, my phone rang. It was the supervisor. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to ring you. There’s some more stuff that needs finishing off upstairs,” he breathlessly insisted. “Ok be there shortly,” I replied politely. “Fat tosser,” I said, after hanging up the phone.

After eventually finishing my errands at 6.30am I was permitted to leave. I got in the passenger side of a lorry I had been told was taking me back to base where I waited for the driver to appear. After several minutes a small, cursing Indian jumped into the driver’s side. “I bloody hate driving their sodding trucks,” he announced as he sat down. “I don’t even bloody-well know where I’m going.” Suddenly any pleasure I felt at finishing my slavish shift was replaced by anxiety, as I got the impression the shift was far from over. “That’s it I’ve had enough, I’m never bloody working for them again. Fuck this job,” the dishevelled Indian continued, boiling with rage, as the vehicle spluttered to every aggressive gear change. “They mess me around always. Do this, do that, call me at last minute. No respect. I never bloody work for them again.”

With expletives continuing to rain down I could relate to how he felt and, jumping on a momentary pause in his never-ending rant, joined in the cathartic slating. “The team leader’s a useless fat wanker isn’t he?” I spewed provocatively.

“Oh yes, I bloody hate this bastard. All he does is moan and boss you around. He can go to bloody hell.”

I nodded in agreement, “He makes it out that you are doing no work, yet he stands around with his fat belly not lifting a finger. And he stinks like a pig.”

“Yes, yes exactly,” the Indian responded enthusiastically. “I hope this bloody man falls on his fat arse and never gets up.”

Our enjoyment was short lived, though, as before long we became hideously lost. “I follow directions like they say but have no bloody idea where I am,” the Indian shouted angrily, shaking his head. Never before in my life had I been so thoroughly lost with such an incompetent person, who left me genuinely fearing I would never find my destination. It had taken about 20 minutes to get to the place we were working from the city but after eventually finding the correct road, it was an hour and a half before we pulled wearily into the base. I was strangely delighted to see this place.

We went and filled out our timesheets before handing them to a less than impressed giant Maori who was in charge. “Where you been?” he growled murderously.

“We’ve been driving all over,” the Indian squealed angrily. “I have no idea where I was going and directions were very, very bad.” The Kiwi scowled before stomping off like the Terminator. It was all too obvious there would be a fall-out from us being late back, even though it was due to circumstances beyond our control.

“Fuck this,” the Indian guy said, “I’m not waiting around for a bollocking for something that wasn’t my fault. I’m going. You want a lift?” Reluctantly I accepted and climbed into his car, knowing that I would be stuck with this man for another 20 minutes of my life. “This man’s a stupid bastard. He doesn’t believe us because we’re late,” he continued, shouting out the window, “Well, fuck you all.” And with that he stuck a finger up and accelerated away with Punjabi music blazing deafeningly from the speakers.

After sticking the boot into the company the whole way into the city my Indian colleague gave me an odd embrace following our emotional journey. Somehow I didn’t think we would be seeing each other at work again.

It soon became apparent that I had worked my last shift for the company when friends that worked there were asked in almost daily, while I was not called in for a single shift. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that it was the bell-end supervisor who had besmirched my good name within the company. Although I knew that I may be regarded as something of an unglamorous water-carrier in the glittering world of conference erections, at least I could look myself in the mirror and know that I had put my back into the work every time I pulled on the company’s classic blue shorts and effervescent yellow jersey.

Despite all this I soon became embroiled in a battle with the firm when I checked my bank balance and noticed I had been underpaid, coincidentally by six hours. Quite possibly the very same six hours I had worked on my final shift. Without delay I sent a haughty email demanding I instantly receive my full pay, along with a full and unreserved apology after being robbed of my hard earned money. After initially playing hardball with me, they eventually came to the conclusion that financially it was more prudent for the company to just pay me what I was owed rather than deal with my endless emails and phone calls. Although my bank balance had been boosted by my toils with the company from hell, in reality, with the scarcity and length of my shifts, it amounted to no more than pissing in the wind.

In amongst this, though, I did learn that the state of the Australian economy must be in a pretty good shape if they were prepared to pay me, a talentless labourer, $20 an hour for my services. Try as they might about pretending they were caught up in the world recession, this was further evidence they were not.

CHAPTER 11 – CRIME FIGHTING

One morning having got up at the crack of dawn to watch an important football match from back home, I drunkenly stumbled across a newspaper office after celebrating a fine early morning victory with a few beers. Being a journalist I felt a sense of serendipity at my discovery and chewed over the possibility of contacting the organisation to see if there was any work going - after sleeping off the booze, of course.

I realised that I had unwittingly become sucked into the backpacker lifestyle, including doing the same type of jobs, which I had proved beyond all doubt I was useless at. I boldly came to the conclusion, therefore, that I would apply to the newspaper and hopefully put an end to humiliating myself via my conference erections’ career.

To my joy, I was contacted by the newspaper within a few days asking if I would like to come in. During a friendly chat with the editor I was then offered night shifts on the crime desk, including at the weekend when the real action took place. “Saturday night is normally the busiest night....and when we get the most murders,” I was helpfully informed. “So hopefully there will be plenty for you to get stuck into.” Fascinating as it was to get an insight into the patterns of criminality in Sydney, I was also instantly filled with a warm feeling like I had come home after being reminded of the black humour that existed within the industry. “Sounds like fun,” I said rubbing my hands gleefully at the prospect.

I was told I would be working closely with a photographer on my shifts and that it was vital we didn’t stray too far from one another too often when out on the streets in the early hours. “It’s the most dangerous shift and we’ve had people attacked before on it, so just watch each other’s back,” a senior figure remarked as I was introduced to some of the staff.

The more I was told about the job the more I liked the sound of it, though it sounded like a body shield wouldn’t have gone amiss. Essentially the shift boiled down to driving around in a company car looking for as much trouble as we could possibly get our hands on – the more dangerous the better. The way this would be achieved was by eavesdropping on conversations between fire and ambulance crews via a radio scanner, which would helpfully alert us to where incidents were taking place. This was perfectly legal and meant we were getting fresh information as it happened rather than waiting hours for the yawning press departments to confirm something. That’s if they could be bothered to at all.

Since the police had gone encrypted a year earlier it was unfortunately now illegal to listen in on their conversations, much to the dismay of the newsroom. This had made getting juicy stories a lot harder and taken some of the fun out of the shift, so I was told. But on the plus side it meant your life expectancy was significantly higher, as it was now considerably more difficult to pitch-up in the middle of a shoot-out or lead the way during a high-speed car chase.

Relations between the newspaper and police had been at an all-time low, which had not been helped by my disposed predecessor launching one personal attack and complaint too many against the authority without the permission of her superiors. Added to this she had been psychopathically stalking the photographer she was on the shift with, leaving him looking over his shoulder, which had not helped her cause. “We are trying to build relations again so perhaps you could arrange a meeting with their head of media to help smooth things over,” a senior figure requested, before handing me the number of this vastly important individual.

I suddenly felt a great sense of responsibility upon my head and saw myself as a beacon of hope for the organisation to build damaged relations, after all things had got pretty ugly by all accounts. Some may have questioned the logic behind turning to a backpacker with a penchant for cheap wine living in a cockroach infested 20-bed dorm with barely a dollar to his name but I felt they had backed the right horse for the job. Summoning all my diplomatic skills I had learned through years of bitter family conflicts, I immediately rang the head of police media, who agreed in principle to a meeting but said he would get back to me the following week to discuss it further.

Following my introductory briefing I turned up the following day for my first shift ready for action like Superman. After entering the building I waited in the opulent reception area for a full 20 minutes before someone finally came down to sign me in and allow me through the security gates.

On making my way up the stairs past several other floors I eventually arrived in the main newsroom where there was a scattering of people around the giant office, most of whom had their feet up chatting, reading the newspaper or were watching one of the many television sets. “I wonder how they get any work done around here with so many TV’s,” I observed dryly to the trainee who had signed me in.

He smiled, “It’s a struggle sometimes mate that’s for sure.” The rest of the workers were looking intently at their screens, while I caught sight of one man in an adjacent room animatedly giving a live broadcast on something clearly of great interest. As I made my way past the sea of desks I spotted the same reporter live on one of the television screens, still seemingly nattering away to himself. Essentially it was a ghost of a newsroom compared with the previous day when I had been debriefed during the daytime mayhem, but this was hardly surprising given that it was now approaching midnight.

I met my night editor and was plonked at a nearby desk where I read the newspaper from back to front uninterrupted for the next hour in virtual silence, before I underwent a quick-fire tutorial on how to use the computer system. I was then introduced to the night photographer, Brad, who I would be working with on this shift. Relaxed and friendly, I was curious that despite the warmth of the office he still had his bomber jacket on, as if he was ready to drop everything at the drop of a hat, which seemed about right as he never let the incessant and incoherent mutterings of the radio scanner out of his sight, or ear range, at least. After all, time was of the essence in terms of getting those all important snaps.

With it still deadly quiet, Brad told me to get ready as we’d go for a run-around the city. While gathering my stuff together commotion then suddenly erupted behind me. The mumblings on the walky-talky had increased in intensity and volume but for all I knew they could have been speaking Russian. As Brad turned up the sound he went into a trance state as he tried to make sense of the chaos he was listening to. Then, after assimilating the coded language of the paramedics, he abruptly got up and conveyed sharply to the night staff what he’d heard, “Someone’s dead, could be a murder.” Eyebrows raised in the newsroom, “Sounds like it’s out in the west,” he added, pressing the scanner closer to his ear. “We better go.”

Before I’d had a chance to absorb what was happening we had swept out of the office and were speeding down the freeway to the western suburbs, though we still didn’t have a precise location. After years in the business Brad had developed the remarkable skill of talking while listening to the scanner, and still deciphering what was being relayed. With no location, this was vital, with him hoping someone would mention the whereabouts of the incident. Otherwise it was a case of getting to the rough area and hoping we came across the emergency services, who we could then follow to the scene. Failing that, it was a case of hoping one of the other media contacts, who Brad was in regular conversation with on his mobile phone, had found out where it was in the meantime.

Listening to the scanner, in amongst the interference, I was able to pick on the occasional piece of coded language. “We have a C-1 are you attending? Over,” an operator’s voice said.

“On way. Over,” a paramedic responded, before seeking confirmation of the road name. Once this was relayed by the operator we had our destination, prompting Brad to quickly tap it in to his GPS system, all while talking on his mobile and racing along in the car. It was an impressive display of multi-tasking, to say the least.

As we got to the area a couple of speeding unmarked police cars with flashing lights on zoomed past, alerting us we were near. We turned sharply through a series of residential roads before entering a dark street that was lit up by blue flashing lights of police and ambulances that had descended on the scene. A property was cordoned off as plain clothed investigators and forensics scoured the area and made their way in and out of the front door.

As the first media to arrive, we cautiously made our way as close as possible to the crime scene, where Brad suddenly began flashing his camera at the property and ambulance where a man was inside. I approached a policeman guarding the crime scene tape and asked if he knew what had happened, only to be fobbed off by being told to speak with police media if we wanted any information.

But, as we stood around, a paramedic discreetly revealed the gravity of the situation; there had been a brutal attack by a gang who had fled the scene. Seeking confirmation of the murder, I rang the head of police media who I’d been in touch with a day earlier trying to arrange our diplomatic meeting. “I have no idea what is happening,” came the disgruntled voice, after I’d put the question to him. “I’m in bed. It’s gone 1am. This is not the number you call on for information – this is my personal number,” he explained exasperatedly.

I was a little taken aback by the hostile response I had met, not to mention slightly confused that this was supposedly the wrong number, especially after it was the only one I had been handed. “Really?” I responded suspiciously, before being met with deafening silence.

In the interests of building relations, I attempted to finish on a positive note. “Sleep well then, speak to you soon about setting up our meeting,” I said cheerfully, hoping my friendly manner would help him overlook the fact he had just been dragged out of a deep slumber, only to be informed of a media storm brewing following a murder. I hoped my late night phone call wouldn’t shatter the trust I had been trying to build but I had a lingering suspicion it may not have gone down too well.

With the ambulance now leaving to make its way to casualty we jumped in the car and rushed to the local hospital where they were taking the injured man. After parking, Brad and his mate Paul from a television station, quickly took up their positions before getting the crucial “unload shots” and footage they needed.

With Brad and Paul having got what they needed, we were walking back to the vehicles when we were spotted by some men lurking round the corner. Brad’s phone suddenly rang. With fear etched on his face after the whirlwind conversation, he whispered chillingly, “We need to get out of here…now.” Worried for our safety we instantly sprinted to the car where Brad and Paul sharply put their equipment in the vehicles, before screeching in reverse out of our parking spaces and accelerating off like rally car racers. “We were about to get a good seeing to,” Brad declared, constantly looking in his rear view mirror, as we sped away from danger. My heart was pounding. I knew we were in the crap if these people, whoever they were, caught up with us. “So that was a warning phone call you got then?” I asked inquisitively, wondering how on earth Brad could get such a tip-off at such short notice.

“Yeah that’s right,” my colleague nodded, remaining tight-lipped.

“That’s what you call a good contact,” I replied with massive understatement. With no police or security at the hospital we would have been lame ducks in a dark corner of the car park. “Someone didn’t want the media reporting this incident,” Brad added solemnly.

After racing down the freeway, now finally safe, we eventually pulled into a McDonald’s where we grabbed some food and gathered ourselves. “Mate, that was a bit fucking hairy,” Paul shouted, relief pouring out of him as we walked across the car park. Despite repeated phone calls to police media no confirmation was forthcoming on whether the victim had died or not. “Fucking cops… up to their usual tricks,” Paul groaned.

We made our way back to the office once we’d finished our food. With it gone 5am I was beginning to feel weary, yet I was only too aware that I still had the task of writing the story in front of me. It was hardly the best time of day to be delivering my best pros, but that was the nature of the shift and something I would just have to get use to. In any case, I wasn’t complaining. After all I wasn’t lugging about conference furniture. After downing an energy drink I checked with the police and ambulance media departments for any further updates before settling down to write, which despite heavy eyes and a slow functioning brain I finished in good time and left the office just after 7am. If I had been under any false impressions about the danger of the shift I was certainly under no illusions now and knew I would need my wits about me – and possibly to invest in a bullet proof vest.

On a lighter note, during my next day shift the tale of me contacting the head of police media in the early hours had spread like wildfire, much to the delight of those in the office. “I hear you got him out of bed,” one reporter laughed.

“Yeah, I don’t think he was too impressed,” I replied dryly.

“Well he’s getting paid a fortune so I wouldn’t worry about it,” one of the editor’s laughed. Strangely enough I never was able to pin down the head of police media for clear the air talks. My hope of bringing an end to the bitter war with police now in tatters. But at least I had made my mark and would be fondly remembered for pissing off the head of police media on my first night in the job.

Having just about recovered from the ordeal of my opening night in the job my first Saturday night shift was now upon me. I waited eagerly outside the front of the dark and eerily quiet offices at 10.30pm for the photographer, Daniel, wondering what delights the night would bring this time. Standing patiently for several minutes, a car that looked like an unmarked police vehicle, due to its installed light-bars on the roof, screeched round the corner before pulling up. The electronic window went down before a head appeared from inside. “Hey, you Steve, the new night reporter?” a hyper voice shouted.

I walked over to the car. “That’s right, you must be Daniel?”

“Yep that’s correct,” he said, fiddling intently with the numerous cables that were bulging out of the variety of technological gadgets across the front and back seats. “Oh fuck it, call me Dan,” he added.

I glanced around the car and was astounded, not to mention nearly blinded, by the array of flashing lights. I had never seen so much technology in one place, certainly not in a car, which wouldn’t have been out of place in a James Bond film. Dan had the look of a crazed mad scientist and spoke at high velocity on technical themes, which I knew I would never understand even if my life depended on it.

Painstakingly he then went through all the different code permutations of the fire and ambulance services and what each one meant. “So this one means someone’s possibly dead, probably of old age or suicide,” he said rolling his eyes exasperatedly, while holding his finger forcefully in the air to make sure I didn’t speak as he paused for further details. “Ah who gives a fuck,” he added, once it was confirmed someone was receiving treatment after trying to take their own life. Although amusingly brutal, a clinical assessment of whether the information was newsworthy was being carried out, albeit in an idiosyncratic way. Most of the time the details over the scanners were of no use. But this certainly didn’t halt Dan’s never-ending commentary on dissecting the incoherent ramblings.

I found myself doing a lot of nodding and made some reassuring noises to confirm I was listening. But in truth all I could hear was a whirlwind of words stuffed together that made no sense to me. On the rare occasion he stopped for breath I would attempt to ask a question, only for him to halt me mid-flow by quickly raising his palm, as he turned up the volume of the scanners. “Wait….could be a stabbing…nope it’s just an old dead person…god bless the old dear,” he said disappointedly. Whilst unashamedly nerdish he was undoubtedly entertaining, though I did find the energy being sucked out of me as I tried to keep up.

After a casual meander around the city we pulled up on a side road where police were cunningly hiding to haul suspect cars over. We parked further down the road and then waited. After no more than five minutes a car came past and with pinpoint accuracy Dan predicted the chain of events. “3…2…1…and there’s the lights,” he declared confidently, as the police lights and siren suddenly came on at that exact second, prompting the vehicle to pull over. “The poor fuckers never saw it coming.” The tone of his voice suggesting he could not possibly have been any further away from caring about the driver’s dilemma than he already was, as he whipped out his camera and grabbed a couple of quick fire shots.

With only a series of false alarms, Dan suggested we head up to near the Harbour Bridge to a road where the council had recently started handing out huge fines to motorists who were parked in a zone that had recently changed to a non-parking area at midnight, which naturally many of the vehicle owners were unaware of. The changes had been written for the benefit of those with super human sight on the side of the road, or for those who just so happened to be carrying a magnifying glass.

A large group of sneaky parking attendants were congregated around the corner waiting for the clock to strike midnight before pouncing en-masse with military precision, whacking fines on hundreds of vehicles and demanding significant sums of money each time for their crimes. The ploy was worth thousands of dollars each week to the council but left a sour taste in the mouth of many a motorist. So, like Batman and Robin, we set about our jobs with relish.

By just 12.30am we counted over 80 fines had been dished out by the prolific parking attendants. After slowly crawling our way up and down the dark quiet road we pulled up alongside some parked cars before Dan opened his window and lined up a shot of a parking attendant slapping another ticket on someone’s windscreen. “That’s it…come to daddy,” Dan said with devilment, as if he was a predator lining up his prey. “Aha got you, you little cunt,” he added joyfully as he pulled the trigger on his camera before bursting out into a Dracula style laugh, taking delight at his capture.

Now we had the shot I could do my stuff. I excitedly jumped out of the car and strolled across the road to where the attendant was. “Excuse me sir,” I began, flashing my press card smugly in his startled face. “I’m with the press. I was just wondering, could you tell me how many fines you’ve handed out so far tonight? And how many do you do normally do in a night? And in a week?” The man rolled his eyes as the realisation set in that he, the hunter, had now turned into the hunted. I was met by a deafening wall of silence as he awkwardly continued writing out another fine for some unfortunate soul he had picked on.

Despite his unwillingness to provide a quote, I nonetheless persisted in the face of adversity. “Why do you all hide around the corner? How many of you are there tonight?” Still nothing, apart from a telling look that said he despised every ounce of my being. Still, the irony wasn’t lost on me and at least he now knew how it felt to be caught out. “Enjoy the rest of your night,” I added before walking off.

As angry vehicle owners turned up we filled them in on what had been happening, before I quickly launched into a series of rage-provoking questions, ensuring they knew that we would be doing everything in our power to raise awareness of the issue. “You must find it extremely frustrating what the council have done to you and countless others?” I asked the shocked drivers, who were still trying to absorb that they had to pay an extortionate fine for something they knew nothing of.

“But I paid for a parking ticket earlier,” disbelieving vehicle owners would say, thinking there had been some mistake.

“Yes but that doesn’t count after midnight now following the recent changes,” I replied with an understanding shrug of my shoulders, before sitting back and waiting for the inevitable explosion of rage.

“Well they should fucking make it clearer then, not have it written in small print on a dark road,” one man, turning purple with anger, spewed. “This council is a disgrace. They’re already getting top dollar from us and now we have to bend over and take it up the arse from them,” the disgruntled individual added, before turning and launching a further volley of abuse at the parking attendant who had scuttled across the road by now.

“Mind if we get a picture of you? And your name?” I added, ensuring we had a face and name to go with the quotes. Dan then lined up pictures of the victims by their car, ideally with the parking attendants in the background, as the fuming drivers continued to unleash a torrent of abuse in the direction of the council employees. After doing our bit we went back to the car and made off into the city night pleased with our work. “That probably won’t even get a run in the paper,” Dan announced smiling, as we made off waving to the irate drivers. “They did something similar on this a while back. Least we got to shit up the parking attendants though.”

The night continued with us chasing down assaults in the city centre, only to find out they were either bogus or had dispersed by the time of our arrival. I had come to realise that Dan was not afraid to put his foot down or invent his own special highway code; in particular slamming on the brakes and reversing all the way back down one-way roads after thinking he had heard something of importance on the scanner, only to discover a few seconds later it was nothing.

Speeding along I got the impression my colleague wasn’t particularly fond of other road users. “Cunts…get out my way,” he constantly yelled at motorists, who had the barefaced cheek to be doing the speed limit. Many people, sensing Dan’s urgency with him repeatedly flashing his lights and honking his horn when in thick traffic, would sharply move out of our way, leaving a space through the middle of two lanes having wrongly presumed we were an unmarked police car.

On the way to a traffic accident we sharply veered across the road and to avoid being hit by an oncoming car were forced to take the turning slightly early, cutting across white markings. Unfortunately, the vehicle we had just avoided was a police truck, with the officers inside taking umbrage to Dan’s driving, performing a quick u-turn to chase us down. Despite performing a couple of turns down side roads they remained on our tail, so we pulled into a petrol station hoping we would not be spotted. It was not to be, however, as two rather large policemen pulled up and came over and angrily read the riot act, prompting a backlash from Dan. “We were in a hurry to get to the accident round the corner,” the photographer pleaded, before confirming to the confused officers that we were members of the media.

But, unfortunately, my workmate hadn’t grasped the ability to know when to stop talking. “If you guys hadn’t gone encrypted then we would know straight away what was happening and wouldn’t have to drive in a hurry.” His best deflective efforts didn’t wash and if anything riled them further with one exasperated officer looking like he wanted to strangle Dan. Having been banned from driving before and being only one minor offence away from another one, Dan tried a different tact: grovelling. It seemed to work as after a lengthy lecture he was handed a reprieve and sent on his way. Shortly after, with reports of another traffic accident, we sped off through the lit up night roads.

There had been a pile-up on the busy Parramatta Road, the east-west artery of metropolitan Sydney. With ambulances, fire crews and police everywhere we knew instantly it was a significant crash. There were no deaths but the scale of the incident meant it had a chance of making the paper. After getting the necessary details at the chaotic scene we escaped to the office where I bashed out the article, all while Dan was bending my ear, before heading home.

I was soon into the nightshift routine: go to the office and see if there’s any specific item that needs to be covered, then head out in the car for a general roam, attending any incidents, genuine or not, if it’s deemed to be newsworthy enough. Such was the morbidity of the shift, the overriding criteria on whether something was of interest seemed to largely depend on if someone had died or was likely to die. But the caveat to this was that it didn’t generally include suicides, drug overdoses and old people due to the fact such occurrences were nothing out of the ordinary.

There were exceptions to the rule; such as if it was a drugs overdose by a celebrity’s son or daughter, or there was something suspicious about someone dying, as well as if there was a trend for that particular night, say three suicides in the same area. Also the location of an incident was significant as to whether it was worth exploring and forcing ourselves away from McDonalds, where we spent a healthy amount of time hanging out munching on burgers and ice creams waiting to pounce on any possible action. For example, a non-serious stabbing in one of the gangland western suburbs would barely raise an eyebrow, as they were as common as muck. But if one took place in the leafy eastern areas, inhabited by the rich and famous, burgers had to either be wholly devoured or eaten on the run to get to the scene pronto. The aim was always to beat the police to the incident before they had a chance to put a crime scene up and deny us getting as close to the trouble as possible.

When I met up with Dan during our next shift he appeared more relaxed and began to open up. While I had picked up on the fact he was not the biggest fan of the police, I was surprised to learn that his animosity had gone to new levels after his expensively assembled equipment had apparently been smashed following an altercation with beleaguered cops one time, who apparently had unceremoniously put an end to his attempts to capture shots of an incident.

Deploying an extremely dry form of sarcasm was one of his weapons against them. “Thank you officer you’ve been most helpful,” he said to one, who told us to clear off after there had been reports of a stabbing. “I’ll do my best to stop you being in the photo with your hat off,” he grinned, as we screeched off. Suffice to say it was a well-known fact that cops regularly got a dressing down by their superiors when caught not abiding by the strict uniform code, in particular with regard to not having their caps on. So what better way to expose them by putting their picture in the newspaper. After all, it had been known to happen before so was a viable yet perfectly legitimate way to influence them.

A while later Dan was once again using the cap trick. But this time it was to win them over as we attended a four car pile-up down Elizabeth Street. “Excuse me officer,” he said politely. “I think you might want to put your hat on as your superiors won’t be happy if you’re seen not wearing the full uniform.”

“Oh yeah, good point. Cheers mate,” the relieved policeman replied, before turning a blind eye to Dan encroaching on the cordoned off area to get the best shots.

And we were not immune from influence either. So how friendly the police were to us could swing which way a story went. A point sometimes forgotten by some officers, much to their own detriment. During one shift, it looked like a highly publicised police clampdown on booze related crime and disorder was working. With it late in the night we still didn’t have any stories of note, despite Dan’s plea to the scanners, “Come on…give me a hostel fire,” he shouted, staring pleadingly at the radios. At the very least we hoped for some drunken punch-ups with some good shots of cops arresting those involved so we could do a story on the success or failure of the police blitz. We headed to George Street just before 3am and waited outside the busy Starbar, a notorious spot where it often kicked off between swarms of the loitering drunkards after kick out time. The police had the same idea and were out in force, demonstrating a visible presence to any people thinking of misbehaving.

Despite plenty of annoyingly sloshed people being rowdy and rambling incoherently, there was no drama until just before closing time when a pissed-up man reluctant to leave was ushered out of the bar by bouncers. Although not aggressive the medium sized fellow refused to vacate the area. And then, in the blink of an eye, about six large male officers steamed over and grabbed his arm, clearly aggravating him. The silent protester, seething at the strong treatment, dug his feet in and would not move, provoking the policemen to put him in his place. “Yes…finally,” Dan excitedly screeched, before quickly taking up position just feet from the melee, following a friendly chat with the duty officer who had agreed on this occasion to give him a free reign of camera snapping (something they would rarely be so willing to indulge, often citing some obstruction act we had breached when really they just didn’t want us there).

On this occasion, though, the police were more than happy to get the publicity, proud to show the public the tough zero tolerance stance they had taken on supposed drunken yobs. Using an array of special moves the officers brought the publicly humiliated man face down on the street with his arms and legs bending in all kinds of directions, as he let out an animalistic scream of deep pain in front of the gathered masses tortuously transfixed on the man’s demise like a Medieval hanging. Several wincing women had to look away, such was the barbarity of it all. Just for good measure, though, with the man totally defeated lying face first on the street, one officer gave the man a solid knee in the back, while another turned toward the circle of watching revellers and smiled, seemingly proud of his efforts in triumphing over the individual. Some brave anti-establishment figures in the crowd showed what they thought of it all. “Were you bullied at school? Have you have got a small cock mate or something?”

Inching ever closer, Dan by now was virtually in the brawl himself, bending down with his head almost touching the floor, snapping away like a pump action machine gun at the man’s squashed head that lay dormant at the bottom of the pack of policemen. In the end, the duty officer told him enough was enough. Shrugging his shoulders in acceptance Dan put his camera away and trudged off. Meanwhile I had been observing and talking to a few interested viewers.

Most people seemed to find the police response a brutal overreaction, not that I had been feeding this view with my questioning, “Do you think it was completely necessary for the officer to knee the guy in the back when he wasn’t moving underneath six large policemen?” It goes without saying that we could have crucified them in the story for over zealous policing, captured on camera and witnessed by many. But on this occasion, mostly due to the duty officer’s helpful approach, a softer angle was taken in the interests of the bigger picture.

In any event, it was difficult for the police to put a positive spin on the crackdown following the deployment of 1,300 extra officers when a variety of other incidents kicked off late in the shift, including an assault where someone fell and hit their head before later dying, a drunk pedestrian being killed after stumbling onto a road without looking, and the usual array of glassings, stabbings and punch-ups. But rather than accept any responsibility for failing to curtail the level of crime, the authority’s policy was naturally to blame others. “Some people chose to ignore our warnings about booze-fuelled crime,” the senior commander said. Did he really expect any different?

There were other methods in capturing police behaviour on the streets other than through the traditional snapping of a camera. Always with equipment that was at the cutting edge of technology, Dan had installed a small video at the front of his car, which automatically recorded the road in front. The theory was not so much to catch reckless drivers, but more part of his never-ending quest to catch cops breaking the rules of the road. We had, on occasions, followed their cars, but on realising they were not heading anywhere exciting we would soon ditch them.

On one such occasion our luck changed, though. While driving aimlessly about, all of a sudden a police car, with no sirens on, came hurtling towards us as it weaved dangerously in and out of traffic. Dan, eyes popping from his head, couldn’t believe his luck. “Gotcha you cunt,” he shouted ecstatically, delighted at the prospect of having just captured an officer of the law breaching the highway code by failing to put its flashing lights on. And then, without a pause for breath, he slammed on the breaks and performed a three-point turn in the middle of the road, causing my neck to harshly jolt back before being strangled by the seat belt. All as a large truck was accelerating worryingly towards us. But just as it looked like we were about to be flattened, we screeched off in pursuit of the police car, the smell of burning rubber totally stinking the car out.

Fortunately it was a long straight road so we could still see them. They were in a hurry and so were we, doing 90kmh in a 50kmh zone. “I hope they’re going somewhere important,” I said, my hand firmly clutching the holder above my head, giving myself a superficial sense of security. Meanwhile, Dan was in the zone, “Come to papa,” he said calculatingly, as we closed the gap on them - a notable achievement, as by now we had gone through several sets of traffic lights, somehow making it through each of these.

And then the inevitable happened. Just after the police car had gone through a set of lights they started to change. Determined not to lose out, Dan put his foot down even further, if that was possible, as we careered toward the amber light. It then turned red but we were like a runaway express train. There was no stopping us now. “Hold on, looks like we’re doing a reddy,” he yelled heatedly, referring to going through a red light in a manner which suggested he had done it before once or twice. We tore through the cross roads with the light having been red for what must have been at least two seconds. Fearing the worst I closed my eyes before peering through my hands to see a car pulling out from the other direction, who thankfully suddenly halted, choosing life over a premature and instant death. “Aha you can’t lose us that easily you bastards,” my partner blasted, before letting out his customary Dracula laugh, as we kept up the chase. I was in stunned silence, praying I would somehow defy logic and emerge alive from this carnage.

And then, after what had seemed like an eternity, the police car turned round a corner, with us following seconds behind where we were met by that familiar sight of flashing sirens lighting up the dark sky. “I smell trouble,” Dan, taking his hands momentarily off the wheel so he could rub them with delight, said as we pulled up. A car had smashed into the underside of a bridge having veered up an embankment following a police chase, which had left two of their vehicles slightly damaged. With no crime scene tape yet up we had clearly arrived within minutes of the crash. To ascertain exactly what happened I did my usual trick of casually strolling over, ensuring my pen and notebook were nowhere to be seen, looking as though I was meant to be there, before tactically positioning myself behind a couple of officers, while facing away from them so they wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping if they noticed me. “Lucky no-one was killed eh,” I heard one say, shaking his head.

“Yeah, unreal that the driver was only 13,” his colleague responded. I was beginning to build a picture of what had happened.

There were several undercover cops on the scene and I could only presume they thought I was one, just like the police car we’d been following must have, which wasn’t unheard of. Dan had told me a story where he was once in pursuit of a villain with cops hot on his tail. After momentarily losing the assailant, he was abruptly turning round when a cop pulled over and wound down his window, “Any ideas where he’s gone mate?” the officer asked, clearly blind to the fact he was speaking to a photographer and not, as he had assumed, an undercover policeman. “I’ll follow you,” the officer then added. And off they went. That was one of the beauties of the job: the assumption you were a fellow officer of the law, which opened up doors.

How could it be possible for journalists to get to the scene of an incident before most police? Time and again they would misjudge us, thinking it was simply not possible for media to arrive first. On arrival you could see them scoping you out while thinking, “Who’s that?” Before concluding, “Oh, it’s probably some shit-face from special division,” and then never giving a second thought as to who the hell you were, until they saw you interviewing members of the public while scribbling notes next to a melee of excited photographers taking pictures of disturbed individuals who had just witnessed some horrific scene. To see the officers’ faces at that precise moment of realisation was indeed a picture; a look of total hate, mixed with a strong hint of humiliation, as they were forced to accept they had been outfoxed by the arch enemy: the media.

As it turned out on this occasion the officer I spoke to seemed like a decent bloke and was more than helpful. In fact he wouldn’t shut up, giving me more details than his superiors, no doubt, would have approved of. In technical terms he shouldn’t have told me anything as it was only meant to be the duty officer who spoke to the press, such were the lengths the force tried to go in preventing the media from getting information - a reflection of the high level of mistrust between both factions. The chatty officer was talking to me like a mate down the pub, which was perfect from my point of view. Gently guiding him along, I found out three kids had stolen a top of the range BMW after plying themselves with a concoction of alcohol and drugs and then decided to go for a spin in the middle of the night, narrowly avoiding killing themselves and a host of innocent motorists on several occasions. All while making their way across the foggy city with a convoy of police cars in hot pursuit, before finally succumbing to a mound and bridge.

Miraculously all three were unhurt and had been taken into custody. The car was soon towed away after being searched and gradually officers started to disperse just as all the other media began to arrive, much to our delight, as it meant we had an exclusive.

As with any of these stories, ideally we needed some form of confirmation from police media of what had occurred. But, unfortunately, for whatever reason it seemed they wanted to sweep this one under the carpet. I had heard a theory that, apart from the obvious fact that writing fewer press releases meant less work for them, failing to confirm an incident also served to give the impression there wasn’t as much crime, which could only be a good thing from a publicity point of view. Crime, what crime?

To add to the mix it seemed to me the police had a strict policy on employing some of the most useless people ever born. I wasn’t sure if this was a deliberate ploy, therefore ensuring there was yet a further obstacle for the media to get past. One useless man sounded like he should have been - and wanted to be - in bed. In fact, wherever he was in police headquarters I’m convinced he was horizontal with a warm duvet over him. He genuinely didn’t have a clue what was going on.

Another man, of advancing years, was a pompous git whose voice would virtually perforate your eardrum, such was the volume and speed he spoke at. Clearly on a crusade to be as unhelpful as possible, he gave the aura of knowing exactly what was happening but took great pleasure in telling you nothing. On asking if it was possible for him to look into matters you got the kind of reply you would expect to get if you were asking to borrow his wife for a night. “I’m afraid we have absolutely no knowledge of this and there is no point whatsoever in me attempting to contact the duty officer. He’s not back for a reason: he’s not finished yet,” he snarled delightfully, as I sought an official line on the youths’ incredible rampage through the city.

Unfortunately we weren’t getting very far so Dan got in touch with his mates at the radio and television stations, getting them to each ring police media requesting a press release on the joyriding. The plan being that eventually the police would cave into the concerted pressure being applied on them from all angles and would no longer be able to palm it off as something that was a figment of our imaginations. And sure enough, following a frenzy of media attention, they finally took notice of our pleas and did a press release. Though, of course, Dan still had his exclusive pictures while I had my “insider” details. Our cause, it has to be said, had been significantly helped following a change of shift in the press office, with a strangely rare, upbeat and helpful media officer saving us any further pain after replacing the two previous incumbents.

The mind games never ended with Dan, though, and he was soon up to his usual trick on the phone: offering false praise to the media officer, which he hoped she would overhear after she put him on hold. “I do like Kylie, she’s my favourite…she always does her best to help us out,” he said directly into the loud speaker on his phone, while winking at me conspiratorially. He would keep this up, lavishing a variety of different praises upon her, particularly when he heard her coming back on the line, ensuring that she would at least have heard one compliment. “Oh, sorry for interrupting,” Kylie, or whatever her name was, said as she picked the phone up.

“Oh, sorry didn’t realise you were there,” Dan replied, winking at me with a huge grin. “I was just saying how you’re the best media officer the police have.”

After an embarrassed laugh, Kylie recovered her composure. “Well, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“No problem, just being honest.” Of course, Dan would do this to every media officer. But, nonetheless, he would take great delight when they fell into his trap, as he left no stone unturned in the never ending war of extracting information from the police.

Despite my colleague’s best efforts I’m not convinced his tactics of buttering up police media really made a blind bit of difference to some. His ploy of rounding up other media outlets to contact the cops, however, seemed to be more successful in manipulating them to release information. With the time turning 6am Dan switched on the radio for the early morning news where sure enough the story was one of the headlines. “Gotcha,” he shouted excitedly, before letting out his Dracula laugh and giving me a high-five. Various television stations were also running the story as one of their headlines, but unlike ourselves, sadly, had to make do with meagre footage of a few police cars and officers scouring the area in the absence of the crunched car they had missed out on capturing, not to mention the inside details of what had really happened. “Good work mate,” Dan continued, “without us that wouldn’t be on there and no one would have known about that story.”

It was, of course, all totally true and I couldn’t deny feeling satisfied at our exclusive and the fact we had manipulated the police and other media by creating a tidal wave of interest, leaving the authority with little choice but to admit to the event.

CHAPTER 13 – IN THE LINE OF FIRE

One of the routes we would do while driving about listening to scanners and people watching was through the infamous and seedy Kings Cross. As you may be aware by now it was not my favourite place, unless of course you fancied being surrounded by some of the biggest morons you could possibly imagine. Foraging through its packed streets on a Saturday night even when in the relative safety of the car, therefore, was about as much fun as being trampled by a herd of elephants. At least when I had gone out for a night there on previous ventures I had been well refreshed and consequently far more oblivious to the crap around me.

As we scoured the area for any action I couldn’t help but be reminded of one of those zombie movies, such was the array of warped looking people stumbling about, who would gaze intensely at you like they wanted to munch your face off after we’d had the cheek to drive the car on the road, of all places, when they had suddenly decided to amble across blindly for no apparent reason. On countless occasions Dan had to sharply hit the break to avoid hitting revellers, who by way of a thank you would volley a mouthful of expletives in our direction. I thought it was only a matter of time before a new windscreen would be needed. Needless to say, the abuse didn’t stop Dan from expressing his own feelings at the hostile drunks, “Move you stupid cunt,” he shouted out the window at one large shaven headed man rocking in the middle of the street with a kebab, who banged the side of the car as we navigated round him.

Moments later, with reports of a possible stabbing nearby, we were forced to pull over on yellow lines so Dan could jump out and race to the scene while I kept look out in the car. In the mad rush of it all the I had forgotten to lock the doors when some angry large oaf, who had been strangely glancing over at me, casually meandered over before pausing, while looking the other way, and then in one swift movement swooped to open the door. Thankfully, in the split second before he pounced I anticipated such a stunt, and as he lunged for the door handle I reached for the automatic lock switch, just beating him to it and preventing him ambushing me. I don’t know what his intentions were but on realising I had shunned him, he looked at me, while fighting gravity, and wagged his finger menacingly before heading off in no particular direction. Dan returned glumly shortly after, reporting there had only been a minor brawl but no stabbing.

We continued our cruise down the heaving Darlinghurst Road before doing another agonising circuit. We turned onto an adjacent back street – with a healthy flow of traffic on it – where we suddenly noticed a vested man, with one foot planted on the back of a car for leverage, as he tried to pull off its number plate. It was a strange sight, particularly as he didn’t seem to care about who could see him. “Let’s get him,” my colleague enthusiastically announced. We turned around and parked across the road in the shadows, no more than 30 yards away from him. As we climbed out the car, Dan started taking shots while I acted nonchalantly, pretending to be on my phone, though I don’t think our subtle behaviour made any difference as the man was so focused on ripping off the plate – no doubt to be used for ulterior purposes, such as on a get-away vehicle – he wouldn’t have noticed us had we been stood right next to him.

With photos taken we were chatting by the car when a police riot van slowly went past. “Get in,” Dan, his face lighting up, squealed as we screeched off in pursuit of them. When they stopped at a red light a short distance down the street Dan wound down his window and started madly gesticulating. It was plain from the blank yet slightly startled look on the officers’ faces that they thought they were dealing with someone not quite the full ticket. Undeterred, Dan was going into seizure mode with veins popping out of his head, as he demanded the cops open the window, which eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, they did. “You need to go back there,” my colleague shouted, pointing vigorously back down the road. “A man is stealing a number plate. I repeat, a man is stealing a number plate, you need to go back now.”

Looking somewhat bewildered, the officers glanced back and forth at each other blankly – presumably to decide if this was genuine and not just the vivid imagination of a crazy individual – before indicating they would be turning the riot van around. Dan, breaking the highway code right before the eyes of the police with a three-point-turn, led the riot van to the incident. Yet even when the group of officers surrounded the deviant, he was so focused on ripping off the plate that bizarrely he still failed to realise the police were there - until a cop tapped him on the shoulder. As we looked from across the street the man’s demeanour suddenly became far more aggressive as he waved his hands ferociously about. Unfortunately for him it didn’t appear that he was doing a very job in convincing the policemen of why he had felt it absolutely necessary to be desperately trying to yank a number plate from a car down a gloomy side street.

Minutes later another riot van pulled up, with the man politely ushered gently against the side of it before being handcuffed and escorted into the back, still looking confused at the sudden turn of events. “Thanks for that officer. I didn’t mean to tell you how to do your job but I thought I better notify you,” Dan said, as we strolled triumphantly over, slyly taking a dig at how a vehicle full of policemen had failed to see a crime being committed right before their eyes. We walked off smugly, with Dan especially proud of his efforts. The irony was that it wasn’t even a story for us, though I was beginning to see that you could never have enough pictures of people being arrested, particularly when it was a slow night.

Just as we were driving away there was suddenly an explosion of noise on the scanners. It sounded bad, though as usual I couldn’t understand a word. But our uncanny ability of being in the right place at the right time had paid off. “Fuck me, there’s been gun shots on Darlinghurst Road,” Dan blasted, looking like a junky who’d just injected a large dose of heroin, as he screeched to a halt before reversing manically the wrong way down a back street that brought us out nearby to the incident. We sprinted to the scene of the action where a big crowd of people had gathered outside a nightclub. Shaken men and tearful women were consoling each other, unable to take in what had just happened. The word on the street was that a group of men had taken exception to being thrown out of the club for being rowdy, prompting one of them to pull out a pistol and spray several shots, which miraculously managed to miss innocent clubbers, who were left diving for cover. The men had then scampered off and were now on the run.

Soon enough everyone wanted to put their six pence worth in and were recounting events, even though it became clear many had been nowhere near the blasts. As soon as it became obvious they were time wasters I made a point of slowly putting my pen and paper away and nodding in a sarcastic and overly enthusiastic way. “Wow that’s fascinating. Incredible that you witnessed all of this,” I said to one idiot, who claimed he saw someone get shot when it had already been confirmed by police that no one had been injured.

Naturally being the first journalists on the scene we had stolen a key advantage on our media rivals. However, in amongst the mayhem I noticed one person, who was dressed in a shirt like he was on a night out, recording an interview with someone on his phone. “Who are you with?” I asked curiously.

“Can’t say I’m afraid,” he replied, exuding self-importance.

Concealing my indignation at his immature response I sent the fool off on a wild goose chase to prevent him getting a jump on us with the story. “Have you spoken to the eye witness who just avoided being shot?” I whispered casually, deliberately arousing his interest.

His eyes lit up. “No not yet, where are they?”

“If you look down the road there’s a large lady with a purple top on standing by that fast food place. If I was you I would go and talk to her,” I replied, pointing at the random female who was more interested in scoffing her pie than in what had just taken place. But, of course, he didn’t know this. “Think she’s comfort eating,” I added, concerned my rival wouldn’t believe me. But determined not to miss out, after a momentary pause, he foolishly marched over to the woman and began firing questions as she pushed the remaining half of the pie into her mouth. I knew his desperation at missing out meant he would fall into my little trap.

I slipped into the background, attempting to eavesdrop various conversations in an attempt to get some information before feeling a tugging on my arm. “Come on let’s go…there’s an eyewitness to speak to – and they haven’t spoken to anyone else,” Dan announced quietly, as he excitedly pulled me over to where some girls were stood. They had given statements to the police so their accounts were fairly reliable. But, as usual in such cases, the women who had been drinking for several hours were a total mess. But in amongst the perpetual blubbing and high-speed rambling I was able to draw out what had happened. “I saw a guy pull out a gun and fire shots into the air…someone could easily have been killed,” she whaled.

“I bet you didn’t expect that when you came out tonight?” I said understatedly, ensuring she kept talking, though such was her intoxication I don’t think this was ever in doubt. Doing my best to keep the interview under wraps so no other media would grab a word with her, I then sneaked off contentedly with my sound copy.

After getting back to the office and writing up the story, despite Dan being in my ear the whole time, it was immediately put up on the website. “Another exclusive,” Dan announced proudly, patting me on the shoulder.

“Yep, shame the other media bloke went off in the wrong direction,” I smiled smugly. Despite our good work, the drawback with the Saturday shift was that in the fast moving 24-hours a day news world, the story had to be strong enough to hold until Monday morning if it was to actually make the holy grail of the print version of the newspaper, which was no easy feat following a day when everyone else had already reported on it.

But when the paper did come out on Monday there it was, gloriously splashed all across page two and three (had it not been for the newly appointed Prime Minister Julia Gillard having her nails painted – or something of the like – it may even have made the front page). Apart from the obvious fact of it being an important news story, the reality of having good eyewitness accounts “diving for cover” had given us the edge over the other media outlets. Our cause was helped by the witness’s memorable rant where she scathingly defended the fact she was, “No chick chick boom girl” – a reference to a female who claimed she had seen a shooting at a club on national television on a previous occasion, which somehow sparked a presenting and modelling career after she was taken to the public’s heart for her outrageous and, as it turned out, false interview.

As was not exactly uncommon in such circumstances, the woman I had interviewed regretted her drunken free flowing outburst to the press in the cold light of day and made a complaint to the newspaper. But, if anything, she should have punished herself, as she was the one doing the talking. I don’t remember forcing her to say those words. Still, this was water off a duck’s back and inevitably her objections fell on deaf ears. I must say, though, that interviewing excitable drunks, if they weren’t totally bullshitting, generally meant getting some fine quotes. And what’s more, you wouldn’t really have to do a great deal to get them.

It was always challenging when out surfing the Sydney streets but an extra dimension was inevitably added when out trying to get material relating to figures caught up in various alleged plots. After loitering outside a police station in the freezing cold on one occasion to wait for arrested members to appear, we were then given the far more dubious task of doing a stake out on a property - where most of them were thought to be - to see if a curfew order would be breached after being granted bail. We waited eerily in the dark, just out of view.

To make matters worse just before I left the office my news editor cheerily said to me: “If you’re feeling brave enough then knock on the door if you want.”

On hearing this, the experienced photographer scoffed fearfully, “You must be joking.” Here was a man who had seen it and done it all before, and was not exactly a shrinking violet, who was making it abundantly clear that knocking on the door for a chat at this sensitive time might not be the best of ideas. His response hardly filled me with delight. “Well, see what you can do anyway,” the editor smiled.

If the photographer’s quivering response had given me some perspective of the path we were about to tread, then his recounts of clashes between the press and the identities made me even less inclined to ring the doorbell. “These people don’t give a fuck mate,” he said, before recounting how cameras had been left smashed on the floor on previous occasions.

But, as if to make things ok if the worst happened to him, he added, “I don’t give a shit if I get hit, I’ll get good compensation. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been injured on the job.” As the instruction to knock on the door was only half hearted - and with me valuing my life - I was naturally giving consideration to overlooking the request on the grounds of futility.

As we waited anxiously in silence a reporter and photographer from the rival newspaper pulled up and were situated right outside the front of the house. “What, are they fucking crazy?” my colleague said, incredulous someone could park so close to the front door in full view of those inside. When the female reporter wandered over to us smiling obliviously, it was suggested in no uncertain terms it might be best to move her car. “What the fuck are you doing? I suggest you move the car up here now,” my colleague demanded.

After safely moving her car behind us the reporter revealed she too had been instructed to do a door knock, which, with competitive rivalry, effectively meant I now had no choice but to do the same. She wasn’t aware of the historical tensions, which made her less fearful, while the fact she was female inevitably meant she was less likely to get a right hook in the face. My colleague, though, started telling her the same stories he had been helpfully telling me, leaving her not quite so sprightly.

Having summoned up the courage after getting abused by some random locals driving past - “Get a proper job you fucking stalkers” - myself and the woman joined forces and gingerly tip-toed up the garden to the door. We looked at each other and then back at the door. I slowly reached out an arm, paused, and then pushed down the doorbell. We waited. I braced myself. But nobody answered. “Well we tried,” I said, proud at my endeavours, before the reporter reached out and pushed in the button again. Nothing again. Not waiting any longer than we had to we abruptly made our way back down the path.

Passing the time by eating my extortionately priced $3 Snickers bar that left me covered in chocolate, there was suddenly movement outside. “It’s those stalking paparazzi,” a deep hostile voice shouted into the darkness. No doubt designed to intimidate us further. We had officially been spotted and suddenly we were now in the line of fire. If only I had a bullet proof vest and mask, I thought, looking up at the sky for divine intervention. It felt like we were lame ducks, probably because we were. A brooding atmosphere was building. “Are they still out there?” another voice shouted.

“Yeah they’re still there,” another man growled, as if to warn us that now might be a good time to leave.

About 15 minutes later - though it felt more like several hours - a police car turned up unexpectedly. Two officers got out and briskly walked over to us. “We’ve had complaints that you’re harassing them. We suggest you don’t go on their land, as there’s nothing we can do if you do that. If I was you I would get what you need and leave as soon as possible,” the policeman said sternly, not hiding the fact they wouldn’t be lifting a finger to help us if things turned nasty. And then, after briefly speaking with someone at the door for a minute, they were off, with it now exceedingly clear that we were on our own once more, at the mercy of those inside.

The whole episode was made more frustrating by the fact none of us knew who exactly was in the house. With 30 minutes to go before the curfew deadline at 9pm, we potentially had a front page lead. The painful mission was, predictably, going to the wire.

More stirring came from up above as we chatted outside the car before, out of the blue, two rather large and overbearing shadows appeared from the darkness. And, as if in slow motion, they were thundering towards us, bizarrely with their arms behind their backs as if they were winding up to hit us. Myself and the photographer looked at each other, bracing ourselves. “Oh shit here we go,” I thought, glued to the pair as they inched nearer.

The women from the rival newspaper happened to be safe in their car as they watched events unfold. In those few seconds as the meatheads made their way towards us, it struck me that it might not have been the worst idea to run to our vehicle. But it was too late now. Having not uttered a single word to my colleague we watched in a state of paralysed horror as the towering men gradually became visible in the murky light. Then, with my heart feeling like it was about to burst out of my chest, they were upon us. “Hello, we’ve got something for you,” one sadistically announced, before a menacing pause, keeping us guessing at what they were going to do to us. Standing just feet away, with one parallel to each of us, they slowly began to pull their arms from behind their backs. “Oh fuck,” I thought. Then, suddenly, they accelerated the movement, as if they were going to throw a punch. “There you go,” the men laughed, before presenting us with a can of coke each, having just stopped a fraction short of putting their fists in our faces.

As you do when you’re about to get smashed in the face I had instinctively stepped back. After pausing in shock, while still pretending I wasn’t ruffled, I reached out and took the can. “Thanks, that’s very good of you,” I said, like he was a barman who had just served me a drink. Continuing the bonding process I then, for some strange reason risked enraging them further by firing a couple of questions in the manner of a deeply concerned relative. “How is everyone? Everyone home?” I said warmly.

Surprisingly, I got a response. “Yep everyone’s in the house,” came the terse reply, before they sauntered back towards the house laughing at their antics. I was just glad to be in once piece. I think my colleague was too, though there was a hint of disappointment as part of him was hoping to receive a good beating so he could get a juicy compensation payout.

The women from the rival paper got out of the car when the coast was clear. “I thought you were going to get hit. Were you afraid?” the reporter asked. I thought the answer was pretty obvious but determined not to lose face I replied casually, “Not really,” and then cracked open my warm can of coke my new found friends had kindly gone out of their way to provide for me, before wondering if I was going to die of poisoning after downing it.

With five minutes to go before the curfew was up, a car pulled into the drive. The photographers raced around to the front and started snapping. “Is this what you want?” a voice yelled abrasively, arms open, having turned back at the top of the steps near the front door to face us for a few seconds before going inside. “Right let’s get the hell out of here,” the photographer said, as we hurriedly got in the car. “We don’t want them blocking us off.” I looked over at the house where a few of the heavies were in the driveway scowling at us. We didn’t wait around to see what they would do and accelerated off, spending more time looking in the rear view mirror than the road in front.

In the newspaper the following day the pictures weren’t used and the only information reported was that the member had made it back in time for the curfew. Not exactly ground breaking stuff. With the likelihood of ending up in hospital seeming pretty high at one point, I wasn’t sure if the value of what was printed was really worth the torture we had to go through. But it was all part of the highs and lows of the job. And at least there was never a dull moment. Well, apart from during the four hours of praying something would happen, of course.

The group’s network of contacts stretched far and wide, so I was told. And standing on George Street outside a pub a few days later minding my own business while discussing the ordeal I had been through to a friend, a big vested man with a head like a block of concrete, lent over and whispered some friendly advice into my ear, “If I were you I would be careful who you talk about.” I did a double-take, not least because I was having a private conversation where the volume had been pretty reasonable, unlike on the odd merry occasion where my foghorn voice would come out.

In any event, I took the hint, but made sure there were no hard feelings. I had no idea how much of my conversation he had heard and, more importantly, if he knew I was a journalist. Fortunately, though, he growled and walked off, which was certainly better than lying in a pool of my own blood on the street. I decided from then on it could be better to not discuss such subjects in public.

My close-calls were far from over yet, though, and the following Saturday a troubled and unusually quiet Dan picked me up for our night shift. “We’ve got to go to get a snap of you-know,” he announced lamentably, the blood visibly draining from his face. “Well that should be as easy as pulling a tooth out then,” I joked, with a sense of foreboding coming over me as I visualised us hanging out near one of their haunts, while trying to remain inconspicuous with a giant camera.

With Dan on camera duty it meant I would be the one to have the noisy scanners on me, as my colleague wouldn’t have enough hands to hold them while taking his shots. Striding through the city with the radios making that loud muffling sound meant people - including police - naturally assumed you were an undercover officer, which I was more than happy for them to think, as on the balance of probabilities it meant I was less likely to get my head kicked in, as revellers were probably fearful of the repercussions with police but less so from journalists.

Dan was building himself up into hysterics at the prospect of doing this job, which was made harder by the fact that all we had to go on to recognise the individual was a newspaper cut- out of him. The only good news was that he had an unusual haircut, so we hoped that at the very least we would recognise that in the unlikely event we came across him.

We got to the area and after doing several circuits and seeing nothing we came across a conspicuous car outside one place and took an educated guess that our target could be inside. We pulled over opposite the place on double yellow lines and waited. We stood out like a man wearing a bright red dress.

Dan’s anxiety levels were reaching dangerously high levels, but oddly, rather than wanting to run away, he had another solution. “Fuck it, I might just go up to them and ask if he’s in there and whether they’d mind us getting a shot,” he said, fidgeting with his camera nervously, like a junky attempting to fix up his next hit.

“Good luck with that, hope you’ve got a spare camera,” I replied. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed some of the men looking over at us, no doubt wondering what we were doing perched nearby. With no appearance from the individual, having waited a painful amount of time, we were left in a quandary. But then suddenly reports of a potentially fatal stabbing came over the scanner. “Thank fuck for that,” Dan said, relief pouring out of him, as we sped off.

If there wasn’t drama with the general public, doormen or gangsters, then it was with our old friends, the police. Out one Thursday night in the Cross with photographer Brad and Paul from the TV station, we were stood around chatting down the main strip when a fight suddenly broke out just down the road from us. Barely able to believe our luck we sprinted down to the action where the police were using their safety first policy of employing several large officers to take down one individual, who was lying in a position I was becoming accustomed to watching: face down on the filthy street, along with half eaten kebabs, sick and discarded junkie needles.

The man, whose head reminded me of a squashed tomato, was alternating between whaling as if he was being castrated, while, impressively, managing to squeeze out the odd expletive – “Fucking cunts”. But the more he resisted the harder they were on him. As is usual practice, a group of spectators quickly formed to watch the fallen individual, whose crime had been to throw an empty bottle of beer at no particular individual on the street. Sensing the opportunity for a possible story we pushed to the front of the crowd, with Brad and Paul wasting no time in pulling their phones out to record the action, before a hot headed police woman stormed over.

“Turn those cameras off now before I smash them on the ground,” she screeched, not knowing we were members of the media who had every right to be recording, before aggressively attempting to thwart filming by shoving my colleagues. Two other large policemen backed her up, manhandling Brad and Paul, who soon became apoplectic at their treatment. Just when it appeared they both were about to be arrested, Paul, not renowned for his cool temperament, hit back. “Fuck off, we’re media. You can’t fucking stop us being here,” he bellowed, shaking with rage.

“You’re such a hero aren’t you?” the cocky female officer responded.

However, after showing our media cards a strange thing happened; the cops who just seconds earlier were preparing to arrest my colleagues, changed tact, instead preferring the, “Come on let’s calm it down” approach. The crowd had been told to get back, which just left us out front on our own, with attention now firmly drawn toward us. An intolerant officer, curious why I was quietly standing near this heated confrontation but away from the main crowd, ordered me to, “Get back now”.

With a hint of smugness, I replied, “I’m media,” and defiantly remained where I was stood, before getting out my notebook and pen and jotting down my observations.

Once the male policeman - anticipating some bad press - had attempted to calm the situation, we turned and made off at a hasty speed with Paul, still in a blind rage, raining expletives into the night air. “Fucking cops, who the fuck do they think they are.” It was decided that we would make a complaint about the female officer’s bullish handling of events. So off we went around the corner to the police station, where upon attempting to file our complaint we discovered - perhaps somewhat conveniently - there was nobody appropriate about to talk to.

Although adding to the frustration, Brad and Paul were not to be deterred and had now opted that justice would be best served through the forum that was most accessible to us, while having the biggest impact: the media. Paul spoke to his producer and convinced him to run the story. But before he was interviewed back at the TV station I got a few words from him. “It was pretty disgusting the female officer’s treatment of you, wouldn’t you say?” I asked, prompting the inevitable tirade as Paul left no stone unturned in his scathing assessment of the officer’s conduct, to the point where I could quite easily have written a book such was the level of angry comments that spewed out of his frothing mouth.

Over the following days Paul was all over every major television and radio station, raging about his harsh treatment and how his liberty had been brazenly impinged. Meanwhile, a high-ranking police official was left apologising for the actions of one of his officers after the discriminating video footage was screened in all its glory across television and newspapers. “The officer’s behaviour in this case could have been handled better but she has acknowledged the issue,” the superintendent said, stating the bleeding obvious. Soon after we heard the female police officer, of junior rank, had been taken off the streets in a bid to help her continued learning. “What a shame that is for her,” Paul laughed on hearing the news.

“Don’t think we’ll be seeing her for a while,” Brad added

CHAPTER 14 – LIVERPOOL COUNCIL BURNS DOWN

It had been a slow night with many false dawns and near misses. Dan was in need of an urgent sugar hit to keep him going for the rest of the shift, so we decided to hit a McDonalds drive-through while out in the western suburbs. As with everything involving my workmate, nothing was straightforward with attempting to order and pay for food proving to be a major obstacle. Waiting in the car with the window open a voice finally came across on the speaker asking for our order. Half way through telling the assistant what food he wanted Dan suddenly had a rethink and instead ordered chicken McNuggets with his ice cream, leaving the Asian employee, who had what could best be described as a limited grasp of English, in a state of dazzled confusion, as he tried to firstly come to terms with Dan and then figure out how to change the order on the till.

To add an extra layer of confusion for the hapless employee, Dan and myself were debating how much we each needed to pay. By now I was as lost as the servant, as a rather large tailback of cars began to build up behind us. “If I take your $10 note and give you $2 back then I’ll give you whatever change we get back, ok?” Dan said, as he grabbed the note out of my hand and slung it onto the counter along with some coins.

“No, no, no, you’ve got it wrong. It’s $5.90 not $6.90 for mine,” my colleague, at the top of his voice, unaware of the growing frustration from the cars behind, pointed out to the assistant, vociferously arguing he had been short changed by a dollar. “I’ll tell you what,” he continued, with his finger wagging, “You give me five dollars and I’ll give you four dollars and then we’re equal, right?” The gobsmacked member of staff bore the look of a man who’d just been on the receiving end of a hearty beating. Without understanding the arrangement the assistant gladly accepted the offer, hoping to get rid of Dan as quickly as possible.

Off we went with our food through the car park, at which point I noticed I had only been given a normal cheeseburger and not a quarter pounder with cheese. “Right let’s go back,” Dan announced without any hesitation, as he lit-up at the prospect of another duel with the incompetent assistant. Once again we made our way through the all too familiar drive-in and back to the window. “You’ve given my friend the wrong burger. He needs a quarter-pounder with cheese. Do you understand?” my workmate shouted in the assistant’s face.

The shell-shocked man could barely believe his misfortune that having just escaped from us, there we were once again right before his very eyes. “We need you to hurry up as a job could come up at any moment,” Dan added, overtly gesturing toward the radio scanner, as his necked almost reached inside the assistant’s booth. The petrified employee, without asking any questions, scurried into the kitchen and came back with a quarter-pounder with cheese.

As we slowly pulled off once more, Dan suddenly applied the brake. “I fancy a coffee,” he said, eyes lighting up mischievously.

“You want to see your friend again don’t you?” I smiled.

“Yes I do.” And off we went back round again, as Dan roared out his Dracula laugh, revelling in the misery he was causing this particular member of staff. As we got to the counter the beleaguered worker was met by Dan’s beaming face. “Me again!” he announced. “I need a coffee to go. Quick as you can as we don’t want to miss anything, you understand.” The poor guy had the aura of someone contemplating jumping in front of a train as he trudged off to the coffee machine, wondering if he would ever be free of us. He handed over the drink wearily. “Thanks mate, see you again,” Dan added chirpily, only to be met with a wall of silence. I suspected the Indian fellow would rather have his testicles removed than see us again. So for the third and final time we made our way out of the McDonald’s car park and drove off onto the dark streets, filling our faces as we went.

While slurping on our drinks having scoffed our food down, a series of animated voices came over the scanners. “Red, red, red,” a fire operator shouted urgently. “Red, red, red, the whole building’s gone up.” This happened to be one of the few codes I understood. It was bad. In fact it couldn’t have been much worse. “Liverpool Council building is on fire. Repeat Liverpool Council building is on fire,” the animated voice added. I looked at Dan, who was overwhelmed by it all. “Well, fuck the Lord,” he said ecstatically. “That place must be the size of five rugby pitches. I knew it, I fucking knew it. I knew something major would be going off tonight. I could smell it in the air,” he added before letting out another Dracula laugh. In all fairness to Dan he had predicted a catastrophic happening at the beginning of the shift. Then again, he often did.

We raced to the inferno in Sydney’s western suburbs, following the towering flames that were lighting up the dark sky, before heading down the main road less than a mile from the building. We screeched to a halt as fire engines and police blockaded our main route through. “Where’s the media set-up point?” Dan frantically queried, shoving his press pass into the face of an unimpressed officer stopping any motorists. “You won’t be going anywhere if you carry on driving like that. You’ve just accelerated over a fire hose,” the policeman growled.

“My deepest apologies officer but the council building is on fire and we need to get there.” And without any further delay we reversed at a speed so fast that my head was thrown forward, before we swivelled around like a getaway car in a Hollywood movie, and then accelerated over the fire hose once again as we attempted to find our way to the offices via a series of side roads.

After several hair-raising minutes of flying around streets in the manner of a racing car, we pulled up in a car park before jumping out and sprinting across a field to the council building while knocking residents, who had come to see the carnage first hand, out of the way. “MOVE…press coming through,” Dan yelled at the startled people. Suffering with a twisted ankle at the time, my cause wasn’t helped by getting held up behind a large group, causing me to lag behind slightly.

Dan looked back anxiously. “Hurry up Steve.”

“I don’t think the fire’s going anywhere Dan.”

We finally got to an adjacent road, about 40 yards from the building, which was as close as we were allowed to be, though you could still feel the warmth of the blaze on your face, which was handy, what with it being a chilly night. Dan started snapping away like a madman. The longer you stood there the more intense the heat got, as the flames swamped the entire chambers (apart from a small annexe); a modern building having only been erected in 1987. A special cherry picker, that gave extended height and reach, was in full operation, as a small ocean of water was unrelentingly sprayed into the middle of the offices where the busy firemen couldn’t get anywhere near.

Swarms of open-mouthed people had gathered, watching in disbelief as flames dwarfed the place. I had seen some big fires on the shift already but this one made them look like small bonfires. It was an incredible sight. Despite all the firemen and the never ending flow of water, it didn’t seem to be making a blind bit of difference as the blaze raged on.

We moved to a different side of the building to get another perspective of the inferno, before teaming up to get the usual mixture of shocked residents’ reaction, albeit with a dose of good humour thrown in. “That’ll teach the council for not doing what they said they would,” one man, who could hardly contain the smile on his face, said. We lined up a couple of middle-aged men for a shot after I had interviewed the astounded pair. Seemingly forgetting the fireball was about 50 yards from them - and with more concern for their appearance and new found publicity - the grinning men posed for shots. “Try not to look so happy about it,” Dan said.

As a regular to fires it seemed people were starting to recognise me as someone always in the background on television after some hideous event had taken place. “I’ve seen you on the TV,” a bearded fellow suddenly announced as we got chatting. “You were at that fire talking to the old lady with the cat where the army veteran was rescued the other week weren’t you?”

“Yes that was me,” I answered, playing it cool like it was no big deal.

“Yeah I saw you on TV at the recent stabbing as well,” another man said, which I duly confirmed.

“I was starting to think you might be the Grim Reaper,” the man with the beard joked.

“I suppose in a way, I am,” I smiled proudly.

Standing around during such major incidents, I would grab my opportunities by going for the big interviews with victims or eye-witnesses, who it’s fair to say weren’t often keen or in the right physical or mental state to talk. Of course, I never let that get in the way, though. One of my prouder moments, for example, was getting a grief stricken grandma’s reaction as she was being wheeled to safety with a blanket over her, having just being pulled from her burning old people’s home. The fact this happened to mean I was right in the full glare of the media’s spotlight was just coincidental. Gate crashing chaotic live television interviews had also probably added to my newfound public status; where I would suddenly appear from nowhere to muscle in and fire questions at the interviewee, who was in the middle of speaking to a TV reporter - no doubt ruffling a few feathers in the process.

In total, during this latest disaster at Liverpool Council, we remained at the burning offices for over three hours and by the time we left there was still no sign of the flames being dampened down, such was the massive scale of the blaze. In the end it took four whole days for it to be completely extinguished. To add to the misery the estimated cost would be in the region of $20m, with neighbouring councils’ premiums rocketing as a result of the insurance claim. Many sentimental items had gone forever in a blaze of smoke and the mayor revealed, somewhat bizarrely, that much of the important paperwork had not been backed up on computer, which appeared a slightly foolish oversight for a large public body. With it seeming as though the fire may have been deliberately started, it wasn’t surprising it went down as one of the biggest arsonist attacks on government property in Australia’s history, with it expected to be years before the building would be restored.

The big stories were now coming thick and fast and it was only a few days later when I was in the thick of things again, as I was sent out to cover the rugby league Grand Final celebrations. A team called the St George Dragons had triumphed and as a result I was off to their home ground, Jubille Oval, in the southern suburb of Kogarah. I jumped in a company taxi and made my way there.

Having fought my way through the packed streets of honking cars and delirious fans, singing and waving their flags, I pushed through a queue to the clubhouse, flashing my media pass on the way, before finally gaining entry. After wandering about studying the pictures on the wall and trophy cabinet, I decided it best to get my work for the night out the way as soon as possible so I wouldn’t have to hang round any longer than I had to. I loitered near the gambling machines and bar, eying up people to speak to, preferably those who were not well over 20 stone, blind drunk or who looked like they had served a significant amount of time in jail, who I might be able to grab a quick word from on what this victory meant to them. This left me with few options.

Finally, I came across one candidate, who looked rather out of place. He was a small middle-aged fellow clearly basking in the glory of the momentous win. I introduced myself and started scribbling down his thoughts, before I got a phone call and was told me there had been a change of plan and that I had to go down the road to the stadium, as the players weren’t going to the clubhouse anymore, where I had been patiently waiting.

I made my way out and headed toward the stand, fighting my way through the raucous fans, who were still banging their drums and screaming at the tops of their voices. Cars had been brought to a standstill as people climbed onto bonnets, cheering and singing ecstatically, leaving me wincing and constantly rubbing my ears. Nursing a hangover had only added to my woes and it was at this point that for once I craved the comfort of my bed in the 20 bed dorm.

The enthusiasm of the fans was contrasted by my total indifference. After all, this was rugby league; a sport in England which is only played in a smattering of northern towns, consequently giving way to the vast majority of the country not giving a toss about it. This I could completely understand, particularly as all that seemed to happen would be one player being fed the ball before steaming into a defensive wall, hoping on the off chance they may be able to gain some territory, or even at some point if they were really lucky during the 80 minute match, make a break through and score a try. Anyway, strangely, here in NSW it was the main sport and the players were treated like heroes.

I made my way round to the press entrance at the side of the stadium and after declaring my name and having it checked on a lengthy piece of paper by a club official, I was eventually allowed through the barrier into the car park. I had received a text from my colleague saying she was inside the stadium and that I had to come down the tunnel. I looked over and saw a herd of serious security men standing around, and checked with one of them I was heading in the right direction. “You better hurry up, the players will be coming out this tunnel with the trophy any minute,” a helpful man said.

I made my way down the long passage with the noise of the crowd getting louder and louder with every step I took. I noticed the faces of fans peering down the underpass waiting in anticipation for their heroes. Instead, though, they got me. I finally made it outside, with the roaring of the crowd almost bursting my eardrums. I was met by thousands of screaming fans above me in the stadium, as well as those fenced in behind barriers on pitch level as I strolled out toward the stage where the media were congregated, concentrating hard on avoiding falling flat on my face on live television and in front of a stadium full of people. After finding a much sought after space, I glanced behind me toward the packed main stand and gave them a celebratory clap above the head. At least, in my head I did.

I looked for my colleague who I had never met before and through a process of elimination began to weigh up which one she was. Just as I had narrowed it down to a select few (female’s not holding a microphone or camera) a load of glittering cheerleaders with permanent plastic smiles on their faces suddenly burst out of the tunnel. Manoeuvring in and out of the press, stopping to rub pom-poms into the faces of a select few unsuspecting individuals – me being one of them. They bounced around for a bit before stopping to perform a guard of honour for the players.

I reached out to the woman I thought maybe my colleague. I had guessed right. She had been there all day; during the match, soaking up the post match celebrations and then waiting around for hours for the players to return. As the speeches began so did the rain. Heavily too. My attempts at writing down their immortal words was severely impinged by my soaking wet notepad, with my ball point pen mostly ripping through the paper but for the odd word.

My concerns that my entire reason for being sent to cover the event had proved to be one big exercise in pointlessness were, though, at least softened when my colleague revealed she had managed to take down what was said, thanks to her trusty high tech phone, therefore removing the unforgiving obstacle of useless pen and drenched paper. Her presence, though, did make me wonder what the hell I was doing there if she was doing all the work.

After the players went back inside my colleague announced she was going home after an exhausting 11-hour day at the stadium. I was supposed to be meeting photographer Brad somewhere. Quite a few members of the press had left the stage area while some fans were also now leaving. Not sure where I was meeting my colleague I decided to hang around for a bit. There were still lots of fans pitch-side. And then, minutes later, it became clear why as manager Wayne Bennett (the national team’s most successful ever coach) came out to personally greet fans.

Once Bennett had nearly finished his lap of embracing fans and posing for pictures, a female reporter from a TV station jumped in amongst the carnage for a live interview and threw a few sycophantic questions in his direction. “Look around you and what you’ve done for these people, how proud do you feel?” she shouted in delirium, with the camera stuffed right in her face, before turning to Bennett. Standing around awkwardly on my own with nothing to do, knowing that the copy from the speeches had already been submitted, I decided I’d had enough of looking like a lemon and took matters into my own hands.

Edging closer to the scrum of fans and television crew I expertly managed to squeeze alongside the TV reporter. Just as she opened her mouth to ask another cheese-ridden question I decided to momentarily hijack the interview. “So Wayne, this must be the best moment of your career?” I asked, knowing full well this was probably not the case having earlier being told by a fan he had won numerous Grand Finals with his beloved home-town team and masterminded, against all the odds, a world championship for New Zealand. “Yeah it’s right up there,” the dour coach diplomatically replied.

“Not the best then?” I hit back sharply, pushing to get a definitive answer.

He didn’t look too impressed, particularly as he was still live on television and surrounded by ecstatic home fans. “It’s up there,” he growled, before looking curiously at me, no doubt wondering who this annoying Pommie putting a downer on proceedings was.

Unperturbed by his frostiness I continued my interrogation, going for the jugular. “Will you be extending your contract?” I queried. Again, one of the fans I had been chatting to earlier had given me some valuable information, revealing that Bennett was homesick and wanted to return to Queensland where he was from. With this in mind, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to ask such a question. After all, he owed it to the fans to come clean about his intentions. “I’ve got 12-months left on my deal so we’ll see what happens,” he cautiously retorted.

“So you are staying for now? But it’s unlikely you’ll be staying beyond that then?” I noticed the TV reporter looking at me in morbid curiosity as I took up the mantle, presumably aghast at my particular line of questioning toward the highly esteemed coach who had, at long last, ended the St George Dragons’ choker tag, following numerous defeats in previous finals.

The female reporter seemed to be shuddering as I proceeded with my tasty questions to the game’s all time greatest manager, leaving him in the rather awkward predicament of not wanting to say the wrong thing and aggravate all his idolising fans, having just brought home the title for the first time in over 30 years. “We’ll have to see,” he answered, somewhat reluctantly, not giving anything way over his future. But, clearly, it was hardly the ringing endorsement of his commitment to the future of the club and normally such responses mean they’ll be leaving soon, which, as it turned out, was exactly the case with Bennett leaving after the following season).

Following our frosty chat, I thanked the coach nonetheless and let him finish signing autographs in peace as I fiddled on my phone to find out where to meet Brad. A short while later, as I made my way out of the tunnel into the car park, I came head on with Bennett after he had finished his media duties. There was an awkward silence as we briefly made eye contact before scuttling past each other with no acknowledgement. “That was brave of you back there,” a fellow member of the media said when I had made it outside to the car park. “Bennett’s gone on record as saying he doesn’t like dealing with the media…I’m sure his feelings won’t have changed after your little chat with him.”

“Just doing my job,” I quipped.

I made my way down the street and eventually saw Brad and Paul standing on a verge getting close-up shots and footage of fans. I went over and mingled for a while before we made our way to a spot outside the clubhouse. The queue to get in was enormous and stretched right down the road. But having everything we needed we decided to call it a night and made our way to the car park around the back.

Just as we were leaving, though, we got wind of some trouble inside the clubhouse. A voice on the ambulance scanner demanded urgent assistance at the venue. It sounded serious. Without a second’s thought we raced back to the scene to see what, if anything, was happening.

The mood of fans had turned from one of ecstasy to one of menace and disbelief as police fought to maintain order. They were preventing anyone else entering the club while evacuating people as quickly as possible. Several ambulances fought their way to the front entrance as people pushed to see what had happened. Emotions were running high as word began to spread of a riot between fans and police, with a man reportedly critically injured after being tasered. But, incredibly, there was soon talk the man had already died. In amongst the chaos and confusion Brad and Paul had pushed their way inside, capturing shots and footage of CPR being administered on the individual inside the ambulance.

I stood around listening to conversations to gage what had happened, with many too shocked and distraught to talk. Others had flown into a blind rage and were making their feelings known, with police forced to pin down the protagonists, while swarming around other volatile men seemingly ready to explode. Five officers wrestled one bulky shaven haired individual to the floor before giving him a helping hand into the back of a riot truck, with all the ease of pushing a giant rock.

Moments later I overheard a policeman speaking with someone in the crowd, “Something very bad has happened.” But that’s as far as he would go. I relayed the messages back to the newsdesk, but without an official statement it couldn’t be confirmed whether than man really had died yet or not. “Mate, it didn’t look good at all,” Paul announced defiantly. The rain came pouring down as police struggled to contain the ugly scenes descending into a mass brawl, with many blaming the authority for what happened without really knowing the details. Essentially, they had been accused of over zealous policing, especially with regard to the deployment of their taser gun.

As things eventually calmed we slowly made our way to the car park, stunned that a night of such historic celebration could turn so quickly to despair and tragedy, before leaving. Out of the blue we had stumbled across a major story. I was certain that my colleague, who had been covering the celebrations for most of the day, wouldn’t have been delighted that all her hard work would now suddenly be largely overlooked. Once again I had been in the right place at the right time; or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you see it.

The next day the news was splashed prominently across page three of the newspaper. At the time of going to press, though, we couldn’t reveal whether the victim had died. But, inevitably, his demise was confirmed later that day, opening up a heated national debate on officers’ use of taser guns, which had been attributed to other recent deaths when engaged by cops facing danger.

In England only specially trained officers carry tasers, which are only supposed to be used when facing extreme physical threats – and even then they are rarely deployed, such as with the London riots – so to see policemen carrying them on the streets, along with the customary handgun, did come as something of a surprise to me in Australia. Rather than engendering a feeling of security, they had the reverse affect of making you feel like you were in a war zone as far as I was concerned.

CHAPTER 15 – THE STREETS

I had seen many disturbing things on the night shifts but nothing could ever match the surrealism of seeing a dead body. This happened officially on three occasions, while there were many other occasions where people were taken to hospital in a critical condition, though I’m sure in some of these instances they were already deceased.

Working through the night was certainly not for the faint hearted, particularly when turning up to an incident to see a cover being placed over a body. The first time this happened was following a crash out west. A man had been hit by a car and thrown 60 yards down a dual carriageway. The strange thing about this accident was that his shoes had flown off following the impact with both coming to rest side by side on a narrow pillar of someone’s wall.

On this particular occasion it also struck me that the traffic police had only closed one lane on the side of the road where the collision took place, therefore allowing slow moving cars to gently glide past while gawping out of their windows at a body, which although covered, was no more than a few feet away from them.

As it turned out, so we were told, they were waiting for someone from the Coroner’s Office to do the necessaries. But, in any event, I wasn’t convinced that having a corpse in full view of passing motorists, right outside people’s driveways for an entire evening was the best decision.

Of course, Dan was capturing every possible angle he could of the incident, before pouncing for some quick snaps as officers momentarily lifted the blanket to take official shots of the body. “So sad,” he said, letting out a sigh before quickly changing topic, “I’m feeling a bit peckish,” giving me that look indicating he was ready to leave. However, I was in the middle of talking to a couple of shocked locals, one of whom was a one-legged man who had lost his limb following a motorcycle crash. Understandably he could relate to the tragic incident that had just occurred. However, he did seem to bring every conversation back to his accident and the fact he now had an artificial leg and a walking stick. Nonetheless, I offered him the courtesy of listening but Dan’s need for food meant he was in no mood for idle chat. “That could have been me lying dead all those years ago. I least I only lost a leg,” the old man announced.

“That looks like a good bit of kit,” Dan, turning to a teenager sitting on his shiny new pushbike, said bluntly, ignoring the poor old man’s comment.

Maybe Dan was too long in the tooth with the job to really care or maybe he was just hungry but as I looked at the picture of the deceased I pondered how this man, about my age, would have been normally going about his evening before suddenly being wiped out. It was a sobering thought. Just then I felt a prod on my shoulder, snapping me out of my deep thought. “Let’s go to Mackers (McDonald’s), I’m starving,” Dan flicked his head. And off we went.

I didn’t have to wait long before coming across the next morbid scene - a fatal stabbing in an inner city street the following week. Apart from the darkness our view was obscured somewhat by the array of parked cars and a crime scene keeping us well back. Nonetheless, Dan had stoically managed to grab some shots, which he showed me. “What a shame,” he said. Although it appeared there had been a violent confrontation we eventually discovered that in fact the individual had plunged a knife into his own chest for reasons best known to himself.

Above all things on this shift, I had learnt just how many individuals absolutely hated life. And people were getting so imaginative when going about ending it too, it seemed. People were now setting themselves on fire or, as in this case, sinking a seven inch army knife into their own chest. It didn’t leave you with much doubt about their intentions.

The same has to be said with regard to getting hit by a train. Having heard of an incident at a small station in the southern suburbs, we raced down there to see what had happened, with a suicide inevitably assumed. We went up the stairs, before being forced to stop at the crime scene tape peering down over the track where we could see a person covered. Such situations were so grim that a kind of black humour had to be deployed to lighten the depressing nature of it all. I clocked that the train had finally come to a halt a few hundred yards further down the line and had one of the man’s trainers by the side of it. The other one was below us, by his body. The disparity between the two shoes gave a wincing impression of the force of impact.

Surprisingly, it transpired, the victim was not attempting to commit suicide but had in fact been trying to evade ticket inspectors by crossing the track when he fell and got stuck on the track. This unfortunate set of circumstances actually meant the story was more likely to be published than had it just been another suicide from someone jumping in front of a train: a sombre reflection on how many people choose to end their life in this way.

And while some had successfully killed themselves others were not so fortunate. During one night shift I turned up to an accident where a man had been hit and dragged underneath a car for about 40 yards. I crossed over the road and headed for the pub where revellers had congregated outside as they watched in horror at events. On my way over the street, as I was looking to my side where the ambulance was, I accidentally walked through a small puddle of blood from the impact. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a hostile female shouted. I looked up to see a purple-faced policewoman storming towards me. “Sorry didn’t see that there,” I replied sheepishly on looking down at my foot.

“Get the bloody hell off the road.”

But then, on realising I had done nothing wrong, I hit back. “There’s no crime scene is there?” She scowled back at me, perhaps realising there was nothing stopping people walking through the road and inadvertently distorting the evidence. In any event, I decided she may not be the best person for me to speak to in attempting to discover what had taken place, so instead I walked in the opposite direction down the pavement.

Pretending to mind my own business I listened in to an eyewitness talking with a cop. Once they were finished I grabbed the person and got the gossip. Obviously I’d get nothing out of the police. It turned out the injured man had thrown himself into the path of a car after a variety of women – the whole pub it seemed – had spurned his seedy advances. “He was going up to anything with a skirt and then doing his best to lift it up which didn’t go down well,” the witness explained. “Maybe he was hoping for a bit of sympathy by jumping in front of the car. That’s a bit ordinary though.”

It must have been the season for men leaping in front of cars having been rejected by women, as during the following shift there was an uncanny resemblance to the previous week: besotted man makes play for women, who politely turn him down, prompting man to jump in front of a two-tonne piece of metal travelling at 40kmh. The new photographer, Shane , was starting to think this was a regular Saturday night event.

On this occasion we pulled up as fire crews battled to lift the taxi that had ploughed into the man, who was trapped underneath the front of the car. Shane was manfully going about his work when a few drunkards took exception to his snapping. “You’re fucking sick,” one snarling member of the public shouted before shoving my colleague.

“I don’t tell you how to do your job, so don’t tell me how to do mine,” Shane , angrily waving his finger hit back. A fair point, I thought, as I watched close by ready to step in. Only if it became absolutely necessary, of course. Until then I would maintain the appearance of a random bystander, especially as he seemed to have things under control.

A few minutes later, once Shane was out the way, I found myself talking to the enraged individual who hit out at my colleague. “I can’t believe those people, what scum,” he spewed.

I nodded agreeably. “Yeah I know what you mean.”

“It shouldn’t be allowed.”

I nodded some more. “Yeah you’re right. So…you saw the crash?” And just like that I had my eyewitness quotes. I made the pragmatic decision along time ago that where drunk maniacs were concerned, who hated my profession, it was often of greater benefit for all concerned not to mention what I was doing at the scene, letting them naturally assume I was merely a passer-by. This way I got the information without becoming embroiled in a needless punch-up.

Standing around in the background keeping an eye on developments I spotted an opportunity to speak with the unfortunate taxi driver who’d hit the man. Understandably, though, on approaching him it quickly became apparent he was in a state of shock and could barely get any words out. I then strolled over and stood nearby, but facing the other way, to the injured man’s group of friends and earwigged their conversation. “Why would he do this?” one girl sobbed. Listening intently I managed to get some details before hearing an officer say he was conscious and amazingly would be ok. Despite the difficulty of lifting the injured man, eventually the emergency crews managed to free him.

Bizarrely it was the third taxi that had struck a pedestrian in recent times, prompting calls for more regulations of drivers. Though, as with this case, I very much doubt that would have made any difference where someone has a death wish.

As the shift could be long and quiet we had to use our initiative to produce material. In particular, I saw it as my duty to target those who rode roughshod over the law. So during an uneventful Saturday night I suggested we do a piece close to my, and indeed many other people’s hearts, on brutish and sexist bouncers. In anticipation of Shane ’s willingness to go along with my crusade I had already started writing up the story days before, such was my passion for the topic. The perfect shot we wanted was either of a gargantuan doorman pounding a smaller guy – something I had witnessed with great regularity when out in the city myself - or a picture of one impishly chatting up a scantily dressed female. After all, I was keen to push the sexism angle, though in truth this didn’t need much help.

We scoured the city, stopping the car and suspiciously hovering on the roads outside various establishments. But with no violence or sexism to capture after driving round for an hour or so we ventured down a street where finally we noticed a sleazy doorman outside a pub drooling over a young lady, who had legs the size of a giraffe and was wearing a belt masquerading as a skirt. If he had been a dog he would have been panting profusely and vigorously wagging his tail while sniffing her bottom before attempting the inevitable mount. But, just as with dogs, who often seem to be in the dark about the bitches having no interest in them, so it was with this bouncer, who was merely being buttered up to ensure entry. Shane wound the window down and zoomed in to grab some good shots of the Shrek like doorman as he tried to play it cool with his arm leaning against the wall.

After a further substantial wait, with our patience beginning to run thin, we were rewarded when an odd altercation erupted, between the door staff and two women, of all people. I discreetly rushed over to see what was going on, making sure I blended into the background, but close enough to hear what was being said. One lady was crying after just being thrown out for being too drunk. While it was fair to say the women were of a fuller figure, they seemed perfectly lucid, as they argued their case for re-entry to the disinterested bouncer, who was attempting to usher them away like an irritating fly.

As the ladies turned to walk off in a sobbing wreck I seized the moment and grabbed them for a comment. “If I was a size eight and beautiful d’ya think he would be kicking me out?” she spluttered, as tears rolled down her face. “It’s disgusting,” she went on, anger levels now notably increasing. “They’re nothing more than sexist pigs.”

This was pure dynamite and all I had to do was gently prod her in the direction I wanted. “So do you think they let attractive women in the premises who are too drunk or under age?” I asked provocatively, having a slight inkling of the answer I would get.

“Bloody right they do, no doubt hoping the favour will be returned. They should be castrated at birth the filthy jerks.” As was perfectly normal in the reporter role, I had taken on the role of social worker, helping this troubled soul through a difficult period. “You’ve been a great help. Talking with you has really cheered me up,” she added.

“That’s ok, I don’t mind,” I said compassionately, before walking off to save some more victims.

We got back in the car and headed across the city to the various backpacker bars I had been familiar with. I didn’t know of many places where you get told, “You’ve had too many,” before being rudely ushered away in front of a massive queue when you’ve not had a single drop of alcohol, but some of these venues were certainly a bit partial to this behaviour.

We walked nearby to one of these establishments, agonising where we could get the best shots of the door without them seeing us, before going for the jugular and beaming the blinding camera light right in their face. A disgruntled Irish man in his thirties with grey hairs had just been refused entry for not having identification so I grabbed a word with him and got his thoughts on the door security. “They must have small cocks the way they carry on,” he said in a remarkably calm voice, before turning in the direction of the door and yelling, “Do you have a small cock?” The bouncer looked over and scowled, while people in the queue began sniggering quietly.

The doormen, by now, were aware of the ambush. It was, of course, a joy to behold watching them squirm, unsure of why they were being snapped. We waited for the inevitable approach. And, sure enough, a short while later the manager walked over to us alongside the bouncer, who true to form, tried to frighten us off. “You need to leave,” the doorman snarled, before showing a not so surprising lack of knowledge of the law, “You can’t take photos of me.” Shane and I looked at each other with a wry smile, after all we had been here many times before.

The poor bouncer was struggling to come to terms with the role reversal and the fact he could not bully us as he could with desperate punters begging for entry. “I’m afraid we can take pictures as we’re on public land,” I said cheerily.

“What are you doing here anyway?” the manager asked curiously, while trying to calm things.

“Nothing much…just doing some research on a story about going out in the city,” I added mysteriously, leaving them scratching their heads as we strolled off into the night.

CHAPTER 16 – OUT WITH A BANG

One of the great things about the job was the excitement and variety, not to mention the sheer joy derived from reporting on some of the antics people got up to. Of course, it wasn’t always like that. I couldn’t say my whole soul was completely absorbed when having to chase up some stories, such as whether it was true if Julia Gillard, the newly appointed Australian Prime Minister at the time, had just had her hair and nails done at a Sydney beauty salon. Nor for that matter was I dancing on the table when informed I would be spending a significant amount of time laboriously researching and writing up the best places to go for the children’s holiday guide.

Episodes like this, though, were few and far between, which was a good job as they brought me out in a cold sweat, particularly as they reminded me of times at an old newspaper where I spent some of the most desperate hours of my life covering parish council meetings at the suffocatingly small local community centre. Without fail every month there would be a bunch of deaf 90 year olds with hearing aids, who bore the resemblance of Uncle Albert from Only Fools and Horses, who angrily waved and pointed fingers at one another. All this, while relentlessly putting each other down when discussing the hotly disputed issue of whether a tree should be erected outside the village bike store, or something of equal magnitude.

Sadly, many details of such barnstorming hearings have been lost forever, as quite often I was asleep. In fact, on one occasion in the public gallery (five knackered old seats behind a rotting table that was the press bench), a senile bearded fellow with a giant hearing aid took exception to my snoring during a meeting. Before I knew what had hit me I was awoken from a beautiful sleep with a familiar stern finger viciously prodding my arm, followed by a scathing look like I had just urinated in his face.

My agony wouldn’t be complete, though, as then I would get in the following morning where I was forensically quizzed about the meeting before being ordered out to investigate the deepening bramble crisis on a nearby footpath, before returning to the cold damp portakabin, that was my office, adrenalin pumping ready to write up my groundbreaking news story.

Anyway back to Australia, and apart from those bleak occasions when reminded of former glories, I was now like a fly revelling in cow dung, such was my pleasure at the staggering happenings during the night shift.

One tale I was particularly fond of in light of my doormen crusade was of a man who had been denied entry to an establishment for having a few too many. Unlike most people, who would either trudge off sheepishly, albeit perhaps after some well deserved put downs, this man swore revenge and stormed off in a blind rage.

So bitter was this man, in fact, that he got his car and returned to the place, before demonically speeding towards the bouncers standing outside the entrance. “He was really angry,” an eyewitness expertly revealed, before continuing, “Following the treatment he received he raced towards security in his car and after two attempts to get up the curb he then piled into the hotel steps.” Although encountering a few set-backs on his crusade, what came across here was the sheer unbridled determination to see the job through and for that he must take great credit, despite his best efforts leaving him falling agonisingly short and helplessly stranded in no man’s land like a lame duck. His misery was then fully compounded a few seconds later: “Bouncers then reached into his car and started punching him before police arrived,” the witness added.

You’ve got to feel for the man, though. Not only was he harshly treated in the first place by door security, but then he was cruelly deprived of his revenge by the steps, before being on the receiving end of a second round of lashings from his foes. Naturally the bouncers got away with administering the beating while the antagonist, nursing minor injuries from his ordeal, was led away shamefully defeated with only the prospect of prison to look forward to. Sometimes there’s no justice.

The shift certainly threw up a variety of different challenges. When I turned up for work one day I wasn’t expecting to be tasked with staking out Australian cricket legend Glenn McGrath, after the national idol had sprung a surprise secret wedding to his girlfriend at his Cronulla home in southern Sydney. Security had been extremely tight, and with the former speed bowler going underground in the days following the small private ceremony, the media was left mystified as to his whereabouts. Everybody wanted the shot of him and his new wife but no one had it. The race was very much on to get it first, especially with it worth tens of thousands of dollars.

This explained the extraordinary lengths some were going to in order to get it. One paparazzi had already been photographed in an anorak lying down with his giant lens poking out over the miniature fishing boat he had hired on the river adjoining the back garden of McGrath’s mansion, in the vain hope he would be the first to get that all important shot. That was the lengths people were going to in order to get the picture.

I knew that, essentially, myself and the photographer accompanying me were going on nothing more than a fishing expedition – ready to catch any crumbs in the unlikely scenario we, firstly, came across him and, secondly, something happened. But I knew that if his cunningness in real life was anything like his bowling, we were in for a difficult time. This was compounded by the fact McGrath had already released a short statement to the media about his marriage, that also politely asked the press to leave him alone at this happy time. He must have been joking.

Nonetheless, I went with nothing to lose, especially as I wasn’t the one taking the pictures. I also had the added incentive of being English and saw it as a mission on behalf of my country, particularly after all the pain and misery he had inflicted on us for over a decade. McGrath’s attitude toward England had generally stunk too, with his constant put downs and predictions of thrashings - even after our rehabilitation from a laughing stock.

I followed the photographer Ron outside, who was not exactly in good spirits having injured his back the day before. Wincing in pain he climbed aboard his strange mode of transport, a camper van, before leaning over with extraordinary difficulty to unlock the passenger door for me. I lifted myself into the littered vehicle that came complete with those bizarre fluffy seats – the type children are fascinated by. Ron’s mood wasn’t helped after being instructed to do this particular job – only a five minute journey from where he lived – before being told he had to return to the city later to snap some pop star. “It makes no fucking sense. Now I’ve got to go all the way back to the city and then all the way back home again. Just what I need,” he said sarcastically.

We gingerly made our way toward Cronulla before predictably becoming embroiled in heavy traffic near the airport. “This day just gets better,” Ron snarled, shaking his head in disbelief, as we ground to a halt. I didn’t know what it was about photographers but it seemed to be a pre-requisite for their profession that they must feel the world is constantly against them, before spending hours boring the pants off anyone who will listen - strangers or not - to their sorrowful tales of incredible injustice.

All of a sudden his phone rang. His partner was on the other end. “You won’t fucking believe what they’re making me do today….” The conversation must have lasted half an hour with him bleating on about his misfortune. At least someone else was bearing the brunt of his angst, after all, there were only so many ways in which you can engage with someone in the hope they will get the hint and shut up.

An hour and a half later, and following several phone calls from the office and our colleagues we were meant to be taking over from, who were waiting patiently outside McGrath’s house, we finally pulled into the quiet leafy road where the former cricketer lived. Our workmates didn’t look overly impressed having had to extend their dull shift of standing outside in the cold by nearly two hours, hoping they would catch a glimpse of the newly weds.

In any event, Ron was seething with anger at where they were stood. “Why oh why are they standing right outside,” he said scornfully. “They may as well have flashing lights strapped to their heads. Even if McGrath comes out in his car they wouldn’t be able to get a shot through the window,” he added, shaking his head once more. As we slowly pulled over and were exchanging niceties, a four by four with tinted windows suddenly pulled out hurriedly. “Shit…it’s fucking McGrath,” Ron screeched and hurriedly reached into the back for his camera. The photographer standing outside swivelled and fired a couple of rushed shots, as the car momentarily stopped to make sure there was no traffic, before burning off, desperate to get away from us.

Realising he wouldn’t be able to get a clear shot, Ron threw his camera into the back seat and reversed the camper van and accelerated off after McGrath. “Not exactly a fair race is it?” I thought to myself, as we attempted to hunt down a top of the range vehicle in an old banger that was more accustomed to chugging along at the pace of a milk float. Not only this but McGrath knew the terrain of the area. The odds were stacked against us. Nonetheless, we ploughed on manfully, just about hanging onto the coat-tails of our target. Then, suddenly, an idiot pulled out in front of us, which we somehow narrowly avoided smashing into the back of by a matter of inches. “Watch where you’re going cunt,” came the cry from my partner. “He’s paparazzi…that figures,” he added, recognising the car from a previous job.

We continued in hot pursuit; overtaking cars, taking turns at such a pace that we defied gravity by going round bends on two wheels, and pulling out in front of speeding traffic that had to screech to a near halt as we accelerated off with all the pace of a pregnant cow. Somehow, though, we still had McGrath in sight. We made our way down a steep hill into the centre of Cronulla where traffic was heavy.

Despite our frantic efforts looking around we couldn’t see him, until further down the hill I spotted his car had pulled over, with the man himself standing on the pavement saying goodbye to some old folks. There was nowhere for us to stop and with cars breathing down our necks as we crawled along we had to take a split second decision on what to do. We opted to go past him to the bottom of the hill where there was some space, where we hoped to continue following him when he got back in his vehicle.

As we rolled past him I wound down the window, “So Glenn, do you think Australia will rout England, like you did with your last prediction?” I shouted quizzically, referring to his poor previous forecasts and the upcoming Ashes series between the two countries. He gingerly glanced over his shoulder, performing a double glance before looking away. “Or do you think England will win like last time Pigeon (his name)?” Not even a disparaging look back this time. Nonetheless, I took satisfaction in knowing that he had definitely heard me and pulled my neck in from outside the car. “Interesting line of questioning,” the bemused photographer said.

“Well, I had to try something to get Pigeon’s attention.” But we were still no nearer getting the picture. I had managed to take a shot on my crap mobile phone camera but all I got was a massive blur of colours like someone had been sick.

It had always puzzled me why this legend of the game, who holds the world record for the highest number of Test wickets in history by a fast bowler (fourth highest overall), numerous World Cup winners medals and a rack of Ashes victories (and destructions) over England, should be bestowed with such a strange name. “Apparently it’s got something to do with his bowling action and the way the ball flies through the air,” the photographer explained. Whatever the meaning behind it, it was hardly the most flattering of names for such a great of the game. Surely they could have come up with something more fitting like Hawkster or Swifty, but Pigeon? It is hardly complimentary to be compared to one of the fattest, slowest, stupidest and most pointless birds alive.

After waiting around the corner at the bottom of the hill we braced ourselves for McGrath. Peering in the mirrors we could see no sign of him. After several more minutes we started to feel as if something was amiss so we pulled out back onto the road and headed back up the hill, where there was no sign of him. We then observed a small but well hidden horseshoe turning in the road near the bottom and immediately realised he must have cunningly used his expert local knowledge to lose us. “That bloody Pigeon,” I muttered. “He’s flown off and left us.”

We spent the next few minutes frantically driving around in the desperate hope we could still find him. In truth, though, there was more chance of getting a smile out of my colleague, who was suffering in a world of mental and physical torture. The old fox had given us the slip. After we had been so heartbreakingly close too. I now knew what it felt like to be an England batsman in McGrath’s pomp: you think you’ve got him, then he waddles in and bang, you’re out, in a blink of an eye.

To compound our agony the photo editor then rang Ron up. “I heard you were chasing McGrath – you got him yet?” came the animated voice over the phone. The photographer and journalist from the previous shift – who had effectively alerted McGrath to our presence by foolishly standing outside his mansion, without any mode of transport in which to track the couple down, had helpfully placed all responsibility on us after informing the team back in the office that we were in hot pursuit. But, of course, despite our valiant efforts, once McGrath knew the campervan had the media inside, our cover was blown and the task tougher than an old leather boot.

Ron rolled his eyes and took a deep breath before replying, “We were but he’s got away.”

“Got away? So you haven’t got the bloody picture then?” the voice down the phone bellowed angrily.

“No mate. He came speeding out of his drive and pulled over in the town centre somewhere and short of stopping in the middle of the road and having cars smash into us it was impossible to stop and get the bloody picture.” By now the photographer looked like he was ready to kill someone. “Ok, well just keep looking for him,” came the pissed-off reply.

We spent the remainder of the shift alternating between driving aimlessly about Cronulla, stopping off for the odd coffee, walking the streets and popping in to swanky restaurants and bars where we thought McGrath may be – but not a jiffy. He was gone and we had to face up to the agonising fact we had come within a whisker of getting our man but cruelly, through no fault of our own, fallen short. Trudging around we consoled ourselves by nipping into an Indian and scoffing our faces before returning to the mansion, painfully counting down the seconds of the shift, fully in the knowledge McGrath wouldn’t be making a second outing – if he did so happen to be inside, which of course we had no way of knowing.

After twiddling my thumbs for a further hour I was put out of my misery and told to come back to the office. A taxi was sent for me, which took three quarters of an hour to arrive and after the same amount of time to get back to the city my shift was finished. It meant that during my eight hour stint I had not written a single word. But at least we had given McGrath a good run for his money and I had been able to remind him of his recent questionable judgement in forecasting victories over England.

Strangely enough my next shift a couple of days later also involved cricket. I was attending the Don Bradman Dinner at the hallowed turf of Sydney Cricket Ground (for those who don’t know, Bradman, an Australian, was widely thought to be the greatest batsman that ever played the game following his 20 year career from 1928 - 1948). Sadly Pigeon wouldn’t be there, though. It struck me as ironic that on these sport related jobs I had to cover – something I had a great passion for – sport was really something of an irrelevance as far as the newspaper was concerned. For them it was an opportunity to get some gossip and glamour pictures of players, retired or otherwise, with their wives. In fact, anyone with their wives – whether they were a celebrity, politician, or looked smart in a tuxedo. Moreover, I also found it coincidental how elegant women made the paper when crusty old bats with bushy eyebrows never seemed to get a look in.

Despite my role as a gossip columnist I decided to make the most of my opportunity and put my sports journalist hat on. On finding a publicity assistant after roaming the outfield of the pitch I managed to get two interviews with retired legends of the game. First-up was Indian cricketer from the 1970s and 1980s, Sunil Gavaskar, who was being honoured at the packed ceremony. We had an interesting chat about the value of the trust and the pride he felt in being acknowledged into the Bradman Hall of Fame. Despite my initiative I got the nagging feeling that somehow this wouldn’t get a run.

The same too with Australian icon Adam Gilchrist: here politely stood the man who had redefined the wicketkeeper-batsman role, who was thoughtfully answering my questions when he should have been making his way off the playing surface to his seat on the top table where he would also be receiving his integration into the Hall of Fame. All the while, I knew his pride at being bestowed the award, not to mention his predictions on the upcoming Ashes series and reflections of playing in one of the greatest teams ever would sadly not get much of a look in.

Alas, this was proven to be the case when I relayed the copy to my night editor a while later; with it feeling like I was speaking Dutch. It was evident from her constant pauses and requests for me to repeat sentences I had just read out to her that she may not have been expecting a trip down cricket memory lane (“Sorry, did you just say the proudest moment of his career was against the West Indian touring party of 2000/01 season when he captained Australia for the first time, despite only making nine and ten runs on a bowler’s wicket in respective innings?”).

After bending the night editor’s ear with cricket anecdotes I made my way to the giant hall where I was forced to endure a number of guest speakers – Australian, of course – who spent the vast majority of their speeches predictably mocking past England teams (if only they knew that in a few weeks we would trounce them on their own patch for the first time in 24 years). After they had finally finished their gourmet dinner and were mingling around the bar areas over a glass of bubbly, the photographer and myself went hunting for material.

I poked my head in-between groups of various people, performing split second judgments on whether any of them were worth wasting oxygen on, before often deciding they weren’t. I was probably one of the only Englishman at the function out of about a thousand Australians so I felt a bit outnumbered, but I didn’t let that hold me back. “England won the last Ashes, you expecting the same again this time?” was my opening line to any Antipodean interviewees I could get my hands on. I would then wait for the inevitable double take as the penny slowly dropped that I wasn’t in fact Australian, as they initially assumed I was, before shockingly realising that I was indeed part of the Old Enemy, masquerading as a journalist for one of their very own newspapers.

Strutting about at the apparent star-studded event, there weren’t too many faces I recognised until I spotted Richie Benaud OBE, the highly regarded Australian player from decades ago who was more recently known for his wit and wise observations on television commentary. We managed a brief exchange of platitudes (I somehow felt it amiss to start disparaging the Australian team to such a legend, particularly when we both knew which team was now better anyway) before someone, who looked vaguely familiar, cut in. “Thanks a lot,” I muttered sarcastically, as I stood awkwardly having been frozen out of the chat.

Following a break in the conversation I grasped my moment and pinged a couple of grenades to the fellow who had ambushed my bonding with Richie. “So you expecting England to win on Australian soil for the first time since 1987?” I asked, causing him to pause blankly at my brutal questioning. “They’re by far the better team right now wouldn’t you agree?” I continued forthrightly, though I’m not sure he was taking much notice of me as a wry smile appeared across his face.

It was starting to mildly irritate me who this person was, as I had a feeling I’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it. Not to mention he seemed to be on rather friendly terms with Richie, so I started to think perhaps he was someone in the public eye. “Sorry, but I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere,” I queried, as much out of curiosity as to keep the conversation flowing, which was proving rather difficult.

I looked quizzically back at him, “Sorry…still not sure.”

Then someone standing behind me whispered quietly, “He was the Australian Prime Minister.”

“Really?” I responded dubiously, thinking it was all one big wind up.

“Yes,” the helpful source insisted. As I looked back at the individual it began to dawn on me that he might not be lying. “Well, congratulations. I did think I recognised you from somewhere,” I said, before briskly leaving, but not before wishing them bad luck in the Ashes series, of course.

After locating my colleague I pointed out the individual who was apparently the former Prime Minister to seek confirmation of his identity. “Oh nobody important really…just John Howard, the former PM,” he joked. I could just about recall hearing of him, but to put his face and name together at the same time was definitely a leap too far, especially when stood next to the great Richie Benaud. Nonetheless, I would have thought the former leader of the country who served an impressive 11 years in power, between 1996 – 2007, would have been more recognisable.

But I suppose that’s the beauty of Australian politics; no one outside the country knows who you are. Yet despite this the Australian’s - perhaps in keeping with their lofty self image - somehow seemed to view themselves as key players on the world stage. The impression I got from the media here concerning world politics, and specifically regarding the “War on Terror”, was that Australia and America were the two big players leading the way; standing together fighting this modern day evil heroically as one. “We’re the best of mates,” the then Prime Minister Julia Gillard declared gushingly when meeting with US President Barack Obama.

Yet without trying to be harsh on my Aussie mates, I found it ever so slightly warped just how much influence they were attempting to claim for their stance on world affairs, with it equally bizarre how rarely Britain’s far more instrumental role was mentioned. Obviously the Aussies do their bit, but the amount of sacrifice and money they had spent on the war was dwarfed by that of the UK. Next our friends Down Under will be telling us how they single-handedly battered the Germans during the Battle of Britain and saved the French’s bacon in the Second World War.

On the flip side of all that, at least the Australians dedicate a healthy proportion of their television airtime to classic British comedy shows like Blackadder and Fawlty Towers. There’s nothing like sitting next to a bunch of up-tight Germans in a hostel watching Basil Fawlty insultingly perform the “Nazi walk”, with his legs almost touching the ceiling. All this as they awkwardly frown and chat amongst themselves and occasionally glance at you like they wished your bollocks would suddenly be chopped off, especially after you couldn’t help but laugh out loud offensively in their faces. For the joy this gave me I forgive Australia everything.

My next shift that weekend was to be my last for the newspaper before I went off to Darwin and Cairns, having been persuaded to at least visit a couple of places apart from Sydney before I left the country. And I couldn’t have asked for a more befitting send off as I went out to cover a massive petrol station fire in the inner west where, incredibly, a solitary member of staff working through the night had for no apparent reason been tied-up and left to burn to death as ferocious flames engulfed the building. But in a strange twist, the assailant had bizarrely grown a conscience after taking the money and setting the place on fire and went back into the dragon’s den to release the hapless individual, as flames tore through the place.

The thief made off with a petty amount of cash but it remained a mystery why he saw it necessary to tie-up the poor assistant, who must have wished he had chosen to work the afternoon shift instead. As black smoke poured into the sky from the giant inferno that had by now engulfed the station, while firemen desperately toiled with sweat dripping from their faces, I watched on gently working my right arm muscles as I occasionally scribbled the odd word. I always felt a bit guilty when these brave workhorses were clearly swimming against the tide in trying to contain flames and save lives while I, an able-bodied man, was merely standing-by sipping coffee, happily munching on my donut watching the show. I would certainly miss such occasions.

Although these disasters were a bit like watching a gripping movie over and over again, I never got tired of the raw emotion and adrenalin, with it still as absorbing to watch these events unfold before your eyes as when I first started the job.

Just as the fire was being gradually brought under control we heard news of an out-break of violence on a party boat in Darling Harbour that had crashed, so without delay and with my final fire under my belt, we made our way to the location. As we arrived, I immediately noticed the boat – not so aptly named the Jolly Rider or something – had been unceremoniously squashed against a pontoon, with the front end totally smashed up. To compound matters it had come to rest close to an array of bars and restaurants. If the captain had wanted to steer his ship and dump it somewhere anonymous away from the gaze of the public, this was certainly not it. Instead, to heighten the misery and acute embarrassment he must have already been suffering, the poor man had to contend with drunken revellers jeering him.

The worst thing about it, just by looking at the wreckage, was that most people had naturally concluded the captain had either misplaced his glasses, wasn’t a very good driver or had taken the concept of the party boat too far by getting on the bubbly himself. Apparently, though, sources indicated that problems arose due to a mechanical failure beyond his control and that he had been heroically battling to resolve the problems all by his self.

To add to his woes, as the vessel bounded about the harbour like a dodgem car, the intoxicated party-goers on-board showed their gratitude to his valiant efforts just like people did to an outcast who could be blamed for all evils in the Middle-Ages, when someone’s word would be taken as gospel that another is a witch. Just as in those days, the captain became a hunted man; the one who must burn for his sins. Why take into consideration a person may actually be completely innocent of the perceived crime when you have the opportunity to give him a good kicking? And with only the freezing ocean offering any real kind of sanctuary, the captain opted not to jump overboard and instead faced the music in his small cabin that was soon overcome by the baying mob, letting him know in no uncertain terms what they thought of his steering.

Although, perhaps a bigger miracle than the captain only coming away with a few bumps and bruises (and no doubt some mental scarring thrown in) as a result of his altercation with the “party” crew, was the fact that others weren’t more seriously hurt. This was especially so with some having suffered broken bones after being vigorously tossed about as the boat veered out of control. But, moreover, one person was lucky not to die after staggeringly being thrown from the top deck onto the bottom. Incredibly, he didn’t suffer anything more severe than bruising and shock, despite worrying early signs when not moving and placed in a neck brace on the pontoon.

There were ugly scenes as injured people were treated after being pulled off the boat to safety by the emergency crews, still blaming the captain for the crash. One eyewitness on the pontoon said it was absolute carnage. “I looked out and saw a boat bouncing around the harbour like a flaming pinball,” he recalled, shock etched on his face. “Totally out of control it was. It must have gone on for half an hour. And then all of a sudden there was a big surge and a load of men smashed into the captain’s cockpit, which he had barricaded himself into, and dished out a good beating. Unreal mate.”

I caught sight of the bearded captain being consoled by friends and workmates, shaking his head in disbelief at the turn of events. Police were standing by him as a protective barrier. I tried my best to earwig one final conversation but they were frustratingly just out of my reach. Knowing it was a long shot, I then revealed my identity to one of his sympathisers, asking if he would like to speak to me and have his say, but he was too upset to talk. He probably wanted to maintain a diplomatic silence as investigations got underway to determine exactly what happened, with the age and maintenance of the boat coming under intense scrutiny. In any event, for whatever reason, the party boat hadn’t quite lived up to its billing as the Jolly Rider.

Back in the office I wrote up both colourful stories, content there had at least been some action on my final night. I had gone out with a bang. I filed my copy, said my goodbyes to the few people in the office and the friendly security staff on reception, who I’d always share a chat and a joke with, before walking out the spinning glass doors and down the street for the final time following an action packed and highly enjoyable stint at the newspaper. Strolling through the city my thoughts soon turned to my trip to the Northern Territory and the jumping crocodiles I had been told about.

CHAPTER 17 – DARWIN

For someone whose previous views of travelling amounted to nothing more than making a short two hour trip to Spain while openly joking about the stereotypical backpacker types – who wear sandals, are unshaven, smoke roll-up cigarettes and have an aversion to soap and water. Yet amazingly, here I was like Captain Cook setting off on my own voyage of discovery into the unknown. (With regards to those fond of wearing sandals I would just like to say what a crime it is to broadcast your hairy toes in public and wear a piece of footwear like Jesus. It has long been a wonder to me why so many men do such a thing to themselves having made the gross error of thinking they look good. Sandals were for the Romans and women.)

After taking the overly expensive airport line from Central station (and wishing I’d got a bus there instead for about a sixth of the cost), I put the disappointment behind me and muddled my way through check-in and security before finally getting on the plane and settling down for the four and a half hour flight to Darwin, in the Northern Territory. I found it absurd that it would be taking me so long to get from a place in the south east of the country to a place in central north. And this was not even the longest flight you could do in Australia. It was an odd notion to think I could have got a plane from the south of England to the north of Scotland six times in the same amount of time it would take me on this trip. Or put it another way, I could have got a flight from London to a variety of countries near the equator in Africa in the same amount of time.

When I finally arrived in Darwin and stepped outside, I was hit by a wall of hot air like I had suddenly been dropped inside a fan oven. After doing my research I knew Darwin virtually never dropped below a steady 31 degrees centigrade, no matter what time of year. It had just two seasons: wet and dry. As it was October now, I had arrived as the dry season was just turning to the wet. I looked to the sky. It was cloudy, which pissed me off, especially as Sydney had been doing its best to impersonate England in recent months with its lack of sun after suffering one of the wettest and mildest years for decades. Of course, the day I had left city it was sunny. And now the place I had arrived at – “guaranteed hot weather” they all said (I suppose they weren’t actually wrong but hot weather to me does mean the sun is visible) – was also gloomy. I struggled to breath in adequate levels of oxygen in the muggy atmosphere as I glanced around the airport, which seemed surprisingly small for a city, with it more the size of a regional airport in England.

I jumped in a taxi and made my way to a hostel in the city centre I had booked into where I was meeting a friend, Mark, from Sydney. It was an interesting journey to say the least as the driver took it upon himself to divulge the inner most details of his sordid life after the small talk was out the way. I wandered in disbelief why I was so often subjected to such people. I’m not saying I mind totally – and I probably do encourage them to keep going sometimes (“Really? What, you did? All afternoon with his wife?”) – I would just rather it didn’t happen to me as much.

Entertaining as the driver was, I couldn’t help but think he was straying a bit too far when he recalled his best friend’s recent wedding. “After a few cold ones I took his Sheila into the yard when no one was looking and gave it to her from behind like a flaming steam train,” he suddenly announced, without even flinching. “I gave her the full service - she was fair dinkum, no worries there mate,” he added proudly. “When my best mate saw us he had a right go, though.” He shook his head in disgust. I glanced in a slow disbelieving way in his direction just to make sure I was hearing correctly. “Things aren’t too good between us now. He needs to stop being such a cunt.”

I was staggered how this individual could be genuinely outraged that his best friend was angry with him having witnessed his wife being humped from behind on his wedding day. It wasn’t even as if the groom had given him some well deserved blows or completely frozen him out of his life. I now began to understand what Australians from Sydney were going on about when they said those up north were, “Bogans” – a condescending term relating to people with an alleged lack of breeding.

I arrived at my destination, the Dingo Moon lodge, abruptly wished the driver all the best with his complicated love life and made for reception. I was shown through the side gate where I came across a small, idyllic haven with a modest sized swimming pool the epicentre of an area surrounded by palm trees, where people were lazing about chatting, reading or listening to music. The rest were either eating food or making it in the sheltered outside kitchen. Things were very chilled; the mood no doubt enhanced by the overbearing humidity.

I made my way to the room where I started unpacking when Mark suddenly appeared from behind the door. It had been a while since I last saw him in Sydney, but inevitably the banter started immediately. “Well done special Steve, you found your way here all by yourself,” he laughed.

I looked over my shoulder and smiled on seeing my old friend from the Sydney hostel. “Oh sorry, I didn’t recognise you there underneath all that fur,” I replied, taking the opportunity to highlight his gorilla-like appearance, which I did whenever possible.

That evening, as guest of honour, I let Mark cook me a sumptuous feast of meat before we ventured out for a beer. We had only just made it to the nearest bar when the heavens opened as missiles of water pounded against the street so hard I was struggling to hear Mark, though that was never a bad thing. For two hours we were hellishly forced to drink beer, as buckets of rain flooded the street, making it impossible for us to go outside in fear of impersonating drowned rats. That was until we were finally turfed out when the bar shut, leaving us with little choice but to sprint back to the hostel, leaving my shirt feeling as though I had just been for a swim in the sea. Once back inside I cautiously changed into some dry shorts, ensuring no one in the room could get a cheeky peak of my flesh, before climbing into my bunk to get some sleep.

With the rain having subsided by the following morning we had a leisurely breakfast outside by the pool. With substantial cloud cover the heat was just about bearable, though I had been hoping the sun would be out so I could work on my tan such was my relative paleness, especially in comparison to Mark who looked like he had been living in Ethiopia for several years.

After washing up our cups and plates we made our way into the city centre, which, essentially, was a single strip of bars, restaurants and shops. I was surprised by how small the place was, after all it was seen as the capital city in Australia’s Northern Territory. But, in reality, it was nothing more than the size of a small English town. Despite this, though, I was surprised to learn from the tourism board that it actually had a population of around 128,000, highlighting the sparse nature of the region.

Although I had been in Australia for many months I had rarely seen the much talked about Aboriginals, but in Darwin I had been told quite a few lived there. In fact, to be more precise, according to a local census it was around 10 per cent of the population and was the most populous for Aborigines of all of Australia’s cities, which explained the vast numbers I saw almost everywhere I looked. As I scoured the streets they would be beating drums, smoking never ending amounts of roll-up cigarettes, or just be blind drunk – and it wasn’t even midday. The authorities clearly had a big job on their hands with solving this conundrum.

Even as I walked along the central Mitchell Street I saw several collapsed in a heap, face down on the burning hot floor. Another was zig-zagging his way across the road shouting indiscriminately at anyone he fancied before stopping traffic to stumble across the road. Another old fella, with a beard that would put Father Christmas to shame, came and stood the other side of a railing, separating the road from a bar where people were sat outside, and unnervingly just stared at the customers with a kind of serious yet dormant expression that quite a few of them seemed to have. After some time putting his fingers to his mouth in a smoking motion, which unless I was very mistaken was an indication he would like a cigarette, he finally got lucky when someone eventually handed him one. The Aboriginal barely acknowledged receipt of the gift before going on his way, continuing his full-blown conversation with his imaginary accomplice. I found significant irony that the place was named after Charles Darwin, the naturalist who formed the theory on “survival of the fittest”, especially as it was all too clear that the indigenous people of the area were struggling to cope with modern life here.

Continuing my wander down the main street I suddenly heard a boisterous shout. “Oi mate,” came the cry from someone sat outside a bar. I looked over and realised it was intended for me. Bizarrely it was a Scottish lad I had randomly got chatting to and put the world-to-rights with a few times in Sydney when both significantly refreshed. “What a coincidence,” I thought, which to some degree it was, before reminding myself that people travelling in Australia ritually do the same things and go to the same places, therefore the chances aren’t really that remote you will see people you’ve already met.

I walked over to his table where he virtually had a full pint (not scooner) and within a matter of seconds it was clear he was already half-cut – this being his third jug of the day, and it was only just gone midday. We had a good catch up; with him filling me in on what he’d been up to, which pretty much revolved around all the fights he had been in recently and the growing number of places he was banned from in Darwin, as well as those in Sydney where he couldn’t step foot. “You’ll have nowhere left to drink in Australia at this rate,” I joked.

“I noooo mate, they’re all f’kin coonts,” he replied, gesticulating wildly.

“Ummm the army’s finest,” I thought, remembering he was a soldier.

Before long he was recounting last night’s episode where he had exchanged blows with a bouncer after claiming he was the victim in a case of mistaken identity, in which, he was accused of being Irish. “I had ma Scootlond foootbol shirt on tooo like,” he bellowed stutteringly, saliva spraying out of his mouth like water from a hose pipe, while shaking his head angrily, before taking another gulp of beer and pointing at his Scotland tattoo, just to reinforce the doorman’s stupidity. “Soo he got a wee slaap in the face.”

By now I was half way through a pint of beer myself that had kindly been poured from one of the large jugs on the table. I knew it would be difficult to stay for just one, especially when I had nothing else to do and Mark was off doing various jobs. “Aye…there’s fock-all to doo apar from ge pissed,” he added, encouraging me to stay and drink with his group. And so I gave in to peer pressure fully in the knowledge that I would be embarking on a boozy afternoon session with a bunch of drunk reprobates from the north of England, Scotland and Northern Ireland.

Talking with them I found out that Darwin was an area of rich natural resource where people were handsomely paid. The Scot said he worked in mining and was earning $50 an hour, as well as getting some of his food paid for. He revealed there was a high turnover of staff because people “can’t handle” the heat, and as they desperately need individuals to do the jobs they pay top dollar.

Spirits were getting increasingly high as the beers flowed. “Oii love…let’s have a lick of ya nipples,” one of the Northern Irish guys shouted at a blond woman with sizeable cleavage bulging over her bikini, as she walked down the street to howls of animalistic laughter and intense ogling by the pack. After a period it was noticeable just how many women were crossing the road on approaching the bar we were in – perhaps by the length of a football pitch in some cases – to avoid the inevitable depravity they would be met with by the various maniacs I was hanging out with.

When no women were about the conversation quickly turned to recent conquests. “Remember last week when I was doing her from behind and then you took over?” one said, his face lighting up at the memory.

“Yeah and she didn’t even realise…great night that one,” the other one added, with obvious delight.

The session lasted until the early evening by which time some of the rowdy crowd had predictably been asked to leave. And then asked to leave again after sneaking back in, before finally being told they would receive a life ban if they ignored the request a final time. Agonising to stay out drinking with the substantial congregation that had amassed, the banished members hovered on the road side of the railings, knocking back a few cheeky swigs here and there of other people’s beer whenever the bar staff weren’t looking. But inevitably things were starting to wind down, as attention started to turn to the evening piss-up session.

It was the right time to leave and I gladly made my way back to the lodge before sitting on the main table near the swimming pool and joining in a sophisticated conversation with a random bunch of Germans and Swedes. The contrast could not have been bigger with the company I had been sharing during the afternoon, as the studious backpackers got worked up into a frenzy of excitement at discussing the world economic crisis.

CHAPTER 18 – CHASING CROCODILES

I woke up the following morning full of anticipation at the events in front of me that day. For once on my birthday, the day itself would be the least of my worries, as today I was embarking on a crocodile tour. It wasn’t the usual way I’d celebrate the day of my birth but I vowed to do my best to embrace it nonetheless.

Mark and I were picked up outside the lodge at 7am by a mini bus, before irritatingly spending the next hour collecting other people from nearby hostels after which time we finally set off on our merry way. As we bounced our way through the deadly quiet bush roads, we started to get to know our entertaining tour guide for the day: a small, hairy man, who, it quickly became apparent, had a Steve Irwin like passion for Australian wildlife. “Who’s ready to go see some lovely crocs today?” Mick announced with genuine excitement on the microphone to the subdued bus, many of whom were no doubt feeling the same way I did; wondering if they would make it back on the return journey.

As well as having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the area and the deadly creatures that inhabited the region, Mick was a bit of a jester and played the quintessential Aussie role to perfection. “Come on liven up all you lovely Sheila’s…look at the guys we’ve got on board for you today,” he said with a cheeky smile, looking in his rear view mirror at Mark and myself, who apart from an old man – who looked absolutely terrified, like he was being driven to his execution – were the only men on board out of the 15 or so people going on the adventure. “Not bad odds,” Mark whispered.

“She’s got your name written all over her,” I replied, pointing at a wrinkly pensioner sitting a few seats away.

We briefly stopped off to check out an Aboriginal museum where we looked at all the amazing artwork before Mick picked me out and insisted I have a go on a didgeridoo in front of the whole group. I’ve once tried playing a foghorn and this instrument had the same affect on me: I was useless. I attempted to blow a nice little tune while puffing my cheeks as hard as I could, but only managed to expel a sound reminiscent of a loud arse release: the type where you lift a leg to one side like a dog and squeeze out for maximum force. I also managed to leave a large dollop of saliva where I had been blowing, so essentially came away looking like a bit of a jerk, with my status as a failed musician once again confirmed (having been given the boot from violin classes when I was just nine).

About an hour and a half after setting off we arrived in Kakadu, where first of all we got to watch a giant python wrap itself around any forthcoming volunteers. Mark – not blessed with thinking things through at the best of times – shoved his hand up to go first. Seconds later he found himself with a giant reptile, which we were told could comfortably eat a small child, worming its way around his body and then, most worryingly of all, started veering up his inner thigh dangerously close to his crown jewels, before the supervisor finally had to step in. I made sure I was a good way back, behind some women and pensioners, so at least they would be crushed first if the snake happened to lash out.

After the show we had some breakfast in a hut adjacent to the Alligator Rivers – a misleading name, as we would be floating above the larger member of the family, the crocodile (Explorer Lieutenant Phillip Parker King gave the name in 1820 in the mistaken belief it was alligators in the river and not crocodiles, and for some reason no one has thought to change it since to avoid confusion). Once everyone had munched down toast and slurped their coffee we all had to sign a document kindly informing us that should we be savagely killed by a crocodile on safari then the operators could not be held responsible.

Having cheerfully signed my life away, my anxiety went up a notch or two when I noticed newspaper cut-outs plastered across the hut like wallpaper. Judging from the headlines there seemed to be a common theme: death and severe injury. “Giant Croc Kills Unsuspecting girl,” read the first one I saw; “Swimmer Pulled Under by 12ft Croc Still Missing”. I loved the optimism of this one, with there being the suggestion the person might somehow have escaped after being dragged under the murky water by the ferocious beast. “Man Loses Arm in Boat Attack,” was one that particularly worried me, as I would be in a vessel myself shortly, though I hoped it would be something far more substantial than the one in that incident. “Croc Hunts Family,” another read. At least this one had a happy ending, though, with no one eaten for a change. “Swimmers Presumed Dead After Croc Pounces,” a more chilling one said. Somehow I didn’t think I would be going for a dip in a river while in Darwin, even with sweat pouring off me like I’d been in the shower.

As far as I was concerned anyone who went swimming or remotely near the water in the Darwin region needed to be taken away by men in white jackets, with there a very real possibility you would become lunch. How anyone could joyfully splash about in the water when there’s every chance a 14ft predator might be eyeing you up was beyond me. While I sympathised with those who had been eaten by crocodiles, I did think they were slightly naïve for going for a paddle in one of the rivers.

I turned to the man in the hut, who I’d just signed my life away to. “You sure know how to get us in the mood for the boat tour,” I joked, still taking in the various headlines.

He smiled devilishly. “Yes we do mate…some big, big crocs out there,” he replied, as if to reinforce the point, in case I wasn’t yet fully aware of what I was getting myself in to. “Was even chased by one myself a few years back,” he added, his grin now widening like it was all just a big game. I couldn’t help but admire the nonchalant way these people integrated with their highly volatile environment like it was nothing more than having a few rabbits and foxes around, all while dismissing their terrifying ordeals like they were just mosquito bites.

Suddenly the trip was upon us, as we were all rounded up before being told to make our way down from the hut to the boat. We walked along a narrow wooded path that, as we got near the river, bridged above the crocodile lurking waters onto the pontoon. I half expected the bridge to collapse, causing me to fall into the river and be savagely eaten. But thankfully it held firm as I carefully placed one foot in front of the other, ensuring I held on to the railing while cautiously ambling across. After climbing aboard I went downstairs and braced myself for the journey. I felt more secure about my chances of surviving now, as the vessel was bigger than I’d imagined with an inside downstairs area and less secure open top section.

Finally we were off heading down the swampy waters. With Mark having the window seat I looked out over the river from the safety of my vantage point next to him, with the odd feeling that comes with knowing that the water you are floating on is awash with crocodiles, and should you so happen to fall in you know you won’t be getting out again.

The captain, a rugged individual evidently hardened by years in the bush, didn’t mince his words as we were given the safety chat. “If you fall in I won’t be coming to get you; if you stick an arm out the window and it gets tugged off by a croc I won’t be helping you. So ladies and gentleman I suggest you don’t do anything stupid because I don’t know about you lot but I like having my arms and legs,” he announced dryly.

Several minutes later, as we slowly meandered along, holding our breath in anticipation, the wait for our first encounter was finally over. “Here the little ripper comes,” the captain announced, though I didn’t feel describing this 12ft monster as little somehow did it justice. A large chunk of meat was attached to a rod, which was then dangled above the water to entice the crocodile to jump up and eat it. All of this within touching distance of us. I was having a kind of out of body experience watching this prehistoric beast close-up, being teased like a kitten with a plastic mouse. Appearing to grow irritated, having repeatedly been made a fool out of, the crocodile then forcefully wriggled upwards with half its body out of the water as it positioned itself to pounce, before finally snapping off the bleeding raw meat as it withdrew sinisterly beneath the water surface.

“And that’s why ladies and gentleman you do not want to be in the water,” the captain helpfully added. “These babies have anything from 3,000 to 5,000lbs of biting force behind them and will rip you apart in seconds.” You didn’t need to be an expert with decades of experience to appreciate that, especially having just seen its feeding habits at close quarters.

We continued down river in silence, intently focusing to see if we could spot the next man-eater, all the while having to perform double-takes unsure if we had just seen a still crocodile in the muggy waters, before realising it was actually a floating log. Soon, though, we were inundated with them. Mark was like a kid in a sweet shop. “Get a shot of me,” he yelped excitedly, handing me his camera to take a picture of him grinning crazily as a crocodile jumped up to get some meat in the background.

So the journey continued. By the end of the two-hour trip we must have come across a dozen or so crocodiles, all of which were made to work hard for their lunch. You almost felt a bit sorry for the ones who had tried in vain to snatch the meat but after becoming weary at their repeated failed attempts gave in and scuttled off, presumably deciding it was easier just to wait at the water’s edge for some poor unsuspecting animal instead.

I clambered off the boat happy I was still alive and able to tick off another item from my Australian adventure. Everyone was excitedly studying their crocodile photos, still seemingly in awe at what they had just seen. While I was proud of some of my pictures – in particular the one of me giving thumbs up by the window where a giant crocodile was just behind me – I have to admit I felt a bit croc’d-out having seen so many of them, and had no desire to see any more vertical wriggling. As a friend in Sydney remarked, “After you’ve seen it once you’ve seen it all.” Nonetheless, it had been a remarkable experience and, moreover, I was still around to tell the tale.

After sitting about in the shaded hut refreshing ourselves and marvelling over our once in a lifetime experience, it was time for the group to head off to Litchfield National Park. Clearly worn out by all the crocodiles, I awoke on the mini bus as we pulled into our destination, noticing just the faintest hint of dribble down my top from my slumber – something I was fairly prolific at when travelling in public. We made our way to a sheltered picnic area close to a stunning waterfall and contently began our feed while gazing out at this idyllic retreat.

Not all of the group were having a good time, though. It had all been too much for one obese, stressed out man in his 50s I had noticed nervously shivering earlier. Bizarrely, he was still on the bus as the rest of us tucked in to our sandwiches. “He just wants to go home…didn’t want to be here in the first place,” Mick announced with a disappointed shrug of his shoulders, having just counselled the petrified individual. “Hopefully he’ll stop being such a big girl’s blouse and join us.” We didn’t hold our breath.

But then out of the blue the man gingerly walked over and cautiously helped himself to a child-size portion of food. He was shaking like a leaf and would utter a kind of grunt as his preferred method of communication. He obviously wasn’t in good shape and you couldn’t help but feel a bit for him. That’s unless you were Mick, who had taken it as a personal affront – delivering the odd barbed comment and dismissive raising of the eye-brow at what he perceived as not very manly behaviour - of his touring work that a customer absolutely detested being on his safari trip. After a few minutes the man returned to the sanctuary of the mini-bus to be alone, still shaking like he was in Antarctica.

I had been under the impression we would be off exploring the area via the use of our feet when Mick chirpily declared, “Ok everybody strip off we’re going in the lagoon for a swim.” I looked for confirmation over at the others for what I thought I’d heard, which unfortunately I had. Following some hesitation people began to make their way to the bus to collect their swimwear before going to change in the toilets. “You seriously going in?” I asked Mark.

“We all are,” he replied sharply.

“I had no knowledge of this,” I added with stunned snobbishness, feeling as though there had been some kind of conspiracy. ”I don’t even have a towel.”

Mark stopped what he was doing before looking at me and rolling his eyes. “Well you should have been listening when we booked it then. Stop being such a woman and get changed.”

“In to what?”

“It’s your birthday isn’t it? Put your birthday suit on!”

Although I don’t think Mick would have cared less had I gone in naked – and may have respected me even more for my brave masculinity had I opted to go in tackle-out in front of everyone – it was not even an option as far as I was concerned, despite the baiting I was now getting from a few others. As I attempted to figure out my plan of action a sudden downpour hit the area. Despite my attempts to run for cover I got drenched. I figured I was wet already so reluctantly decided I may as well go in having been shat on by the heavens. I took my dripping wet boxer shorts off – in the toilets of course – and put my white football shorts back on. This, a pair, I had been self conscious of wearing, with it not leaving anything to the imagination once out of the water. The shorts also had the disadvantage of leaving me desperately trying to push them away from my body when becoming so tight my genitals would feel like there was a vacuum viciously sucking against them.

With events conspiring against me I was now the only person not yet in the lagoon: a tropical hideaway the size of two football pitches, surrounded by giant waterfalls and an imposing cliff-face. As I neared the water’s edge I spotted a warning sign: “When the creek floods…saltwater crocodiles move in.” If it already seemed a bad idea to go in, then now there could be no doubting that it was just sheer madness. “Mick have you seen this sign?” I said pointing at the crocodiles underneath the warning.

“Oh yeah, no need to worry there mate. It’s unlikely they’ll be in here yet, what with it still being the dry season.”

It was hardly the confidence booster I was looking for, particularly as he had failed to rule out the possibility of the killer predator’s presence, not to mention the fact it seemed odd to still be calling it the dry season when there had been a series of monsoons since my arrival. “I heard we were already in the wet season as it came a bit early this year? It has been torrential rain the last few days.”

Mick looked me in the eye, giving me a playful smile. “True but it should be fine. They shouldn’t be here for a few weeks yet.”

“Shouldn’t?” I hit back abruptly.

“Yeah that’s right, they shouldn’t be here yet.” I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere with this discussion.

I had come to the conclusion that Mick didn’t especially value life, or his job for that matter. “There was a case last year where some people came down here in the wet season; one bloke was lucky to only lose a leg from a croc attack. The bloody idiots shouldn’t have been down here then,” our helpful tour guided suddenly informed us. If he had been trying to calm my fears it didn’t work. In fact it made me feel a whole lot worse. But at least Mick showed an awareness of when and when not you should be using the lagoon, which gave me the tiniest crumb of comfort.

In danger of being branded in the same bracket as the quivering shell of a man on our mini-bus I removed all items apart from my shorts and slowly edged my way in to the murky water whilst being mocked as a “girl” by Mark for my cautious approach. The majority of the group had already made their way around the side of the lagoon toward the giant waterfalls, while a small group of five had waited. “Ok I’ll be doing a bit of a tour for you toughies, while the rest of the sissies stay here.” It was becoming a habit for Mick to make these sudden announcements, and with my separation from the rest of the group I was left with little or no option but to go along with his mystery tour.

“Follow me,” Mick said, pointing to dark waters on the edge of the lagoon. “Nothing stupid, though, people…someone drowned in that spot last week.” The stuff that came out of his mouth rarely failed to shock. I resigned myself to the possibility I may not make it back alive. “If I die, I die,” I said to myself gloomily. Despite that, I made sure I was as close to Mick as possible – so close in fact that I kept getting his foot in my mouth - and not propping up the group, where god only knew what could be lurking to pounce.

We swam to the edge of the lagoon where we stood up on some slippery mud. “We need to slide on our bellies in to the pool,” Mick whispered, as if to make sure we didn’t disturb anything. There was a narrow bog that had overgrown bushes to either side, which we would somehow be going under, before coming to a tight gully. To make matters worse there were cobwebs everywhere that we would be forced to slide under, with a sprinkling of multi-coloured spiders of significant size, although quite spindly, that we would have to navigate past. As a renowned spider hater this was not a situation I wanted to be in.

Always one for the unexpected, Mick grabbed one of the unsuspecting beasts from its web and put it in his mouth, before chomping away and contently swallowing, as a cheeky smirk appeared on his face. “Not bad,” he announced, admiring the natural cuisine in the bush. “Anyone else want one?” Open-mouthed, the rest of us looked at one another in disbelief, slowly shaking our heads to indicate that we would not be taking up his offer. I was beginning to question my judgment in entrusting my life with a person who munched on what appeared to be poisonous spiders like they were a piece of sirloin steak.

We slid crocodile-like in to the gully one by one. “Ok, now listen,” Mick whispered, his body frozen still, as his eyes moved around in all directions, scoping out the terrain with impenetrable concentration. “Keep your eyes out for the freshies, we don’t want to disturb them.” Typical Mick. He had helpfully elected to tell us that there may be freshwater crocodiles – the smaller more timid relative of the “salties” which can still grow to the not insignificant size of just under 10ft - but only after there was no going back. “Haven’t there been cases of them attacking people?” I anxiously queried on learning of this sudden development, doing my best to sound reasoned, while looking tough. “Yeah there have been a couple but they only came away with a few scrapes,” came the casual reply.

How I wished Mick would just lie to me, pretending that such a thing had never happened. “They’re more frightened of us,” he added, which did nothing to dampening my fears of being mauled. (According to reports there have been two cases of humans being attacked by freshwater crocodiles, leaving the victims with puncture wounds. It is thought the crocodiles were defending themselves after the people happened to swim above them without knowing).

We slowly swam down the creek: Mick hoping we would find a freshie, while I hoped we would not. But even if we didn’t there were still all kinds of other things inhabiting the billabong, including toads and snakes. Thankfully, to spare my blushes, especially with Mark acting like a seasoned veteran of creek swimming, the two brave girls in our group also seemed reluctant to see one of these friendlier crocodiles. We continued along for a few minutes, and just as I was beginning to feel claustrophobic down the narrow stream, we navigated beneath some bushes and found ourselves back in the lagoon. Mick ushered us in the direction of the waterfalls where at least I could find solace on the rocks, rather than wondering what poisonous or man-eating creature was eyeing me up beneath the water.

The swim over to the rocks felt like the same distance as running a marathon, with my anxiety not helped when the largest toad I’d ever seen in my life – the length from my hand to my elbow (well, not far off) - overtook me like I was going backwards, before swimming off smugly, revelling in his superiority. I don’t like being outdone at the best of times, but certainly not by a toad.

Finally, we made it over to the rocks and before I’d barely had a chance to collect myself, Mick and the rest of the group had climbed up the slippery, jagged rock-face and in to a mini plunge pool that had water pouring into it from above. Shouting demandingly for me to join them up the hazardous rocks, I ignored their repeated cries and wallowed in the relative safety of where I was perched. My irritation, though, was once again pricked as the same giant toad as before swam gloatingly back past me, as if to mock me further.

When the others climbed down from above we ventured off once more, exploring the rocky terrain and riding down stream, before plunging in to a series of mini lagoons. Throughout the whole experience I’d rarely felt so petrified yet exhilarated at the same time, and in my own peculiar way I felt akin to Crocodile Dundee. There had been some hairy moments, such as when I thought something was tugging on my foot, only to discover it was Mark doing a feeble impression of a crocodile. But I felt a great sense of achievement at having conquered the creek and remaining with my life intact. “You made it,” Mick joked.

We spent the remainder of the tour exploring the vast tropical beauty of the area, making our way high up in to the rainforest, studying historic sites and magnetic termite mounds, which looked like giant tombstones, before we wearily made our way back to the mini-bus.

There was a sense of playful camaraderie amongst the group – well, apart from the man who was still in a state of shock - as we headed back to Darwin. We stopped off half way to a country shop with an adjoining bar, which myself, Mark and a few others took advantage of before hitting the road again.

I was the last one back on the bus after braving the outside toilet facilities that were awash with cobwebs. As I climbed on board, much to my total surprise, the whole bus broke in to a rendition of happy birthday, making feel like I was ten years old again. Mark had let the cat out of the bag, no doubt to embarrass me. I had to endure about a minute of humiliation as everyone (apart from the shaking man) sang the catchy anthem at the top of their voices, including Mick who used the microphone for extra volume. I was hoping it might have slipped Mark’s mind to inform Mick of what day it was, especially in amongst all the crocodile hunting and exploring. But fair play to him, he was never one to miss an opportunity to take the piss out of someone.

“So how old are you?” Mick bellowed over the microphone, after the singing had finally died down. With barely a pause, and I suppose to get my own back on the group, I announced with a hint of mock regret at the amassing years, “I’m 24 Mick, thanks”. Once again it felt good to be lying about my age. The joke was now on everyone else, they just didn’t know it. Amusingly, following my fake sorrowful public declaration, I was then met with a variety of comforting responses, from those naïve enough to believe me. “You don’t look 24,” a young German girl said.

“Don’t worry 24 is still young,” a mid twenties English woman, who perhaps should have known better, helpfully added, trying to bolster my confidence at my unforgiving age. I couldn’t believe how blindly they had all fell for it, and were now even trying to give me a boost. “Thanks everyone for your support,” I replied with a quivering voice and a tear in my eye.

The rest of the journey back to Darwin managed to pass without further incident. We arranged to meet up with some of the group in the city at the notorious backpacker venue, The Victoria bar, where the plan was to get some food before drinking as much alcohol as our bodies would allow.

The thought of beer had galvanised myself and Mark in to getting ready in quick-time. We walked out of the hostel invigorated following a much needed wash after a tough day in the bush. Striding purposefully down the street to our destination, we marched up to the bar ordering two jugs of beer to go with our steak and chips.

Several of the group filtered in to the bar and joined our table. Mark had very kindly got me a birthday card and, in the interests of further humiliation, insisted I wore the massive “Happy Birthday” badge on my top. Despite my repeated efforts of removing it when in the toilet or at the bar, thanks to my friend it had become a major talking point with everyone now acutely aware if it was absent from my top. I decided that wearing the badge drew less attention than not wearing it so I begrudgingly put the item – which had a crazy smiling cow on it – back on, and tried to blank out its existence. “Special Steve, now everyone will know it’s your special day,” Mark laughed, in the type of patronising voice that adults speak to toddlers.

As the drinking continued to flow the night’s festivities in the bar soon got underway. The music (all those cheesy club classics that made me wish I’d never been born) was in full swing, rendering all conversation totally futile thanks to the absurd level of volume. And, of course, no backpacker night would be the same without the jerk on the microphone, hyping up the already hysterical crowd with games and jokes better suited to primary school children.

I was happily minding my own business when out of nowhere a girl, frenetically involved in some juvenile game, ran over to our table and nominated me for something. I had no idea what was going on. Mark had been selected as well, and after jumping up was making his way with relish toward the stage. In a state of confusion, I looked around the table for guidance, only to be met with urgent gesticulations for me to go to the stage. I decided to pretend I didn’t know what they meant and threw open my arms in puzzlement, but by now I had two of our group pushing me off my stool and in the direction of the stage.

I reluctantly trudged through the heaving venue and climbed up on to the stage, where Mark and another man, relishing every second it has to be said, were stood. Three girls then appeared and stood below each of us, with their heads roughly coming up to our waist area; with the not so subtle implication of them being at the right level for something else. I looked across the packed bar, where people were shouting hysterically and waiting intently with cameras for the action to start. It was weird to say the least to suddenly be thrust in to the public glare not knowing what was going to happen to you, especially when just a few seconds earlier I had been happily minding my own business.

As soon as the buffoon on the microphone shouted: “Go”, things went into a frenzy and descended to a further low. Before I knew what had hit me, the girl below me was frantically putting her hand up my jeans touching my inner thigh with her bare hand. Frustrated, she pulled her hand out the bottom of my jeans and started to roll my right trouser leg up, leaving my hairy leg exposed to the public. I looked next to me where the other two girls were doing exactly the same to Mark and the other man. A few seconds later one of them ecstatically shouted out, “Touched it, touched it”, and the game came to an abrupt halt.

It soon emerged that the winner was the first girl to touch someone’s underwear having forced her hand up a trouser leg. “It could have been worse,” I thought before having a rethink and realising that in fact there would have been a fair chance of hand touching manhood - a possibility confirmed by Mark. “Her fingers touched my cock,” he whispered excitedly in my ear, as the winner was announced.

“I hope you didn’t get a hard one,” I replied.

“Nah just a semi.”

“No one will be none the wiser then – not with your pecker.”

“Fuck off, she was gagging for a touch of my package – she couldn’t miss it.”

I rolled my eyes predictably. “I suppose because your cock comes down to your thigh?”

“Nah my knee.”

The only good news from the whole degrading experience was that we were each awarded a jug of beer for our efforts in entertaining the crowd, which had come as an unexpected bonus to me and made up for some of the shame I was feeling after being dragged through the mud on stage.

Once the beer was out of the way we moved on to shots, from which point things became a bit hazy. I don’t know how we got separated but somehow Mark ended up at a different place, prompting some of the most pointless and incoherent phone conversations I’ve ever had. After about 25 missed calls to one another we finally managed to speak. “Where are you?” Mark shouted, like I had abandoned him, when really it was the other way round.

“I’m inside,” I answered, clearly referring to the only bar we had been to and the one in which we had spent several hours eating, drinking and making fools of ourselves on stage.

“Inside where?” came the disbelieving voice.

“The bar…you know, the bar we’re in.”

“What bar, where?”

“The bar we’ve been drinking in all night…where are you?”

“I don’t know…it’s got a blue wall inside. Stop being an idiot and come here -”

“- But I have no idea where you are,” I replied scratching my head.

And so on it went. Unsurprisingly we never saw each other again that night but the next day Mark informed me he woke up surrounded by strange people he had never met before, with no idea how he ended up there. The next day was, as expected, spent in sloth like fashion recovering; the smallest of tasks, like getting and eating food, feeling like a major achievement such was the complete absence of any energy. Conversations were restricted to monosyllabic grunts, while having to contend with the sense of a pneumatic drill penetrating my skull, on top of a bout of amnesia largely rendering the night pointless, as beyond the briefest of snippets I was essentially unable to recollect anything that happened.

Still, it was always interesting to wonder what you may or may not have done the night before, with curiousness aroused when people gave you little nuggets of information. “Remember when you had that fake pair of boobs on and were playing the didgeridoo with all those aboriginals?” I was informed. “No…really?”

“Yeah, they couldn’t wait to see the back of you in the end.” Looking to the sky I would then spend several minutes trying to remember the event, the build-up to it and the aftermath in a vain attempt to piece together the night. Sometimes fortune (or perhaps misfortune) would shine on me and one incident would be the catalyst for remembering other things. But there was also the flip side of wondering if certain memories were real or just a figment of my wild imagination. “Was I really sitting on a bar stool with my trousers round my ankles pretending I was German?” I would ask, only to be met by a shrug of the shoulders and look of blankness from a friend, adding to the surreal confusion I was already suffering with.

After nearly two days to recover from my birthday it was time to leave this sweaty place that was Darwin. I was getting a flight to Cairns, in north Queensland, where I hoped my life would not be in such danger.

CHAPTER 19 - CAIRNS

I arrived in Cairns late that evening and after dumping my stuff off at the backpacker hostel, Nomads, in the city centre I made my way to the nearby esplanade. Although dark, it was clear this was a focal point, with masses of people congregated around the area watching an assortment of artists, ranging from a man juggling fire objects, which he would put deep in to his throat, to aboriginals dancing around while playing foghorn music.

The esplanade, I had been told by reception at my hostel, was the hub of the city centre. Just like with Darwin, though, it surprised me how small and compact it was, especially after finding out the city had a population of around 150, 000 people. It was a lively place, with flocks of people enjoying themselves outside in the multitude of bars and restaurants. What I hadn’t realised, though, was just how desirable it was with reception informing me it was the fourth most popular Australian destination for international tourists after Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. This could have had something to do with the fact the place represents the starting point of travels along the Great Barrier Reef and down the east coast, explaining the thriving backpacker culture that exists there.

I met my northern English friend Lee, who I’d arranged to meet up with, near the esplanade before walking the short distance to PJ O’Brien’s on Lake Street. A traditional pub with a scattering of people it also had the distinct benefit of showing English football on its televisions, which naturally impressed me. They even served pints of beer, so taking advantage of such novelty I splashed out and got one.

After barely a couple of swigs and the briefest of catch-ups on a small two seated table, two heavily intoxicated beef-cake Australians adorning grubby vests came over to our table for no particular reason, other than to offload a torrent of drivel that we had no interest in.

The fat one of the pair had all kinds of things on his white top, including at least half his dinner, some blood and, just for good measure, an array of spillages from his snakebite drink (lager and cider with a dash of blackcurrant) that made it look like he was off to Gay Pride with his newly formed pinkish colour top. “You forgot to put your bib on when you had your dinner then?” I joked . Unfortunately my attempt to put him off being near us didn’t work and instead prompted an in-depth history of his day, in which fundamentally it transpired he had been drinking all sorts since early afternoon and was now a bit pissed. To add to his woes he had some aggro with the pub after being told to leave a couple of hours ago but had sneaked back in, with his mate cunningly buying him drinks from the bar.

Fortunately the pub manager then spotted the drunk and ordered him to leave. “Come on mate, I’m not even pissed,” the idiot spluttered, beer splashing out of his wobbling glass on to the floor. To my amazement it only took three times for him to be told to leave before he headed to the exit. But oddly the other man stayed on and, even after finishing the drink he was on, went to the bar to get another one, indicating we would have a further period of purgatory in his company. Offering me a drink I decided I deserved some compensation for the inconvenience of his company and elected to have the most expensive refreshment I could see – a double Jagermeister with Red Bull. After massively out-staying his welcome and punishing us enough with his muffled ramblings, he finally got the hint and decided it was time to leave, much to my eternal relief. I did, however, manage to elicit another Jagermeister out of him before he left. “Good to see you got some payback,” Lee smiled in his thick Yorkshire accent.

After finishing our drinks we left the pub and made our way along the sea front arriving at the less than imaginatively named Bar Club in Sheridan Street. A band was playing in the outside area by the swimming pool and the place was rammed with backpackers, all in their traditional attire; women who may as well of worn nothing, while men were in shorts and vests so they could impress the ladies with some bulging flesh. Unfortunately for many of the men, they also happened to be casually sporting sandals, showcasing their disgusting toes in all their glory.

I started to get an impression that Cairns was a place for the habitual stalker as Lee’s cousin Heather, who we’d met up with, was under fire from an oversized Neanderthal, who was sticking to her like a fly on a cow crap. Naturally, though, she was taking full advantage by repeatedly allowing him to buy her giant cocktails until deciding she’d had enough alcohol and enough of him for the time being.

“I told the fool I wasn’t interested so he’s finally gone now,” she pointed out, slurping down her cocktail.

“Maybe he would have left earlier if you refused to let him buy drinks for you?” I pointed out.

“True but he saved me a lot of money.” I couldn’t argue with that fact and I suppose the individual had brought it on to himself by being a big wet drip.

It just never ceased to amaze me the naivety of some men who ply women with drink in the vague hope they will score on certain occasions. Fair enough, we all know that by the law of averages the drunker women get the better the chances are of scoring. But in many instances it is just simply never on the cards, leaving these poor misguided men rummaging around their pockets desperately trying to find some cash to pay for yet another drink for their intended conquest, only to embarrassedly realise they’ve spent it all on her already, prompting him to leave empty handed with his tail between his legs.

All that money and effort wasted on a woman who fleeces you in return. Still, it always provided tremendous entertainment when observing these buffoons, especially at the precise moment when reality kicks in that they won’t be getting any action, leaving them scratching their head in confusion at where it all went wrong. The incident was certainly the highlight of my night, outdoing the deafening band by some distance. Feeling bloated with all the beer and with no other dimwits to entertain me, I decided it was soon time to leave and go back to the hostel.

I awoke the next morning, looked out the window and was delighted to see nothing but blue skies. Although it was warm when I arrived the night before, I had fully expected my presence in the city to bring in the clouds, just like in Darwin.

I went for a stroll in the hope I would get my bearings, with the place appearing nothing like it did the previous night amid the darkness. I grabbed a bacon sandwich from a café and continued my walk along the road parallel to the sea front, which I could actually see now it was light. Nearby was an area full of outdoor gym apparatus, where a collection of sweating meatheads were poncing around hoping passing women would look their way, while adding to their steroid pumped muscles in the baking sun.

Continuing along the sea front the esplanade came in to view; with it much larger than it had seemed the night before, including an expanse of grass with benches and barbeques where people were lapping up the sun, all of which surrounded a man-made swimming lagoon with kids splashing about in. The previous night I had been none the wiser there was a water area within the esplanade, but as I looked across its glistening surface, with the sea just beyond it, it made for a postcard picture sight as the two merged into the blue of the sky.

Just as I was admiring the view my attention was grabbed by the sight of various women proudly sunbathing with their boobs flopped out. If I had been on a Mediterranean beach in Europe I wouldn’t have blinked an eye (they’re all at it there) but this struck me as slightly unusual in Australia, where the majority like to keep their assets under lock and key in public, arguably far more than their English counterparts, it has to be said. But incredibly, here, there were bosoms everywhere, to the point you felt like you had just stormed into the female showers.

“Slow down a minute will you?” Lee, eyes popping out of his head, whispered, as he tugged on my shirt. So I adjusted my walk accordingly to that of a snails pace, noticing that Lee’s head was flicking twitchily from side to side as he ogled at every available pair. You didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what he was up to. “Oh yes, she’s got lovely brown digestive biscuits that one,” he observed. “And that one…they’re not too bad either.”

After forcing Lee away from the esplanade we popped in to the tourist information to see what activities Cairns had to offer. While talking to an assistant, I suddenly felt myself compelled to ask about a crucial local issue: the sea of topless women. “So,” I said, clearly building up to an important question about tourism, “the women aren’t shy here,” I continued, flicking my head backwards in the direction of the esplanade.

“Nah mate they sure aren’t, and the guys don’t mind.” He had a beaming smile on his face and I could tell he wanted to tell me more. “In 2003 Mayor Kevin Byrne gave the all clear for topless sunbathing, which I can tell you as a community we’re all very happy about. Well, the men at least.” His smile was now splitting his face. “Sadly, though, they didn’t allow the topless beach volleyball despite our protests.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “How dare they…they should do what their voters want.”

“Too right mate,” he replied passionately.

What I found remarkable about this landmark ruling of women being able to freely expose their chests, was that it also stipulated that rugby and Frisbee (along with volleyball) were banned, while also making it absolutely clear that bare breasts were only allowed if sunbathers lay or sat still in the area north of the pool, with it insisted they must cover up if they go in to the family designated areas or the pool itself. The implication of all this was clear: yes boobs were allowed out, but under no conditions must they be seen to be bouncing conspicuously around.

I couldn’t help but wonder how they enforced the rule, though. I mean, what would happen if a lady was frantically gesticulating during a heated discussion, causing her breasts to bob like jelly? Some bosoms inevitably have more spring than others, so I was curious as to whether these individuals would be unfairly picked on over those with a firm (or fake) pair? And where was the precise demarcation of the area highlighting that boobs were out of bounds? Was there punishments of say three strikes and you have to cover up for the rest of the day? And who had the obligation of enforcing the code of conduct, and how was this carried out?

I guessed it came down to the poor lifeguards, whose key function, apart from saving lives, was to monitor bare breasts and ensure everything was in order. If they saw a woman openly flouting the rule, by say, going in to the pool bare-chested, I could only assume they would immediately get on the loud speaker. “Excuse me, could the lady with large breasts and big brown puffy nipples just entering the water please return to where she was lying and put a bikini top on without any further delay,” perhaps they would say, I thought.

Or would they take the more personal approach by walking up to the female, as she dipped her foot into the water. “Excuse me, err… you see those things you’ve got out?” the young male lifeguard would say, head nodding toward the offending pair.

The shocked woman, looking down, would reply, “What, you mean my breasts?”

“That’s right, err… you’re not allowed to have them out when you go in the water.”

“Sorry I had no idea.”

“No problem, but I’ll be watching to make sure it doesn’t happen again, you understand.”

What a job. The lifeguards must have been obliged to use their own interpretation of what constituted a wobbling pair; after all, one person’s definition of “bouncing” is not necessarily the same as another’s. Shy lifeguards would no doubt turn a blind eye where possible, while in contrast the more confident would inevitably be sticklers for the rules, powering over in lightening speed to discuss the potential infringements with the various female offenders.

Having spent countless mind numbingly boring hours at council meetings in my capacity as a reporter how I wished I could have sat in on the more serious matter of whether females could bathe topless. I can just see the chairman addressing the hearing. “So now we move on to item 11 and whether or not to allow female boobs out on display while sunbathing,” he no doubt said, or something to that end, to a roomful of grubby old men suddenly reduced to sniggering schoolboys.

“Also, should we agree to the item,” he would likely have continued, “then we need to put in restrictions on how much they – as in the err breasts (cue loud snorts from members) - are allowed to bounce, thus preventing offence to jealous women who are covered up, or those who have a saggy pair, while also attempting to curtail the inevitably high testosterone levels among males.”

I’m sure it was an exhaustive debate that left no stone unturned and was dealt with in a sensible, grown up manner, particularly when getting in to the various intricacies as I’ve already outlined above. One area they appeared to have overlooked, though, was females playing football (soccer) or even say cricket, neither of which were outlawed for those flaunting their bare chests. Let’s hope from now on they all decide to go for a kick-about or a bowl instead, just to highlight the lack of due consideration applied by the council on this most serious of issues.

Overall, though, it is important to acknowledge that the authority came to the right decision, with it signalling a triumph for local democracy. On hearing the news outside the council chambers, hordes of women would no doubt have joyfully whipped off their bras, jumping up and down to celebrate the watershed moment.

Anyhow, with a good fix of vitamin D from the sun I returned to the hostel later that day for a nap and a cold shower, before meeting up with Lee and Heather in the square. While standing around discussing where to go, an aboriginal man, who was visibly impaired by the enormous amount of alcohol he had clearly drunk, came stumbling towards us. Standing facing us in silence while severely swaying, it’s safe to say we all felt a bit uncomfortable, unsure of what his motives were (though I doubt he even knew himself) and what he would do, albeit of his own accord or through gravity. I then accidentally – though it was impossible to miss – had the deep misfortune of catching sight of his overflowing pubic region and manhood, after his jeans had slipped down his skinny body. Not knowing where to look Heather turned away. But seconds later the man stumbled forward, just about to collapse in to her before I somehow managed to catch and guide him away. It had been a lucky escape.

I looked over the road and saw another aboriginal male passed out, face down on the concrete. Just like in Darwin it was clear this place had a problem with excessive aboriginal drinking. They say things come in threes and so it was in this instance. As we popped into a shop an aboriginal, probably in his twenties, walked in with his domineering and loud transsexual mother, who was so tall with his/her heels on that he wasn’t far from touching the ceiling with his head. Watching from afar the transsexual suddenly took offence for some unknown reason as Heather, completely minding her own business, purchased some cigarettes. “Hey girl, don’t look at my son like that…he’s too good for you,” she yelled in a bitchy high pitched voice from the opposite end of the shop, before briskly walking out while continuing to loudly ramble to herself. It was hard to figure out what was going through his/her head, if anything at all, was.

After an eventful few minutes we unanimously agreed we deserved a drink and made our way to a venue where we would be subjected to the internationally proclaimed Wet T-Shirt Wednesday night. It seemed that wherever I turned in Australia there was one of these nights. The place had developed something of a party reputation, which I recalled from a friend in Sydney as I walked in. Clearly not one to downplay their meteoric rise, the establishment’s reputation had apparently reached “institutional status” after “garnering media attention throughout the globe” according to glowing self-congratulatory tributes on the drinks menu. Apart from one solitary individual informing me of its presence, though, I can safely say I had never heard of it.

After handing over what seemed like a small fortune, I entered the arena of this revered place, with the website having also helpfully taken time to insist that to the “discerning traveller” it would be “an evening experience they won’t forget”. I must say, though, it’s not very often that I’ve come across a place where women get their boobs out while water is seductively sprayed all over them like cheap bits of meat, as hammered men froth at the mouth, that is called “discerning” - but this was apparently it. While I’m sure many would make a strong case that frequenting such a place with near naked women shows shrewd taste, I couldn’t help but think the word wasn’t invented to be applied in the bar’s self imposed context as it was here.

It was still early and the place was only half full, which was a major positive as it made buying beer from the bar much easier than it would, inevitably, be later as it filled up. As I was merrily minding my own business sipping on a beer, I bumped into a backpacker I knew from Sydney. First in Darwin, now in Cairns. For such a massive country it really could seem quite small at times. As you do in these odd situations where you don’t really have a lot in common with the person, we muddled through by way of the usual bland pointless chat. “Remember that night in Sydney?” the lad, whose name I hadn’t a clue and had no intention of finding out, asked.

“The one where she took her bra off and got sprayed by water?” I replied monotonously, having had the same conversation a thousand times before.

“Nice pair weren’t they?”

“Yeah, not bad I suppose. A bit saggy perhaps.” And that was about all there was to the conversation, before the spluttering fool made off to bore someone else with the same pearls of wisdom.

I remembered other bizarre coincidences, like the time when a friend from Sydney went to Bundaberg in Queensland and strangely got talking to someone who knew me from England. I had heard tales from other people of such strange happenings, as well, so it wasn’t even like I was been singled out.

The place filled up and before long people were predictably dancing on the tables – something else the bar had apparently become world famous for. Though, again, sadly, I must have missed this. I never understood the purpose of dancing on tables, especially when there was a perfectly good floor available, unless it was a cunning ploy so men could look up women’s skirts, of course. In fact, come to think of it, perhaps this was the motive for it. And the beauty of it, as far as men were concerned, was that self-absorbed females were only too happy to fall into the trap. “Look, you can see her rat,” Lee suddenly announced, pointing up one girl’s dress.

No matter where I went in the country – and this place was no different - it seemed that countless women were publicly prepared to savage their reputations in the name of entertainment. Or, perhaps more likely, in the misguided belief they would be viewed as sex goddesses as they jigged about and showcased themselves on stage, clearly perceiving themselves as somehow better than the mere mortal women slumming it down by the bar, casting jealous glances. I could see the logic with the less celebrated ones getting up there, lapping up every precious second of rare attention. But some of the better looking girls were simply drunk and only in it for the ego boost. Of course, not a single man in the building cared about their motives as long as they got to see plenty of bare flesh.

I managed to navigate my way through the night, as I had expertly become accustomed over the years, by avoiding any prolonged form of dancing – even when dragged up onto a table by Lee. Under some duress to join in, I managed an impromptu jig, with my trademark finger salute in the direction of the DJ. Seconds later I merrily got down and made my way back to the bar, where I gratefully reaffirmed my masculinity after my ordeal and continued to chat about football and other manly things.

I was able to successfully drag myself away from the bar at a reasonable hour, thus saving myself the pain of waking at the crack of dawn the next morning with an agonising hangover before embarking on a day trip. I had hoped to do one of the many exciting activities that were available in the region – perhaps an adventure jungle tour, or checking out the spectacular waterfalls, volcanoes and castles in the rainforest, followed by some relaxation at a spa – but unfortunately all of these were booked out so I had to settle for a visit to Port Douglas instead.

The coach arrived promptly at 6.30am outside the hostel before we headed north for the hour trip to this apparent tropical paradise along stunning coastal roads adjacent to forest and the Coral Sea. According to our driver it was the only place on earth where two World Heritage sites exist – The Great Barrier Reef and the rainforest of Daintree and Cape Tribulation – and it wasn’t difficult to see why with the idyllic views everywhere you looked.

After arriving at Port Douglas I made my way to the nearest food establishment and plugged the aching pain in my stomach. I was surprised how small the place was – with it nothing more than the size of a village. Though, by now, having experienced Darwin and Cairns, I really should have learnt to lower my size expectations of Australian cities and towns. People were friendly and typically relaxed – even by Australian standards – and there was a raft of quaint tourist shops along the main road, which eventually after meandering through some pine trees led to the beach, where I camped out for the afternoon in the warm sunshine, looking out across the deep blue ocean. Even though others were happily playing in the sea I elected to stay out of the water just in case a crocodile or a shark was lurking nearby. After all, as far as I was concerned you just couldn’t trust the wildlife out here. I was happy for others to take the risk though, while I bronzed up my skin.

I made my way back to the bus collection point after a restful afternoon, though slightly miffed I had been unable to do an adventure tour. I consoled myself with a giant chocolate ice cream as I wandered back through the village before climbing on the coach. About half way through our journey – and with darkness now setting in – we began to make our way through dense forest. More worryingly was that trees either side of the road were astonishingly ablaze with giant flames that towered over the bus. I wasn’t alone in my anxiety, as others fearfully looked out the window with stern facial expressions, unsure if we were about to be burnt to a crisp in the outback wilderness.

The chatty driver had reached a plateau and was not saying a word either, adding to the foreboding sense of it all. Although, knowing the Australian tour guides that was probably a deliberate ploy; enhancing the drama and experience for those on their trip. When he did finally decide to talk it was as if someone had lit a small bonfire. “As you can see ladies and gentleman we have a few flames to the side of us to brighten our dark journey home,” he observed dryly. “With the ground so dry we sometimes get these forest blazes but it’s all good.” He didn’t seem like a worried man, which I suppose was reassuring for those of us on board who had naturally assumed we were about to be burnt to a crisp. But with people who talk about being chased by a crocodile like it is nothing out of the ordinary, you always have to make some allowances.

After driving between burning forest for several miles we finally pulled clear, prompting a collective sigh of relief, grateful Mother Nature had decided not to cremate us all. Arriving back in Cairns I joyfully leapt off the bus and into the nearest bar for a well deserved beer, wondering what the life expectancy was for living in this dangerous and unforgiving part of the country.

Apart from the bushfires, I was aware that Cairns, like Darwin, also had its fair share of dangers from the wildlife, so was glad to hear a particular tale about an errant crocodile only after I had left. On this occasion a 1.5 metre crocodile was discovered on one of the busiest streets in Cairns, Mulgrave Road, in the early morning rush hour trying to cross to the other side. A police officer and road worker cornered the reptile using brooms, while a crowd gathered round to watch, rather than run as fast as they could in the opposite direction. A local reptile remover, who happened to be passing, stopped to help out and put a blanket over its eyes to calm the beast before he kneeled on its back to restrain it and place a rubber band over its jaws. Discussing his exploits, the man later said: “There’s no better way to start a morning than by catching a croc.”

Actually I can think of a few others, but you have to admire the blind enthusiasm of this crazy individual, as well as the care taken over the predator’s ordeal, as if it was nothing more than a lost puppy. Even the policeman couldn’t understand what the fuss was about, due to the regularity of such occurrences. “I’m not sure what everyone is getting so excited about,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. Either way I was glad I wasn’t in the vicinity when it suddenly emerged from a nearby drain.

The following day I had been planning on booking my return flight to Sydney from where I then intended to depart the country having previously convinced myself that I was ready to head home. After all, I had spent a considerable amount of time in the country – a good few months more than I ever would have dreamt of staying, especially with me generally living like a pig since my arrival. Add to this, I had lived and breathed Sydney for a period of time where I felt I had got to know the place and culture, as well as undoubtedly making my mark in a variety of ways. And I had even, against all the odds, expanded my horizons further by exploring some of the country - a proposition that before my arrival would have been as likely as bestiality being made legal.

Yet as I walked past the esplanade in the burning sunshine, I felt like I still had unfinished business in Australia. At the same time it was bizarre to think that I, the great non-traveller, was still not ready to go home; a reflection of my newfound worldliness, I liked to think. Or maybe it was just the thought of going home that filled me with total desperation instead. I began to consider the possibility of staying. And, unlike many of the backpackers I had met on my travels, I wouldn’t need to stay illegally, as I still had a decent amount of time remaining on my visa.

Furthermore, Mark had purchased a vehicle and was making his way from Darwin down the east coast. His desire for me to join him was brushed aside when we were together in the Northern Territory. At that point I still had the vague notion in my head that I would head back to England after Cairns. But now this little expedition had run its course I had come to realise that avoiding the UK for as long as possible was a good thing, while I would also have the added bonus of being able to annoy Mark further. I hadn’t booked a return flight to Sydney, as I didn’t know when I would head back, I had all my belongings with me and Mark was just a phone call away for me to arrange meeting him. It was all starting to make sense. I suppose that was the beauty of travelling; the fact you could just up and leave when you wanted and go in whatever direction you fancied. The east coast road trip now beckoned.

I picked up my phone and rang Mark. “I’m coming with you on the road trip,” I told him, much to his surprise.

“Look mate, my phone battery’s low so don’t fuck around,” he bellowed back, in a slightly miffed voice, over a barely audible amount of background noise as he headed through the bush somewhere deep in Queensland.

“I’m not joking you silly pecker,” I shouted back. “I’m coming with you. Let me know where and when to meet you and I’ll get there.”

“What you really want to come?”

“Yes really.”

“This better not be a wind-up. I don’t want to be driving hundreds of miles out of my way and you not being there, you know?”

“First of all, you’re going down the coast anyway so it will be on route and like I keep saying, I’m serious. Now stop being a dick-head and tell me where to go and when.”

Once he had stopped laughing at the fact I would be joining him, we managed to pull together a vague strategy of where and when I should meet my one-browed friend. “I’ll be in Cairns in a couple of days. I’ll pick you up from the airport. If you can find it,” he sniggered.

I shook my head at his predictable mocking, “Don’t worry about me pube chest, I know what I’m doing.”

And so it was. Out of nowhere I was now suddenly embarking on an impromptu road trip down the vast continent that was Australia’s east coast. And I, for one, although not thrilled about the prospect of sleeping rough and no doubt maintaining the daily food intake of a small rabbit, was prepared to see what the much heralded east coast had to offer, especially after being regularly subjected to endless tales of how great it was by over-excitable backpackers. I rubbed my hands at the thought of putting the record straight.

OTHER BOOKS BY STEVE DEEKS

Baring All Down Under: The East Coast Road Trip

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Contents

Chapter 1 – Arriving in Sydney

Chapter 2 – Cultural assimilation

Chapter 3 – Hostel debauchery

Chapter 4 – Homeless

Chapter 5 – A new home

Chapter 6 – Room 301

Chapter 7 - Messy nights

Chapter 8 – The Aussies

Chapter 9 – Hostel tensions

Chapter 10 - Minesweeping

Chapter 11 - Labouring

Chapter 11 – Crime Fighting

Chapter 13 – In the line of fire

Chapter 14 – Liverpool Council burns down

Chapter 15 – The streets

Chapter 16 – Out with a bang

Chapter 17 – Darwin

Chapter 18 – Chasing crocodiles

Chapter 19 - Cairns

Other books by Steve Deeks