BARING ALL DOWN UNDER

THE EAST COAST ROAD TRIP

STEVE DEEKS

Copyright © 2016 Steve Deeks

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

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concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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.

Matador®

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 – The road trip begins

Chapter 2 – The boat trip

Chapter 3 – Behind the wheel

Chapter 4 – Hervey Bay

Chapter 5 – Fraser Island

Chapter 6 – Deep in Fraser Island

Chapter 7 – Debauchery on Fraser

Chapter 8 – Noosa Heads

Chapter 9 – Brisbane

Chapter 10 – Surfers Paradise

Chapter 11 – Nimbin and marijuana

Chapter 12 – Byron Bay

Chapter 13 – The Arts Factory

Chapter 14 - The Christmas rave

Chapter 15 – Sydney reunion

Chapter 16 – The final hurrah

Chapter 17 – Going home

CHAPTER 1 – THE ROAD TRIP BEGINS

As I waited outside Cairns airport in the sweltering humidity of the North Queensland state with my backpack strangling my neck, I was left questioning whether I was doing the right thing by not heading back to Sydney to depart the country for England, as was originally planned. While you could argue that there really is no contest between heading back to a cold over populated island in comparison to partying your way down Australia’s east coast while taking in various adventure tours, it still came as a surprise to me that I was extending my voyage. I had grown irritated at hearing so many gushing stories from other backpackers about how great “doing the east coast” was and felt it my duty to see what all the fuss was about and no doubt put the record straight.

My doubts intensified when I heard a car horn relentlessly beeping, as if an excitable child was driving it, which as it turned out was not far from the truth. I saw a hand with a solitary finger raised out of the window of the four-wheel drive vehicle, which had a large picture of the devil emblazoned across the bonnet with “Stevo” written in large letters underneath it. I strode towards the wagon – so weighed down by the volume of items stuffed onto the roof rack that the engine was almost touching the ground – knowing without a second take that it was my good friend Mark. “Alright toss-pot, you found it then?” he shouted out the window.

“Sure did pube face.”

Once Mark had pulled over and slapped me hard on the cheek by way of a hello, three weary people suddenly emerged from the car: a chubby Scottish woman with red rosy cheeks called Julie, who had a particularly strong accent, and two younger early 20s blond haired Swedish lads, Sam and Simon, who were far easier to understand. They had all met at a hostel on-route down the east coast and would be joining us on our trip south. “We’ve got these three tagging along, hope you don’t mind?” Mark announced brashly. “It’s cheaper that way. And they’re not too bad.” As it was, I didn’t mind, although I did think it might have occurred to him to mention it to me before, especially as it essentially meant I would be spending every waking moment with three total strangers cramped up in a knackered four-by-four.

After forcing my backpack into the boot with great difficulty, I was given the red carpet treatment when allowed to sit in the passenger seat for the first stretch of the journey, as a goodwill gesture for being the new arrival. But, thereafter, before entering the vehicle it would be a case of whoever called first got the seat, which had infinitely more space than the area in the back, which resembled a cattle market. Once in position, feet were desperately sprawled out to both sides of me - with one rested on the side of my chair, dangerously close to my ear - as those in the back searched for any of the elusive space that was available.

Feeling as comfortable as a sardine in a tin, we hit the road with the music blaring and began our voyage into the unknown. It wasn’t long before we were on an empty, long stretch of road with nothing more interesting than some dull fields to look at, prompting us to play the dazzling game of who can predict when we will see another car. We would seemingly go for miles and miles without seeing a fellow human, so naturally when we did the game evolved a further aspect that saw Mark tooting the horn and both of us waving our hands out of the window, normally with the Swedes sticking a hand out the sun roof for good measure too.

The idea being that they would wave back, or even better, if they were in a lorry, sound the horn in recognition of our efforts. I couldn’t exactly recall the last time I had played such a game but was almost certain it had been back at Primary School – about two decades earlier. There was a sinister side to the fun, too, where if the driver coming towards us ignored our request – which quite a few, unfortunately, for them, did. Having blatantly been blanked, and with our egos affronted, we would then subject the drivers to the kind of torrent of abuse that no parent would be proud to hear coming from their child’s mouth, along with a variety of frantic hand gesticulations showing our disapproval; all of which had to be administered precisely as they bypassed us, much to the opposing vehicle’s disgust. If nothing else, at least it helped liven up the journey slightly.

As the light began to fade we pulled up at the nearest campsite to settle down for the night. In the interests of saving as much of our money as possible (we had all paid $100 each toward petrol, food and drink supplies) we decided the best policy was for the Swedes and Julie to get out the car into the pouring rain as we approached the site. This would, therefore, give the impression they were not with Mark and myself, so we would cunningly only have to pay for two people rather than five. Smugly getting back into the car having saved ourselves the huge collective sum of $8, we made our way round to our allotted space before being joined by the rest, who cautiously appeared from behind a shelter after checking the coast was clear.

With it now dark and the rain pelting it down we had to hurry. The Swedes and Julie set about putting up their own tent while I helped Mark as much as was possible with ours; though, I have to confess such a task did not play in to my strengths. Although I marvelled at the advancement of modern technology tents, compared with the awkward confusing ones from yesteryear, it was still a painful exercise, with my plight exacerbated by the lack of light.

My limited talent for such tasks was helpfully pointed out to me while doing labouring work in Sydney some months earlier, where I was instructed to fulfil the perceived rudimentary task of rolling up an electricity cable. After several failed attempts and with the cable in a considerably worse condition than before, the perplexed and mildly irritated foreman realising he could be waiting a long time, finally ran out of patience and stopped what he was doing to roll it up effortlessly himself in a few seconds. “Fuck me, the agency said you were a labourer not a monkey,” the beleaguered man, on a tight deadline, observed.

I was getting similarly astounded and untrusting looks from Mark after he garbled instructions at me in our frantic quest to erect the tent before we got totally drenched. I was keen to do my bit but couldn’t help but think I was making more work for him. “Hang on a minute, let me do that,” he would suddenly announce while peering at my handiwork suspiciously with his phone torch, thus preventing me doing any more damage to our cosy sanctuary for the night. In the end, I was assigned the task of blowing up our double spread air mattress. Fortunately, this could be done automatically by holding one end that pumped air into our bed, while ensuring the other remained firmly attached to the energy-generating device in the car. I saw my role as particularly crucial, as without the inflatable airbed we would have to make do with spending the night on the hard ground with nothing more than a sleeping bag and a flat pillow to comfort us - like the poor Swedes and Julie were preparing to do so.

After finally getting the tents up and stable enough so they couldn’t be blown over we went to the sheltered communal eating area to make some food, which gave me the chance to get to know the Swedes and Julie better. Sam and Simon were typical Swedes: blond haired and blue eyed with perfect English who liked a joke but had a serious, thoughtful side. Julie seemed nice enough, though I couldn’t be entirely sure as understanding her proved about as easy as comprehending a Chinaman with a vacuum cleaner in your ear. She also had a strange body, which reminded me of a duck: top heavy above the waistline, but stalk thin legs.

We cooked sausages and burgers on the electric barbeques before scoffing the food down like we were starving; relieved our labours for the day were behind us. As with everything it was a team effort and after washing up and putting our plastic plates and cutlery back in our highly organised container we retired to bed. Lying on the same mattress as Mark I felt his hairy leg brush against mine. “Please don’t get any ideas chimp boy,” I whispered, sparking the inevitable jokes that exist when two heterosexual men are forced to sleep in close proximity to one another.

“I better not wake up with a sore ass,” he responded sharply. Although we weren’t awash with space at least we had a good deal more than the others. And with that comforting thought I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke the next morning with everything as it should be: my boxer shorts still on and with no obvious signs of foul play. The tent was like being in a fan-assisted oven and, clasping for air, I reached over and unzipped the door and sleepily made my way to the shower. The water trickled out but at least it was warm and allowed me to cleanse myself following a night spent in close quarters with Mark. While brushing my teeth in the communal washing area I caught a glimpse of a man in the mirror who was contently shaving his stubble with nothing more than a towel over his shoulder and some flip-flops on. It was not the sight I needed first thing in the morning and I could only assume he was German, as I knew from my experiences they had a propensity for casually strutting around in public, as if to proudly showcase their crown jewels.

In some doubt over the sexuality of this strange man lurking behind me, whilst feeling slightly self-conscious about my own assets, I briskly walked outside and felt a huge weight off my shoulders when finally safe from any danger. I had breakfast and then helped to pack away the tent. We still had a morning of driving in front of us before we reached our destination at Airlie Beach, so left punctually just before 10am.

Taking full advantage of the Swedes and Julie’s sloth like meandering I called the passenger seat first and smugly ushered them into the back before comfortably positioning myself in the relative luxury of the front. It wasn’t all plain sailing riding in the front, though, as there were certain responsibilities that fell on the shoulders of that fortunate individual. These included being in charge of the music - not necessarily a bad thing but a bit of an imposition when you wanted to sleep or look out the window without any duress. With discretion over the music came the need to be able to work an i-pod was required – an area of expertise I had no great experience in and something that required almost constant monitoring due to the requirement of selecting new songs roughly every four minutes, thanks to album lengths of rarely no more than two songs on Julie’s playlist. Such devices were fiddly at the best of times, while I couldn’t help but think there was something more interesting I could be doing other than manoeuvring my finger in circular motion to select a cheesy song I hated as we bounced along the bumpy road.

There was also – in theory at least – the most vital of responsibilities: reading the map. For some people this comes naturally but for me, someone who romped home to an F grade in Geography at GCSE level – and deeply proud of it, I must say – this was not an area of my skill set, though I did know my left and rights. I also understood the concept behind north, south, east and west. My problems came with knowing exactly where I was on the map, therefore being able to identify the correct route to take at key moments.

Fortunately it wasn’t long before I was getting the same curiously exasperated looks from Mark I had received when trying to put up the tent. “Do we take the A331 at the next junction?” he would ask, more in hope than expectation, as we made our way down the Bruce Highway, or at least this was the road I thought we were travelling on.

“Umm well judging from this,” I began, offering a falsely confident voice followed by a lengthy pause while I ran my finger down the map hoping I could find the road he was talking about. “Yes, it appears that may be the case,” I would then add. But in truth you could have blindfolded me and told me to stab a pin on the map and we would have had more chance of getting our precise location.

Wise to my ways and keen not to take a major detour costing hundreds of dollars extra in petrol and hours of our time, Mark would often intervene. “Let’s have a look at that,” he would say, grabbing the map off me to intermittently study it while attempting to keep abreast of the road ahead. On other occasions if the road required his full attention he would refer to either Sam or Julie, with Simon normally fast asleep, for guidance on which route to take. Even when I had a moment of clarity and asserted which road to go down I felt a wall of silence greet my navigational expertise before the ritual, “Let’s have a look at that”. Through my own lack of map reading talent I had unwittingly absolved myself of all responsibility when it came to directing us, which was not a bad thing, as it only left me with the task of working the i-pod.

We rolled into Airlie Beach around midday after a hassle free journey. Although there had not been much to look at in the way of glorious views on route to our destination, as we wound our way down toward the harbour and main parade it was clear why this Queensland destination was considered a tropical paradise, with its sparklingly clear waters and conglomerate of small islands stretching out as far as the eye could see. The place itself was small but lively with a fair selection of bars scattered along the road, many of which were surprisingly busy considering the time of day, with people enjoying a drink in the hot sun watching the world go by.

We conspicuously made our way down Shute Harbour Road, with people casting quizzical looks in the direction of our absurd piece of machinery we were travelling in, before pulling over on the side of the street. For some reason the passenger door was no longer working so I climbed out of the window and jumped down onto the pavement where we held a discussion about our plan of action for the afternoon.

A couple of backpackers passing by seemed intrigued by our arrival with one coming over to us. “That’s Stevo from Cairns’ car ain’t it?” came the voice from the vest wearing, bearded man.

“Yeah that’s right, you know him?” Mark, turning round, replied.

“Everyone knows him, well the car at least. It’s done the east coast more times than a hooker’s given head.” The individual was clearly well informed of the mythical Stevo figure, who had travelled far and wide in this beast before its unreliability became a hindrance, at which point he decided to rent it out to backpackers before finally deciding to cash in and sell it on to some gullible, unsuspecting individual - Mark. “She’s got a lot of character,” the man observed, “I wouldn’t like to get the forensics out to inspect the seats, if you know what I mean though,” he winked, before helpfully adding, “You’ve got about as much chance of that thing getting you to Sydney as finding a Pommie without a burnt face.”

“Or finding a hard working Australian,” I hit back, before the by-passer walked off.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Mark, with a hint of irritation in his voice, said dismissively. I suppose I would have said the same too if I had forked out over $6,500 for that piece of crap. I looked round and saw the Swedes smiling. “Oh dear Mark I think you might have paid too much,” Simon said dryly.

Sam sniggered, “Yeah too much by about $6,000.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Mark, defending his corner, struck back. We all knew, though, that his confidence was badly misplaced.

We made our way to the travel shop where we had booked our three day boat tour on the Great Barrier Reef, signed a disclaimer, similar to the one I did on the crocodile tour, letting us know that were anything unfortunate to happen, like being killed, then under no circumstances was it the responsibility of the company.

After that joyful episode and doing the necessary paperwork we went on our search for a nearby campsite. Fortunately there was one just down the road, so after paying for just two people - after all five of us pitched up – we saved ourselves $9, an increase of $1 from the previous site. The management had a man driving around in a buggy so the Swedes ended up doing laps, walking on past our spot pretending they were not with us, until the coast was finally clear.

Once we’d eaten our sausages and burgers on the electric barbeques we got changed and went back to the main strip to celebrate our arrival with a few jugs of beer at Magnums Hotel, the epicentre of socialising, judging by its appearance, where there was a collection of adjoining bars. With drinks going down rather well, we concluded it was only fair we did rounds – excluding Julie, who did her own thing.

As things naturally became more raucous a friendly English – Swedish rivalry broke out about who had the best country. “What’s Sweden ever done?” Mark asked cuttingly.

“No come on be fair, they have got Ikea,” I interjected mockingly. Sam smiled indifferently, while Simon shook his head in complete disbelief, a tad irked at this ambush against his homeland before striking back.

“In Sweden we have a saying after a night out where we ask, ‘Did you get with an English girl?’ It means did you get with an ugly girl who’s easy, because that’s how we see your women.”

Sam chuckled before adding, “You do have some pigs.”

It was an interesting line of attack but sadly one for them that had no impact. “Yeah we know, we do live there,” Mark replied, disarming their line of attack. “Anyway I think you’ll find Mark is the expert on ‘English girls’,” I added. The conversation then quickly turned to Mark and his unrelenting efforts to “get laid”. We revelled with great delight at his preoccupation to chase anything in a skirt as I recalled the period in Sydney when he would come to me for daily talks having hit a deep depression after staggeringly not engaging in full-blown intercourse with anyone for a whole month. “I’ve completely lost my confidence mate,” he would confide in me, back in those dark days with the look of a man with the world on his shoulders. “I managed to get a finger up her but she wouldn’t let me go any further. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

His pain was genuine but I like to think I did my bit to counsel him through his weeks of paucity and rejection by bolstering his confidence with football analogies. “You’re getting yourself in the right areas so I’m sure it won’t be long before you smash one home,” I said with a reassuring rub on his shoulder. “You’re on a losing streak but one good result and everything changes,” I added emphatically, hoping I could somehow get through to him in this bleak, lonely place he found himself. Hard as I tried, though, it felt like he was unreachable. In the end a change was what he needed to restore his mojo and after leaving Sydney - very much in the form of a man on an epic quest to rediscover himself - and going to Darwin and Cairns, it wasn’t long before he was once again penetrating anything that would let him.

“I’m just so glad we can sit here now you’ve come out the other side and talk about your nightmare as nothing more than a distant memory,” I said to him, with a gentle pat on his back.

“We’re all with you man,” Simon said comfortingly.

“Judging from what you were doing in Cairns, your nightmare is well behind you,” added Sam, winking his eye.

His humiliation was all but complete when a loutish Aussie sitting nearby, who judging by his demeanour, had been drinking for several hours in the baking sun, had happened to overhear some of our conversation and decided to thrust his wisely opinion into the ring. “You having some probs getting laid mate?” he shouted from across the table, sparking a flurry of interest from those sitting on adjoining benches, who now had their eyes firmly fixed on our friend. “Nah it’s not like that mate…” Mark began.

“He tries but just has no luck,” Sam, cutting in, helpfully responded. The Aussie, not realising it was all a bit of banter, continued forthrightly. “Don’t worry mate, there’s plenty of Sheila’s about, I’m sure one will give you a go.” And with that he began surveying the bar area for possible targets. “That one there,” he said, failing in his attempt to point discreetly at her. “Reckon she could be a bit of a goer. Get your nuts in there mate.”

While the rest of us held back laughter and encouraged this wise Aussie, Mark bore the resemblance of someone who would rather have been anywhere else on earth at that moment in time. “They’re all just fooling around,” Mark said, getting to his feet and walking briskly to the toilet area.

“A bit sensitive isn’t he,” the man said, frowning in shock.

“Wouldn’t you be if you were in his shoes,” I replied sympathetically.

“Too bloody right mate,” he laughed.

And so we had all bonded; with a key aspect of our group’s humour now irreversibly set-up to mock Mark and all his shortcomings. We went to another bar down the road after he returned from the toilet, his reputation battered in the most public of ways. The anti-social behaviour continued as the Swedes began hurling one of my trainers across the bar area to each other after I had momentarily got some air to my feet when foolishly looking the other way. Just like with the game: “Piggy in the Middle,” I spent several minutes lunging from one table to another in a desperate attempt to reclaim my shoe after some incessant teasing. “Don’t you won’t your shoe man,” Simon kept saying. I took revenge by grabbing a half full jug of beer and spraying it in their general direction, leaving them soaked. “That should cool you down,” I said triumphantly, and turned to make my escape, only to realise the only way out was to go back past them. Nonetheless, I made a run for it but felt a collective splash of beer strike my back and head as I attempted to flee.

We called a truce, with it being an honourable draw of sorts, before we were ushered away from the place by security. Apparently there had been several complaints following the inevitable collateral damage; with various women’s immaculate outfits ruined by a sea of errant beer landing on them, leaving their hair drenched, with make-up running down their faces and dresses now so wet they wouldn’t have looked out of place at a backpackers wet t-shirt competition.

Walking down the road to the campsite everyone remained in high spirits. The Swedes decided to honour the night by strolling back with their bottoms out in full view, while singing some strange songs in their native language. Mark and myself entered the spirit by doing a straightforward rendition of the classic football anthem, “England, England, England…England, England, Engerlaaand…England, England, England… England…Engerlaaand…” And so on for the 20-minute walk back to the campsite where I crashed to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

CHAPTER 2 – THE BOAT TRIP

Despite my banging head following events of the previous night I was full of anticipation for our Whitsunday boat tour. After several cups of coffee I laboriously started the painful process of selecting what to pack in my bag for the trip.

After that chore was out the way came the most important aspect of our preparations: buying the alcohol. We had been told that we could only bring a couple of items each due to the shortage of space on board. Following some intense discussions about how to maximise our alcohol content we opted for a group strategy which covered all bases: three four litre goon boxes, three ten packs of Tooheys New, a one litre bottle of Bacardi and one litre of vodka, just in case we were running short. Julie did her own thing, as was generally becoming the pattern now, but if for any reason we got into trouble for exceeding the alcohol allowance we had instructed her to claim some of our goods as hers. “So you getting everyone’s drink for a party then?” the friendly shop assistant enquired. “No that’s for us,” Sam replied matter-of-factly.

After parking Stevo in a safe place nearby, we staggered over to the boat cruise reception by the harbour. A small gathering of anxious looking people barely uttering a single word had congregated close to the pontoon from where we would be leaving. Their nervousness seemed to exacerbate when we rocked up looking every inch the reprobates with our healthy supply of booze and dishevelled manner.

Once everyone had arrived - about 30 in total - we were allowed to finally climb aboard the boat where we were introduced to the various professionals who we had entrusted with our lives: the skipper, chef, diving expert and some other bloke with no apparent expertise, who was tagging along probably because he was mates with the others.

Looking around at the people I would be intimately spending the next 48 hours or so of my life with, stranded on a tightly contained vessel in the Great Barrier Reef, I observed that around a third of the group were English, with perhaps another third German, while the rest was a mixture of mainly European nationalities.

The chef – otherwise known as Shane, who also appeared to be the spokesman for the crew – had also picked up on this. “I see there’s a lot of Germans on board so let me make this very clear: on this boat we all speak in one language...and that is English ok?” he said emphatically. “We’ve had situations before where you guys only speak in German and end up being isolated from the group. It’s arrogant, it’s rude so let’s keep it in English ok?” From my point of view it seemed a completely reasonable request for the integration of this eclectic group of strangers – mainly between the age of 18 – 40 I would guess. Basking in the sunshine at the very outset of our journey I couldn’t help but smile at the Germans being singled out.

Nor was I alone in my thinking. A Scouser nearby must have seen my smirk or read my mind. “Maybe we should make them walk the plank blindfolded if they speak German,” he suggested cheekily.

“Yes but let’s wait until it’s dark,” I responded enthusiastically. An English couple standing nearby looked amused by our impromptu mocking. “Better not mention the war,” the vested individual added playfully. It had long been a favourite English past time to tease the Germans – something which was, let’s face it, not difficult to do – and would no doubt have happened anyway on this cruise, but with the ever popular Shane singling them out so publicly it had only served to encourage a free-for-all in our baiting. I sensed it could be an interesting journey.

With an American woman standing nearby as well, it all proved too much for the Liverpudlian and myself, as we were inevitably drawn into a discussion about the Second World War. “And as for the Yanks,” the Scouser continued after a healthy rant against the Germans and “surrender monkey” French, “all they did was come in and throw a few punches when the Germans were down on the floor and try and take all the credit.”

“Yeah and wasn’t the war from 1941 – 1945?” I added with a large dollop of sarcasm, referring to the Americans warped view of when the conflict started as opposed to when it actually began in 1939.

After some more war banter it was time to dump my luggage. I had been assigned a bed in the “singles room” on the lower deck, which meant walking through the “couples room”, banging my head on the low ceiling several times and narrowly avoiding bumping into people stood around deciding which bed to have. After choosing a top bunk bed, I climbed back up to the top deck, where there was a small kitchen area with an adjacent circular table that was the main inside sitting area. Most people were gathered outside at the front of the boat, with a scattering of others at the back where the boat crew were hanging out smoking roll-ups. Everyone’s booze had been stuffed into a large ice cooler at the front, which presented the obvious problem of knowing what stuff belonged to whom, particularly as almost everyone had bought the same four litre goon boxes and beer packs of Tooheys New. As if things weren’t already on a knife-edge with so many English and Germans on board, there was now further potential for conflict.

With real concerns among Mark, the Swedes and myself about losing out on our precious alcohol, we decided the best way to overcome our fear was by beginning drinking immediately, after all the sun was out, it was approaching mid-afternoon and we weren’t doing an activity until tomorrow so it seemed like the right time to start refreshing ourselves. With that happy thought we sparked open our cans, accidentally spraying those nearby, and toasted our journey as we cruised out to sea bypassing some of the 74 Whitsundays islands over the largest coral reef on earth.

There was a real buzz of excitement on board; a feeling of total freedom as we ploughed through the ocean with the wind and warm sun on our faces while knocking back cans of beer. The initial awkwardness of being on a vessel with total strangers had begun to subside and we had added a handful of recruits to our Anglo-Scandinavian axis: all were English, apart from one person, Ben, who was German. With a wrestler-type build, he was friendly and clearly liked a joke. But what really endeared us to him was the fact he had disowned the majority of Germans on board, particularly as they had not heeded Shane’s warning and were now sitting in a clique in the corner. “I talk to German people anytime but not now,” Ben announced firmly, casting a dismissive tone at his countrymen.

It was interesting listening to this loquacious but laid back beefy individual, seemingly on a one man effort to put his country in a good light after the anti-social behaviour of the rest on board. I found out things I never knew about Germany, like that it’s illegal to praise or support Hitler, or use such phrases as “Seig Heil”, as well as doing the salutations with the outstretched arm. Naturally at this point we egged him on to do the Nazi salute – “Go on Ben just once for us?” – but he wouldn’t budge and just smiled the requests off. I realised then how strongly they feel on the subject. Sam and Simon, feeling the affects of the beer, decided to re-enact the salute anyhow.

Soon, though, it was their turn to be abused. “Look at the great Swedish war fighters, who love to sit on the fence,” I said mockingly following Sweden’s neutrality in the Second World War.

“At least we fight,” Ben added scathingly, before turning on England. “You know mate, your football team is really bad.” It was a fair observation, though I felt obliged at this point to highlight that we had beaten them in a World Cup final and two World Wars. “You have a very strange country – schizophrenic I would say - full of posh people and also those who like to fight all the time,” Sam mocked.

“And you have an old lady running your country who does nothing. What a strange, strange country you come from,” Simon added, shaking his head with disbelief.

“Just remember you’re in a country now where the Queen is still head of state,” I hit back. “I suppose you have lots of countries around the world where your Queen is head of their country too? Does most of the world speak Swedish and German too?” Of course they had no answer to this.

Mark was unusually quiet and it soon became clear why: he had spotted a cruise ship nearby and had decided to entertain himself by pulling his shorts down, revealing his hairy backside to them. “We’ve got a full moon today,” he sniggered like a teenager sticking his bum out the window of a school coach at passing motorists. It wasn’t long before there was a row of white buttocks reflecting in the late afternoon sunshine, ruining the delightful voyage of the passengers across the water.

Things continued in the same vein as light turned to darkness. I went to the back of the boat – which was now quiet after the engine had been turned off – and began mingling with the some of the crew, sharing a few beers. As I listened to the skipper – a rosy-cheeked bearded man of a discerning age who was constantly rolling up joints and recalling tales from yesteryear - I suddenly felt like I was in the Jaws film when they got drunk and started singing that crap song about wanting to “go home”. The boat was swaying ever so slightly from side to side in a rhythmical motion, adding to the serenity of the moment, as everyone kicked back and listened to Popeye, or whatever the skipper’s name was. All that we needed now was for a giant shark to appear from the blackness below and start munching on innocent victims – preferably a few of the Germans, after all, no one would have missed them.

Not one to ever feel completely safe from the wildlife in Australia, I asked Popeye – the name I had now officially assigned him – if he knew of many shark attacks on humans in the area. As soon as I asked the question I regretted it, especially as we were going snorkelling the following day. “The most recent one,” he began. It was not the opening I had hoped for, with the seeming implication that ferocious shark attacks were a run of the mill thing in these parts that no one batted an eyelid over. I could hardly say I was surprised, just disappointed to know the truth, as where possible I like to employ the tactic of burying my head in the sand.

“Yeah so the shark took her under and had a real go at her,” Popeye continued, with a kind of disturbed relish, as he stared menacingly into my eyes. “But she started punching it, over and over again until it gave up and swam off. She was lucky. Some woman though.”

Too right, I thought. “She must have been the bionic woman,” I said, still slightly dazed from learning of the incident.

“Oh yeah she was a feisty one.”

“But it didn’t happen near here did it?” I asked more in hope than expectation.

“Wasn’t far away at all, as it goes. But you’ll be all good…we don’t normally get that many attacks, not considering how many sharks we have out here anyway.”

I paused momentarily, confused at what he meant. “So you don’t normally have many incidents but you do sometimes? Is that what you’re saying?” I’ve never been a fan of the word “normally” and none more so than at that precise moment in time.

He sucked in some smoke and turned towards me. “Well you can never be sure but even the rescue guys said she was unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time.”

Umm. How I loved the reassuring Australian logic. It really didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was “unlucky” and in the “wrong place at the wrong time”. I could accept the “unlucky” argument to a point. But to use that as an explanation to reassure us felt like encouraging a friend to go on a date with an axe murderer – “Oh go on, he seems nice enough, he’s only killed two people that we know of” – and then turning around and saying she was a bit unlucky when found with an axe in her skull: “It’s a shame but she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” the friend would say afterwards, before adding, “Oh well, nothing we can do about it now.”

After downing a couple more beers in quick succession to numb the reality of the painful interlude with Popeye, I retreated to more normal surroundings at the front end, which by now was virtually empty with most people, surprisingly, calling it a night except the Swedes, Mark and Ben. Grasping the opportunity with both hands, we all took a liberated pee into the sea – causing a not insignificant level of splattering, such was the distance the urine travelled before splashing into the water – and retired to bed, not wanting to feel too ill for the next day’s activities.

When I woke up my cabin was empty. I had indulged myself with something of a sleep-in, but on climbing to the top deck, where there was an assortment of breakfast dishes appetisingly spread across the table, I discovered it was only 10am. I got a bacon roll and some coffee and went outside and found a spot. It was another scorching day, though the heat from the sun was not helping my dehydration levels. The Germans were congregated in the corner, all looking sprightly and ready for action after an early night to bed.

Then Mark appeared, looking every inch like a man who had consumed a healthy selection of beers and cheap wine the night before. “If I was you mate,” he announced, holding his stomach as I tucked into my juicy roll. “I wouldn’t go in the bog for a while. I don’t know what colour the stuff was that came out of my arse but it wasn’t pretty. And it fucking stinks in there.” Only half way through my roll and I’d suddenly lost my appetite.

“Well thanks mate for the heads-up, really appreciate that,” I replied with scathing sarcasm, suddenly getting an urge to projectile vomit in his face.

“Only good thing was the look on that fat German guy’s face when he opened the door. Never seen someone turn around so quickly.”

And with that delightful thought I went and got some water. We were on the move again and were speeding between the glorious Whitsundays islands, which were exotic and mysterious looking, the kind where you could imagine Lord of the Flies taking place – deserted landscapes untouched by human nature in the middle of the ocean. Some were tiny and bare, while others towered over us, taking a number of minutes to get from one end to the other, and had steep mountainous characteristics with trees bunched together.

After a while we stopped adjacent to one of the bigger islands where we were transported by dingy onto shore to do some exploring and check out the beaches, which we were told had the purest sand in the world. So good for you, in fact, that you could brush your teeth and wash your hair with it. I fully intended to test this theory out.

With the very real threat of deadly box jellyfish for the time of year, we all had to put a wetsuit on. I can’t say I was particularly delighted at having to wear a skin-tight outfit that would leave my manhood squashed. But the alternative of being stung by one of the world’s most venomous creatures and suffering an agonizing death left me with little choice. As another first for me, I unwittingly put it on the wrong way and before anyone noticed I was on the dingy making my way to the island. It meant that I had the zip on the front rather than the back, which I found far more beneficial because I could actually reach it there and do it up to the top, while the others wrestled with their hands over their shoulders trying to pull it up, or worse still, had to rely on someone else to do it for them.

To reinforce this point that I was right and they were all wrong, I pulled Mark’s zip down, sat back and watched him struggle to pull it up again in front of everyone, before he finally conceded and got someone else to do it (naturally I had refused his requests). “Does poor little Mark need some help doing his zip up? What a shame, maybe when you’re a big boy you’ll be able to do it all by yourself,” I told him, while rubbing his head gleefully.

I had also clocked on to the other benefits of having my wetsuit round the wrong way. With the zip easily accessible it allowed me to play with it in a seductive manner, as if cheekily about to strip-tease by slowly pulling the zip down, revealing my hairy nipples and bare flesh along the way. I resisted calls to go the whole way and peel off the lower half of my suit out of respect to the others, who I didn’t want to feel inferior.

When we arrived on the island and had removed our wetsuits we made our way up a pathway into the forest. Cautiously placing one foot in front of another in case a killer spider or snake jumped out from a bush, I did my best to absorb the natural habitat, noticing several lizards along the way while wondering what strange bird or reptile was making the incessant screeching noise coming from above me. After a time of walking around winding uphill pathways in the dark, we came out into the daylight where we encountered an incredible view from way up high overlooking miles of miniature islands made up of bright white sand. After the customary photo shoot at this idyllic lookout, we sauntered down wooden zig-zag paths onto the beach.

Following a quick jousting battle with some rather large planks of wood – England versus Sweden, in which the Swedes lost – we walked out to the spit and did our best to get in the background of some postcard standard photos that people were taking; many of which, unfortunately for those afflicted, would be tainted by a pair of pale buttocks or someone clasping a phallic shaped stick near their genitalia.

We continued along the beach before coming to the end of the spit where most of the others from our boat were either standing on the waters edge or knee high in the blue waters with wetsuits on. After forcing our straightjackets on we ambled into the sea. I decided now was the time to test out the cleansing qualities of this crystal white sand and grabbed a handful of wet slime, and then using my forefinger began vigorously rubbing my teeth. I was determined to capitalise on this wonderful opportunity to whiten my teeth - and all without having to pay a small fortune to do so.

The others soon saw the merits of my endeavour and joined in, scrubbing as hard as possible. I didn’t know if it was doing any good – and for all I knew the crew members may have been lying about its qualities – but I didn’t let that deter me and whacked a large dollop on my head and began working it into my scalp. I had that disgusting salty taste in my mouth and sand in my eyes, but it all felt worthwhile as I indulged myself in my bid for purification. I happened to glance over in the direction of the group and noticed many of the Germans casting quizzical looks in our direction, as if they were thinking it long overdue that the men in white coats take us away. “Those Germans sure know how to have fun,” I joked and offered them a thumbs-up, before continuing my luxurious lathering.

Bravely, we then ventured further out into the sea, going shoulder deep about 20 meters from shore – double the distance of anyone else in the water. I’m not sure what had come over me – perhaps the exhilaration of all that cleansing – but I had put any fearful thoughts of ocean monsters momentarily to the back of my mind as we fooled around in the sea. Coming on the blind side of Mark I pushed a tidal wave of water into his face, sparking a heated four-way water fight that quickly developed into a sand fight, which inevitably descended into a “who can lob wet sand on a German game and make it look like an accident”.

Suddenly there was a commotion coming from those at shore – and it was nothing to do with the blitzkrieg of sand bombs pummelling them. Stopping our game we looked at each other blankly. “Maybe they’re surrendering,” Sam noted. The shrieks were bordering on hysterical but it was hard to know why they were making such a noise. I thought it was just native chatter, after all the Germans do sound like they are chewing on wasps when talking. And then came a deafening roar in my ear. “Shark…it’s a fucking shark,” Mark yelled, before making a beeline for the land with Sam.

“Typical Mark, always being a retard,” Simon shrugged, with his trademark shake of the head, as we both stubbornly stayed put not believing the hype. After all, no one was going to make us look stupid, least of all Mark – we’d never hear the end of it. “I’ve never seen him move that fluffy body so quickly,” I added, as we both chortled.

But then, looking out to sea, about 30 metres in front of us we spotted what appeared to be a rather large fin circulating in the choppy waters. We sharply looked at each other and back out to sea, catching a further glance of the fin shaped object before it unnervingly disappeared. “I think we need to go now man,” Simon said, his naturally unflustered voice sounding ever so slightly terrified. Adrenalin had kicked in. My heart was almost bursting out of my chest as I cut through the water faster than an Olympic swimmer; all the while hoping my legs weren’t suddenly yanked in agonising fashion from my torso, as I valiantly splashed my way to safety before collapsing out of breath on the sand like a hero.

“Alright gay boy,” Mark laughed, pointing at me from above. “You should have seen the look on your face.”

I took in a few deep breaths and gathered myself, “I seem to remember you screaming like a girl and being the first one out after shitting yourself.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. It was probably only a big fish. I don’t get scared anyway.”

“Why have you got a brown stain on your wetsuit then?”

“It’s probably from your arse.”

We gingerly trudged back through the forest and waited patiently for the dinghy to take us back to the boat. After the quickest of washes in the toilet-come-shower it was time to have a celebratory beer having made it back in one piece. As we kicked back inside the cabin near the kitchen area where Shane was cooking, he confirmed what we already knew. “Yeah I’m sure it was a shark,” he said casually, as he chopped some vegetables. “But I don’t reckon it would have attacked you guys – they’re quite shy really.” Once again there was that element of doubt in his remark, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. And knowing the ultra laid back Australian attitude – where they were almost blind to danger, with these hostile creatures a normal part of daily life - I translated his comments as meaning there was every chance of an attack, which in anyone’s book was not good odds when swimming with a man eating fish with long razor sharp fangs. On top of this, it was difficult to take a man’s word as wholly credible when he thought a proven vicious predator of the ocean was “shy”.

Once the munching of sausages, mash and vegetables for dinner was out the way, the real drinking started. Everyone was in good spirits – well, everyone apart from the Germans, who remained in the corner looking depressed – and with all the beers soon gone we moved onto the infamous goon. With everyone’s alcohol mixed into the same giant cool box, people had long given up trying to figure out which stuff was theirs. And with our group being the biggest drinkers on the boat there was a fairly good chance we had been helping ourselves to goods belonging to others.

With a shrug of the shoulders we opened another four-litre box of the cheap wine and started playing the “mine game”, whereby in the midst of normal conversation you were not allowed to say the word “mine”. If you did then you had to drop down and do ten or twenty press-ups, or whatever was agreed. And it didn’t matter where you were. One time when playing a particularly heated game in Sydney I had to drop and do twenty in thick rush hour traffic while crossing a busy road; only just about making the safety of the pavement after holding up angry drivers, who had no choice but to wait for me to finish, despite the traffic lights having already changed to green.

Nobody was exempt from playing either, which added to the excitement as you got people who’d just joined your conversation, with no inkling of the game, ending up looking at everyone like they were slightly odd before being bulldozed by a frenzy of drunken obnoxious behaviour to the floor in abject humiliation. It was considered more preferable to look like a jerk and get down in the puke-ridden gutters in the middle of a busy city than face relentless shouting and pointing from a large group casting collective chants about your sexuality or manhood size.

It was surprisingly easy to utter that simple word “mine” too - particularly when you were me. As hard as I tried not to say it, the word would just slip out as naturally as an insult about Mark’s gorilla-like appearance. Obviously people set each other up, but it was amazing how regularly you ended up looking like a fool, despite constant reminders to yourself not to use the word. The best technique in snaring someone was to go for his drink, provoking an indignant and wholly spontaneous response. “Hey fuck off, that’s mine,” they would say, kicking themselves in disgust as soon as they said it, before the customary mass ridicule and work out.

And so it proved on the boat as we took it in turns – some more than others admittedly – to drop and do the press-ups or comply with whatever was demanded, including walking up and asking the German women if they shave their armpits, for example. The more you drank the harder it got to avoid saying the dreaded word, as people’s brains became scrambled. Apart from the immense enjoyment of seeing the self-proclaimed expert Mark mess up, there was also the pleasure in catching out Sam, who it has to be admitted had a natural talent for the game, making him something of a prized target. With his mental faculties holding together better than others it became all too obvious on occasions that we were attempting to weed him out. On the fourth time of “accidentally” picking up his drink and offering a knowing wink to others in the group, Sam declared enough was enough. “Steve, that drink belongs to me. I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh Sorry Sam, I thought it was mine.” Doh. And down I went. Again. The perfect example of an own goal.

Sam’s unblemished record remained as all those around him were dropping like flies, with the Germans in the corner looking at us like we were somehow even bigger morons than even they had first thought. Spirits were getting increasingly high by now and with an abundance of goon sacks in the cooler box, which were clearly not going to be drunk before the end of the night, Mark took it upon himself to dig out a few. Then, as if a magical idea had just come across him, he got his willing accomplice Simon to hold up the sacks like a red rag to a bull. Following a pause, Mark unleashed a solid right fist on the bag, prompting an explosion of goon across the top deck of the boat, before sniggering like a schoolboy, followed by an animalistic roar. “Beautiful…BEEEAAAUUUTIFUL,” he yelled. And so was born his catchphrase – a gentle mock of Australians’ overuse of the word, and one that would be employed in almost every sentence from here on, thanks to its annoyingly contagious affect on the rest of us.

The fun continued despite the floor soaking and the evil looks we – well, mainly Mark - were getting from the Germans. The game evolved with our group of spectators now turning into a posse of cheerleaders, banging our feet and hands on the wooden floors as Mark built up to smashing open another goon bag that probably belonged to one of the disgruntled Germans. “One, two, three,” came the shouts, before a well-connected shot perfectly split the bag in two spraying the wine everywhere, much to the delight of everyone, who all embraced in triumphant high-fives.

Simon grabbed two more goon sacks from the cooler. “Hey man do this now,” he urged, placing one on top of the other, challenging Mark to step up his quest of destruction by jumping on two instead of a mere punch. Despite his clear hesitancy, peer pressure dictated that he could not shy away from the task in hand, as he reluctantly accepted. Severely intoxicated and struggling to keep his balance, Mark, like a ballerina psyching herself up for a final tilt at an Olympic gold medal, stood adjacent to the bags and lined up the jump, clearly concerned about his landing position and the very real possibility he could end up on his backside.

After a few deep breaths and with everyone glued to watching this compelling drama, he sprung up into the air, as if in slow motion, before he came thudding down popping both bags - sounding like an explosive had just gone off - catapulting goon in every direction, and for some distance too. He let out another animalistic roar in sheer ecstasy at his feat. “It was never in doubt with your weight,” I said, as we all banged our cups together in celebration at this commendable act.

Although most people had long gone to bed this was the tipping point for some of the angry – and now noticeably wet – Germans. A particularly hostile one of their clan, who looked like a cage fighter, came storming over to Mark. “What the fuck you think you do?” came the robotic voice.

“What? Just having some fun mate,” Mark, a little taken aback by the sudden confrontation, said.

“We are not friends. You burst our drink and made us wet.

“Yeah sorry about that mate – collateral damage I’m afraid, just like in the war,” he giggled.

We all watched on with amusement as the German, who bore all the hallmarks of someone on steroids with eyes popping out of his head, looked like he was ready to kill Mark. “What did you say?” he said angrily, stepping into our friend’s personal space, while looking down his nose at him. “Don’t mention the war ok? You English are all the same.”

“Back off mate, just cos we beat you.” And just as Mark was about to get his head ripped off by the raging beefcake, Ben swung into action, standing as a physical barrier, before counselling his compatriot in their native tongue.

Although I only knew a handful of German words, it was quite clear to me what the general gist of the conversation was. “I’m going to kill that English wanker,” the angry German was saying, or words to that effect.

“He’s drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing. Plus he’s English, you know what they’re like,” Ben, attempting to calm things, was more than likely saying.

“He does anything else then I will kill him. And then once he’s dead I will eat the flesh off his body and throw his carcass into the ocean,” the angry German probably warned.

“Ok fair enough,” Ben agreed, before ushering his apoplectic countryman away to safety.

After a few hairy minutes of us wondering if the German would give in to his obvious desire of savaging Mark, he somehow managed to restrain himself and strode past with his entourage, offering only a murderous glance on his way to bed. “Those fucking Germans can’t take a joke can they?” Mark exasperatedly declared, before realising he had put his foot in it. “Oh sorry Ben, didn’t mean you mate.”

“That’s ok, but you know he wanted to kill you,” Ben said, appearing as though he was telling the truth.

“I don’t think they appreciated you jumping on their goon sacks and spraying them,” Sam added, with masterful understatement.

“Typical Mark, always being a retard,” Simon joyfully remarked.

Mark paused before attempting to defend himself, “Hang on a minute, you lot were all encouraging me.”

Simon shook his head. “Yes that’s right Mark: just blame everyone else for your mistakes.”

Sam laughed, before adding, “You were lucky he didn’t eat you.”

“Typical Swedes: running away at the first sign of trouble, just like in the war,” Mark fired back, before trying to point the finger at me for not stepping in.

“I was on a diplomatic mission apologising to the other Germans for your behaviour,” I replied, palming off the allegations. As poor Mark was left shaking his head in confusion that we had all blamed him for the conflict, we unleashed the customary pee off the boat and called it a night.

The next morning I eventually climbed from my bed gingerly, feeling as though someone had been pounding my head in my sleep – I suspected the German but concluded it was probably the drink – went upstairs and knocked back several strong cups of sweet coffee. The rest of the group were up there, apart from Mark. Word had spread around the boat of the previous night’s incident and there was no mistaking the icy atmosphere on the boat. “I heard World War Three nearly broke out last night,” an English backpacker remarked.

“We’ll take them down again if needs be,” another added. It seemed the whole event – not something that you would normally expect to happen on a pleasure cruise – had served to create a real camaraderie amongst the English, while deepening the divide with the Germans.

We reflected with genuine fondness on the enjoyable night we had all had, while pointing and sniggering whenever the brooding presence of the angry German came into our view from across the boat. “I think Mark needs to keep away from him today,” Ben observed.

“Typical Mark, always hiding away from a problem,” Simon said, as we all enjoyably began to mock our friend, the only person still asleep downstairs, who was conspicuous by his absence. As men frequently do on such occasions we took the opportunity to do something childish in honour of Mark’s performance and elected to write in large block capital letters on the white board adjacent to the lower deck stairs and kitchen area, which no one could miss, that “MARK IS SORRY”. This provided great amusement to us all, not least because it highlighted the whole sordid episode to everyone on board, who if they hadn’t heard the story by now – or even if they had for that matter – we would then inform them with graphic relish, letting them know exactly who Mark was and what a disgusting individual he was for his despicable behaviour.

Following a lengthy period of time our friend finally showed his face upstairs, where he was met with a healthy sarcastic cheer, before he quickly ducked out and went to the toilet having barely uttered a word. He remained elusive for a while after that, perhaps wanting to keep a low profile following his shameful actions. A short while later, though, we had our diving expedition and those who were going deep sea diving, as opposed to snorkelling, had to go to the back of the boat. Only a handful of people had chosen this option, including Mark, giving him a chance to escape the heat he was facing and no doubt reflect underneath the tranquil ocean of his misdemeanours.

Fortunately for him only one German was going down, though I did warn my friend that he should keep an eye out just in case his nemesis attempted to sabotage the air supply by passing on orders to his compatriot. I wished Mark all the best and said it had been interesting knowing him before heading to the front of the boat where I joined up with everyone else who was snorkelling.

Once again we had to pull on the wetsuits – which I kept the wrong way round as before – and made our way by dingy to a small corner of beach from which point we would be making our way into the sea. A large area had been marked out by buoys where we could explore the glorious Great Barrier Reef underwater tropical life. With some of the tales from Popeye about shark attacks still ringing in my ears I was hardly a bundle of joy, thanks to my recurring thoughts of being eaten alive. After all, I could be the “unlucky one” Popeye referred to, who just so happened “to be in the wrong place at the wrong time”. I vowed never to get friendly with staff on such voyages again, as you only get to hear things you don’t want to, and by the very nature of these people they enjoy nothing more than adding a rather large bucketful of fantasy to their nautical adventure tales. Sadly these cannot be disproved either, therefore leaving you with the lingering suspicion that it may actually be true.

Nonetheless, I sought pointless reassurance this was a safe area once again, to which, unsurprisingly, this was confirmed. “Safe as anywhere. You’ll be good,” came the less than emphatic response. We got to the beach where it emerged that I faced another obstacle: working the snorkel correctly. After being told how to use the device, with a couple of demonstrations thrown in for good measure, everyone was enthusiastically off into the ocean and almost out of sight while I struggled to get my breathing apparatus functioning.

Fortunately, to spare my blushes, there was another group on the beach, which saved me from looking like the only one marooned ashore. Trying to pretend I knew what I was doing, in case anyone was watching me, I fiddled about agitatedly, before somehow finally strapping it onto my head and dunking my head under the shallow surface. Things had gone well for about three seconds when I came up spluttering with a mouthful of vile salty water. After several more hideous gulps, and just as it appeared everything was finally in working order, water began seeping in through the goggles, which in any case had about the same visibility as a frosty car windscreen, thus defeating the whole purpose of risking my life to go snorkelling anyway. Recalling the advice we had been given I spat several times into the goggles, which to my shock helped clear some of the fog, and then to my own incredulity, I was off scouring the depths of this magnificent ocean. It was a truly odd yet bizarrely liberating experience as I bobbed along the water surface like a toad.

Not wanting to be alone and exposed, though, in case a shark was lurking nearby, I quickly headed for the nearest group, so at least my chances of being ripped apart were diminished by the presence of others, of whom hopefully one would bare the brunt of any possible attack rather than myself. I felt an enormous sense of relief when I finally pulled-up alongside the collection of strangers and began to marvel at some of the sights beneath me. Lots of bright coloured fish - all shapes and sizes - of which I, of course, had no clue of their name, swimming freely just feet from us.

Once I came up above the surface, someone was frantically gesticulating to look below. Although he looked like he had overdosed on caffeine, it wasn’t a petrified signal so I remained relatively relaxed and went under the water where I saw one of the ugliest creatures you could hope to see – and it wasn’t one of the Germans. It had an angry look on its face – the type I guess you would inevitably get if you too had no choice but to spend your entire existence on your own swimming around a giant ocean aimlessly, forgetting what happened more than seven seconds ago. With a flat face and scary kind of gaze it clearly wasn’t the kind of fish to take any prisoners and despite being half my body size I miraculously didn’t feel threatened and clearly neither did he. Then again, I was hardly a picture of menace with my flippers on my feet and my geeky goggles on my head, while flapping about like a fish out of water.

I continued to drift through the deep ocean, staring at the strange selection of fish while always ensuring I was close-by to others. Glancing out to sea I noticed the occasional idiot floating nowhere near to anyone else. Such recklessness deserved a limb to be removed by a hungry shark, I thought. I continued along the water surface in a trance-like state, occasionally spotting the Swedes or Ben, offering each other a single finger salute or some other gesticulation as a pleasantry while motioning past on my one-man odyssey through the waters.

After some more time staring in morbid curiosity at the sea creatures beneath me and sensing my luck would inevitably run out on the shark front, I decided to make for the shore, glancing behind me and to either side just to make absolutely certain I wasn’t being stalked by a Great White, before propelling myself forward without daring to look back.

When getting back on the boat I removed my straitjacket of a wetsuit and caught some sun in a bid to help dry myself and get my wrinkly skin, that bore the appearance of a 95 year old, back to normal as I soaked up the remainder of the voyage on route back to Airlie Beach.

The eerie tension on the boat, suggesting World War Three may yet have broken out following the previous night’s escapades, helped to brighten my mood, especially as Mark was at the centre of the drama. As we pulled into shore people got their belongings and scrambled to get off the boat as quickly as possible, with many of the Germans exhibiting signs of severe mental torture – a refreshing change from history, some would argue.

We had all been informed of an after party at a bar on the main strip in the evening which appealed to the Swedes and myself as we would once again be able to take the opportunity to ridicule Mark in public. Naturally, we had provisionally told everyone we would be there but after finally climbing off the boat and locating Mark, who had skulked off shamefully to avoid any further public repercussions from his drunken antics, he insisted we hit the road that afternoon or be in danger of missing our next adventure tour further down the east coast three days later. His mind, it seemed, had also been made up after he confessed in privacy to me about receiving a blow job from one of the German ladies on board – if indeed she was a female, with her bearing the striking resemblance of a man. Naturally, I passed on the information to the Swedes, whose faces lit up at the revelation.

Despite none of us believing Mark’s excuse for wanting to leave and knowing the truth that he merely wanted to avoid further humiliation, we quickly became aware that our friend would not be joining us under any circumstances. Added to this we were all feeling about as life-like as a corpse following our heavy drinking sessions and, for once, weren’t too bothered about another night drinking.

CHAPTER 3 – BEHIND THE WHEEL

After an eventful boat trip we were once more back on the open road making our way down Queensland. We had barely been driving for half an hour when Mark, looking close to falling asleep, asked if I could take the wheel. Feeling tired, I politely declined his invitation and let him continue having sole responsibility for all our lives. Conversation was at a premium too with nobody having enough energy to mutter more than a few words at a time. Thankfully, though, we had the music to occupy us, which included the Bay Watch theme tune, which I had on repeat until the others finally noticed after half an hour.

Following less than two hours driving, Mark announced he could go no further and pulled into a shopping centre car park in Mackay to get some food and replenishments. We wearily made our way up the escalator and stumbled about before coming across a greasy fast food chicken place, which had to rank among the worst food in Australia. We sluggishly dropped by a supermarket before heading back to the car.

By now Mark was pleading with me to do some of the driving and noticing just how gaunt he was looking I found a sense of empathy for him and reluctantly accepted the invitation. “Just don’t kill us all,” came the helpful confidence booster from Simon in the back.

“Yes…I have much more drinking to do in my life before I die,” Sam added. I assured them they were in safe hands before momentarily going the wrong way down a one-way street.

Having successfully navigated my way through the town centre and a myriad of traffic lights and roundabouts, we were once again making our way through the bush. I grew into my role as driver and apart from when heading down hill, always made sure I had my foot to the floor as we meandered through a series of winding steep roads at the 130kmh speed limit. We would have had to offload a fair chunk of luggage and perhaps some of the passengers to be able to break the speed limit in this piece of crap machinery.

A short time after giving myself a metaphorical pat on the back for doing such a fine job by slowly but surely heading towards our destination, while keeping everyone alive, I noticed the thermometer gage had suddenly turned to red. Thinking it was better to keep this to myself I motored ahead, hoping the problem would resolve itself. My feet were beginning to feel hot from the engine and I began to suspect the problem wouldn’t go away before my worse fears were confirmed as smoke started flooding out of the engine.

“I think we better pull over, “ I mumbled softly to the rest of the car, who had been in ignorant bliss while either snoring heavily or in a zombie hangover world of their own. “What the fuck have you done?” Mark, looking up to see a cloud of smoke, barked dismissively, as if it was my fault.

“I think you’ll find the problems lie with your shit car rather than my perfectly good driving,” I hit back righteously.

Mark shook his head, “Funny how we never had this problem when I was driving.”

“That’s because you drive like a girl.”

“You look like a girl with your red shirt on.”

“Better than looking like you with your one-brow.” And with that I pulled over into a lay-by with thick smoke smog now preventing me from seeing the road ahead.

After pulling up Mark opened the bonnet with a gust of warm smoke nearly throwing him to the floor like he had been caught up in a hurricane. I stood slightly back, offering an intense look of concern while offering the false demeanour of someone who may be of some use in our crisis. Rubbing my chin thoughtfully, as if to be devising a plan of action, I then walked off and urinated on a tree. Before long everyone had gathered away from the car in an area looking down on a large mountainous landscape as Mark waited for the car to cool while attempting to wave down any vehicles that might come by.

Twilight was beginning to set in and a degree of anxiety was in the air, as reality kicked in that we may be stuck in the wilderness for the night with nothing more than deadly Australian wildlife to keep us company. Just when I had mentally prepared myself for a night in the car, a lorry, as if my miracle, suddenly appeared from nowhere and pulled over. A bearded fellow climbed out and gave Mark some water to hydrate the engine with, as well as offering an unusual solution to the problem that involved egg yoke. “Works every time,” the man said confidently, before winking and climbing back in his lorry. The engine then remarkably began to function again.

We were soon on our way again. “Best if you leave the driving to me now,” Mark announced with a large hint that the breakdown had been my fault.

“I think this is a good idea,” Sam, twisting the knife in further, added. And so my driving down the east coast of Australia with the wind in my hair and sun on my driving arm had come to an abrupt halt - lasting all of two hours. But at least one day I could tell my grandchildren that I had done it.

We made off with me now relegated to the back seats, as if to keep me as far away from the wheel as possible, while also serving as a kind of slap in the face for allegedly causing the vehicle to go up in smoke. As I climbed into the back seat I was met with playful patronising looks as I was offered false sympathy for my apparent part in the car breaking down. “It’s going to be really dark now by the time we find a campsite tonight, if we are lucky enough, but I don’t want you blaming yourself Steve ok?” came the overly sarcastic voice of Simon, before he gently patted my shoulder as a show of mock solidarity. Even Julie, now in the front, muttered something in her thick Scottish accent before laughing. Naturally none of us understood it.

To add to my woes it began to rain – pretty heavily – which only served to pour petrol on a burning fire as far as the car-blaming incident went. “Look what you’ve done now Steve. It’s dark, it’s wet and we still have no place to stay,” Simon continued, his humour revealing a genuine tiredness at endless driving, hoping we would triumph and miraculously find a campsite somewhere. Even the map appeared to be letting us down, with it showing the symbol for various sites, which never materialised on the road. Vision wasn’t great by this point either, with Mark now having the windscreen wipers on maximum. I was often surprised he could see at all with his giant bushy one-brow engulfing his forehead.

I had become the scapegoat in the car and the longer the search went on the worse and more frequent the abuse got towards me. “You know Steve that even if Mark breaks an arm and a leg then me and Sam will take the wheel before you from now on,” Simon, sticking the boot in further, added disparagingly.

“We will even let Julie drive the car before you,” Sam jested.

Mark, looking weary and serious, made his feelings clear, “I will need someone else to drive at some point so it will have to be Julie, as she’s got a UK licence.”

Feeling indignant having come under mounting and wholly unfair criticism, I was forced into defending my good reputation. “If your car wasn’t such an old pile of crap that had driven round Australia thousands of times then we wouldn’t have had this problem,” I hit back.

Eventually, as things became even more tetchy, we found a campsite, much to everyone’s delight. None of us had any idea where we were but who cared? We were no longer destitute and could rest. After performing the usual trick of just two of us approaching reception we were informed there was a cabin we could stay in for $20, which seemed a lot of money for a shit-hole. We made our way in the pouring rain across the murky grass, past scattered cabins and rusting portable homes before finding our sanctuary for the night.

With soaking wet feet from the giant holes in my trainers I was a relieved man to finally get out of the tropical storm after Mark had finally got the key to work. After climbing up the steps and into the shelter it was immediately apparent there was only one bed. A chair and a shelf were the other notable features of this dump. No television, no kettle, no power points. Nothing. But yet despite the minimalist accommodation I felt deeply content. Perhaps, though, this owed more to being out of the car and soaking up the luxury of having some space to rest while the rain smashed against the roof like pump action machine gun bullets.

Unfortunately we still had to blow up the airbed. Feeling tired after my exertions, though, I left this task to Mark and Sam and quickly claimed a spot on the vacant bed, which I felt myself nestle comfortably into before drifting off into a deep warm slumber as those around me rushed about to get ready for bed.

As I opened my eyes the next morning I glanced over my shoulder and noticed I had occupied a substantial portion of the double bed that I had been sharing with Simon and Mark – who were squeezed into less than half of the area. Still, I had slept well, which in these circumstances is all you can hope for, though I’m not sure the others slept quite as well. Feeling pleased with myself I made the walk across the grass to the washing area with the sincerest of intentions to shower but after seeing the filthy cobweb ridden state of the facilities - and fearing a deadly Black Widow spider or something similar was lurking - I decided I would forgo this particular luxury and simply opted to put in my contact lenses and brush my teeth quickly before getting out. I also managed a much needed change of underwear, which gave me a spring in my step.

We boiled some water before knocking back a few coffees with toast and then shoved our stuff into Stevo and left the dreary cabin. We drove off from the desolate site with the conditions cloudy and drizzly but much improved from the previous night’s storm battering. It had been decided we would be stopping off at a place a few hours away called Emerald to dig for gold and silver.

We pulled up at some sparse place with a collection of huts and an adjoining building later that afternoon and paid $10 each for the privilege of sifting through mountains of wet mud in the vague hope of finding pearls. Simon, as a jeweller back in Sweden, was taking particular interest in the activity and with great concentration started the process of getting a load of dirt on his sieve before dunking it into a water basin and then shaking it about vigorously hoping to unearth a gem. Everyone was soon at it – even me. After studiously watching the process I then boldly decided to join suit and begin my futile quest for treasure.

In amongst the copious amounts of wet sludge I came across some sparkly colourful bits, which I was informed could be used in jewellery. I, along with everyone else, amassed several of these shiny pieces but after about half an hour of getting wet and muddy with no prospect of hitting the jackpot, I decided to call it a day and made my way to the bar area to order a well deserved hot chocolate and scone.

Tucking in to my cream and jam treat I barely noticed as it started pelting it down with rain once more. It was only when it felt like the outdoor shelter to the bar area was about to collapse that I really took notice having been in a world of silent pleasure filling my face. Water started flooding the courtyard so I decided to take the opportunity of forcing down another scone knowing that we were not going anywhere for a while. “There’s gonna be havoc with the rain this summer, you mark my words,” the lady owner mystically asserted as she looked up at the heavens. None of us knew how devastatingly accurate she would be.

Once the rain had eased off we took the opportunity to set off and head for the nearest campsite – finding one quicker than expected in just over an hour. Having hastily pitched up our tents in the light rain we decided to get an early night so we could be on the road early the next day.

I awoke sharply the next day with my backside and top completely wet from where I had been sleeping in a puddle. In bed with Mark, though, I had naturally assumed he had either wet himself or played a practical joke on me. In any event, I felt like you do when you’re a child after wetting yourself during the night, before waking up with that unmistakably damp and uncomfortable feeling in your pants the next day, somewhat regretful of the previous night’s lazy indulgence when you opt to let the warm pee flow out rather than go to the toilet. “Gutted…you forgot to put your nappy on again last night didn’t you?” Mark sniggered, as he rolled over, happily spotting my wet patches. Desperately wrestling to get my soaking wet t-shirt off I then made my way to the showers, only to be met with a trickle of warm water as I attempted to cleanse myself after another filthy night spent roughing it. I never thought it possible, but I was beginning to long for the luxury of a hostel.

I tried to lift my spirits by reminding myself that later in the day we would be arriving at our intended destination, Hervey Bay, in preparation for our Fraser Island adventure tour. After our tight rations of bread and black coffee with no sugar for breakfast, we set off with Julie at the wheel after she had enthusiastically offered to drive.

It was a bitter pill for me to swallow, though. It was official: I had been usurped as the car’s reserve driver. And by a slightly annoying Scottish girl shaped like a duck, who no one could understand. This was like a dagger through the heart for me and I could tell from the smug look on Mark’s face that he knew as much, especially as it was a kind of vindication in his warped view that the fault for Stevo breaking down lay with me rather than his knackered vehicle.

As we set off I lent forward from my vantage point in the middle back seat and demonstrated tunnel vision focus to the driving skills of Julie. “Umm I think you wanted to indicate there didn’t you?” I gladly pointed out.

We continued through a small derelict looking ghost town. I maintained a studious eye on Julie’s every move, like an imperious driving inspector in a bad mood who is determined to fail their subject. “Ok you’re in the wrong lane, you need to get into the outside lane right now,” I insisted, as we made our way down a dual carriageway.

“Yes ok thanks Steve.” At least that’s what I think she said.

I glanced at the Swedes and shook my head, “Female drivers.”

Sam and Simon didn’t need a second invitation. “You know what you’re doing Julie?” Sam gently mocked.

Simon looked up, “Please just look at the road Julie we don’t want to die.”

I admired the blatant fickleness of the Swedes and knew that you could always rely on them to support you in targeting someone, as they weren’t the type to pass up an opportunity of inflicting abuse and ridiculing an individual when they were down. And now I wasn’t driving I was no longer the hunted, allowing us to join forces in the back and continue our three-pronged attack on those in the front. “Good to see the children are awake in the back,” Mark said chirpily and pumped up the volume of the music to drown us out.

“You can never trust Mark,” Simon hit back, shaking his head.

“I just feel sorry for the ladies he goes for,” Sam said. “You should have seen one he pulled in Cairns. He was putting his life at risk getting into bed with her. We don’t get women like that in our country – she was like a freak of nature.”

All the while poor Mark was pretending to ignore us but we knew he could hear us - and that was the important thing. “He had a bit of a reputation in the hostel in Sydney too,” I enthusiastically continued. “It was like he had a fetish for farmyard animals.” I sensed a reaction, but to our surprise one never materialised. Nonetheless, we continued our ravaging of his reputation, which kept us occupied for a good few hours before we stopped for lunch at a picnic spot somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

Unfortunately for Mark the interrogation into his love life kept on coming. “So, with all these monsters do you go down on them or are they too smelly?” Sam asked curiously, kicking off the discussion around the picnic table. Again, nothing but the silent treatment, with Mark clearly attempting the boring mature trick of “rising above it”. The Swedes, however, continued the slating. “He’s so grateful he’ll do anything they want but I doubt he feels anything when he puts it in them with his little weener and their giant bucket,” Sam laughed.

“He was put on this earth to help please these women,” Simon continued, before concluding, “God would be so proud to see him doing such a good job.”

Finally Mark’s patience snapped. “Fuck off you lot, you’re all just jealous,” he said viciously. We felt a deep warm glow of satisfaction, the type that comes with finally getting a rise out of someone who, in all fairness, had proved a tough nut to crack. “Oh yes we’re so jealous of those beauties you get with. Next time maybe you can pass some on to me – I know there’s plenty to go round,” Simon said.

“We can put her on a spit roast like they do with those pigs and carve her up. We would never have to go hungry again,” Sam thoughtfully suggested.

“It makes him feel so good about himself to get these lovely ladies – the type he truly deserves. Mark might be a retard but if it makes him happy then we are happy for him too,” Simon added.

“Yeah well I bet I’ve shagged more than the lot of you out here,” Mark, now in full defensive mode, blurted defensively.

Simon shook his head gloomily, “Yes and we all bet you have too. Plus you’re probably counting three for each time you do one of yours.

“You can’t count all the men you’ve been with either,” I chipped in. Mark rolled his eyes.

After our enjoyable lunchtime natter I made my way to the toilet while the rest washed and put away the food apparatus in the car. “You going looking for some old man to fiddle?” Mark, who was frantically washing up all the cups and plates with the demeanour of an old woman, joked. As I returned from the conveniences I carried a plastic container to the car, which I then handed to Mark with a smile before climbing into my newly designated spot in the back of the car. I could see why the Swedes liked it there so much, with its complete lack of responsibility. No longer did I have to constantly manage the music selection or advise on which road to take having painstakingly studied the map. I could now just kick back and relax. Within minutes I was asleep and by the time I woke up we had arrived at Hervey Bay.

CHAPTER 4 – HERVEY BAY

We pulled up at the resort and wearily climbed out Stevo like the bunch of nomads that we were. Making our way to reception to check in we were handed a plastic cup, bowl and plates, before being ushered in the direction of our eight bed dorm, as if prisoners settling into a term of incarceration. Mark and myself were split up from the Swedes having booked the tour separately, while Julie was fittingly on her own.

Walking along the path between the giant palm trees I spotted an appealing swimming pool that was centrally located between all the rooms, with a few scantily clad people lapping up the sun. “I’d give her a bit of my tool,” Mark said predictably.

“I doubt she’d feel anything though?” I replied.

“She wouldn’t be able to handle the whole lot.” A strangely perverted look had begun to appear across his face.

“Yes I’m sure any girl would struggle to receive the whole two inches of your skinny dick.”

On entering our room I was impressed by its quality and size; there was a small kitchen area as well as a classy looking shower cubicle, which after living like a third world peasant for much of my time in Australia felt luxurious. “Bit better than that scummy hostel we were in Sydney,” Mark pointed out.

There was a young woman on one of the top bunks minding her own business while studiously reading a book before Mark, as was his way, steamed in and interrupted her without a second thought. “Alright, where are you from then?” he started abruptly, somewhat lacking in the James Bond charm department. “Bet she’s never heard that line before,” I said under my breath, as my friend continued to embarrass himself, banging out the old classic lines. “So where’ve you been? Where you going next? You like Sydney? You hate living in hostels? Yeah they’re crap aren’t they? You fancy coming out for a drink later? Can I shag you if I’m not too drunk at the end of the night?” That was the rough translation anyway.

As was the unwritten rule with travelling, you were obliged to make small talk with people you would never normally lay eyes on or want to associate with. It’s the sense of, “We’re all in this shit together,” kind of attitude that bonded people and provided ample opportunity for predators, like Mark, to try their luck on. Slightly startled, the girl appeared from behind her book to shyly acknowledge Mark. The woman, Sarah, a German, was sophisticated and well spoken with better English than most English people I had met on my trip, while Mark was wearing a Liverpool football shirt and had a cap on. She was everything that he was not. But here they were talking. No sorry, make that Mark was talking. Not for the first time on my travels I felt like David Attenborough as I watched with great interest at the interactions of polar opposite species mixing.

After the niceties we went out to the car to get some food from the cool box. As I squeezed the driver’s door handle, as is the traditional way of getting into a vehicle, I was surprised to look down and realise I was still clutching the device after it had come away from the car. “What the fuck have you done now you retard,” came the less than impressed voice of Mark, once again choosing to blame me rather than the vehicle.

“Don’t blame me, it’s your crap car that’s the problem,” I said indignantly.

“Things always go wrong when Special Steve’s about.” The blame game was heating up, prompting a quick fire response back from me. “I’ve seen better things down a pub toilet than this thing you like to call a car.”

It occurred to me that a healthy chunk of Mark’s frustration was the realisation that it would be he - and he alone - that would be left to resolve the loose door problem. I duly fulfilled this self fulfilling prophecy and wandered off, helpfully allowing my friend to mend the door by himself. I did return a while later and smiled to myself when I saw a look of anguish on his face as he tried to get the door to stay on its hinges. “You know what you look like?” I said cheerily, attempting to brighten the mood. There was no response, though I detected a slightly miffed look on his face, which I couldn’t understand as such things were surely to be expected with such a monstrosity. “You look like you are breaking into the car, especially with your Liverpool shirt and cap on,” I teased. Large groups of people were now congregating in the bar area ready for the introductory talk of our island trip. “Hurry up,” I added hastily and walked off.

The room was bursting with people and before long a pale faced middle-aged Aussie, who thought he was Bob Marley with dreadlocks down to his backside, marched into the room like a Sergeant Major and began his super quick no nonsense talk. Frightened of offending him, everyone listened intently as the marauding figure was at pains to point out that this trip was no longer what it used to be, due to the likes of us. “Thanks to your kind and the council clamping down on us we now have to baby sit you,” he began, frothing at the mouth like a werewolf, seemingly ready to throttle someone as it became abundantly clear he did not feel the need to try and impress us, the customers. “You don’t like it…we definitely don’t like it...but they are the rules now. We’d rather just let you lot get on with it but thanks to some smart arses that’s not possible anymore.” The menace in his face was real as he continued to spit venomously.

Personally affronted by the changes and the imposition of now having to work for their money, he continued his sinister speech. “In the past you guys would have your own four-by-four trucks but now we have to sit in with you and do most of the driving. Why is this you may wonder? Well, I’ll tell you why,” he continued, anger levels visibly rising as he scowled at his petrified audience. “It’s because some smart arses thought it would be a good idea to break the rules. One guy got behind the wheel when he was pissed out of his head with a gang of others and went for a spin. Unfortunately they went to an out of bounds section and he rolled the truck killing three people including himself. Not smart. Not smart at all,” he added chillingly.

As if that story wasn’t bad enough he continued to make his point and referred to another incident from just the previous week. “We had a guy go out into the ocean after a few drinks who ended up drowning. He would have been caught in the rip tide. His parents in America got a phone call telling them their son was coming home in a coffin. All because he didn’t follow rules and stay out of the sea.” It was horrific stuff and brought home the reality of how this adventure tour in paradise could easily turn into a nightmare.

Following the depressing speech we were put in random groups of around seven. These were the people we would be living with for the next few days, so I prayed those in my group wouldn’t have an aversion to soap and water. We did, though, have two female Scousers, Kate and Becky. In typical Liverpudlian fashion they were friendly and playful, though were not exactly the sharpest knives in the box. It took me a surprisingly longer than normal period to recognise where they were from. I put this down to being in a state of accent confusion due to the reality of hearing so many different forms of English; from Australian, American, to Canadian to name but a few, to the vast numbers of (mainly) European and South Americans all speaking the language in their own particular dialect. Then, of course, you have so many different accents in Britain itself, many of which, as I have already made clear, I would have had more chance of understanding a thick Arabic regional accent than them.

For the purpose of communication, give me a Swedish or Dutch person any day over someone from the far regions of England, Ireland, Wales or Scotland – like poor Julie for instance, who was simply impossible to understand at times. It had always baffled me how for one such small country many of us struggled to understand each other. It seemed a miracle that in bygone days during the Empire how we had managed to successfully mobilise the troops and communicate to one another.

Anyhow, the problem with all these different forms of English was that your mind could start to play tricks on you, leaving you utterly at a loss sometimes when attempting to decipher where someone was from. In the case of the Liverpool girls, with their hyper weasel voices that often left you rubbing your ears, I initially got it into my head they were from Eastern Europe. Then it occurred to me they could be German, as one had a reasonable amount of facial hair, while the other had shoulders like an American footballer. My cause wasn’t helped by the fact we had Sarah (the German female Mark had been chatting to in our room), a Swedish girl and a couple from Denmark in our group. Trying to make out the difference of accents wasn’t easy, especially when a room was noisy with excitable chat.

Taking the initiative in the conversation I boldly announced to the Scousers that I was from England, although I think they had already assumed this obvious fact, before I made a polite inquiry. “So whereabouts in Europe are you both from?” I asked curiously, anticipating an exciting cultural discussion with my European cousins about the city of their residence, be it Stockholm, Venice, Munich or some other fine place. I immediately felt something was lost in translation as they both looked at each other and then back at me before bursting into laughter, when realising my question was completely serious. “We’re from Liverpool…you know that place up in the north of England,” came the squealing, sarcastic voice of Kate. After confusedly pausing to take in this surprising reality, I steadied myself before offering a sincere apology. “Sorry about that, it’s so noisy in here you just can’t make out people’s voices.” My faux pas seemed to set the tone for the jovial mocking that flowed between them, myself and Mark, who had by now turned up.

An upbeat mood had been replaced by one of silent reflection after the talk as backpackers bore the look of people who had been promised a trip to Disney Land but now faced the reality of going to a concentration camp.

After getting our supplies for the trip from the only available shop nearby – which inevitably, much to my disgust, was heaving with travelling folk – myself, Mark and the Swedes walked down to the beach with body boards supplied by the hostel (at least we had assumed they were, before happily marching off with them) for an early evening dip in the ocean. Having cautiously dangled a toe in, I impulsively jumped backed, thanks to the freezing ocean. Slowly I ploughed my way through the choppy waves crashing into my torso. I hadn’t seen so many grown men sent flying while happily standing around in ankle deep water since I was in the south west of France on the Atlantic Ocean as a child.

Then, as on this occasion, it was difficult to not laugh at those individuals being tossed about like plastic dummies, particularly when they lost their shorts or bikini top, as happened to at least three people I saw. “Look, look you can see her baps,” Mark excitedly yelped, pointing at a large pair of female breasts that had suddenly become exposed.

“I thought you would be more interested in checking out that old boy’s package instead,” I replied, but I don’t think he heard me, as he stood staring open mouthed. Sam, meanwhile, had played the hero by very kindly fishing out the lady’s bikini top and handing it back to her while clearly fighting to keep the smirk off his face and the bulge in his shorts out of view.

As the embarrassed brunette lifted out an arm across the water to collect her top there was the inevitable sighting of some more nipple, which had been richly anticipated by the Swedes and Mark. “Yep, thought so,” Simon announced with the confidence of a seasoned pervert who specialises in breast watching, as he caught a further glimpse. “I was waiting for that too…lovely view I must say,” Mark added ecstatically. Even as the lady attempted to put her bikini back on, while struggling to cover herself, there was no let up in the ogling.

Had this happened in Spain or France where many women get their boobs out on the beach no one would really have batted an eye-lid but because she had fought to protect her privacy so hard, and with this unfortunate event taking place in Australia, where the ladies like to remain covered, the taboo of having her chest so vacant was all that was needed to be the highlight of the day for so many men on the beach.

We continued with our attempts at mastering the body boards, though invariably I would end up half way down the beach, out of the safe zone with my shorts wedged right up my buttocks like a razor thong, thus leaving the majority of my pale cheeks fully on display. All as the lifeguard would frantically gesticulate and blow his whistle urging me to move back to the safe area. I began to understand what the vicious tour operator had been on about earlier when he said the sea was rough in these parts. Though, apparently what we experienced in these waters paled into insignificance compared to the rip currents of the island.

After getting bored of using the body board as a float rather than as its intended purpose and growing tired of having tidal waves slapping us in the face, we decided to call it a day at the beach and headed back to the hostel where after a brisk shower we – or rather Mark - cooked up a sumptuous barbeque that we wolfed down with a few beers. Not too many, though, as we had to be up at six in the morning the following day, which for a backpacker was like getting up in the middle of the night.

The next morning came around quickly and desperate not to miss out on the pancakes, toast and coffee that was being supplied by the hostel I successfully wrestled myself out of bed and made my way to the bar area where breakfast was being served. Ensuring I got more than my money’s worth of food, I then sauntered back to my room with a pleasantly full stomach. I collected my stuff and made my way to the outside area from where we were leaving. After one final warning about safety and how to drive the truck – which I can safely say went right over my head – it was time to climb aboard our machines.

Sarah, bravely, had volunteered to do the first section of driving, though as it turned out this was the easiest part to do with the journey all being on road rather than sand. You just can’t take the rationality out of Germans. I felt a sense of foreboding come over me; if a girl was happy to do the driving then surely I should too? The truth was that I was perfectly happy to sit back and enjoy the ride while anyone else stupid enough to give themselves more work could get on with driving us about.

Also, if truth be told, I wasn’t overly excited about the prospect of reacquainting myself with driving a manual vehicle for the first time in nearly ten years, especially in a four-by-four on a steep and sandy landscape, having had the luxury of riding in automatics since passing my test (first time, of course) all those years before. And while common sense may not be my forte it did strike me that my getting behind the wheel was an even worse prospect bearing in mind I would be responsible for the lives of seven strangers in a machine that had some weird operating device that I had not heard being described how to use. At best, all I could see was acute embarrassment and at worse I could see several manslaughter charges having failed to negotiate the tricky terrain, or by getting caught in a swell and getting pulled out to sea.

As we sat in the back waiting to leave it became apparent that Mark had informed the Scousers of my reluctance to drive. “Oh Steve, you worried about driving? It’ll be alright,” Becky giggled. The more I attempted to bat away the questions the more they seemed to come back at me with more. “Are you one of those people who worries about everything?” Kate asked mockingly. Suddenly I went from minding my own business to being psychoanalysed in front of the entire truck. Even our guide, Brett, turned round from the front to offer me genuine reassurance. “You’ll be alright mate. If the girls can do it then I’m sure you can.” Mark and the Scousers were thriving on the pity being shown to me. As we rolled away from the hostel I knew it was only the start.

CHAPTER 5 – FRASER ISLAND

As our convoy made the short journey to the ferry crossing I breathed in a sigh of relief having successfully made the first leg of our trip. Once on board the ferry we watched as we slowly approached our exotic location, Fraser Island. After a 20-minute crossing we arrived on shore to a chorus of cheesy cheers from the excitable backpackers.

Once again we set off in our convoy as if part of some Desert Storm military operation. Bouncing along on the uneven beach with my head smashing against the steel door, we made our way across the picturesque island, with the glistening blue sea to one side and a tropical rainforest the other. Brett was giving a commentary on how to drive in the conditions. “You don’t want to over turn the wheel. These babies can roll pretty easily,” he said, much to the shock of his audience. “And it’s not a good idea to go through too much water. We have known idiots to attempt this, who have then watched as their trucks are pulled out to sea.” I began to think there was every chance I may not make it off this supposed tropical paradise.

After continuing the beach some more we then pulled over for what our guide aptly named a “piss stop” before changing drivers. Mark, frothing at the mouth, elected himself to get behind the wheel and was gearing up like a racing car driver. Setting off like a madman it was clear we were in for a hectic journey, jerking from side to side followed by last minute breaking and wheel spin accelerations after coming to a verge. Sat in the front I was left partially deaf as Mark, doing a fine impersonation of riding a bucking bronco, was manically tooting the horn. As we came to a standstill over a small edge where a stream of water was running through into the sea, Brett, sensing a possible hazard, suggested it was time to “go easy” in getting across. I don’t know why but I had a suspicion that Mark’s idea of playing safe may not have conformed to that of our guide. And suddenly, having floored the accelerator, causing my head to thrust back like I was in a rocket, we hurtled toward the stream and hit the water, leaving the windscreen barely visible with all the spray. “You call that going easy?” Brett blurted out in shock from the back, albeit jokingly, after we steamed through.

As our hazardous journey continued we sought comfort in mocking other vehicles in our convoy that had got stuck in the sand by highlighting their plight via raucously beeping our horn and offering an array of creative hand signals out the window, before smugly speeding off with no thought to help them. “See you later dick-heads,” went the shouts. We then pulled up on the beach and waited in turn as one by one the vehicles had to negotiate a steep climb around a bend, where we would be parking for lunch. The first three vehicles managed the feat successfully, though it was clear to see that this wasn’t a straightforward task, especially as the width of the path was narrow and the grip was patchy. The next four-by-four tried but failed, much to the delight of those watching. Four attempts later he was still no nearer and suffered the ignominy of having to move aside in front of all those who had gathered to watch the show to let one of the guides do the job. Naturally, Mark, screaming like an insane geriatric, pulled off the manoeuvre first time as we hurtled into the slope.

Following some much needed food and time away from the truck it was quickly time to return to our mode of transport, as we headed inland across a series of narrow, bending tracks, fortified with a vast collection of trees. It was not the place to lose control of the vehicle. Some of the trucks behind us were really struggling, with us constantly hanging around for them to catch up. The man who had delivered the depressing safety speech climbed out of his truck with a scowl on his face several times to hold heated discussions with other guides. I got the distinct impression that patience was not one of his gifts.

Eventually with everyone in tow once more, we pulled up at a car park and made our way down to one of the picturesque lakes. The beach was busy as scores of young people happily sunbathed and splashed in the clear warm water. Mark, the Swedes, myself and Ben from the Whitsunday trip, who we also happened to bump into on this tour, soaked up the rays as we chatted in the lake, before getting bored and having a sand fight. This didn’t go down too well with everyone, especially those who suddenly found themselves having to rub wet sand out of their hair and eyes, or dive for cover from sand grenades being launched. One disgruntled girl even had the cheek to say something in her native tongue, which I was reliably informed meant “fuck off”. After waving and smiling at her we continued our game full throttle.

Simon was floating nonchalantly with his buttocks hovering just above the water, prompting a series of bundles, in which attempts were inevitably made to pull his shorts off. Somehow, though, he resisted. However, he was powerless to stop an impressively sized sandcastle being squashed onto his head before being dragged under the water. Sam, taking particular delight at this, performed an elbow drop on his good friend’s skull as he came up to the surface. It was clear there was a lot of pent up energy from driving around for so long.

Following our exertions in the water before some well earned relaxation on the beach we were ordered on our way again. Back in our truck the perm-haired Danish man in our group had nominated to do some driving, making me the only male on board not to have got behind the wheel. “You having a go driving then?” Becky asked, almost innocently. I confirmed, yet again, that I would think about it, though suggested that if they wanted to remain alive it may not be the best of ideas.

Making our way through a jungle, we reached the peak of a steep hill from which we overlooked much of the impressive island landscape. Before long we were powering to our final destination for the day, where we would be setting up camp for the night.

We arrived at the place, adjacent to the sea but over a hill which helpfully protected us from a battering by the wind. To the other side of us were trees. There was, unsurprisingly, no nearby toilets. “If you want to go for a dunny then you’ll need to take a walk and dig a hole,” the tour leader blasted. “But do make sure you dig a hole as there are Dingoes around here and if you leave rubbish or shit about the place you will attract a load of them, which ladies and gentleman, we don’t want. They shouldn’t attack you but best we keep our distance.”

I found out a Dingo was a kind of wild dog that although generally harmless had been known to attack and even kill small children. I added it to my list of potential killers in this country with absurd wildlife.

In the midst of another solemn speech to the group from our demoralising tour leader that was generally making everyone wish they’d never been born, Mark, as was his peculiar way, started playing up for no reason. “Is Special Steve getting worried about those nasty Dingoes?” he began teasingly. This was then repeated in a variety of different ways. I tried to ignore him as I listened to our latest monologue on the variety of dangers we faced and how those responsible for us would not be responsible for us, should we partake in any dangerous or illicit behaviour.

Growing weary of the incessant chat in my ear I offered a swift but not excessive – or at least I didn’t think it was - elbow to Mark’s groin area to shut him up. Unfortunately for him I caught him unaware and right on the sweet spot, as it were. He went down like a sack of potatoes, sounding like a wild oar being castrated, while clutching his particulars as we stood in the centre of the amassed backpackers, whom within seconds were all focused on Mark and, much to my delight, were laughing mockingly at him. I rolled my eyes and shook my head as if to absolve myself of any responsibility, as people suddenly turned in my direction, no doubt wondering what this hairy beast of a man was doing on the floor by me. ”You cunt that hurt,” Mark screeched, wincing in pain as he gingerly climbed to his feet.

“Oh sorry about that,” I smirked, feeling rather proud of my efforts.

After the conclusion of the latest health and safety speech we were finally given the all clear to set up our tents. People were vying for appropriate positions like they had just laid down a hefty mortgage deposit for a piece of luxury land. “Shall we go near this bush or that tree? There’s less wind by the first one but the second one is much better if you want to go for a shit,” the conversations roughly went. After some debate we opted for a nice spacious spot, away from the majority of people. “We’ll get a good night’s sleep here mate and the ground’s nice and flat,” Mark enthused, like someone happy with his property purchase.

“Yeah and just think how much it’ll be worth here in a few years if tent prices continue to rocket,” I said, embracing the excitement of the moment.

As we unpacked our stuff we quickly became the envy of all around us as we got out our blow-up bed. “Look at you guys with your fancy bed,” one jealous woman observed. By now, though, we were used to being the kings of the tent world, looking down our noses and mocking others, as they had to make do with sleeping on the ground while we slumbered on our luxurious device. “Have fun sleeping on the floor,” I replied smugly to the envious onlookers, as we gloatingly sauntered past with our deluxe mattress.

After shifting all our stuff from the truck into the tent and organising it into designated sections, we held a discussion between the seven of us to decide what the plan of action was for dinner. Mark had nominated to do the cooking which of course meant I was selected to be his sous chef, which in a way was good as it meant I could rely on him to do most of the work. The others would be involved in clearing up.

Under a marquee that we had to share with another group, we began the task of making our steak and mash meal by peeling the potatoes. This was done while sitting in our foldaway tent chairs, which again had caused great jealousy among those nearby forced to slum it on the floor or stand up. “You two are like a couple of old women sat there peeling your spuds on your little chairs,” Kate, nearly perforating my eardrum, whaled. So in demand were our chairs that we had to form a mutual alliance, where if one of us got up to get a beer or some goon then the other had to protect the seat at all costs. While I appreciated the value of these luxury chairs, which included the added bonus of a drink holder for our beers, I must admit it did feel slightly over the top when some members of the other group started taking pictures of us. As I never left my spot I ended up doing most of the chair protecting but I didn’t mind this trade off as Mark rushed about attempting to juggle the making of our food while I sipped on my beer.

Just as dusk had turned to night the meal was ready, allowing us to tuck into a delightful feast, for which I felt perfectly entitled to claim every possible credit I could. “Mmm this is really good,” Becky said, summing up the mood, as everyone munched away.

“No problem, glad you liked it,” I replied proudly.

The Scouser laughed, “What you talking about Steve, you only peeled some potatoes.”

I shook my head in deep offence before calming myself. “I actually I did the potatoes and the vegetables - a vital part of the meal.” I was not about to let my efforts be ridiculed by anyone.

Feeling recharged after an enjoyable meal, everyone went to get ready for the night ahead. Though, I for one, couldn’t see the sense at all in getting glammed up to then sit your arse back down on the sand. I certainly wouldn’t be changing out of my shorts and underwear. On the way back to our luxury tent we bumped into the Swedes who were less than impressed with those in their group. “We have two nice people in our group but the rest are peasants,” Sam, spiting venom, declared. “They just sat there and expected us to do all the work for dinner. They are German, though, so I’m not surprised.” Whilst this made me appreciate the group I had been placed in, I was more proud of how Sam’s use of English slang was coming along.

Despite my reluctance I made some effort in getting ready and duly slipped into a relatively stain-free but thoroughly creased t-shirt. I even treated myself, and those nearby, to some sweet smelling spray-on deodorant in an attempt to mask the sweaty aroma that was emanating from my gorilla-esque armpits. However, I should add that it was nowhere near the repulsive level that leaves people gagging violently. I was also down to my final pair of trainers, which it’s fair to say had seen better days. Wearing these repeatedly without socks in hot and stuffy conditions had only added to the insanely vile stench of sweaty feet that was emitting from them, especially when removed. Already there had been mystified backpackers from nearby tents questioning what the smell was. “Has someone died and been buried around here?” asked one person.

“It does smell a bit doesn’t it come to think of it,” I replied quizzically, as if I knew nothing of the odour’s origin.

Inconspicuously putting my sweaty trainers on I walked over to the marquee where a mixture of people had congregated. Mark pulled out a four litre goon bag and we began the night time frivolities. Before long a drinking game – a fundamental pre-requisite for backpackers in such situations - was in full flow. I have no idea of the game we were playing, only that every time it was my turn I would say or do the wrong thing resulting in apparent humiliation that led to everyone shouting for me to “down it, down it”, which of course I was fine with, despite the difficulty of holding down the projectile that wanted to explode from my stomach.

A strange thing then happened as a large and brazen woman with strange facial features, claiming to be from Israel, wandered over and asked if she could join in. Following a hefty pause and a few raising of eyebrows she was, much to my dissatisfaction, granted access. Then, to make matters considerably worse and, I must strenuously add, before I had a chance to take in what was happening, I felt a sensual rubbing of my inner leg – and no I’m not, on this occasion at least, referring to my manhood. “Must be their friendly culture over in Israel,” I whispered to Mark after I awkwardly flicking her hand off my body.

Despite my abundantly clear rejection, the Israeli continued looking seductively at me. I felt her odd presence like a sledgehammer over the head and became increasingly concerned for my own safety, not just because she was twice my size, but also because of her forwardness and the fact she didn’t look like she was going to give in. “I’m going for a walk now,” she suddenly said, turning to me flicking her eyes, before, to my total horror adding, “You come with me?” I felt sick, like I didn’t have a choice in the matter and was some kind of sex slave to this hideous devil woman. Nonetheless, I summoned up all my courage to thwart her, once again. “I’m in the middle of the game so can’t I’m afraid but I’m sure Mark will,” I replied gingerly, trying to find an amicable get out for her. Her eyes turned, fixated on me, as she slowly climbed from her seat and began wandering off, before turning back. “See you soon,” she added chillingly. It goes without saying that this was the very opposite of what I actually wanted to occur. “If I never see you again, I will be an eternally happy man,” I muttered.

I had no idea what I’d done to deserve such treatment. With an involuntary shiver of my body I quickly reached for my goon and knocked back a cup in one go. “You were in there,” Mark then helpfully pointed out, as if I had just let Miss World slip through my fingers.

I shook my head sorrowfully. “If there was one place on earth that I would rather not be ‘in’ then it would be with that.” I spent the next half an hour in a state of horrified shock staring into space, trying desperately to erase the frightening images in my head of what the man-eating monster would have done to me.

People were gradually dispersing away from the marquee so after a few more rounds of goon and having stabilised myself following my ordeal, I made my way to the beach where groups of people were sat drinking around campfires. It was hard to make out who was who in the flickering lights across the beach. After saying my hellos, I plonked myself down with a group of strange Germans, thinking it was Ben and the Swedes, before quickly making off to avoid further embarrassment, hoping to find those I knew. Awkwardly I went up to a variety of groups, studying each member intently while trying to see if I recognised them, just as a drunken tramp generally does, before I eventually came across some of my friends.

Sam and Ben were sat with a group of people I had never laid eyes on before. Mark was nowhere to be seen and neither was Simon. “He’s in the tent with a German girl,” Sam grinned.

“He’s fucking her,” Ben quipped, in his robotic voice, revelling in the bluntness of his observation, particularly as it was in front of a group of startled girls.

The Scousers suddenly appeared with Mark, who was holding another four litre box of goon. He didn’t look like someone who needed any more alcohol but that didn’t stop him knocking it back. As everyone became more inebriated the various groups on the beach started to merge. My heart sank when I spotted the Israeli girl nearby and decided now was a perfect time to relieve my bladder. Walking as fast as I could in the other direction I found an isolated spot, partially covered by bushes. Looking from side to side I decided the coast was clear and began unleashing a fierce trajectory of pee that was splattering joyously away on the sand. Just as I had finished and was tucking myself away I heard some female giggling from behind the bushes. They had clearly seen a good deal more of me than I had of them. “Hope I didn’t get it in your face,” I whispered to the mysterious backpackers beyond the bush and continued back to the group.

On returning I cautiously looked around to see if the Israeli predator was near and gave a sigh of relief when I felt the coast was clear. I sought out confirmation just in case, though. “The one who looked like an Elephant Man? She left and went that way,” Ben said pointing down the beach.

“Thank god for that,” I replied, as a profound feeling of peace came over me. “Where’s Mark?” I asked. No one was sure of his whereabouts, though someone said a person matching his description had headed down the beach moments earlier. I looked at Sam and Ben. Knowing Mark as we did, we instinctively burst out into laughter. “He isn’t,” I said in disbelief.

“You know what Mark is like,” Sam said with a knowing look.

“He really doesn’t care what he fucks does he?” Ben shouted.

“Well he’s done me a favour and she obviously listened to my advice about going for a walk with him.” I was grateful that my friend had taken one for the team, though in reality I knew there was a large dollop of self interest in his actions.

The thought of Mark fumbling with the strange Israeli made my night and I eagerly awaited his return to interrogate him. Within half an hour he trudged over as though nothing had happened. “Here he is… where have you been then?” I bellowed, ensuring anyone within a mile radius could hear. Evidently feeling shame and humiliation, Mark remained coy under mounting pressure, giving nothing away to begin with before finally cracking under further questioning. “So did you probe that animal?” I asked, as just the two of us walked to the marquee to fetch some more booze.

“Well, yeah, kind of,” he curiously replied. Determined not to let him palm this off I pushed hard for further information, before he continued, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” The guilt at performing such a despicable act was showing. And rightfully so.

After a further grimace, Mark roused himself to continue, “We went for a stroll up the beach to find a spot…I was smashing her out when I realised a couple of blokes behind me were watching…so I told them to ‘fuck off’.” The tension was almost too much to bear; I couldn’t help but let out an involuntary belly laugh at my friend’s self-imposed misfortune

“You can’t be happy about that?” I teasingly asked.

“Fuck off,” he said sharply, before continuing with the sordid, sorrowful tale. “We moved somewhere else and I was riding her like Zorro when the same two blokes threw sand all over us. I managed to spunk my load but I got sand stuck all over my helmet and she got it all up her vag.”

As traumatised by the whole thing as Mark clearly was, I couldn’t help but show my appreciation for his self-sacrificing efforts. “I’m really grateful for what you did for me there, taking one on the chin like that and saving me. I never thought you would go this far, but I do really appreciate it,” I said, giving him a manly pat on the back.

“Don’t go thinking I did it for you mate,” he bullishly hit back. “At least it’s another notch – 208 now – so it’s not all bad.” Still looking dazed by his ordeal, he offered one final revelation of his romantic encounter. “She was weird though…she kept talking non stop in Israeli. But when she went to stick a couple of fingers up my back passage I nearly dragged her in the sea to drown her. She stunk like a fishmongers downstairs too.”

I somehow managed to fight back vomit from the horrific images that were replaying agonisingly in my mind as we made our way back to the gathering. Naturally, the others were chomping at the bit to get the juicy details. “You have a whale of a time Mark?” Sam, now expertly deploying English puns, said cheekily. To his credit Mark fronted up and admitted his appalling crime, though incredibly brushed it off like you would a crumb stuck to your shirt. “I cut my balls off with a carving knife if I do that,” Ben said disapprovingly.

“I would kill myself,” Sam added forcefully.

Matters then took a turn for the worse, as sensitive information was coincidentally obtained from a passing stranger that Mark would probably rather not have heard. “This guy over here,” Ben began, pointing at some random fellow wearing sandals with missing teeth. “He says he fucked some weird, horrible Israeli girl earlier tonight too…much earlier tonight.” After various descriptions were put forward it became clear there was a remarkable likeness. “Sounds like you had sloppy seconds,” the toothless individual said, with a huge grin on his face. Mark’s face dropped.

The reality that not only had he gone through hell, but that he had also been somewhere a short while after some other grubby individual had already left his mark on her, as it were, was clearly hitting home judging by the disturbed look on his face.

“Well, that explains the fishy smell,” I said helpfully, attempting to clear that little mystery up.

“At least you weren’t the only one to have a go,” Sam chipped in.

“You better hope your knob doesn’t fall off,” I added.

“You must feel good in a way,” Ben added, sensing the outpouring of solidarity. “At least now you know someone else thinks she’s worth putting his cock inside.”

“I think he may also have been blind,” Sam added.

It was odd to find Mark speechless but this was one of those rare priceless occasions and I was determined to savour every minute as he wallowed in self-pity and recrimination. Intentionally or not, he had done me a big favour and for this I would be eternally grateful, while also ensuring I would constantly remind him of his heroic endeavour. “Bet you’re knackered after your night’s work?” I asked, sensing he was heading to bed as much through drunken tiredness at his hefty conquest, as acute embarrassment. “Good job you didn’t bring her back to the tent – would have been a nightmare trying to fit her in,” I added sympathetically. Managing only a despondent raising of the eyebrows he finally was able to squeeze out a few words. “Look just don’t tell the Scousers, I don’t want to blow my chances with either of them,” he muttered. It said a lot for the man that at this time of deep soul searching he still maintained an appreciation of his circumstances and thoughts toward his next potential victim(s). I agreed to his request before tucking myself up and getting some well deserved sleep.

The next morning I was rudely awoken by Mark snoring in my ear and feeling like I was in Vietnam such was the stuffiness and sweat that was pouring off me in our tight-knit tent, which was more like a steam room. Like someone drowning who was gasping for air I yanked down the zip and inhaled. With my tongue feeling like a burnt potato - such were my levels of dehydration - I knocked back a litre of bottled water that had almost self boiled itself such was the scorching heat in our make-shift home. With the energy of a dying flea I wandered over to the marquee where some of our group were already relaxing eating breakfast. I helped myself to a coffee and some toast and staved off the aching feeling in my stomach that you have when your body is totally depleted having taken an almighty battering the night before.

Our Gestapo style tour guide had instructed everyone the previous evening that he wanted us to be on the road – or sand – early to ensure we got to see our fix of places that the world’s biggest sand island had to offer. Unfortunately for him nothing was happening very quickly as scruffy backpackers, who had seen better days, gradually appeared to make themselves breakfast, before stumbling off pain etched on their faces to wash ankle deep in the sea.

CHAPTER 6 – DEEP IN FRASER ISLAND

As we made our way across the beach in our poorly padded vehicle, I was left bumping around in the backseat like a pinball. I self-consciously noted that I was now just one of three people yet to take the wheel in our group. We stopped off for supplies at what we were told was the main area of the island; a selection of shops, apartments and bars with a swimming pool and glorious surrounding lakes. This, our guide added, was the place to be. “So why the fuck did you make us stay on the opposite side of the island?” I thought I said in my head, but apparently broadcast out loud, much to the disapproval of the killjoy head of operations, who seemed wonderfully oblivious to the irony of his revelation. This was even more so with our exotic location having the not so enviable option of relieving ourselves in the great outdoors, just feet away from passing strangers and dingoes.

Having been granted permission to buy ice creams before leaving, we slurped away like a gang of children out on their first school visit. By the time it was midday my throbbing hangover was still no nearer to dispersing. So I did what any reasonable person would do in such circumstances, particularly if they were from the Caribbean, and reached for the rum and coke as soon as we pulled up at our next destination, which was aptly named the Champagne Whirlpool.

Whilst all the different groups were helping each other to prepare lunch I was alone in the back of our truck measuring out a large dose of rum to go with my splattering of coke. It occurred to me that should anyone have seen this then I would have looked suspiciously like an alcoholic. But I brushed aside such nonsense and gulped down half the cup before coming agonisingly close to vomiting all over everyone’s stuff. Not for the first time since I began binge drinking when I was 15 had my stomach muscles saved me from unleashing a vile substance that yearned to come hurtling out like lava from a volcano.

After riding the storm I slowly started to adjust to the taste and was able to drink far more fluently. Before long my state was something between being mildly intoxicated - in a sickly sort of way - crossed with unrelenting waves of pain and heart palpitations. Although far from perfect it was a step in the direction. While it was anything but easy knocking back such a disgusting dry drink in boiling conditions with a mouth like a desert, it also had the added advantage that it ruled me out of driving and immediately slammed the door shut to any possible jibes about my not doing so. After all, you wouldn’t want someone who had been knocking back such a lethal spirit in the baking sun to drive you around would you?

Just as I was beginning to relax into my drink the peace was suddenly shattered. “What the fuck are you doing with that?” Mark blasted after walking in on me filling up the cup. I gave him a look like he had two heads, as I was unable to speak at that precise moment. I politely offered him some, but this time he looked at me with sorrow etched on his face. With a despairing shake of his head he trudged off.

Following lunch we made our way across a pathway of endless wooden planks that left your feet feeling like they had been stood on burning hot coals. To save my rapidly frazzling feet I sprang on to any available grass when possible in a bid to get across this spiralled stretch, while also employing lightening quick foot movements when reaching some shadow or damp patches, presumably from some random person’s wet feet. Though, even had it been urine I wouldn’t have cared as long as it cooled down my blistering heels.

Despite my pain and suffering I was still immensely proud of myself that I didn’t have to resort to wearing flip flops, like many of the “men” in our gathering. For me it was better to have the bottom of my feet scorned and barely able to walk on than to suffer a lifetime of mental anguish from knowing that I resorted to putting on a female fashion accessory. For some strange reason a nearby German male with a spare pair of flip-flops, spotted my pain and quickly threw down his rubber sandals while motioning for me to put them on. But due to my fierce pride I instantly declined, putting my hand up boldly like a traffic policeman who was ordering someone to stop.

The German looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and astonishment, as though I had been declared insane for preferring to have my feet burn than to take up his generous offer. It was certainly not the first time I had been on the receiving end of one of these quizzical looks from a logically minded European and it didn’t take a genius to figure out his rationale that it was better to wear something on your feet if it stops them getting grilled. But clearly he had underestimated the feeling of revulsion I had toward such offensive footwear. “The joke’s on you for being a girl wearing those hideous things,” I grimaced.

After my Herculean effort across the burning planks, I dipped my feet rewardingly into the water’s edge and let out a sigh of relief from the agony I had just endured. As the pain subsided I began to focus on what was before me and acknowledged the appropriateness of its name the Champagne Whirlpool, as wave after wave came crashing against the wall, spilling over into our giant bath-like area, leaving thick froth and a strong current which felt like you were being sucked down a plughole. Thankfully the deepest part only came up to my neck so my chances of drowning were at least minimal. I had brought my rum and coke into the pool and cautiously sauntered about making sure I kept it above water level at all times.

Most people were splashing about, though most were way back from the front where it was at its roughest. I spotted Mark, Sam and Ben and just as I was wondering where Simon was, especially as he had been so elusively engaged the previous night, I spotted a familiar sight with his blindingly white buttocks reflecting in the sun as he drifted head down beneath the surface, occasionally freaking out the odd random backpacker who was unfortunate enough to get his glowing bum in their face after the current had thrown them together. Remaining tight-lipped, the Swede refused to give anything away on what he had been up to the previous night. “Was it nice and cheesy down there?” Mark asked laughing like a girl.

“I thought I could smell tuna fish I but it was you wasn’t it Simon?” I added, hoping to prise a nugget of information out of him. But nothing.

An American football had appeared so the Swedes naturally stole it and began launching it at each other as hard as they possibly could. I put the remainder of my drink on a rock and joined in the fun as we monopolised the whirlpool leaving innocent bystanders getting hit on the head by errant throws. In such situations everyone would automatically turn away and giggle like a naughty school child at that person’s misfortune, while celebrating that whoever threw the ball had to go and collect it from nearby the angry person who had been struck, naturally inviting them to a mouthful of expletives.

This particular game was no different, as a variety of easily offended people made their feelings known either in the form of murderous scowls or simply through good old fashioned language. “Fuck off you prick,” an English freckle faced ginger girl bellowed after being smacked square in the face, causing her a significant amount of pain and embarrassment.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I launched a rocket which slapped against Ben’s considerable back after he had foolishly turned away for a few seconds. Unfortunately, though, the ball just bounced off him like a balloon, such was his bulky German frame. Mark, on the other hand, clearly had a higher pain threshold and hitting him from close range often bought a girlish scream, which provided all the incentive that was needed to then do it again when he was looking away.

Such a game provided so much fun and entertainment and reminded me of my school days when we used to play “boot ball”, where anyone who got smacked by the football was then forced to run for their life and make contact with the playground fence. If they didn’t then unfortunately for the hapless individual they would have half the boys from the year group hounding them like a pack of lions before demobilising them and sticking in some tasty boots that made you wince from just looking at it. People would walk – no make that limp - away from such a beating a broken individual, both emotionally and physically. The game’s obvious benefit was of course getting someone you didn’t like, but it was also greatly entertaining to watch the faces of innocent people from a year - sometimes two years - above getting hit by the ball and initially making the mistake to think they were not in the game, before quickly realising they very much were, whether they liked it or not.

Suddenly a look of terror would appear on their faces when they realised a pack of snarling lads were charging toward them ready to dish out some lashings. And all for the vile crime of standing around talking to friends before getting a ball pinged against them. The game really was a great leveller; it didn’t matter who you were, nobody was immune and seeing some of the older boys humiliatingly run for their lives having tried to play it cool in front of the girls they were trying to impress never failed to bring a smile to our faces. Although our game in the Champagne Whirlpool could never match those dizzy heights it still shared the bonus of involving those innocently standing on the periphery minding their own business.

Somewhat warn out from our high energy game we decided to relax for a bit in the fizzing water, before it was time to make our way back across the painful stretch of wooden planks to the trucks. I still had my rum and coke and although slightly regretting drinking it so early I poured another cup in the hope it would numb the recurring hangover pain I was now feeling having not had any for a while.

We left in our convoy and after a short drive arrived at our next destination: a stream with healing fish. The place also had the distinctive benefit of some hutted toilets a short walk away. As the majority of people splashed about or studied the water I sensed my opportunity to finally relieve myself following my enforced constipation of nearly two days and casually wandered off when no one was looking. Thankfully there was no awkward queue where you have to partake in small talk as you frustratingly wait to unleash a turd of epic proportions. “So…you having a good time on the island?” you would say politely, expertly avoiding a potentially deafening silence.

“Yes it’s a lot of fun. And you?” they would reply, somewhat distractedly, leaving you to then twiddle your thumbs before thinking of something else to say.

“I really need a shit, it’s been two days nearly. What about you?”

“Me too,” they would add, as if a huge weight has been lifted off their shoulders just through the mere fact of being able to talk about it. “Though it’s only been a day and a half for me. I can’t wait to get this beast out.” And then off you would both go to do what you had to do.

Fortunately I was spared this humiliation and couldn’t believe my luck as I sauntered into the empty toilet hut. People were fighting over the sparse number of toilets there were on this minimalist island at the other places we had stopped at so this really was a blessing. My patient waiting game had paid off and I was now ready to ambush the toilet without the added turmoil of having strangers overhearing my offloading. After blowing a kiss in the direction of God I opened the creaky wooden door and entered the murky room that was filled with cobwebs. My mind began to wonder with thoughts of what hideous killer spider had been in there or could be lurking. I peered down the toilet to make sure nothing with fangs was waiting beneath me and psyched myself up before getting down to business. I certainly didn’t hang about and without a second’s hesitation got out of there, scratching my back and head incessantly, in case a spider had nestled on me.

I never thought in my entire life that I would long to use a hostel toilet and all that comes with it – urine, vomit, semen and a cluster of pubic hairs, as well as the outlines of a wide variety of people’s filthy cracks - but on this occasion I am not ashamed to say that I would have given anything to be in such luxury. The only good news was that this particular loo wasn’t suffering from a massive stockpile of poo, unlike the one I had seen the day before.

I walked back toward the stream feeling like a new man, as well as feeling about half the weight I was before. Having got back to the water’s edge I noticed a string of people making their way to the toilet. The cat was out the bag now with people flocking to the cubicles to make the most of them. “Enjoy the queue,” I said to one, who had a poor grasp of English and just smiled in return. “You won’t be smiling in a minute,” I grinned smugly in return.

Feeling especially proud of myself, I elected to announce to my friends that there was a secret toilet around the corner that no one was using and suggested that now was the ideal time to go while it was quiet. Simon and Ben, falling for it, immediately stomped off toward the hut. Sam and Mark had rightly decided not to trust me and were more than happy to join in the ribbing when Simon and Ben returned. “How was the toilet?” Sam asked cheekily.

Simon wearily shook his head. “I thought you said no one was there? I had to queue for ages and then take a shit with everyone listening,” he said.

“I couldn’t go knowing I had an audience. You are a bastard,” Ben said, pain etched on his face.

“You must have got there too late because it was fine when I went in,” I smiled. “Oh well, just a day to wait now unless you go outside when we get back to the camp.”

Ben grimaced. “My arse will explode by then.” I sensed his pain but felt grateful I was not him.

We sat around on the edge of the stream laughing at some of the backpackers studiously pointing at the fish like they were aliens. Once everyone – apart from a cluster of geeks – were finally bored of this we headed for our trucks and made our way back to camp.

CHAPTER 7 – DEBAUCHERY ON FRASER

Back at the tent I changed out of my filthy shorts and top into a pair of less dirty items after employing the sniff technique; a system whereby your nose allows you to measure just how disgusting the items are and if deodorant and aftershave are capable of masking the hideous odour. On this occasion it was touch and go, and the t-shirt still felt moist from the previous day’s sweat, but I elected to put the items on anyhow, as much for a change as anything else.

It was other people’s turn to do the cooking tonight so I pulled up my portable camp chair and started lusciously swigging a beer. I was feeling tired from a day of drinking rum and was looking forward to having some food to sort me out, which arrived in good time. After scoffing down the chicken and potato meal quicker than an obese American eating a McDonalds, I felt like less of a corpse. Although it was my turn to help out with the washing I decided to leave this to others more deserving and sipped another beer before the drinking games – and goon - started again as darkness set in.

With spirits high a bundle erupted between myself, Mark and the Scousers. I relished rubbing people’s heads into the sand and fending off the attempted onslaughts. As usual poor Mark bore the brunt of it all. I performed an elbow drop on his head before administering a solid knee to the back, which seemed to finish him off as he lay motionless face down in the sand. “Victory,” I declared with one foot resting on his face, positioned in a triumphant pose. I felt a bit sorry for Becky whose pair of glasses got smashed in the melee, rendering her virtually blind for the rest of the trip. “At least you’re only missing out on a morning of seeing stuff,” I said helpfully, doing my best to put a positive spin on matters and save myself some guilt.

“Thanks Steve for that,” came the sarcastic, slightly miffed, response.

“Well if you want to play with the big boys then you’ll get hurt,” I said, helping her to see that, in fact, it was really her fault. “I think it was Mark who broke them when he jumped on you though,” I added, attempting to soften the blow and divert attention away from me. Apportioning blame didn’t seem to make her feel any better but at least I could look in the mirror knowing I had tried.

By now a load of campfires had been set up and people were huddled in groups drinking and chatting just like the night before. With no bars or clubs this was as good as it got with the nightlife. But people really were making the most of their limited options. An amorous couple, who had probably known each other for all of five minutes, had been spotted by Sam cementing their relationship just over a mound where they thought no one would see them.

“Quickly come over here,” the Swede shouted. Instantly we all knew what was happening. After running over we were greeted by the sight of a white bottom glowing in the starlet sky while thrusting up and down between a woman’s legs. Turning to Mark I asked the obvious question, “Do you think that’s your Israeli girl from last night?”

He paused with a look of deep concentration and manoeuvred his head to an angle to try and get a better look. “Nah she’s blond,” he said, eyes firmly focused on the action.

“Yeah come to think about it, your one was a lot bigger,” I replied thoughtfully.

Mark shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t care. I got my end away didn’t I?”

If only we’d had some comfy chairs and popcorn it would have added to the experience but in Sam we had the next best thing, as he started filming on his mobile phone to capture the events. “I don’t think I will be showing this to my parents,” he said, as he shuffled a few steps to the side to get a better vantage point. Not wanting to miss out, Simon quickly pulled out his mobile phone and started recording like a veteran cameramen. “I think I will put this on the internet,” he said thoughtfully, as the female rolled over on top and began straddling the man.

“She has a hairy arse no?” Ben asked bluntly.

It was all getting too much for Mark, though, who had broken out into a sweat and was chewing like someone who had just overdosed on amphetamine. “Look at her go,” he said, saliva dripping from his mouth like a dog being teased of its bone.

“Go and ask if you can join in then,” I suggested helpfully.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said rubbing his hands, as the man started indiscriminately slapping the woman’s bum. Seconds later a shocked bypassing couple also stumbled upon the horrific scenes before being pulled into watching.

But with every passing second it was getting harder to repress the laughter and before long the sniggers had finally given way to a rendition of “we know what you’re doing.” Yet oddly the couple continued about their business as if they were in the privacy of their own home. Their blatant snub angered Ben, who by now had seen enough. Taking everyone by surprise he marched up to the gyrating male, who was now back on top, and whacked his bum with the back of his hand as hard as he could, resulting in a loud slapping noise that reverberated through the dark night. “What the fuck are you doing?” the man squealed as he instantly jumped up, having gone from pleasure to agony and humiliation all in the space of a nanosecond.

“I slap your bottom...why you ask?” Ben asked with a straight face, as if he had done nothing wrong.

“Coz I haven’t finished you wanker,” the English freestyler yelled, pointing to the girl, before steadying himself and suddenly, taking everyone by surprise, throwing a right hook. And all this, I regretfully have to admit, with his manhood on display.

Fortunately for Ben the pathetic power of the punch was aptly reflected by his downstairs package. It struck me as an unusual sight; a bare man who had just been in the midst of lust trying to fight a fully clothed individual. Unluckily for the sexual deviant, though, Ben was a lot bigger and blocked his soft jab before instantly knocking him to the ground. “You don’t hit me,” the German shouted, towering over the exposed man, whose humiliation was now utterly complete, particularly with his flaccid anatomy resembling a small chipalarter sausage. Amazingly though, perhaps out of sense of deep frustration and injustice, the man suddenly rallied and landed a solid kick on Ben’s leg, causing him to slightly wobble, before regaining his balance and squashing his victim’s head firmly into the sand.

“Careful Ben, you don’t want to get spunk on your leg,” I shouted thoughtfully, showing commendable concern for my friend. This was always going to be one of the dangers of scrapping with an individual who had been nearing climax and, therefore, inevitably leaking like an oil can with a hole in it.

The female, now covered up, looked stunned at how she had gone from being penetrated to suddenly being a figure of fun in front of a group of strangers. “You want me to finish you off love?” Mark, never one to miss an opportunity, kindly offered.

“Fuck off you twat,” the Irish girl screeched, before turning away with an utterly miserable look on her face. The kind I suppose you would have when pleasure had been replaced by abject humiliation. Still, if you undergo such deeds in the confines of a public area then, whether you like it or not, you have to accept the rough with the smooth, as it were. “There must be a fishmongers round here,” I observed, prompting more abuse from the girl, before she turned on Sam and Simon, who were still valiantly recording.

“Oh very clever,” she spewed, before attempting to grab their phones.

“Hey I’m filming,” Simon yelped defensively, quickly moving back out of harms way.

“This will be an internet sensation,” Sam added enthusiastically, rubbing further salt into the wounds.

Ben had left his mark - in more than one way - with the English man’s backside looking like he had received several lashings from a whip, after he was finally let free from the German’s vice like grip, while spitting with rage and barely comprehensible expletives. Staring daggers as they walked away we responded with a group wave to show there were no hard (or soft as it had turned out) feelings. Sadly this was met with a series of finger and hand gestures from the pair. But refusing to become engaged in childish tit for tat we strolled off with a warm glow.

With everyone on an adrenaline fuelled high recounting every intricate detail of the astonishing event we had just witnessed, we got some more goon to celebrate after arriving back at our base. “That was priceless when Ben walked up and smacked his arse…I’ll never forget the look on his face,” I said fondly reminiscing.

“Watching him trying to punch you while his cock was out was funny…though not so funny when you realised it was still semi stiff,” Sam continued. It was only a matter of time before questions were asked of Ben’s sexuality, though, having decided to pick a fight with a naked man.

“Bet you enjoyed being on top of that ‘hard’ guy?” Mark said beamingly.

“You really gave it to him,” added Simon.

In reply, Ben offered a harsh riposte, “He was lucky I didn’t hit him harder.”

The incident had been a great bonding experience but the night wasn’t over yet. As we walked back to the main area we came across a less than sought-after intoxicated female who was offering herself around to any takers. With teeth as wonky as the Leaning Tower of Pisa and an array of boils covering her face to go with her hairy legs, I didn’t much fancy her chances of success, particularly as you could almost smell her desperation. After throwing herself at Sam, who diplomatically said he had to go to the toilet, she moved on to Simon, who pretended he couldn’t speak English, as by astonishing coincidence, she too was also Irish. “I wonder if she’s friends with the other one?” I muttered.

Despite the girl’s best attempts no one was falling for her charms. She didn’t seem to think that it would harm her chances to be given the elbow by a vast selection of men – many of whom were friends or had been talking - all standing nearby to each other, before moving onto the next one. Although it’s fair to say she had probably consumed more than her yearly recommended allowance for alcohol in that one evening, you still had to admire how thick skinned she was.

A short time later after she had completely and utterly humiliated herself for the umpteenth time she wandered off leaving people in peace to continue their night. We all breathed a sigh of relief as we knocked back a round of goon. Later that night Sam, who had gone off for a wee, came running over looking like all his Christmas’s had come at once. “Quick, follow me,” he urged, before leading us to a dark spot near the back of his group’s marquee. He pointed to a nearby tree. As we tiptoed closer it became clear there were two people enjoying each other’s company. But then, shockingly, upon closer inspection, it became all too obvious that the man happened to be none other than Mark, while the female was the wonky toothed woman who had just been offering up her services to any man with a pulse. This was pure dynamite.

“Look it’s Mark,” Sam splurged, delirious from his astonishing discovery. “He’s fingering her.” And so he was. He had somehow found a way to manoeuvre his hand between her neither region before embarking on a steady arm motioning that was bringing joy to the depraved woman. In return she was tugging away at his organ like a locomotion train. “She’s jerking him off,” Ben sniggered.

“Looks like she’s in a hurry,” I replied, as there was no sign of let up in her vigorous wrist action.

Simon, once again, had taken it upon himself to record the whole thing. “Now Mark will be able to see himself,” he said, smiling evilly ear to ear.

“He will thank you I’m sure,” Sam added.

Despite this, the lady - if that is the correct term - continued trying to rub, prompting Mark to grab her hand. “It’s ok I’m finished, I’m finished,” he pleaded, as he launched a fierce protection of his procreation tool. Indeed he was finished. And Simon had the video to prove it.

It was hard to contain our laughter as we watched the awkward aftermath between these two total strangers. “So…where are you going next down the east coast?” the girl asked politely, like two people that had just met, which was exactly what they were. The only difference being that most people that had met minutes earlier wouldn’t ordinarily have ended up exchanging bodily fluids.

“Possibly Noosa, Brisbane and Surfers Paradise. What about you?” Mark, maintaining the polite atmosphere, replied. And so forth. It all just seemed a bit odd for this woman to be concerned about his travelling exploits when she had a lorry load of his semen dripping from her hand.

As the polite conversation ran its course - “See you then,” they both said while offering a shy wave before going their separate ways in the knowledge it would be very unlikely they would, in fact, ever actually see each other again. In Mark’s case he could only hope, though if she ever did cross his path in the future it would represent about as much luck as being struck down by lightening. Well, to the rest of us at least, though with our friend you sense he would attempt to make the most of the coincidence.

Cautiously following Mark as he made his way back onto the beach, we performed our obligations by suddenly ambushing him, much to his shock. His face was one of misery and pain, as he instinctively knew from our faces that we had witnessed his fornication and were about to relentlessly embark on another character assassination. “You should see my video,” Simon said with deep relish, prompting an anxious raising of Mark’s one-brow, with him knowing he would now have to pay the consequences for his actions. “Fuck off, just delete it will you?” he said wearily.

“No, no, this is going on the internet,” Sam snapped back defensively, piling on the misery.

Speaking like he was referring to a fine piece of art, Ben, twisted the knife further, “My friends in Germany would really like to see this.” This was followed by a long, patronising smile that had a substantial whiff of pity to it.

Mark was getting it from all angles but if ever a man deserved it then it was him. And for the remainder of the night he was forced to endure endless disparaging jokes, much to our delight. “If you do the crime, you must do the time,” I said to him philosophically, attempting to help alleviate some of the angst that was now weighing him down like a slab of concrete, as he sat rubbing his head solemnly. It was unusual for him to suffer guilt, yet despite this we all knew that given half a chance with anything in a skirt he would be up to his eyeballs in it once more.

The next morning after breakfast we made our way to another of the island’s lakes. Everyone on our truck had seemingly given in from mocking me for not getting behind the wheel, perhaps because they had realised fairly early into our trip that it was in their interests. After splashing about in the water and lapping up the sun for an hour, which hardly seemed worth the 45 minute journey to get there, we made our way back to the camp to pack away our stuff as our Fraser Island experience was drawing to a close. The lack of sleep and vast amounts of alcohol – not to mention the total humiliation for those who had engaged with others they now wished they hadn’t – was taking its toll and there was a sense, just as on the final morning of the Whitsunday tour, that everyone had grown tired of seeing Dingoes, camping out like hippies, travelling from lake to lake and having to make do with the ground as a viable option in which to crap.

With Mark getting a sudden burst of energy – presumably at the prospect that he was finally escaping the scene of his horrific crimes – he had decided to re-open his mocking of my failure to drive. “Is Special Steve still too scared?” The Scouse girls didn’t need a second invitation and were soon on my case in their squeaky voices. “It’s ok Steve, we’ll have you back at the hostel where it’s safe in no time,” Kate said, before screeching with laughter.

Never one to take abuse lying down I hit back, “Have you seen my shaver?” Sadly I don’t think she was aware of my subtle inference that her face was as hairy as a dog’s chin, though.

While packing stuff onto the truck I came across Mark’s wallet in the passenger seat glove compartment. Sensing my moment to inflict revenge I looked around to make sure no one was nearby before quickly placing the leather item into my pocket while carrying on putting things into the vehicle. Normally in such circumstances when I am playing a practical joke on someone, I tend to give the game away a bit too easily by grinning insanely as soon as that individual thinks something is amiss. However, on this occasion - just as when I was ten years old when I scoffed someone else’s giant Aero chocolate bar, which prompted a public inquest by school staff, which I somehow got away with – I managed to maintain a straight face. The goal was far too important than to let it be ruined by giving the game away.

I studied Mark with fevered excitement knowing he was none the wiser, as he traipsed about wearily putting things into the back of the four by four. I knew that at some point he would check to see where his wallet was and I couldn’t wait to see the pained expression on his face when he did. After the tent had been put away he scratched his head and began to search through his rucksack, before standing up and looking into space and scratching his head some more. He wandered over to where our tent had been and scoured the ground in a state of confusion, that was manifestly worse thanks to his inability to think having drank enough alcohol to fill a large swimming pool over the last few days.

I resisted the urge to laugh in his face, aware that any moment now he would ask if I had seen it. Just to add to the sense of reality of it all, we had heard earlier that someone’s wallet was stolen the night before, raising the depressing yet likely conclusion that a wallet thief was in operation and had now added Mark to his or her list of victims. Dazed and anxious he walked over to the truck where I was crouching busily organising my bag. “You seen my wallet? I can’t find it,” he asked desperately.

I paused thoughtfully before offering a few suggestions. “Did you look in the tent? What about in your bag?” I said with a remarkably straight face, even surprising myself.

“Nah, already looked there.”

“What about in the truck? It’s got to be somewhere…when did you last have it?”

“Yeah…looked in the truck. Thought I put it in there last night but can’t see it.”

I was playing a blinder and saying all the right things. He didn’t suspect me at all. And with this I bravely upped the stakes and gently raised the sinister prospect, that by now would have entered his head in any case, that he may have been on the receiving end of some skulduggery. “Did you lock the truck afterwards?” I asked, visibly overloading the few brain cells he had left.

“I don’t know…thought so.”

“You don’t think…”

“What, what?”

“You don’t think someone has changed it do you? There was that wallet that got taken last night remember.”

Mark paused, the colour draining from his face. “I know, I did think that too. What am I going to do? There’s $100 cash in there and all my bank cards…I’m fucked.”

“I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere,” I added, offering false reassurance, as is standard practice in such situations. He rightly didn’t look convinced.

Through sheer desperation he was now asking every passing person if they’d seen his wallet and before long there was a mini search party in full swing. All those in our group sifted the area like forensic policemen hoping to find the missing item. Our group leader had even stopped people from what they were doing and shouted out for everyone to keep their eyes open.

I bumped into Sam and told him what was really going on. Without a second’s hesitation he confirmed, with some bemusement, that he would remain tight-lipped should he be asked about it and do his best to add to Mark’s fears. Within moments Mark had gone over to him and posed the question. “I just said to him I hadn’t seen it but that I’d heard of other wallets being stolen, which meant it didn’t look good for him,” Sam told me secretively afterwards. At this point, with no one close to the truck, I decided to remove the wallet from my pocket and place it back in the glove compartment where I had taken it from. “Now who’s the special one Mark?” I muttered conspiratorially to myself.

“He will look like a retard now when someone finds it,” Sam scoffed delightedly.

With the search going into overdrive and looking like delaying our party leaving, Becky walked over to the vehicle to administer another check. After looking in the back she moved to the front where she opened the glove compartment. Looking surprised, she pulled out a wallet. “This can’t be it can it?” she shouted over to Mark, fully expecting it to be someone else’s.

“Nah can’t be, I’ve already looked in there,” he answered, walking over just to make sure. He picked up the wallet and stared in disbelief. “I don’t fucking believe it. This is it…but I’d already checked there…oh well who gives a toss. I’m so relieved,” he added rubbing his face, while shaking his head as he came to terms with being reunited with his valuables. “How did you not see it in there?” Becky asked curiously.

“Yeah, how did you not see it in there you plank?” I added.

He had no answers, only offering a shrug of the shoulders. “So we’ve all been looking for your stinking wallet for ages and it was right there the whole time? You really are a Special One you are.” I looked him in the eye and shook my head as patronisingly as I could possibly muster. I decided it was time to put him out of his misery and broke out into a victorious grin.

“You cheeky wanker, you hid it didn’t you?” he barked.

“No, as if I would do that to you?” I smirked. But the game was up.

“Can’t believe I fell for it.”

“Well you are special.”

Then, even Becky turned against him, “Oh dear Mark you really should keep your wallet with you at all times,” she said, pointing out the obvious.

I felt a sense of contentment as we made our way wearily back along the island’s edge and to the ferry crossing. The trip had began with an unfortunate elbow to Mark’s downstairs department that left him incapacitated in front of everyone and ended in equally humiliating circumstances.

We had timed our trip perfectly as heavy clouds began to move in while we crossed the water back to the mainland. And by the time we arrived at the hostel, in a state of exhaustion, it was tipping down. After checking back in with reception I sprinted through the outside area to my room adjacent to the pool, though I may as well have jumped into the water such was the monumental downpour. Sharing a room with Mark and the Scousers I knew that any intolerance towards my stench would be highlighted and ridiculed. And sure enough as I took off my soaking and sickeningly foul trainers and placed them near my bed I was met by a torrent of abuse. “What’s that horrible smell,” Kate screeched. “It smells the same as the one on the truck.”

I instantly knew it was my trainers that she was referring to because for years I have watched joyfully as those around me have nearly fainted at the precise point that I pluck a trainer from my bare sweaty foot. It’s a tendency that occurs more often in the summer when the temperature is hot and I wear trainers with no socks – that’s the real killer. And although I figured this out from a fairly early age it has never deterred me from doing it, mainly because wearing a thick sock over my foot in boiling conditions has never really appealed and as the stench emanates from my body I can just about tolerate the smell. Though, I do admit it is vile and should such a smell originate from someone else I would be among the first to protest.

But as I was the guilty party I decided to play dumb and offered a shrug of the shoulders as to the location of this disgusting whiff. But unfortunately, by now, Becky had also noticed the powerful, cheesy aroma that was spreading through our small room like wildfire. Both were hunting down its precise source like a couple of bloodhounds attempting to catch a fox. Inevitably they came across my trainers and with each of them picking up one to make sure it was the offending smell, they both then simultaneously dropped the trainer, jerking their heads back in the process, whilst spontaneously gagging. “That’s disgusting,” Kate spluttered, eyes watering.

“They’re going outside now,” Becky said. I attempted to negotiate to keep them inside as it was now flooding outside but was given short shrift and was forced to watch as my footwear was dumped outside the room. It wasn’t all bad news, though, as I was instructed to use the shower next, which meant I didn’t have to wait ages for a clean.

Once ready we made our way to the bar area where some burgers, hot dogs and chips had been laid on by the hostel for us. I ravenously feasted on the meat like a caveman and went to the bar where I ordered two milk chocolate tasting cocktails after pointing at the picture like a Neanderthal, such was my tiredness and inability to communicate using words. “What you got there you faggot?” Mark, somewhat predictably, said. I couldn’t be bothered to talk at that point so just ignored him and sipped on my rather tasty drink - once I had removed the umbrellas and slices of orange from the side.

It was getting harder to hear yourself as on stage a bunch of intellectually challenged male backpackers were attempting to outdo a couple of Olympic female athletes – or at least they looked like they were compared to the chubby, uncoordinated, beer slurping male oaths - playing the “how low can you go?” game, otherwise known as limbo dancing. And all this to win a trip to the Blue Mountains, which you could happily pay for yourself with a few bucks, without having to endure such pain and humiliation.

Every round that you survive, the pole gets lowered slightly until your legs buckle and you are left crumpled on the stage with your head by your groin, or some other variation, as the men, one by one, were here, leaving me shaking my head, unable to hide my disgust. “They know they’re not going to beat that skinny gymnast who was doing the splits in the warm up.”

“Calm down old man,” Mark replied.

Finally, after having Reggae music and some twerp on the microphone blasted into my ear for a good hour, it came down to the finalists, which not so surprisingly was the two girls whom you could have bet your house on being there in the first place. Inevitably it was the female who performed perfect horizontal splits that took the prestigious award. As she was handed her prize I felt moved to stand up from my chair close to the stage and perform a loud and hearty clap to acknowledge my appreciation of her valiant efforts and, indeed, the glittering competition as a whole. Not long after, once my chocolate cocktails had been finished, it was time for bed. I couldn’t wait to get back to my room.

I woke up feeling like a herd of elephants had just trampled over me, but still nonetheless a good deal better than I did the previous evening. I knocked myself up some scrambled eggs on toast, which someone had thoughtfully left out for me, before paying a sizeable chunk of my life savings to use the internet for half an hour. Just as I was replying to an email from home informing me that I would be taken to court unless I paid an extra £500 for my flat’s service charge within three days, despite having already paid £450, my session suddenly expired. With no further change on me I returned to the room to get my wallet, but on my way back was unable to find it having looked in my rucksack and on my bed where I thought I had left it. At this point I instinctively knew Mark and the Scousers were behind it going missing, though getting them to hand it over proved more difficult. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the reply.

I was kicking myself that I had left myself open for a revenge attack and was forced to grind it out for two hours until the German girl, Sarah, handed it back to me, much to my relief. I checked everything was inside it as normal. “Good job you had it and not the Scousers, otherwise there wouldn’t be any cash left in here,” I joked, only to be met by a blank face (on reflection I’m not sure if Germans are fully aware of the English thieving stereotype I was hinting at, let alone the slang name for that particular region of the country). I walked casually back in the room where the Scousers and Mark were and continued the banter. “That must have gone against every instinct in your bodies not to take those notes out my wallet,” I told Becky and Kate triumphantly, safely clutching my wallet.

As time continued to tick by everyone gradually started leaving. Myself and Mark said goodbye to the Scousers after one final check that none of our stuff had been stolen by them and went and sat with the Swedes, Ben and some other people who looked like they had seen better days. As I peered through the glass into the bar area the miserable tour organiser was giving the identical speech about safety – in particular the council stitching him up by making them supervise more because people had been dying - that he had given to us three days earlier. Now I realised why he was so fed up. After all, it would get monotonous doing that every day of your life, especially when you know that as soon as your back is turned the “little shits” would do as they pleased anyhow.

We packed our stuff into the car and climbed aboard Stevo once more, taking up our uncomfortable positions in the overloaded vehicle. We had all reverted to type with Mark driving, myself in the front and the Swedes and Julie, whom we had nearly left behind after forgetting about, in the back. Back on the road once more we headed south.

CHAPTER 8 – NOOSA HEADS

We rolled into Noosa Heads and pulled up on the side of the road before gingerly dismounting while trying to avoid being knocked down by vehicles on the busy street. Wandering across the road lost and disorientated we stumbled across the tourist information centre where we were given directions to some of the nearby camping sites. Before heading off in search of shelter we decided to take it easy for a bit and walked through a short pathway that brought us out onto the beach. It was a surprisingly small enclave predominately designed, it seemed, for surfers. Though there was a splattering of people sitting on the narrow beach watching the impressively sized waves crashing in as surfers and body borders made the most of the murky conditions, which were rapidly deteriorating as drizzle began to sprinkle down. After opting, somewhat oddly perhaps, for some ice cream - and with the rain worsening - we decided to go and find somewhere to stay. “This beach is shit,” Sam observed as we left, summing up the mood.

Having been advised there would be nowhere near the centre on our measly budget, which even by backpacker standards would make a homeless man look wealthy, we ventured further afield to seek refuge for the night as twilight was setting in. We stopped off at four places, undergoing the annoying ritual of parking up around the corner to let the Swedes and Julie hop out, before Mark and myself went to reception to see if they had some spare land for us to pitch up our tent - as long as it came within our strict budget conditions of $7 for the night, of course.

I was never really sure why I went in with Mark to reception on these occasions, as he and I both fully knew he would be the one doing the talking while I skulked around in the background. I think the modus operandi behind it was that by my being present I gave a sense of added credibility to our sinister operation, as if to prove to these gullible fools that there was just two of us looking to stay rather than five, which would have proved prohibitive for our enforced limited means by doubling our costs. Still, I was sure that despite the credit crunch we could have afforded the extra $7 a night. Nonetheless, by now, I fully understood the group culture and was very much committed to its pre-eminent cause of going to extreme lengths to save money wherever and however possible, even if it was just a dollar, before then celebrating wildly like we’d scooped the national lottery jackpot.

Our austerity, however, as well as bringing great pride to us all, also provided tangible benefits, such as bonus biscuits, burgers and sausages that we wouldn’t otherwise have splashed out on had it not been for all those seven dollars or so we had saved from each camping site we had duped. For this reason I happily overlooked the short term aggravation and potential humiliation of participating in this strategy should we be caught red-handed in the invidious predicament of having lied and cheated to avoid paying a meagre bit of a throw away change, which worked out as about the same amount as buying a scooner and a half of beer. And between five of us it’s fair to say that paying this extra wager wouldn’t have broken the bank, with each of us only having to stump up an extra dollar and a half on top of the dollar and a half we had already paid.

Our search for somewhere to stay wasn’t going very well with everywhere fully booked. But as we pulled up at the fifth camp site feeling tired and restless, the prospect we may have to pitch our tents up on someone’s garden was beginning to look more appealing by the second, especially as there were strict signs everywhere warning people they could face a lifetime prison sentence, or be stoned to death for camping on perfect open grass areas (Ok I may be exaggerating a bit but I got the distinct impression you didn’t want to be messing with the camping police).

After strolling up to the campsite we were told there was space, leaving myself and Mark in a state of near delirium before our excitement was crushed as we were told a space would cost a whopping $9. “Just a minute,” Mark said to the receptionist, as we turned away and huddled round to discuss whether to take the extortionate offer that was available or try our luck at the umpteenth place – that’s if there was one within 100 miles, of course. “I’m not sure mate, it’s a lot of money. We normally get it for two dollars less than that,” Mark added anxiously.

It was undoubtedly a strong argument and I couldn’t deny we would be paying over the odds, but the harsh reality was that this was the first place we had found where there was space. “Look, I think we should take it,” I declared boldly, as the receptionist was beginning to look at us like we were slightly demented. “I know it’s a lot more than we normally pay but individually it only works out as just under an extra fifty cents each. Otherwise we might have to camp on someone’s back garden.” Grudgingly, Mark agreed and handed over the cash to the receptionist. He looked gutted but ultimately knew it had to be done. “We didn’t have a choice. You win some you lose some,” I said reassuringly.

“Bloody rip-off merchants,” he hissed, as we drove round to our spot and started to unpack.

With rain now bucketing it down, it wasn’t long before thunder and lightening followed as we raced around in the dark to get our tents up before they became wringing wet, especially with mini flooding gushing down two footpaths just feet from us. Having checked the sturdiness of our tent we sprinted the short distance to the outdoor shelter and kitchen area where we ruffled up our traditional dish of hot dogs and burgers.

As we munched down our food and started to feel vaguely replenished it was agreed that we would have a few drinks before checking out the local nightlife scene. Yearning for something other than goon or beer we agreed we should go for something that could actually be enjoyed and opted for milk chocolate with vodka. We already had the hot chocolate powder but needed vodka and milk, so without any delay, with the rain slightly relenting, we went to the site’s shop and purchased our goods and then started making our lovely concoctions, which we poured into our large cups. Mark, being unusually restrained, wasn’t coming out with us while Simon was in the shower; so myself, Sam and Julie got started with the drinking. I took my first swig and nearly spat it out with it tasting like half my cup had been filled up with the spirit. I poured some more chocolate powder and milk into the cup and found the blend far more agreeable.

“Skol…tastes good,” Sam said, raising his large cup looking like a man who couldn’t have been happier with life.

“Ummm very good,” I replied, banging my cup into his. Julie looked like she was having a good time too and said something to testify her delight, or at least we assumed she had. Nonetheless, she seemed to be enjoying herself as she got stuck into her chocolate vodka.

We were into our second drinks when Simon appeared. Determined to make up for lost time he poured himself a cupful with a healthy lump of chocolate and began slurping away like a man who had been stranded without water on a desert for days. Before long he was on his second one and by the time we were on our third cups so was he. “You’re enjoying this drink?” I observed.

“Beeeaaauuuutiful,” he replied raising his cup, before knocking back some more. Although I hadn’t been convinced that milk and vodka would go together I had no hesitation now, especially being a chocolate fiend, which made all the difference. And with my tastes buds now barely noticing the vodka it was like drinking milk shakes.

The Swedes suggested we go to a nearby backpackers venue, which was where Ben and a load of others from the Fraser Island trip would be. “I wonder if there will be lots of cheesy music and dancing on tables?” I said dryly, unable to hold back my mocking of the plethora of identical travellers’ bars. As we were a few miles away from the place Mark kindly drove us down, with spirits now particularly high, especially considering we had just been on a tiring three day tour that had left our livers on the point of collapse. As we approached the centre, Simon, now transformed into a force of nature, was showcasing his bare buttocks out of the window, while Sam and myself were using various forms of sign language to communicate with those on the street. Julie was singing the words to a strange song and was being encouraged by Simon to join him in revealing flesh. “Come on, get them out…it will be fun,” he urged but she was not budging.

We arrived at the place and jumped out of Stevo. “Thanks dad,” we shouted to Mark and made our way purposely towards the entrance, avoiding all eye contact with the bouncers in case they took a dislike to us, which wouldn’t have been difficult, before striding to the bar. Simon, in particular, was like a man possessed as he pushed through a crowd of backpackers and forced his way to the front, leaving a trail of angry looking people in his wake. “Five vodka and lemonades and five vodkas and coke,” he shouted demandingly to the bar maid above the loud music. She looked at him curiously before smiling and pouring out the drinks. “Can I have five tequila shots as well,” Simon then added, in a deadpan voice. The girl’s look now turned to one of sorrow. “Is he ok?” she said to me.

“He’s alright, don’t worry not all the drinks are for him,” I replied reassuringly with a fatherly roll of the eyes.

Unfortunately my attempts to disarm her fears were not helped when the Swede then knocked back each one of his tequilas like a cowboy out of a Wild West film. I shrugged my shoulders and grabbed some of the drinks while ushering the Swede quickly away from the bar in case she realised she had significantly breached the Australian government’s Responsible Service of Alcohol law. By my reckoning there couldn’t have been a more open and shut case in history than this one but somehow Simon, with my support, had pulled it off.

We found Sam after pushing through a sea of sweaty bodies. He was with Ben and several others jiving on the busy dance floor. Armed with all his drinks Simon excitedly thrust his way into the centre of the group, assuming the role of hero with his vast array of concoctions taking on the role of medals. He continued pouring the alcohol down his throat as if it were water. “He’s thirsty,” Sam joked.

“It’s good to refresh yourself,” I replied, as we stood back and watched Simon rip up the dance floor.

Suddenly out of nowhere while bouncing about like a human bumper car he brought out what could only be described as a Nazi style dance; whereby two fingers were put above his lip while his arm stretched out in the salute position. All while he continued knocking people flying. It was hard to know what was going through his head but I could only imagine the presence of Ben and a variety of other Germans had sparked something that somehow made it seem like the obvious thing to do.

Before long, those within the group had caught the bug and were doing the “Nazi Dance” too, including Ben and his fellow countrymen, much to my surprise. It was a sight I never thought I would see. I rubbed my eyes to seek confirmation I was not imagining it, before shrugging my shoulders and piling in to the thick of things with Sam. Even those outside of our immediate gathering were now imitating the dance as its popularity spread like wildfire across the dance floor, including to the stage where some of the revellers now were.

It was a surreal sight and to say Simon was enjoying the spotlight would have been the understatement of the century, as he bobbed around like a cockerel on amphetamines, accidentally elbowing people in the face and landing on their sandal wearing bare feet. A gap in the centre of the dance floor had been created, allowing him to bounce his way through the middle still saluting, much to everyone’s delight, as all about him clapped in time.

The rigours of his dancing, though, forced the Swede to take a breather and get some more drinks. He knocked down a couple more shots and what appeared to be a straight vodka – I hoped it might have been water but judging by the grimace I think it’s safe to say it was at least 40 per cent proof alcohol – and then made his way to the toilet. I felt like an overprotective parent and followed him as he made his way with all the balance of a toddler who had just taken his first steps. Committing a clear stumble just as we approached the bouncers, before exiting the main room, I thought there was no way they would let him back in. But they must have fallen for my falsely outraged facial expression as I looked at the carpet and attempted to convince them the blame for the stumble was due to the grimy floor as opposed to Simon being blind drunk.

Looking like someone who no longer knew his own name, the Swede was standing at the urinal swaying like he had just got back to his feet after being knocked down in a boxing fight. He was spraying pee everywhere but the basin and visibly irritated a couple of men next to him when he accidentally soaked their shorts after a wobble. Fortunately, though, they were French and were not prepared to take things further.

We came out of the toilet and headed back for the main room. But just as we approached the doormen Simon’s body had decided enough was enough and like a demolished building he gave way to gravity and, as if in slow motion, smashed his head against a wall as I caught him on the way down, preventing a further blow on the floor. “I think he’s had enough for tonight,” the towering doorman announced sternly.

“Yeah one too many,” I said, as I dragged him outside having been forced to put my arm round him to support his far from lightweight body.

I foolishly thought the fresh air and getting him to lean against a wall would soon sober him up, despite the fact he had lost the ability to speak. “Simon, you ok?” I asked. But his eyes were rolling around uncontrollably. If he was aware of my presence then he was doing a very good job not to show it. Suddenly just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. A sea of projectile vomit poured from his mouth and lashed against the wall before he collapsed in a puddle from his own insides and curled up into the foetus position. “Simon, come on get up, you’re lying in your own puke,” I said urgently, knowing it would take a miracle to get him on his feet again. My fears were confirmed when he angled his head away from me and covered his face. It was not the response I had hoped for and gave the strongest impression yet that he would be in this heap for some considerable time.

I checked to make sure he was still breathing and watched over him helplessly wondering where it all went wrong. Then, after a considerably painful amount of time, Sam finally appeared having wondered where we were. On inspection of his good friend he rolled his eyes like a disappointed parent and started talking Swedish to him, though this had the exact same affect on him that my words had done. Nothing. “He’s a fucking retard,” Sam spewed, unable to hold back his rage. “Downing those chocolate milk vodkas was stupid. I should piss all over him for the hassle he has caused us.”

“No need by the looks of it,” I said pointing at Simon’s groin area.

Rolling his eyes in disbelief this time, Sam ducked his head close to Simon’s body to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. “He’s now fucking pissed himself. Maybe I should take a crap on his head as well.”

I fought back laughter. “Careful what you say…that could be next.” I prayed that would not be the case. We had already suffered enough.

We both decided to take it in turns to look after our stricken friend so we each got a break from the torment. When I returned outside after a couple of swift lagers to numb my pain there was something of a gathering, as everyone stood about looking concerned from afar. Embarrassingly for Simon one turned out to be the female he had been intimate with on Fraser Island. She had a look of pity written all over her. “I don’t think he will be seeing her again,” Ben smirked. Lying in a pool of his own piss and puke it was decided the ambulance should be called, particularly as none of us could get hold of Mark. “He’s probably beating the meat in the tent,” I suggested to Sam, who nodded knowingly.

We decided that we should move Simon from his concrete pit and get him out of his soaking shorts. By sheer good fortune Simon’s conquest had a spare pair, though in truth they looked more like hot pants than shorts. Nonetheless, without a second’s hesitation, we pressed ahead with putting the female attire on our friend. “This is pay back for all the suffering you have caused me,” Sam said mischievously.

“Look there’s a hose,” I said, pointing enthusiastically to a cable a few feet away. “We should wash him down first.” So, without further ado, four of us held him up and began the necessary cleaning process. Off came his shorts and boxers, leaving him horribly exposed, and on came the water as he was sprayed as if he was a fire that desperately needed putting out.

An ever increasing group of around 20 curious onlookers had by now gathered to see what the fuss was all about. The first thing they would do, after rubbing their eyes to make sure they weren’t deceiving them, was laugh, which was quickly followed by a thorough round of photos. “I can’t wait to show my friends this one,” one girl sniggered, before hysterically pointing at Simon’s bare shrivelled manhood to her friend. Needless to say there were a variety of photo opportunities, which generally resulted in people holding the hose like a man would his anatomy and then pretending Simon was the urinal. All this, of course, was done with wholehearted smiles and really brightened up everyone’s night, which had been on a downer ever since Simon’s collapse.

The moment we forced on the hot pants, though, was the crowning glory and made all the suffering worthwhile. They looked particularly uncomfortable as they cut into his flesh, while leaving nothing to the imagination in terms of what was down below. Not that this made any difference with everyone having already seen the Swede’s lower regions. We attempted to persuade the German girl that it would be nice for her to have a picture taken with Simon while he was in such a predicament, though being the sensible type unfortunately our best efforts fell on deaf ears. “Will you be seeing Simon again?” I asked out of interest. “You need your shorts back?” But I was met by stony-faced silence. It looked like the chances of rekindling this love affair were doomed to failure.

“He gives her a great time in a sandy tent and she won’t even do this. What a bitch,” Sam added dryly.

The ambulance turned up and after careful inspection the paramedics expertly concluded he had drank too much alcohol, but wouldn’t need admitting to hospital and was, surprisingly, safe to go home – or in his case, to his tent. Having no idea where our campsite was and with it highly unlikely a taxi would give us a lift in any event, myself, Sam and Julie, who had showed up, decided we would head in the rough direction we thought we had come from. But just as were facing up to the gruelling prospect of what would inevitably be a slow painful hike through the outback, Mark saved the day and announced he was on his way to picking us up.

As he pulled into the car park we had never been so pleased to see him. It took an almighty group effort to help Simon in, as he was limp as a corpse. “It’s like getting an old person into one of those special disabled vehicles,” Mark said as we belted the Swede into the front passenger seat. He sat there motionless, with dribble coming out of his mouth. “Look what happens when I leave you lot on your own,” Mark smugly added.

“Where were you two hours ago when we called?” I asked inquisitively, ensuring he would not be taking any undue credit, especially when I felt that without my heroic performance the Swede might not have made it at all.

“Probably jerking off,” Sam, chipping in, said.

“I bet you were. You better not have got any on our blow up bed or you’ll be sleeping outside.” I shivered involuntarily, genuinely worrying about the likelihood of this prospect.

Once we were back - and after I inspected our bed for any stray semen - I helped the others cart Simon, head wobbling uncontrollably, into bed. I now realised why the term hammered had been invented to describe people who had consumed too much alcohol, as he looked like he had been remorselessly bashed until he could no longer stand. Rarely, if ever, had I seen anyone descend into such a vegetative state after a night’s drinking. “I think we’ve all learnt a lesson from tonight,” I boldly declared. “Next time we do the large cups of chocolate milk with vodka we must make sure Simon drinks it slower.”

The next morning the sun was scorching down as we slowly collected ourselves before making breakfast. The only conversation, naturally, was of the previous night, though the Swede was conspicuous by his absence. When Simon did rise, he walked to the shower area before returning and collapsing arms and legs sprawled on the blow up bed that was now in full view of all the nearby tents, having been placed near the car. He was, of course, still wearing the hot pants. “I don’t think we should say too much about last night to him. Let’s go easy. You know how it is when you feel like crap,” Mark thoughtfully suggested. We all agreed, after all he did look like someone who had spent the last few years rough.

After ushering Simon on board Stevo – still without uttering a single word – we made our way out the campsite in painful silence, before it was broken. “You remember last night Simon?” Mark asked, in a surprisingly concerned voice. No answer. Though there was eye contact and the very slightest of shrugs as acknowledgment. The pain and embarrassment was shining through and it wasn’t long before our agreement not to mock him was breached. “You’re wearing girl’s hot pants,” Sam then helpfully pointed out, causing a visible look of bewilderment from his friend. “You were lying in a pool of your own puke and piss so we had to wash you down and put you in those.”

Whatever agony Simon had been going through just magnified in that moment - with the way he turned his head further toward the window making it all too clear that he instinctively knew it was all true. Why else would he be wearing a pair of girl’s hot pants? “Unfortunately we had to get your little chap out and spray you down. Luckily there was only about 25 people watching - it could have been a lot more.” My attempt to allay the Swede’s worries didn’t help as he put his head deeper into his hands, wishing he could vanish into thin air and escape our commentary on the previous night.

Mark continued to paint the picture of events for our beleaguered friend. “Not sure that German girl is up for seeing you again mate….oh it’s her shorts you’re wearing by the way.”

Sam’s anger had transformed from disgust into jubilant mockery at the prospect of being able to get one over on his good friend. “She had a look of pity on her face when you were lying face down on the floor with your soaking wet shorts from where you had pissed yourself.”

CHAPTER 9 – BRISBANE

We arrived in Brisbane with the weather more like that of the British summer time – a sea of grey clouds that seem to take a deep satisfaction in violently chucking down water for an eternity that once again leave you feeling robbed of the summer sunshine. Despite our general isolation and blissful ignorance of what was going on in the world we had caught the odd newspaper headline while in various shops and heard on the grapevine of the unprecedented levels of rain during the Australian summer.

Stories of severe flooding, including whole towns being left submerged under an ocean of water had caught our attention, especially as we had only recently travelled through some of these places. Gympie happened to be one of them and after catching a glimpse of it on the television now looked totally unrecognisable from when we had passed through - with it now bearing the appearance of a large lake. It suddenly dawned on us how close we had come to getting caught up in the carnage as we made our way down the coast, but now in Brisbane it felt like it had finally caught up with us.

With twilight descending we pulled into a shopping centre to get some supplies of food and alcohol. The precinct area was remarkably desolate considering Christmas was soon upon us. After squeezing our goods into the car we made our way through the city traffic to our destination, Brisbane Backpackers.

After the pain of signing in and handing over what felt like a fortune for our two night stay, particularly having paid peanuts for our accommodation (if indeed you can call it that) at various campsites, we trudged up to our room looking like we had just returned from war. The intention had been to go out but everyone was totally knackered and having the luxury of an almost normal bed with a pillow was too much of a golden opportunity not to make the most of. Before long everyone was snoring their heads off.

Waking the next morning I summoned the energy to glance at my phone and checked the time, which showed it had just gone 11am. I had spent over 12 glorious hours in bed. The rest felt cathartic after all the roughing it and drinking my body had recently been through. Being the only one left in the room I made my way down to the kitchen area where I found the others. The Swedes had found the “free food” section and were helping themselves to toast, cereal, coffee, melons and anything else they could get their hands on they didn’t have to pay for. Without delay I joined in and was sumptuously stuffing my face before I knew it. With only one toaster working we made sure no one else in the kitchen could use it while we did ourselves several rounds.

Out of nowhere a man with broken English - and great arrogance, it must be said - asked if could put some bread in. “You can use the one over there,” I said helpfully pointing across the room at one of the faulty devices. After all, we hadn’t yet finished with it.

“No work,” he replied hesitantly.

I made a deep sigh, before my good nature reluctantly took over. “Ok, you can use this one when we finish then yes?” He smiled excitedly before having to wait in excess of 20 minutes while we tucked into our delightfully warm and fluffy toast. His smile even turned to a scowl when he foolishly jumped the gun and went to put his bread in, only to be met by a firm shake of the head and an outstretched arm to prevent him going any further once it was made clear that we hadn’t yet finished.

Following our wholesome breakfast we held a meeting about the plan of action for the day. Despite it still raining we decided we had to explore the city even though we all agreed it looked about as exciting as viewing a swathe of grey concrete multi-storey car parks. Later on we would be going for dinner at an old friend of Mark’s from back home, who we were given the heads-up on. “She was known round my way for being caught by her boyfriend having a threesome with two lads she met one night – one was doing her from behind while she was sucking off the other one. But don’t anyone ask her about it. Ok Steve?” I didn’t want to promise anything but nodded my head to appease him, even though I knew an innocent question could slip out after a few drinks.

We were dropped off by the hostel shuttle bus at one of the famous multi-storey car parks in the city and then proceeded to wander through a bland shopping centre before coming out onto the centrally located Turbot Street. With few distinguishing features and a mass of high rise buildings that looked like clones of each other it was hard to know exactly where you were. After walking in a giant circle for nearly an hour before realising we had already been past the same spot three times we found the river, which at least broke up the concrete building monotony.

Soon bored we went to the nearest McDonald’s to get some food and entertain ourselves. It was at times like this that I really appreciated the fast food chain as I ravenously stuffed an assortment of salty and sugary foods down my throat. The place offered a visible sanctuary for all sorts of undesirables and lost souls, including tramps and weirdoes with nothing better to do than kill countless hours of boredom. Though, in fairness, many of them had shown tremendous initiative by taking advantage of the wash facilities and using the place to get some shut-eye, having made a cheeseburger last five hours first.

Simon needed a pair of shorts after his unfortunate episode at Noosa Heads, so once we had filled our faces we left McDonald’s feeling contented and skulked about from shop to shop scoffing at the ridiculous prices, before the Swede desperately plunged for the cheapest pair he could find – a preposterous $25 for a bang average blue cotton pair. “They just love taking you from behind in this country. The shorts haven’t even got a back pocket,” Simon grimaced, like someone had just robbed him in broad daylight, which of course they had.

“At least you’ve given us something to do,” Sam added, untroubled by the small fortune his friend was forced to hand over for a particularly unmemorable pair of shorts.

“And they’re nice and shiny,” Mark said smiling like a clown.

I was more concerned about the material. “I hope they have the inner layer to support your package…and to soak up any potential accidents.” There was not a lot Simon could say, so he said nothing and pretended none of us existed.

Bored of the bland city already we gladly headed back to the hostel where we began getting ready for our night out. Incredibly the shower worked, so after a good lathering I was glad that I no longer looked like one of the tramps we had seen in McDonald’s. With it still pouring down we got a taxi to the apartment block across the city where Mark’s friend lived. Within seconds of hopping out everyone was drenched. But just in case I was not wet enough, a thoughtful driver decided to plough through a giant puddle to finish me off, leaving my clothes wringing wet like I had just been in a swimming pool. I gave him a solitary finger to show what I thought of him as he veered off, though I think it’s fair to say he had the final laugh.

We waited patiently in the rain for an age as Mark’s friend made her way down from one of the top floor flats to greet us. By now I was sure I had pneumonia as water continued to pour off my body. “I’ve had showers that have left me dryer than this,” I muttered as we made our way inside and into the lift. Once in the flat I had no choice but to remove certain items of clothing. Fortunately I was able to borrow a jumper of Mark’s which felt heavenly once I had wrestled off the soaked skin tight t-shirt and jumper I had been wearing like a straightjacket for some considerable time. Although I am not one to readily expose my big toes in public, as I’ve already made clear, I had no choice in this instance and made my apologies to the host and her friends after declining the opportunity to borrow a pair of socks, which I was not comfortable doing with a stranger. Especially a stranger who makes a habit of being penetrated from behind by anyone except her husband.

Finally, I was able to sink a few beers to help relieve the pain I was in. And by the time we had eaten food I was beginning to recover from the pneumonia I felt like I had obtained in the soaking conditions. During dinner myself, Sam and Simon were merrily scoffing down the numerous sausages on the table, while subtly mimicking they were something else. “Ummm these sausages are really nice,” I said, before sliding the phallic shaped object slowly into my mouth before chewing heartedly. Eyes watering and face going purple, Sam suddenly broke out into a false cough, while struggling to prevent food spewing from his mouth to conceal the fact he really wanted to burst out laughing in the woman’s face. Mark instantly gave me a disapproving teacher glare, clearly worried I was sailing too close to the wind on his friend’s nocturnal activities. And when the creamy pudding was brought out his face contorted further as he sensed more mocking, prompting him to deliver a swift kick on my foot under the table.

After just about holding it together during dinner we relaxed with a few beers before heading out into the city to the highly recommended Gilhooleys Irish pub. As I climbed out of the taxi I had to rub my eyes and do a double-take after thinking I had seen someone I knew. Incredibly, I had. It was none other than Veiko, the strange and repulsive Finnish blood-sucker who had latched onto me in Sydney all those months ago. The last time I had seen him he was sleeping rough on a park bench and talking about going fruit picking somewhere up the east coast. I assumed he would have been dead by now, either through his own fault or because someone had taken a deep dislike to him, which was perfectly understandable. I hoped my mind was playing some kind of morbid joke on me but the nearer I got to him I sadly realised it wasn’t.

True to form he was puffing away on a roll-up cigarette while swaying like a tree in the wind, no doubt from all the alcohol he had conned someone into buying for him. His eyes still had an eerie, evil stare to them and he was wearing the same pair of hideous flip-flops and holed jeans, despite the torrential downpour, that he always used to wear.

I had told the Swedes the story about this sordid individual by essentially explaining he was a selfish, weird, conniving thief who would sell his own grandmother for a bag of goon and some weed. He wouldn’t discriminate against a particular type - just as long as it got him completely off his head he was happy. “He looks like a peasant,” Simon observed immediately.

“You can tell he’s Finnish because he’s so ugly,” added Sam. There’s no love lost between the Swedes and the Finns and I knew it would be an interesting night. I bet the others that he would try and get drinks out of me, even though he still owed me $20 and a Hungry Jacks whopper meal.

I braced myself as we approached the pub and casually strolled up to him. “How’s it going?” I said politely. He looked at me in disbelief with his mouth wide open, seemingly happy to see me as a smirk appeared across his face. Though, this was not surprisingly after all the money, food, drink and shelter I had provided him in Sydney. “What the fuck are you doing here man?” he asked, still in shock at my presence.

“Going to the pub,” I replied, as he nodded knowingly. “The last time I saw you in Sydney you were sleeping on that park bench. You finally managed to get out then?” I had forgotten just how ill it had made me feel to look at him: his nails were still painted purple and his revolting nose ring remained intact. “I sneaked back into that hostel and slept on the floor for a few weeks until they noticed and then went up north with the money I saved from not paying rent,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

I nodded knowingly before reminding him of his debt, “You still owe me $20 and a Hungry Jacks whopper meal.” He shrugged his shoulders again. I knew I would not be seeing that money ever again. Not that I had ever expected to mind you.

On entering the premises I managed to lose Veiko and grabbed myself a beer before finding the others who were playing pool. Following a few rounds we decided it was best to buy our beers in jugs, which turned out to be an excellent move as it prevented wasting valuable drinking time stood at the bar. Mark was chatting away to his accommodating female friend, in all likelihood about the good old days, leaving the Swedes and myself in no doubt as to his intentions. “Typical Mark…he says he has no interest in her but then after a few beers he just can’t help himself,” Simon, nodding his head disapprovingly, mocked.

“He will need another man to help him though as she likes two at the same time,” Sam laughed.

I could only endorse the comments. “I don’t suppose she could believe her luck that she had more than one person interested in her.”

Just as the conversation was beginning to descend into its usual graphic seediness, Veiko emerged round the corner with an evil smile. Sam and Simon had never had the misfortune of meeting him before but it was clear from the venom in their eyes they already hated him, particularly because he was a Finnish freeloader. “Hey,” he began. “Fancy getting me a jug of beer? I’m down to my last $10 for the night.” Having moved on from my impersonation of Mother Theresa all those months ago when I had helped him countless times, and with my raging Swedish friends beside me, I decided I’d had enough of this selfish turd. “I’ve heard that Finland is the bit that Sweden no longer wanted,” I began, heartily warming to my task. “I give you money, food and shelter when it turns out you already had some money and now you come here and ask me for a jug? The only drink you’ll be getting from me is piss in a cup.” He looked shell-shocked but was still trying to figure out if I would give him some drink. “And why the fuck do you wear female nail varnish on your hands and feet. Do you take it up the arse or in the mouth or both?”

At this point I noticed two of his big Finnish friends appear next to me, who thought something untoward was happening. “It’s ok you don’t need to worry I’m just educating him,” I helpfully informed the pair. They looked puzzled and remained on guard as I finished my piece. “You need to get off the drugs, stop lying, cheating and stealing from people and remove that hideous nose ring and nail varnish and get a haircut. “He shrugged his shoulders once more before gesturing to Sam and Simon to see if they would get him a jug of beer, which was met with scowling silence. After shrugging his shoulders once more he trudged off to target his next victim.

“I told you those people are fucking peasants,” Sam, who I’d never seen so angry, said. “It’s good that we got rid of them from our country. You can see it in their eyes they are evil and just want to thieve from everybody. It would be better if we destroyed them.” As the testosterone levels eased off we congratulated each other on a job well done in ridding ourselves of the malevolent Fin. I felt a new level of respect from the Swedes, who now saw me as the embodiment of everything that was anti-Finnish.

After getting another jug each and knocking back a round of shots to mark our victory, we returned to the corner of the pub where we continued our discussion about how disgusting Finnish people were before noticing Mark was nowhere to be seen. “I think we know where he is,” Simon said, rolling his eyes.

“They must have found another man to help out,” I continued.

“That’s nice of him,” Sam added dryly. And with that happy thought we decided to call it a night and caught a taxi back to our hostel.

The next day we awoke in typical leisurely fashion and helped ourselves to the “free food” section in the kitchen before deciding to watch the dullest selection of television programs just to kill some time having checked out. We had to await the return of Mark before we could leave. But with no contact from our friend – whose phone was off - and with it now gone midday we decided to go for a wander to get some food.

Then, out of the blue I received a text message from Mark, “Spent night in prison cell, can you come get me?” I rubbed my eyes before breaking out into laughter, partly through his self-inflicted misfortune but also through the predictability of knowing that I should have expected nothing less than some major drama to be behind his absence. After informing the others – whose immediate reaction was a belly laugh – I attempted to craft a reply, “What happened?” I began thoughtfully, before adding, “Fuck off get a taxi back.”

Undeterred, he replied instantly. “Just had a bit of bother. Come on mate please get me?”

“No sod off. See you back at the hostel. Hurry up we want to leave.”

We decided to take wagers on what had happened, with the smart money on him pissing off someone over a woman or women – probably the latter. The suspense was reaching fever pitch when after a further two hours he finally returned to the hostel. Inevitably he was soaking wet and looking dishevelled in the manner of someone you would expect to look having spent a night fully clothed in a police cell after copious amounts of alcohol, who had then got lost in the pouring rain when trying to find the hostel from the other side of the city.

“Thanks for picking me up,” he said grumpily, water dripping off his face as he walked in. I did feel a pang of guilt for a second, but then restored my composure. “Why didn’t you get a taxi? You would still be waiting at the station now if I tried to find you in Stevo,” I hit back assertively, and in all likelihood very accurately.

“I had no cash for a taxi anyway, spent it all last night.”

“So what happened then Special Mark?”

The silence was deafening as we all listened in intently to see who would win the bet, while waiting for the inevitable sorry tale. “I left with my mate – no nothing happened with her,” he said, sensing our assumption he had gone back to engage in sexual relations with his female friend. “We went to this other place and were on the dance floor. I was getting with this random bird; sticking my tongue down her throat - nothing else - and this guy got aggro about it. I don’t know why. There weren’t any punches thrown or anything, just a bit of shoving but I told the fat tosser where to go.” He paused briefly as he accessed the few brain cells he had left to recall the chain of events. “Then I got with another bird. She was rubbing my cock so I slipped her a couple of cheeky fingers and was giving it some when this other big meathead came over and kicked off, saying she was his girl.”

He shook his head in disbelief before wincing at the memory. “He pissed me off so I told him to smell my fishy fingers from where I’d been up her minge. And that’s when he punched me...then we were rucking on the dance floor, before we got chucked out. The wanker then came at me outside. Next thing I know the pigs turned up and arrested me. I told them it wasn’t my fault and that she was enjoying being fingered but it made no difference. The only good thing is that at least I don’t have to go to court.”

Simon shook his head like a man who knew the story before it had even been told, “Typical Mark…how did we know it would be something like this.”

“Well, I think the bet was a draw then,” Sam suggested, showing greater concern for the wager than our friend’s welfare, which was fair enough under the circumstances, especially as he had walked out on us without even a goodbye. Each of us had either predicated the episode was a result of a woman, or was a fight of some description, so we shook hands on an honourable draw and insisted Mark owed us the next round of beers. I offered him a supportive pat on the back, just to let him know we were still with him. “Least you got your fingers wet mate,” I said sympathetically.

CHAPTER 10 – SURFERS PARADISE

Having arrived in the peculiar named city, Surfers Paradise (perhaps from now on prominent sporting cities in England should follow the Australian blueprint and be re-named Football Haven or Cricket Sanctuary?), we pulled into a side street so we could finally stave off our ever-increasing hunger and eat.

Having lunch on the pavement was not ideal but all sense of self respect had long vanished as we dug out our bread rolls, having spent a considerable amount of time removing the contents of the vehicle to find the food container that just so happened to be buried beneath everything. Leaning against a nearby wall in that seemingly perpetual state of exhaustion, we tucked into our ham rolls, while inadvertently forcing by-passers to meander around us or cross the road as we congregated like a bunch of vagrants looking for their next fix.

Once the stomach pains were alleviated it was time to check in to our new place of residence. Cunningly, myself and the Swedes had utilised the hours of boredom in Brisbane and reserved beds in the glamorous sounding hostel Backpackers in Paradise – a sharp play on words I’m sure you’ll agree, though from my now vast experience I found the concepts of being a backpacker and in paradise as a contradiction. Or to be frank, it was total bollocks. It was, of course, a predictable type of hostel name, the kind I had grown all-too familiar with and fully expected to be more like a housing waste dump than paradise.

After getting dropped off by Mark, who was staying elsewhere with a friend, we went to reception to check-in, where we were forced to hand over vast sums of cash to stay in our six-bed dorm in “paradise”. To be fair, though, once my anger had subsided at the disgusting violation I felt I had been a victim of with the pricing, I took a look around the hostel and discovered that it was actually a pretty nice place, well nice by hostel standards at least. It included a court yard area, swimming pool, bar and lounge rooms, all of which had been well maintained and actually looked like they were possible to spend time in without contracting some form of aggressive disease. It was definitely a step up from some of the pit hostels I had previously stayed in, which offer you nothing more than your own hand to wipe your rectum with.

Wandering through the busy centre in the glorious sunshine it immediately became apparent just how commercial the place was with all the usual American fast food outlets, as well as bars and clubs that dominated the area, made up with half naked men and women roaming the streets. With the nightlife hub right by the beach it was abundantly clear that this place was geared up primarily as a party destination for young people. And with a strong hint of seediness in the air it reminded me somewhat of Blackpool, but with warm weather and a surprising amount of Australian people. Though, of course, there were still European backpackers aplenty.

There was also a smattering of high-rise buildings adjacent to the beach, a bit like in Chicago, which I visited a decade before. But this was not Chicago and was certainly not some kind of metropolis that needed to save valuable space. But, nonetheless, some clever planners had clearly thought it a good move to stick the odd tower up right by the beach.

But, as with men with modest anatomy, perhaps it was simply the case that they were simply making up for what they didn’t have, especially with a population of under 20,000 people. In England, towns of a comparable size are fortunate if they have something as easily distinguishable as a high street or, if they’re really lucky, the luxury of a McDonald’s, let alone mini skyscrapers. Nonetheless, the real failure had to be the giant buildings right next to a beach. As great as the views undoubtedly were from high up, it seemed the planners had failed to consider that when the sun was out – which in the “Sunshine” state would invariably be a lot - people would be on the beach or by the pool not up in their rooms.

Following a few idle hours relaxing on the golden beach, on the aptly named Gold Coast, renowned for its incredible surf (hence the name Surfers Paradise, I suspect), I quickly realised there was another, fairly obvious, disadvantage of having skyscrapers by the beach: they block out the sun. So as I was sleepily luxuriating in the late afternoon glow, I suddenly felt a chill come over me as the sun went behind the tallest of the monstrosities, causing my nipples to go hard and goose pimples to appear all over my body like a progressive rash, as now all I could feel was the hefty breeze. Irritated by this needless imposition, I begrudgingly manoeuvred myself round to reach for my t-shirt.

I looked in complete disgust at the characterless high-rise slabs of concrete and contemplated how planning permission was ever granted to buildings that would so blatantly impinge on the holidaymakers’ experience of enjoying what was apparently regarded as one of the top beaches in the world.

Taking no notice of the government’s requests and desperate to get as many rays as possible onto our skin, myself, Sam Simon and Julie moved along the beach to a large patch where the sun hadn’t been interfered with and began to soak up what we could before the next tower blocked out the sun. Annoyingly, though, it was all in vain, as before long the beach was covered in shadows with only a smattering of sun pockets, which may have provided the opportunity to bronze my left shoulder a bit more but not a lot else. Even by my sun worshipping standards this would have amounted to stooping the barrel. “What a waste of perfectly good sun,” I announced brashly, in a deliberately overbearing voice, so others were fully aware of my repulsion. I trudged off the sand looking at the towers shaking my head vigorously with a mixture of disbelief and disgust, knowing that I should still be tanning.

As we strolled close to McDonald’s it did what it normally does to people and sucked us in. Just as we sat down to ravage our food, we heard a deep voice behind us. “Hello wankers.” Swivelling round we were shocked to see Ben standing there with a smirk on his face. We had not seen our German pal since Noosa. It was a pleasant and unexpected surprise to see him, especially as there had been no special arrangement in place to meet, in all likelihood due to everyone being sidetracked by Simon dying in a pool of his own sick and pee after overdoing the vodka milk chocolate milkshakes. “The last time I saw you,” Ben said chirpily, turning to Simon, “you were wearing some girl’s hot pants after pissing yourself.” As he let out his robotic German laugh, the Swede winced at the memory – or the story about him at least, as his recollection was understandably hazy.

The German was staying in a nearby hostel for free with someone he had met on the Greyhound coach. “The place I’m at has quite a few empty beds in the room so you could have stayed there for free as well, but it’s too late now you’ve paid,” he informed us. Although it was hard to take that we had thrown away perfectly good money there was nothing we could do about it now. “Maybe I come and stay at yours anyway if there’s a free bed.” He smiled.

We got back to the hostel after stopping off to get some booze for the night and once I’d given everyone a thrashing at table tennis we started on the cheap vodka. Following a few drinks Ben unexpectedly decided he wanted his hair shaved off. This was despite the fact he had a substantial portion of wavy dark fluff on his head and had never had a skinhead before in his life. Naturally, he got nothing but overwhelming support as we instructed Mark to bring the shavers round.

Excitement was growing as we waited to ruin Ben’s hair. Even Julie was cracking a few jokes, or at least we assumed this was what she was doing. As the Scot came out with another remark – which could have been Russian for all we knew - silence descended on the room as we all instinctively glanced at each other in curious bewilderment, as if in the vain hope that someone had understood her poor attempt at English. I shrugged blankly in return. Once several long, awkward seconds had passed where we all racked our brains in a desperate attempt to figure out what was said, we quickly moved on to fill the vacuum in the conversation she had caused by trying to join in. “What’s the time?” I nonchalantly said, prompting the Swedes and Ben to gladly look at their watches. It can’t have been easy for Julie. But if I had been in her shoes then slowing down her speech would have been a good start, rather than talking like she was down her local pub in Scotland.

Any sympathy we had was short lived after she left the room, though. “I never understand a word she says. How can people talk to her if they don’t understand?” Ben said, scratching his head.

Simon could no longer hold back either, “She talks at a million miles an hour in her thick accent and expects people from other countries to get what she says. Such a retard.”

“No, she’s a dog turd,” Sam, sensing the opportunity to twist the knife in, sniggered.

I nodded empathetically. “All I know is that I can understand you lot so much easier than I can her. She may as well be from Saudi Arabia.”

Mark finally arrived with the shavers and like a seasoned hairdresser plonked Ben down in a seat by the mirror and, without a second’s hesitation, started removing the German’s hair, leaving a mound of fur on the floor as he went. Under pressure from the rest of us and with Ben proving to be a good sport, Mark attempted to shave the hair into the shape of a Swastika, before taking the whole lot off. “You looked like a 12 year old before but you actually look alright now I’ve done that,” Mark said after finishing the job.

“You look like a Nazi,” Sam smiled.

“He is a Nazi,” Simon added dryly before saluting.

Ben, being the good sport, responded by impersonating the Fuhrer. With hair aplenty on the floor, Sam made the most of it and began wearing it as a moustache. Though, his attempt to resemble Hitler failed as he ended up looking more like a German porn star. As was customary in such circumstances – or where there was a perm-like wig handy – I elected to stuff a load of the hair on the rim of my shorts, as if I had an obsessive pube growth problem, and then wandered casually across the main courtyard area and back into the room, getting odd looks as I went.

Once we were through with acting like a bunch of ten year olds we threw on some clothes and headed out for the night. As we strolled through the bright light streets we were faced with various hazards, including annoying female bar reps with bulging cleavage handing out fliers and discount cards, all while acting playfully; as if to give everyone the impression they may get a cheeky blow job if stopping by at their establishment. Or at least that is what they wanted you to believe.

None of us, of course, were stupid enough to fall for the act. Well, apart from Mark that is, whose eyes were attracted to the array of bouncing flesh like a magnet to a fridge. Even after the girls had lost interest, having realised there was no way on earth we would go to their shabby bar, Mark was still leaching onto them, seemingly unable to believe his luck that a woman had initiated conversation with him. The fact she had done the same that night with hundreds of others was neither here nor there to him.

“I’ll be getting my cock wet later by the looks of it lads,” he smugly declared, somehow foolishly assuming the woman, firstly, fancied him and, secondly, would be prepared to engage in intercourse with him after a brief and rehearsed conversation that she had had with countless of other men.

“Why, are you finally washing it?” I replied. It always felt good to provide a dose of reality to our one-browed friend.

“You just wait, I’ll be spunking my load deep inside her flange later. She’ll be a total wreck by the time I finish with her…she won’t know what’s hit her. She’ll have the best of British.”

I smiled at his brashness, “More like she’ll have herpes.”

“You look like someone who would fuck a dead person,” Simon said, joining in the banter.

Sam opened the debate up further still. “What about animals? Ever fucked a goat? I think you would get on well with them.” As hard as Mark tried there was no escape, as he tried in vain to brush off the series of insults that effortlessly flowed towards him.

Having meandered aimlessly about unsure which place to go into, we finally decided to head into a bar. After all, they all looked as undesirable as each other. Though, this one looked slightly less crap than some of the others and had the advantage of offering us not one but two free drink vouchers. Naturally this made our minds up. Having received a stamp that was more like a tattoo such was its permanency we powered up the stairs and headed straight to the bar. The mild headache I had been enduring was exacerbated by the inescapable screeching noise from one corner of the large open plan bar where there was some kind of cheesy raffle going on, in which the winner was established by the person prepared to strip the furthest. Class and integrity at these venues, it’s safe to say, were not fundamental requirements.

I looked over and spotted a gangly woman standing awkwardly displaying her breasts, though I found it odd that such an attention seeker would be acting so shyly. After all, no one put a gun to her head in forcing her to expose her sizeable assets. As if this sordid vulgarity wasn’t enough, there was also something for the girls with a man on stage smiling cockily with his shrivelled penis out. Everyone was clapping and cheering as he was declared the winner. Well, he had gone the extra mile. “Cunt,” Sam suddenly shouted out of the blue, showing further elements of English cultural assimilation. I smiled with pride at him. Once the filth had finished we pushed our way through a crowd of people before finally getting served.

Having made our way to an outside seating area where we thought it would be quieter, it was still impossible to hear each other with the racket. None of us were drunk or even remotely close, which was exactly the state you needed to be in one of these hovels, so we opted to leave and buy two four litre goon boxes, as well as some plastic cups, from a nearby wine shop before drinking on the streets.

Making our way off the main boulevard we found a discreet spot to drink our vile tasting goon. To maintain a quick tempo we agreed on a three-sip rule, though with peer pressure rife this soon transpired into a three gulp rule, where you would quickly take the required amount before handing it abruptly to the person next to you.

Before long we were back on our default conversation of who had the best country – a topic Mark and I thrived on. “Ok you’ve made some nice cars but what else have you really done? And who won the war?” I announced after Ben had bizarrely tried to declare Germany was superior.

On a roll, I had no choice but to educate the Swedes too. “Ok so you’ve got Ikea but most of the whole world speaks our language. Who speaks yours apart from you? No wonder you all want to kill yourselves,” I smirked, referring to the high Swedish suicide rate.

We brushed aside the valid insults they made about immigration, the national football team and Prince Charles and countered by simply highlighting the names Sven Goran Goran Eriksson and Ulrika Jonsson. With Ben, when not mentioning Hitler or the war it was simply a case of mentioning German porn stars and hairy women. Beginning to feel sorry for them, as we always did having delivered a series of put downs, a kind of ceasefire then came about where we joined forces in looking down our noses at the French - which everyone could relate to – and the Finns, for the benefit of Sam and Simon.

The more we drank the more trying to keep a low profile proved harder than we thought, especially when urinating in the adjacent canal. A middle-aged couple, unfortunately for them, happened to be walking past as Ben and Simon were spraying a lorry load of pee into the water several feet below them, making an almighty splashing noise. The man and woman looked slightly embarrassed, if not a little shocked, as they avoided all eye contact before briskly walking on by. “Don’t worry they’ve only got small cocks,” Mark yelled out brashly, causing the innocent pair to speed up further.

Having hit the wall with our goon drinking it was then suggested we incorporate a deterrent to speed things up. It was agreed that anyone who struggled to drink their three “gulps” and hold-up the rotation would be subjected to a punishment, whereby they had to stand alone by a railing overlooking the canal with their bottom on display to help light up the night darkness until some poor unsuspecting individual walked past. To begin with no one put a foot wrong in keeping pace with drinking as everyone was determined not to suffer the public humiliation.

But with competitiveness inevitably taking over it soon became difficult to maintain such high standards, as all of us were left gagging at some point before somehow mustering the power to manfully carrying on without spraying puke everywhere. That was until Sam broke down and spluttered like someone who had drank a cupful of cyanide, as the warm goon spilled from his mouth, prompting instant demands for him to do his crime. Despite his flaky protestations – “Nothing came out of my mouth” – he rightly wore the look of a doomed man.

“Peer pressure sucks,” I said enthusiastically, ushering him over to the spot where he had to pay his dues.

“What if someone decides to come up behind me?” the Swede asked, with genuine fear on his face.

I offered him a reassuring pat on the back before attempting to ease the pressure. “You’ll just have to pray.”

Once against the wall he looked over his shoulder and after we all gave him the nod, he lowered his trousers and stood awkwardly, his buttocks shining almost as bright as the moon lighting up the darkness. The rest of us waited with baited breath for someone to walk past so we could wallow with delight at our friend’s misfortune. A few minutes had passed when judging by his twitchy demeanour and constant looks over his shoulder, Sam was clearly beginning to feel the pressure that naturally comes with exposing your rear end in public at night.

But fortune favours the brave and soon his wait was over as an elderly man came leisurely strolling by. Luckily for him he didn’t initially see Sam but having got closer it was impossible to miss such a view. Glancing sideways the man stumbled on the pavement upon witnessing the atrocious sight, before looking again to make sure his glasses weren’t deceiving him. “Pull your trousers up you fucking queer,” he shouted with disgust dripping from his mouth.

Despite his senior years he was clearly no shrinking violet and things looked like they may turn ugly – well, even uglier anyway. Mark, sensing his opportunity, hit back, “Why don’t you teach him a lesson old man, you know you want to.”

“Who’s that? Fuck off you sicko.” He shook his head, looking in the direction of the trees but was clearly not sure where the mysterious voice had come from.

Mark smirked, “Get stuck in…I know you want to.”

“I’ll come back and shoot you lot if you’re not careful.”

“Don’t think your pistol’s got any lead in it mate.”

The old man looked so angry that it was certainly easy to believe that he was capable of murder, but thankfully he continued to shake his head and walked off muttering expletives to himself instead. Not sure whether this old nutter was planning on coming back to shoot us, we played safe and moved on just in case. Normally laid back to the point of horizontal, Sam’s irritation with the ordeal he had been put through was clearly visible from his stony face - once he had pulled his pants up, of course. His mood hadn’t been helped by Ben slapping his bare cheeks, leaving a vicious red hand mark.

We finished the remainder of our goon and marched back to the same bar we had left earlier like totally new men. The place was now much busier, which unfortunately meant that noise levels – previously at obscene levels – were now off the radar. Frustrated by the sea of people and hideous music, I accidentally-on-purpose knocked several people out of the way while innocently squashing several pairs of toes as I fought my way to the bar and demanded alcohol of some variety.

In amongst the chaos Mark and I managed to lose the Swedes and Ben. Shouting and spitting in each other’s ears, the conversation came to an abrupt halt when Mark bumped into a girl he had briefly met at the hostel following our Fraser Island trip. It was a coincidence, though not quite the unbelievable piece of divine intervention that he was making it out to be. “She’s bang up for my cock,” he shouted in my ear during an interlude in their chat.

“Why don’t you go for her friend?” he added, with all the subtlety of a rhino while attempting to point with his head at the woman. I looked over and spotted the friend. She was covered in thick facial hair and had a butch face like a pig. I wasn’t convinced she was necessarily a member of the fairer sex. To make matters worse she was wearing what I presumed was meant to be a mini skirt, but unfortunately for her looked more like a giant belt. “She would probably eat me so I’m afraid I won’t be your wing man. Think I’ll leave you to it.”

And with that I turned around and left Mark in a rather sticky situation, compounded by the reality that he was trying to get in one girl’s knickers while endeavouring to keep the other one content for fear that she would cock block him by preventing her friend take things further. Such a predicament would, in all likelihood, have sent the desired one of the pair into a strop, before storming out having been deprived of her chance for action, while leaving Mark without so much as a wet finger.

I afforded myself a rye smile at the set of circumstances I had escaped as I barged my way through the crowds of people like a tank. It was dog eat dog in those situations; if you didn’t bash people out the way they would smell your vulnerability and walk all over you like a doormat, which I wasn’t prepared to let happen. With patience running thin, I finally spotted the boys. They were near the stage, larking about doing the “Hitler Dance”. Despite being aware I was about to enter a world of pain I nonetheless braved it and went over to them, where I did a sarcastic jig for about five seconds before having enough. Valuing my self-respect I quickly left and went over to the side of the dance floor away from the mayhem where I could contently drink my beer and not worry about my nose accidentally rubbing against someone’s stinking, hairy arm pit, or having an array of elbows smashing me in the head.

Standing there while minding my own business happily watching everyone make complete fools of themselves, some sweaty man in a vest with dark greasy hair started talking to me. Friendly enough, he looked like he was South American and could just about muster a sentence in English. After the usual small chat that I had become accustomed to in these scenarios he offered me a cigar, which in the interests of friendliness, but mainly boredom, I accepted, especially as it had been four years since I had last pissed off an entire pub of people by lighting one up (before the UK smoking ban).

We went to the smoking area where we puffed away, stinking out the room with the vile smell before returning shortly afterwards. To my surprise the man offered to buy me a drink, which, not being the type to turn down free alcohol, I gladly accepted. And I was quietly impressed when he came back with not just a beer but a couple of shots as well. He repeated the round again and then once more after. And then, suddenly in mid conversation as we were talking about our travails down the east coast, he smiled and told me what nice eyes I had before casually reaching across and gently cropping my testicles, that, I must say, were especially vulnerable as I happened to be wearing shorts.

I looked down at my lower regions to make sure I really had just been the victim of a crude sexual advance. No, make that sexual assault, which was far, far worse. Stunned by this unexpected turn for the worse I pushed the oaf away from me. “Get your fucking hand off my scrotum you fag,” I bellowed, anger now boiling up inside me, as the violation I had just been disgracefully subjected to began to kick in. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Think you can get me drunk and take advantage do you?” I now knew how it felt to be a woman.

“Oh sorry…mistake…me not understand…no comprehenday,” he replied meekly, raising his hands as if to apologise, realising the cataclysmic size of his astounding misjudgement.

Out of nowhere, Ben, who had seen events unfold, stormed over. “You like men…you have problems yes.”

“No comprehenday…no comprehenday.”

Ben wasn’t buying it though, “Comprehenday this…”, he said fiercely gesticulating with his fist at the individual, who, fearing for his safety and no doubt freedom, having just committed a prisonable offence in a busy venue, suddenly turned and ran out. Still stunned by my horrific ordeal I scratched my head at the shocking turn of events, “I didn’t see that coming,” I said suddenly feeling sober.

Ben shrugged. “You were lucky mate. In my country we exterminate wankers like him.” He let out his menacing laugh, which made you wonder if he was actually telling the truth.

“I thought he was just being friendly. At no point did I ever feel in danger of having my balls fondled by a man.”

With there being something of a commotion the Swedes had come over to see what the fuss was about. “So Steve, you got lucky my man. Well done. The Queen would be proud of you,” Sam smirked.

Simon helped me see the positive side of the experience, if there was such a thing. “You’re lucky really, just imagine if he had followed you into the toilet when you weren’t looking? I think you would be in a lot of pain now.”

“Joking aside who knows what he could have done. He might have drugged me and…”. I couldn’t bear to think of what may have happened and rubbed my face to block out the torturous images.

The only saving grace was that Mark wasn’t around to add to the inevitable abuse that was now inevitably being shovelled on me like a sack of shit, despite the fact I was the victim. Had this been a woman there would have been a mass police hunt but because it happened to me, a man, everyone just laughed and shrugged their shoulders. No one could deny, though, it had been another eventful night, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

The next morning as I opened my eyes I hoped the previous night had all been a big nightmare but Simon, already up and about, squashed any fading hope of that by immediately waving his bare bum inches from my face – a clear visual reminder of the disgusting events from the night before. It wasn’t the start to the day I had hoped for but I trusted things would get better.

And a short while later they did. As I tucked into my sausage and egg roll Mark appeared out of the blue, smiling like a moron. “Alright lads,” he said cheerily, with no further explanation required as to his good mood. We all breathed a collective sigh, as we were forced to listen to a comprehensive account of the previous night’s antics. “She got the ride of her life the lucky lady. I had to stop and ask her if she was in pain at one point. But it was only because she was loving it so much. I’ve never known anyone to suck as hard as her either.” He sniggered as he looked to the sky thinking back proudly to his performance. “And she liked a good spanking - her arse was red raw by the time I’d finished with it. She had so much juice down there…she was flowing like a river.”

Salivating like a dog I decided it was best to try and calm Mark down, just like you would with an over excited puppy, “She was probably really grateful. No one had probably even looked at her in years until you snapped her up. You are a lucky man.”

“Yeah well you don’t look at their face when you’re doing them doggy style do you?” He shrugged

“You see their arse though,” Sam retorted cheekily, as if to point out her considerable size.

Mark, though, shrugged his shoulders. “It’s good to have something to hang onto.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to patronise, Simon continued the lashing, “Could you get your hands round her hips then?”

“Could she even feel your cock?” Ben added sarcastically, before letting out a belly laugh.

Unbelievably – as much as anything could be unbelievable when it involved Mark - there was more to the tale though. “Thanks to you,” he said with a hint of irritation while turning to me. “I had a situation with the bird’s mate being there. It turned out she fancied me too and was getting jealous when I was talking with the other one.”

I smiled before dryly responding, “Sorry for leaving you in that predicament.”

“Oh no mate don’t be sorry, it couldn’t have worked out better in the end. I won’t lie there was a bit of tension between the pair of them but we all left together and went back to their place and started having a few drinks. After a while the one I wasn’t interested in called it a night and then me and her mate started getting it on…”

Snorting uncontrollably he continued, “Her mate was well out of it when I pounded the decent one. Then, early in the morning the other one came into the lounge where I was crashed on the sofa and - no bullshit - came over to me and flopped her tits out and started touching my cock. Next thing I know she was climbing on top of me and -”

“- Shit that must have hurt,” I interjected.

“-Yeah very funny. Anyway she didn’t know I had already drilled her mate a few hours before and I wasn’t about to tell her so I just let her carry on. Within a few seconds she was bouncing away. I couldn’t believe my luck.” He smiled uncontrollably. “Afterwards I thought it would be better if I left so made my excuses and got the hell out of there. Not bad though, two birds in the space of a few hours. And both who were mates, neither having a clue I had done the other one.”

“I think,” Simon said, with a look of profoundness and a just a hint of sarcasm having digested the news. “We should get you a medal. Maybe your Queen will give you a Knighthood too. You are what the British Empire is all about.”

“Rather than getting a medal maybe you’ll get Aids instead,” Sam laughed. Despite the well deserved jibes I got the feeling they didn’t matter a jot and that, in truth, he was bursting with pride over his achievements and couldn’t wait to tell anyone who had a pair of ears, unless he was trying to pull them, of course.

Incredibly, with the sun out for a second consecutive day, which hadn’t happened for ages it seemed, we decided to make the most of it and went down the beach. With it already early afternoon it meant we only had a few hours before the shade from the skyscrapers ruined our sunbathing.

I decided to go into the sea – not too deep, of course, in case there was a shark lurking near shore. Those in the water had to remain within a tight zone due to the rough nature of the ocean. Cautiously wandering out, with my manhood by now a shell of its former self due to the freezing cold sea, I struggled to keep my feet planted on the ground thanks to the fierce rip tides. And then, while caught momentarily off balance, I was sent flying by the sea with my trunks - unfortunately for once not tied up - slipping off my legs like a ring that is too big for a finger, leaving me rather exposed. Steadying myself, back in shallower water, I instinctively grabbed my dangly bits to cover up the unedifying sight and stood firm to prevent myself being launched any further.

Still in a daze I hurriedly scrambled about looking for my shorts. I heard a piercing whistle. And again. It sounded like someone was at a rave such was the ferocity of the blow. I looked over one shoulder. Nothing. Then looked over the other. Sure enough, as I feared it maybe, the incessant noise was coming from the lips of a lifeguard. I realised I was outside of the swimming zone but it was hard to know if this was the reason he was screeching at me, or whether it was because my bottom being on full view for all the beach to see. I was not arrogant enough to assume everyone would enjoy the free show but with no clear defining signal of what the problem may be it was difficult for me to know for sure what was wanted of me. I took a guess and walked slowly back into the swimming zone, with my pale buttocks blinding all those poor people on the beach.

Feeling a bit uneasy about being short-less on the beach and having the lifeguard on my case I upped the ante to find my pair. Parents with small children covered their little ones’ eyes as I roamed about in the vague hope I would be reacquainted with my trunks. Just as I was planning on throwing in the towel, as it were, and performing a series of star jumps facing the packed beach to manifest an angry rebellion at my misfortune, I heard a guy shouting at me. I looked round and to my delight the saviour was waving my shorts from the edge of the water. I had never been so relieved.

I gesticulated for him to bring me the pair but for some reason he seemed reluctant. I ushered him into the sea once more to save me the pain and embarrassment of having to collect the pair off him, only a matter of feet from where sunbathers were laying, which of course would have resulted in me having to coyly put the shorts on in front of everyone. As you can imagine I was not overly keen to do this when I had lifeguards, small children and parents to contend with. Not to mention the police who arrest you for sneezing here. The fact the ferocious sea had pulled them from my body would not make the slightest difference to these power crazed fools and that I’d be banged up for a substantial stretch of my life over something that wasn’t my fault.

With the pathetic male too frightened to meet me in the water – I know, it does sound bad - and myself needing to act quickly, I had no choice but to collect the pair, failing to hide my disappointment. “You silly wanker,” I muttered, ignoring the fact he had, at least, saved me walking through crowds of people naked. I marched over to him and quickly grabbed the pair. Well, at least what I had assumed were my shorts but on closer inspection, realising they were a different design, it was clear they actually belonged to someone else. I took them nonetheless, prepared to suffer the mental anguish of knowing that some strange man’s probing piece – a cheesy one at that, knowing my luck - had been rubbing against the worn cotton material, probably for many years by the look of it, and now I would be too.

“You want to get yourself covered up mate,” the Australian announced helpfully.

I looked at him like he was something from underneath my shoe before delivering a scathing sarcastic reply. “Really? Do I? No, I think what I want to do is go for a merry jog around this packed beach with my balls bouncing about in everyone’s face. Maybe I could do some squat thrusts in front of the public too.”

He, perhaps understandably, looked somewhat shell shocked by my forthright outburst. “Alright mate, take it easy. No need to get sarco. Just saying that’s all…looks cold out there.”

“I’ll have you know mate this is nothing compared to the size it normally is,” I replied defiantly, pointing with my eyes towards my groin, which was now covered by the shorts.

“No, no mate, you got me all wrong. I wasn’t saying that at all, just that the sea’s fucking freezing and you’re in it with not so much as a tinnie to cover yourself up.”

I felt slightly guilty that I had misunderstood the man in thinking he was making a cheap shot at my shrivelled area, after all, he had tried to help me, which was more than anyone else on the beach had done. Realising that I had been stood having a conversation naked with another man in front of a substantial number of people on the beach, with only a pair of shorts between us, I offered him a handshake as a thank you-come-apology for my oversensitive behaviour, which he gladly accepted, before looking at his palm with a kind of delayed shock having only just realised what my hand had been covering up. I then strolled back into the sea, sat down in the cold water and put the shorts on. On standing it became clear that the shorts were several sizes too small and quite possibly belonged to a 15 year old girl. So tight were they, in fact, that the inside of my legs were virtually cut to shreds within minutes.

Without any further delay and with my inability to move properly due to the painfully tight attire I was now wearing, I marched like a robot out of the water and meandered past the swarms of people – many of who offered quizzical or pitying looks - congregated on the beach before eventually finding the gang, who were naturally delighted to watch my suffering.

“Nice shorts mate, where did you get them?” Ben asked, with a smile as broad as his butch German face.

I gathered myself, looked them all in the eye before replying in that tone you do when you want people to feel disappointed in their actions, “Yeah thanks for the help there lads. I cold have been arrested or beaten up.”

It didn’t work. “You seemed to be having the time of your life man,” Simon hit back.

“Yeah we didn’t want to interrupt you,” added Sam.

Mark, giggling like a five year old, finally managed to breathe and compose himself. “You seemed to be having such a good time talking to that bloke who gave you the shorts. I bet you had a hard one didn’t you, you little faggot?”

“Yes that’s right, I had a stonking hard one while I was stood there naked on the beach. I don’t know maybe it was the sea or perhaps the sand or maybe it was just the feeling of freedom of wearing nothing that turned me on in front of all those people.”

I shook my head disapprovingly before laying down on my towel to get what sun I could before the giant buildings overshadowed the beach.

“You not getting your cock out then?” Mark enquired mischievously, referring to the fact I had a pair of shorts on.

I cupped my balls and looked him in the eye, “Why do you want to see it batty boy?”

“Be careful mate the pigs are about, not a good idea to get it out in public,” Mark replied. I could not be bothered to talk anymore and covered my face with a t-shirt before rolling over.

After desperately trying to fend off the harrowing thoughts of losing my shorts and revealing all to the beach, we began to make our way back to the hostel when the sunbathing was ended by the shadows. I realised my unfortunate episode would not be quickly forgotten. I employed every known technique in the book to distract them and change the conversation but even if I succeeded it was short lived before I was on the receiving end of their jibes once more. Having a longer shower than usual to cleanse myself from the psychological scarring I had endured earlier, I went to the hostel bar and had a quiet beer of reflection by myself.

That evening we strolled about aimlessly, stopping off at a couple of deserted bars before settling on a nearby Irish pub, which offered a laid back atmosphere where you could drink and talk without feeling like a pneumatic drill was being pounded into your ears. Sensing we were good customers after successfully completing three rounds of beer, the bar lady kindly offered us some free tasters of local but extremely poky cider. Naturally we gladly accepted, having eventually realised that she was just being friendly and hadn’t, as we had presumed, made some gross error of mistaken identity in offering us the drinks. “Der ya go lads,” she said winking, before walking off.

It felt good to be treated like royalty, but our sense of special treatment was soon smashed when she went over to another table and did exactly the same. “The cheeky cow,” Mark said, indignation spewing from his mouth. In truth, though, we knew all they really wanted was for us to hand over us much cash as possible and this was a great way of buttering us up. Nonetheless, we seemed eternally grateful to them for providing us with three mouthwash cap-sized tasters of cider and stayed for a further two hours.

Time just flies in those places. In many respects it’s like going to a human zoo where you can study an array of odd solitary, yet perfectly content, scruffy old individuals with wrinkles that reveal a thousand stories. The type who love nothing more than to slowly sip their ales and smoke enough cigarettes to be mistaken for an industrial factory, all while looking like they were in the depths of another world, as they sit looking into space or glossing over a newspaper to pass the time, no doubt reflecting on their less than glorious existence which they have come accustomed to or try and block out with as many beers as they can drink.

There were a handful of such characters in the pub on this occasion. Three of whom were spread out across different sections of the place, while a couple were propping up the bar, in all likelihood to ensure they got a refill long before their glass could get alarmingly below halfway. This location offered the tantalising prospect of human interaction in the form of the bar staff when they were in-between serving customers. And in many cases the staff got to know the punters rather well, to the point they were considered as a kind of mascot of the establishment who was given special privileges, such as being allowed to outstay their welcome when they were pissed as a fart or, perhaps more worryingly, when they attempted to grope the female bar staff.

On this occasion I could smell mischief in the air when one of the old men was getting as visibly off balance as he was crude with the woman, in her mid 50s, who had politely being putting up with his waffle for most of the evening. While not exactly an oil painting to look at the lady must have looked like Miss Universe to the dirty old pervert, especially as she was showing a hint of cheeky cleavage. I had been enjoying observing the man’s growing restlessness – I’m sure there was something else growing – as he couldn’t help but stare at her breasts and, on walking round the customer side of the bar, her backside. In the end it was all too much for the grey bearded man as he reached across and firmly grabbed her buttocks with both of his hands, offering a tight squeeze followed by a perverted husky giggle, as he attempted to pull the slightly startled bar woman onto his lap.

“Wha ya tink ya doin der Paddy? Ya know ye can’t be touchin me like dat,” she said, pulling herself away from his seedy grasp, not for the first time judging by her response. The manager then walked over to help smooth things over. “I tink you’ve had enough now. Time to call it a night,” he said sympathetically.

“But I’s not drunk,” Paddy protested, spraying beer like an erupted Volcano from his mouth. “Yous give me one more beer and I’ll be gone.” It seemed absurd that Paddy felt he was in a position to even bargain, especially considering he was clearly off his rocker and had just sexually assaulted a member of staff in front of the entire pub. But against all the odds it did the trick. “Ok Paddy, jus one more and den your off ok?”

It was the same scene I had witnessed in numerous other Irish pubs, whether in England, on holiday in Europe or during my time in Australia, but it was always absorbing watching. Where else could a scruffy old drunk who molests any available woman he can get his hands on be fondly embraced and given iconic status but in an Irish pub? Amused by what I had seen I decided to end the night on a high and made my way home with Simon, while the rest stayed out drinking.

The next day I felt pleased with myself that I had saved myself the pain of a double hangover by not staying out until all hours. Mark had decided the previous night that he was definitely hitting the road, which meant that should the rest of us stay we would have to start fiddling around and trying to book places on coaches to take us down the coast. This proved to be too much of an effort for us so we jumped in with Mark and said our goodbyes to Ben once again. However, this time we had his number and would be meeting him in Byron Bay, where after much heated debate we had decided to spend Christmas following several favourable reports.

As we left Surfers Paradise it was raining, which vindicated our decision to leave. But before hitting the open road we had to stop off at the flat where Mark had been staying with his friend. “Won’t be a minute,” Mark said, jumping out before going into the apartment. Fifteen minutes then passed without any sign of him. “I’ll go see,” Julie suddenly declared. A further fifteen minutes went by when Sam offered what seemed like a plausible explanation for the delay as we sat there bored out of our brains, desperate to leave rather than be stuck like sardines in a can.

“We found out yesterday that Julie got with Mark’s friend on the first night and then again last night,” Sam revealed sensationally.

“What she shagged him?” I enquired, keen to get the gossip.

“Yeah think so, they even left before everyone else last night.”

The penny suddenly dropped. “So basically you’re telling me she’s in there now holding us up so she can get a bit more sausage before we hit the road?” I scoffed rhetorically, the reality becoming bleeding obvious.

“That girl should work in a brothel,” Simon remarked shaking his head in disgust.

Sam, unimpressed by the hold up, made his feelings clear too. “I hope he gives her a good fisting.”

With the keys in the car I decided to enact revenge. “Right you both hungry? We’re going for a little drive.” And with that I turned on the ignition and veered off down the road in search of the Hungry Jacks we had driven past earlier. “Let’s get some food. Oh and if either of them ring then just ignore it. Let’s see how they like being made to wait without knowing what’s going on.” Following a short drive down the road we found the place and jumped out salivating at the prospect of getting some salty food.

While tucking into our tasty whopper burgers and chips Mark rang. I gladly ignored the phone. Then another call. And again. This time he left a message. “Stop playing games mate we need to get off, we’re already running late.”

“And who’s fault is that?” I muttered joyfully in response to the recording, as I took another succulent bite of my burger. Soon after I received a flurry of text messages. “Stop being a cunt mate. We need to leave,” one read.

“Calling me a cunt is hardly going to speed me up now is it?” I said, shaking my head disapprovingly at the text, before scoffing another handful of salt-ridden chips into my mouth. Sam and Simon were in no rush to force their food down either. But after finally eating every last bit of food we had paid for we made our way back to the apartment, not before going to the toilet one final time and performing some extensive tooth glossing, though.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Mark asked angrily, frustration written all over his hairy face, having been made to wait 40 minutes while not having the faintest idea where we had been.

“We were getting hungry waiting for you both so we got some food,” I replied innocently. Though judging from the look on his face he knew exactly that this was more about exacting revenge then being hungry. I turned to Julie. “You must have been starving?”

She paused, looking blank, before she realised my question was a euphemism related to her all action stop off. “Oh aye…yeah Steve I woz aye,” she said, before letting out a restrained laugh that contained just a hint of embarrassment at being ousted for her misdemeanours.

Realising the cat was out of the bag and seeing no point in withholding anything now it was abundantly obvious what she had been up to in the flat, Mark decided to enter the fun. “Yeah she sure got her fix of meat,” he sniggered. “As soon as she got in the flat my mate knew why she was there and took her into his room and gave her a portion. We heard her squealing like a pig in the room next door. Isn’t that right Julie?”

She smiled sheepishly, still red-faced from her exertions. Attempting to put a brave face on she murmured something no one understood that left us looking blank. “You were the 125th bird he’s shagged by the way…bet you didn’t know that?” Unsure if this was a joke, she instinctively glanced at Mark with rolled eyes presuming it was a joke, but on meeting a straight face she slowly began realising that he was in fact telling the brutal truth. In a vain attempt to save face, she shrugged her shoulders like she wasn’t bothered.

But it was plain for all to see that she was slightly irked at discovering that she was nothing more than a glorified piece of meat for this Neanderthal to have his wicked way with and register yet another notch on his considerably lengthy bedpost. The crushing reality also, presumably, meant that this rather forward individual wasn’t especially fussy about who he probed with his anatomy, thus rendering it in the same bracket as shaking hands or saying hello to a stranger. But perhaps the biggest indicator of all that this man had no interest in Julie, apart from how she could please him, was the very fact he was even with the Scot. After all he wouldn’t have understood her, nor was he likely to find her attractive, so there had to be something.

It was becoming all too obvious that she, like the many before her, would soon be forgotten about as soon as he penetrated the next bit of flesh he could get his grubby hands on. “I hope you used a condom?” Simon asked inquisitively, though I suspected he was heaping on more agony having suspected bouts of “bareback” intercourse had been taking place. Offering nothing more than a rueful smile, Julie’s answer to the question was loud and clear, no doubt sparking a smidgen of remorse now she knew there was a good chance he had done the same with his other century-plus victims. But Mark, attempting to allay Julie’s fears, offered her some comfort, “Don’t worry, my mate gets checked out a fair bit cos he fucks so many birds, so you should be alright.”

Despite the frustration she had caused us, it was thanks to Julie that we set off on the next leg of our journey in high spirits, with the sly Scot inevitably on the receiving end of some banter as she squirmed in the back. “You have tuna for lunch?” I asked innocently, only to be met by a dismissive smile. “Can someone open the window? It stinks of fish in here,” I added playfully, though it’s fair to say we were all fairly disgusted at the thought of spending a prolonged period of time stuck inches from her after she had just romped without washing. Having kept us waiting for ages while she squeezed in the crafty bonk we felt a bit of banter was the least she deserved.

CHAPTER 11 – NIMBIN AND MARIJUANA

As we veered down the windy mountainous roads and into Nimbin, it instantly became clear that this was a place like no other. A small old-fashioned village that made you feel as though you had arrived in the Wild West, with the only difference being that it was located in the middle of a vast rainforest, as well as its striking preoccupation with cannabis and hippie culture.

As we got closer I was staggered by the number of peculiar people wandering the streets, many of whom looking like they had been exhumed from a nearby graveyard, or at the very least thought they were still living in the 1970s. “Get out the road you fucking weed-smoking corpse,” Mark shouted at one gaunt looking man stumbling across the road barefooted with a joint in his hand, who couldn’t have cared less that a four tonne lump of metal was hurtling towards him.

We’d heard stories about the smoking culture of the place but after driving down the main street it soon became strikingly obvious just how retro and overtly cannabis orientated this village really was. The notorious smell of gear lingered in the air like a two-fingered salute to the authorities, while it seemed you were almost an outcast unless you were a deranged hippie of some form - with the majority of people looking like they badly needed a haircut and a wash, as well as a change of clothes where the holes in their attire had gone way beyond a level that even a self respecting charity shop could accept. This was Amsterdam, but in the remote bush. And cannabis was not legal here either.

In fact nowhere in New South Wales was it legal to cultivate, sell and possess cannabis. Yet naturally those activities formed the bedrock of daily Nimbin life and were participated in with the same normality as going to buy some bread and milk. The backward rural nature of this eerie place lent itself to being an authentic version of the free love era, but having only been in the place for a matter of minutes – and thankfully in the comfort of a vehicle – I already couldn’t wait to get out of this shithole.

Unfortunately for me, the others were more enthusiastic about seeing what this throwback of a place had to offer. In particular, they were keen to check out the herbal range of goodies that could be purchased. I knew I would have to endure a spell of sufferance while the rest revelled in its mystical nature. Already thinking the worst, my fears were immediately confirmed when we pulled up in a remote car park and cautiously walked to a nearby pathway that led to the main street. There was a gang of five large men, all wearing baseball caps and vests, loitering at the entrance of the alley, forcing you to walk directly past them. They didn’t look the sort of people you would particularly want to bump into down such a place, with it clear they weren’t standing there to sell flowers or collect money for charity, unless you counted their marijuana habit as humanitarian.

“Weed…you want any weed lads?” one whispered roughly as we approached the path.

“Nah don’t do that shit,” I replied sharply. Unfortunately this was then somehow misinterpreted as though I was indulging in some form of macho game playing to try and drive down the price. And having just unwittingly mocked his profession and affronted his ego, I was then on the receiving end of a sarcastic jibe. “Yeah course you don’t want any mate.”

“Nah seriously mate I hate the shit, I’m just here because of this lot.” I pointed with my thumb to the others behind me and strolled forward hoping I wouldn’t be stabbed in the back for pissing the dealers off.

“I don’t look like a weed smoker do I?” I muttered, turning to Mark.

“Don’t know mate, but you can understand why he would think you were.” On reflection this was true. From the dealer’s point of view, why else would I be in the back end of nowhere unless it was to participate in the location’s primary tourist attraction? I could understand his scepticism more with this perspective, though still felt disgusted I could be mistaken for someone who sits around getting paranoid while not talking to anybody, under the guise of “chilling out” having put a vile tasting soggy bit of paper with revolting herbs and chemicals in my mouth.

Finally, we reached the main street after what felt like a never-ending walk along the shady pathway. With everyone keen to experience the local produce - they had been boring me during the car journey with tales of how they were going to try the much talked about delicious home made marijuana cookies - we ventured cautiously along the street hoping to find the best place to score. Or at least they did. On this occasion I didn’t feel the need to inhale an excessive amount of fumes in order to get that much sought-after paranoid feeling, as this happened naturally with us peering our heads round shop doors hoping to find the magic cookies like a bunch of morons who stuck out like a load of lost clowns.

Never in my life had I heard so much reggae or seen so many Bob Marley posters as we encountered in the assortment of venues we hesitantly entered, feeling as though we had imposed, like you would if you walked into the lounge of a stranger uninvited and caught a couple engaged in gratifying their love for one another by the open fireplace. “Just follow me you lot. I was told about this place to get the biscuits from,” Mark declared boldly, in all likelihood, having been told of a place to go while blind drunk one night.

On top of being stuffed full of Bob Marley memorabilia, the shops weren’t short of hippie gear either, with the owners all wearing flared shirts and trousers and moving about as quickly as a severely disabled tortoise, while staring suspiciously in our direction, which I suppose was only natural when smoking ganja for a living. Everywhere you looked there was a sea of drug paraphernalia, matched only by the number of stoned people hanging about the street looking like vampires ready to suck the life out of you to fill their gaping void.

While the others were checking out yet another shop I got myself a drink and stood outside. Obviously, I looked like I was playing it cool waiting for a shipment or to do a deal because I got asked three times if I wanted any gear. “Yeah can you get me a Mars Bar and a coke please?” I said to one scruffy old man. Well, he was probably only about 50 but he looked at least 95, if not older, after the decades of endless chain-smoking marijuana had taken its toll. He looked at me curiously attempting to figure out what these drug euphemisms were I was referring to. “I’ve got an ounce of gear, cookies…what you want?”

“Nah I just really want a Mars Bar and a coke…you know chocolate that you eat? And that dark fizzy drink?”

He paused, scratched his head and looked at me side on, before the penny seemingly dropped that I was, indeed, mocking him. Not that I would have turned down a Mars Bar or a can of coke, or course. “Bit of a joker are we?” he said, with a hint of a smile and a nod.

And before I knew it he was telling me what seemed like the entire history of this third world place. “Every year since 1993,” he began poignantly. Unsure if I was physically capable of listening to this bore I contemplated kneeing him hard in the bollocks and doing a runner at that precise moment but good manners held me back. “For the Mardi Grass festival we have the Prohibition Protest Rally and Parade with the Ganja Faeries, the (Nimbin) Cannabis Cup, the Hemp Olympix, including the bong‘Throw’n’Yell’, joint rolling, and the Grower’s Iron Person event, where runners carry a 20kg sack of fertiliser, then a bucket of water, before the crop at the end. All this was to stick it to the fucking pigs and recognise the growers in the hills, and show that we’re as fit as anyone.” I let out a false cough to hide the involuntary squeal of laughter that had momentarily escaped out of my mouth.

The old timer wasn’t finished yet though, unfortunately, and seemed to have issues with the law. “No matter how hard the pigs try, they can’t stop us. They get CCTV on the main street. Fine. We just go and do business in the laneways or in the museum or wherever they can’t watch, you know?” As much as a pale, weak old man who smoked weed all day could get angry this was surely it. He continued his slating of the police, hatred etched on his face before spitting on the floor in disgust to continue his rant. “A few years back over 100 of the cunts turned up with bullet proof vests and a load of horses and dogs to do random searches. Eight people got police cautions, over 70 got cannabis cautions and they took four whole kilograms of our weed and cookies off us. I ask you mate what harm are we doing anyone? No fucking harm at all, that’s what. Those lot are pathetic wankers. They normally do a mini raid once a week too. Hate the cunts, hate them.”

While the man did appear slightly bitter it also struck me that he may actually have a point. He was right they weren’t harming anyone. How could they having smoked enough cannabis to make them horizontal and appear as though a corpse had more zest for life? It seemed odd that the police station was on the main street, only a few hundred metres from the epicentre, yet apart from the odd token gesture raid and installation of CCTV nothing had really been done to stamp out the problem, if that was indeed what you call it. After all, the Nimbin locals saw the herb as more of a solution to life’s ills.

If the police really wanted to stop the wide scale use and dealing of drugs then all it would surely take is for them to deploy a single officer – providing he had a pair of working eyes – to simply stop people in the streets and check them, as it was the kind of place where it was rare to find someone who either didn’t have a joint in their hand, or wasn’t about to spark up one. After all, those participating in the illegal culture were hardly hardnosed drug barons with guns or knives, who were ready to fire their pump action machine guns at cops before being taken down by several bullets to the chest after heroically attempting to defend a small mountain of ganja.

In fact they were more like sloth tramps, who most of the time didn’t know who they were and certainly not how they got where they were, so you would of thought that capturing these harmless deviants should not really have presented any great challenge to any living policeman on earth, including those in sleepy Nimbin. Maybe the truth was that after all the years of fighting both sides had found a way of living together and reached an uneasy truce of sorts.

After what seemed like an age, Mark came out of one of the shops with a mischievous look, which only meant one thing, he had finally scored. “The old lady in there,” he pointed discreetly with his head. “She’s cooking us up some lovely cookies as we speak. Going to meet her back there in one hour to get the goods. Everyone just play it cool until then yeah.” Suddenly Mark thought he was Al Capone, having seemingly pulled off the gangster deal of the century from Mrs Miggins.

“You better shoot her then if she hasn’t done them by then. A deal’s a deal right?” I retorted mockingly. “We best get off the streets in case the pigs are watching us on CCTV. Maybe we should try the pub.”

So off to the pub we went. If that is what you call it, as it was more like a zoo of freaks where alcohol was sold, interspersed with an eclectic mix of amateur mad artists, musicians and poets. On a table in one corner there was a bunch of tambourine-playing scruffy old men, who looked like they would have been better suited to the eighteenth century; while on the other side there was a bearded chap with an endless flow of tunes coming from his antiqued guitar, which other punters showed their appreciation for by clapping along joyfully, as if without a care in the world. This was the Nimbin Hotel; a place like no other I had ever been to, nor would particularly ever want to go to again. After being looked up and down rather suspiciously by a member of the bar staff – presumably for looking normal – I was reluctantly granted my wish of purchasing beer. Clearly, as an outsider, my money wasn’t deemed as good as some of the regulars’ cash. “Thanks, I’m eternally grateful,” I said dryly on collection of my drink.

Desperate to escape the conflicting noises from the various band factions, while also keen to avoid being ogled at further by a sea of strange faces, we made our way to the garden, where at least you didn’t feel like you were imposing on the staff’s precious time. After no more than ten minutes of beer sipping, a guy claiming to be a poet sat his self down on our table and started rolling up a joint, before spouting some of his poetic genius, while kindly interspersing this with his life story. “As well as my poetry I also do the gardening for the pub – they pay me with beers,” he began, immediately giving off the impression that he was fond of the odd daily drink. “Now I think about it I spend nearly all my time here. If I’m not working the garden like a Sheila in the kitchen then I’m doing my poetry – it’s a great place to be inspired - or having a beer or two with the boys.”

We all looked curiously at one another and then back at this strange man, who had for some reason decided to sit on our particular table out of all the tables he could have chosen and then, potentially, put us in trouble with the law, or possibly the landlord, by openly rolling an illegal substance and brazenly smoking it. I felt convinced I was getting high from the fumes, which was not surprising with a massive cloud of toxic smoke being blown forcefully into my nose and throat. It struck me that the individual, like so many others in the village, should be in a mental asylum. Then it finally dawned on me that the village itself was effectively one big mental asylum.

In the midst of waving away the fog circulating my face, suddenly I heard a thud. Immediately we looked behind us where a small bird had for some reason best known to itself decided to fly into a nearby window, before collapsing on the ground. The weird individual sprang to his feet, far quicker than I would have thought possible for a man of his conditioning, and attended the bird, which was not moving. He picked it up, looked anxiously at it and placed it delicately back on the floor, seemingly unsure what to do, before being forced into drastic action, where unexpectedly he began performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in a desperate bid to keep the bird alive.

For a few seconds it seemed from our vantage point there may be hope, before confirmation duly arrived of the sad news. “She’s dead,” he sobbed, and then looked to the sky sceptically with tears rolling down his cheeks, as if to question whether there was a god. “Come now little Sheila,” he said softly. And after digging a small hole near some bushes, he gently placed the dead bird inside and lightly kissed its head before covering it over with soil. “That’s the best grave I can do. Now go. Be free. Fly again my little princess.” The man walked back over to us and smoked the rest of his roll-up before heading off disconsolately in a world of his own misery, seemingly forced to rethink his entire belief system after the tragic death of the bird.

It was good news for us, though. “Thank god he’s fucked off,” Mark said, taking a deep breath and a large swig of beer.

“I don’t think he would ever have left us,” added Sam, still looking dazed and ever so slightly tortured from the whole ordeal.

We finished our drinks and made a hasty exit, in case any other strange people tried to latch on to us. Desperate not to be late for the cookie-making grandma Mrs Miggins we marched purposefully up the street. As we arrived outside the shop a look of tension appeared on everyone’s face, as they anticipated doing the “deal”. Looking from side to side, as if he had MI5 on his tail, Mark flicked his head toward the entrance. “Let’s go in boys,” he whispered.

“I’ll see you back at the car,” I replied shaking my head, having had enough excitement for one day, and wanting more than anything to just sit down and sip my drink without having to mingle or look at weird locals.

Mark winked conspiratorially. “Yeah good idea, you keep look out.”

I waited painfully for over half an hour until they finally returned after what looked like a successful operation judging from the childlike grins on their faces. “We got the goods mate,” Mark announced, like he had just robbed several suitcases full of cannabis from a load of gangsters at gunpoint. I rolled my eyes as I was forced into bringing him back down to earth. “What you mean the chocolate cookies, as opposed to the five kilos of cocaine?”

I was given a patronising look as Mark hit back, “Yeah the cookies…they’ve got gear in them though yeah.”

“So Mrs Miggins told you. I bet she thought you had ‘mugs’ written all across your foreheads. How much were they?”

“Nah doubt it mate, we got a right result – only $38 for ten cookies.”

After I’d finished laughing I pointed out that you could buy a packet of cookies for around $2.

“Yeah but these are special cookies, you know?”

“Yeah so special they cost you $38.” I shook my head, grinning at their misfortune.

“We’ll see, we’ll see.” Somehow I wasn’t afraid of being shown up. But, in any event, there was no shame in being duped by a true professional like Mrs Miggins.

CHAPTER 12 – BYRON BAY

With rain pounding against Stevo it was more than a welcome relief to pull into Byron Bay after being on the road for an hour and half. Our moods reflected the dark wetness outside following a tense journey where it was hard to see more than a few feet in front, despite the windscreen wipers going berserk to clear off the unrelenting flow of water.

We parked up in a space overlooking the sea – not that you could particularly tell it was the ocean due to the blackness, with only the crashing of waves giving it away. With everyone tired and hungry we decided to alleviate our starvation by opting for Domino’s Pizza. But before we made our way there - and with no apparent public convenience – Sam and I were forced to use the great outdoors. Joyfully splattering all over some bushes thinking no one was around, a family suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. “Look daddy there’s two men going for a wee,” the voice of a small child suddenly said.

Desperate to avoid a family of strangers from seeing my third leg I instantly turned away, pushed out as much water as I could before performing a few token shakes and walked away like an innocent man, trying to convince myself they hadn’t seen anything. Sam followed, but seemed more relaxed about it. “I don’t care if they saw my dick,” he smiled cheekily.

I nodded. “No I bet you don’t. You Swedes are known for walking around naked.” As I looked down I noticed a bigger than usual wet patch around my groin. Unfortunately this was a familiar consequence when finishing peeing prematurely.

While rubbing the area around my lower regions hard in a desperate attempt to dry the patch we nevertheless strolled down to Domino’s and ordered our pizzas. And then waited. And waited. There was a spotty teenager – who can’t have been older than 17 – managing the place, if that is the correct description. But it would be no exaggeration to say that a blind chimp could have done no worse. In fact they probably would have done a great deal better. Red faced and confused, he looked out of his depth at attempting to coordinate this most intellectually advanced of operations; whereby orders had to match the cooked pizzas. I even felt slightly sorry for him that he had been thrown in at the deep end. That was until I continued to wait and wait, and then wait some more.

It was clear that my order had been cocked up. “Which country is the pizza being shipped in from?” I asked, attempting to lighten the stiff atmosphere. Unable to even raise a false smile he apologised and said it would be ready shortly. A further 15 minutes later it did, having actually being made this time. Still, one hour to wait for a pizza when you’re starving, tired and not in the most forgiving of moods after endless travelling, was not exactly what I needed. The box was enticingly hot and had that delightful smell emanating from it. I couldn’t wait to tuck in.

With it still raining and too cramped in the car, Sam and I went over to the adjacent children’s park and found a sheltered spot under a slide, where at long last we could sink into our delicious pizzas. Or so I had, perhaps foolishly, assumed. The dough base bore the resemblance of charcoal, leaving me none too impressed after the ordeal I had been through. “Spotty faced twat,” I muttered, referring to the useless kid who had taken my hard earned money. Despite this I began by cautiously eating the less burnt bits, but I soon realised it made no difference as every mouthful tasted like burnt toast, apart from for the fact it had cheese and meat on it.

Just as I was about to frisbee the remaining half of one of the worst pizzas of my life, I felt the presence of a man enter the park area. “Hello my friends, I see you under there,” he said, peering below the slide in an authoritative yet somewhat odd tone. I immediately thought we had either done something wrong or that he was a sandwich short of a picnic, with him a representative, perhaps, of the local tramp community. As it turned out I think I was right on both counts but couldn’t be totally sure. “So you like it here? Been here long?” he said in a friendly enough tone. But with every word he seemed to get weirder and weirder, especially as in normal life you would explain why you were interrupting people you’d never met before, particularly when they were eating food and sat under a slide in a park, as this, if nothing else, would tend to indicate they were not keen on socialising.

“So you like this park by the looks of it,” he continued. I glanced at Sam, who by now was opened mouthed with confusion as the individual launched into a discussion about the history of the area. “My great, great grandfather owned this place. This park you’re sat in now, he owned it.” Pride was bursting from his voice.

“You must be very honoured,” I replied, attempting to placate him so hopefully he would kindly fuck off.

Unfortunately this backfired. “Oh yeah mate, defo. Not everyone can say their great, great grandfather owned such land.” I was still none the wiser where this strange conversation was heading. “You see, he was an Aboriginal. Everyone looked up to him.”

“How does this affect me while I’m eating a pizza?” I muttered, my patience being severely eroded with every passing second.

After babbling on with his inane irrelevance a bit more, he added, “So even though they took our land, we say ‘fuck you this is our land’.” It was at this point - somewhat belatedly - I realised that he must be an Aboriginal too, if his great, great grandfather had been, unless of course he had been adopted. I had overlooked this striking fact mainly because I had been falling asleep throughout most of his conversation. Though in my defence he didn’t look like an Aboriginal, which merely added to my confusion.

“Anyway,” he said, as if by some miracle he was finally about to leave. “Any of you guys got a few dollars you can spare?”

“I knew it,” I mumbled. This was a technique I’d been on the receiving end of countless times before, normally at train stations or after you’ve just withdrawn money from a cashpoint, whereby the slightly menacing individuals essentially attempt to bore you into submission. To be fair to them, though, it often works as people will do anything to see the back of these irritating leaches, so sparing a bit of change always seems like a good deal. On this occasion I had no coins but came up with a good deal all around. “I’ve only got notes on me,” I began, the man’s eyes suddenly lighting up like he had hit the jackpot. “So obviously I can’t give you any of those…but what I can do is give you the rest of this lovely pizza.”

After momentarily looking despondent having foolishly assumed I would be handing out what little cash I had like the lottery, he seemed to perk up again once I made the pizza offer.

“Ok mate sounds good.” He held out his hands like a beggar, which, I suppose, he was, although perhaps more highbrow than some in his industry.

“Here have mine too,” Sam continued, adding to the appearance of being a good Samaritan, even if the reality was somewhat different with him also unable to stomach any more of his burnt to a crisp pizza.

“Cheers guys. You know you’ll always be welcome here in this park. My great, great grandfather would be proud of you two.”

“I’m sure he would. Enjoy your pizzas,” I replied with a cheeky grin. And with that we smugly walked off having cunningly disposed of our vile pizzas to this unsuspecting individual, while looking as pure as the Virgin Mary. More importantly, however, we had finally freed ourselves from the clutches of this nauseating fool.

We met the others, who had luxuriated in eating their pizzas in the safety of the vehicle, and decided that we should get some rest for the night. But with it gone 11pm and just before Christmas, everywhere we tried was packed. Having weighed up the merits of all five of us sleeping in the vehicle, as well as the possibility of staying up on an all night bender – “It works out cheaper than staying in a hostel and you get drunk, “ Simon suggested temptingly – in the end we decided we would camp. Anywhere. It didn’t matter if it was not a prime location just as long as there was some grass so we could rest our weary heads.

We spent the next 20 minutes driving around aimlessly before we came back full circle. The options hadn’t been great, with the outstanding choice being some land adjacent to the park where Sam and I had suffered our unfortunate ordeal with the local Aboriginal. We concluded that it was vital we stayed as far away from this man and his associates as possible, though. “We’ll probably get robbed at knife point but only after he has told everyone the story of his great, great grandfather,” I said, wincing at the thought of ever seeing him again.

“Plus our tents will probably get pissed on by everyone coming out of the bars and clubs later,” Mark added wisely.

Simon smiled, “Not everyone’s like you.”

“Thank god,” Sam joked.

We drove off in a different direction this time and found ourselves meandering down some winding track before we arrived in an area sheltered by trees with a reasonable expanse of grass. Encouragingly, there were a handful of camper vans and tents, which confirmed that this was indeed an appropriate spot to pitch up on. After doing three laps of the small area we settled on a piece of grass farthest away from everyone else, right by a stream that was partially sheltered by some overhanging trees. In the pouring rain Mark and I went through the painstaking ordeal of putting up the tent – which even for someone now as experienced as myself at erecting portable shelter, wasn’t easy in such wet and dark conditions – and then blowing up our famous inflatable bed. The others were forced to stay in the car after discovering that half their pegs and bottom cover was missing, which would have meant lying on wet ground had they opted to go ahead with the tent option.

Relieved to have finally got our luxurious tent up Mark and I got back in the car for a bit of relaxation before sleep. I hadn’t realised but the others had all eaten their magic cookies more than an hour ago when we pulled up to get food. They all looked exactly the same as they did before. “So they’ve done a lot then…well worth the $38 you paid,” I said triumphantly, following my prediction they had been conned by Mrs Miggins.

They badly wanted to believe the cookies had done something, but sadly for them they all knew deep down they hadn’t. “I think I feel a bit different,” Simon suggested weakly, before letting out a sudden snort like people do when they’re high. Never one to mess about, Sam was having none of it especially feeling as though he had been robbed, which of course he had. “They are shit,” he said scathingly. This was music to my ears. Never one to be silent for more than half a second, Mark was strangely quiet, which was all the confirmation I needed that these were no better than a packet of economy $2 biscuits. “Not so sure of your cookies now are you?” I added smugly.

Changing topic quickly, Mark decided to use the moment to confirm what his plans were. The rest of us had decided we would be staying in Byron Bay, providing we could find somewhere that would put us up, while Mark had been dithering over whether to drive back to Sydney in time for Christmas or stay with us. “I’m gonna leave tomorrow,” he suddenly announced purposefully. “If I’m on the road by lunchtime I reckon I’ll be back in Sydney the day before Christmas Eve. The girl mate I’m staying with is having a massive party Christmas Eve so hopefully I’ll be able to get my dick soaking wet in some gash if I’m back in time.”

The rest of us looked at each other wearily, as Mark continued to fill us in on his latest target. “There’s this one I pulled before who’ll be going so if I don’t get with anyone else I’ll just have her.” Clearly his mind was made up after assessing the pros and cons of the situation. Of course, it was a shame he would be leaving us but he had clearly taken the decision he was more likely to get laid by going back to Sydney and knowing how much this meant to him we couldn’t stand in his way. In any case we would see him when we got to Sydney.

Perhaps due to nostalgia, as opposed to the cookies, the conversation then shifted toward some of the high points of our road trip, before Sam cut off Mark’s reflections at the various women he’d been with and sensationally admitted to a secret relationship down the east coast, “You remember that Irish girl we met at Fraser Island and then Brisbane?” We paused, straining our brains. “You know…the one who was more than ten years older than me?” Suddenly it all came flooding back. “Well, we’ve been seeing each other,” he went on sheepishly. “But don’t say anything if you see her – no one’s supposed to know. She’s embarrassed that I’m ten years younger than her.”

I don’t think Sam realised what he had let himself in for, “Have you fucked her then?” Mark enquired demandingly.

“We’ve done stuff, you know…-“

“-You mean you haven’t nailed her yet and you’ve been seeing her all the way down the coast?” Mark scoffed patronisingly, as if this was one of the great crimes of the century.

“Well…I have fingered her and licked her out…oh and she wanked me off once.”

“So you haven’t fucked her then? That doesn’t count then mate sorry.” Mark in his endearingly cutting way had been affronted and deeply mystified at how someone could be seeing a woman without full-blown penetration.

“Those fucking time wasting women piss me off. Either they want it or they don’t. She’s not getting a bad deal either is she by the sounds of it? You want to at least make her suck you and jerk you off more. You’re not her fucking slave.” His anger was bubbling over, partly through indignation at how a friend of his could be so mistreated but more, it seemed, out of his own painful memories of similar situations from his past.

Once things had calmed down we decided it was time to sleep. Mark and I made our way into the tent. “So this could be the last time we ever sleep together,” I winked.

Mark smiled. “Yes mate I guess it is. Keep away from my arse though yeah?”

Unable to let him have the final say I instantly hit back, “And don’t even think of tea-bagging (placing your testicles) my face when I’m asleep. Save it for someone else.” And off to sleep we went together for the final time.

I awoke early the next morning, or what felt like early, as you never could be totally sure when having no accessible clock while in a tent. The sun was beginning to shine and there was stirring coming from the other nearby campers. Mark was comatose in a pool of his own saliva, while there was nothing but silence coming from Stevo. I thought about getting up and waking everyone just in case we were on private land but instead laid in the comfort of my own warmth, as the early morning wildlife began to awake. Then, one by one the engines of the nearby campervans started up and made off. “They’re early risers, they must be all going somewhere,” I thought, feeling slightly suspect at why all of them were leaving. Nevertheless I put this out of my mind and continued to lie about dreamily.

Mark appeared to be coming out of his slumber when suddenly there was a stern male voice from outside, followed by an abrupt patting on the tent. “Open up, open up,” the deep voice demanded. We both looked at each other anxiously, as a sense of foreboding came over us. “Come on open up, I know you’re inside,” he continued, his patience running out.

We knew he wasn’t going away and that we’d have to face the music. “Ok just coming,” we mumbled tiredly and slowly unzipped the tent before climbing out wearily. Standing there authoritatively was a bearded male in uniform wearing dark sunglasses. I immediately noticed an emboldened badge on his shirt saying “Ranger”. We were in trouble. My worst fear had been confirmed. I now realised why all the other campers had left so early; they wanted to avoid being in trouble with the local authorities.

I felt disgusted at myself for not acting on my instincts and getting everyone up to leave. “You do know this is a no camping area,” the ranger said firmly, pointing in the direction of a sign.

“No sorry we had no idea,” Mark replied apologetically, trying to charm his way out of the scenario.

I backed up this up with a bit more detail, “It was dark when we arrived so we couldn’t see the signs.”

“Doesn’t matter, rules are rules. You shouldn’t be here as this is a national park wildlife area. This means that we have to fine you.” With fines handed out like confetto in this country, I wasn’t in the slightest surprised when he made this announcement, duly confirming that once again the authorities would be taking money from my pocket.

“Honestly mate we had no idea. We’re sorry. If we leave now can you let us off the fine?” Mark pleaded, like a man begging for his life. From my own extensive experience of being fined in Australia I knew we had about as much chance of getting out of paying this fine as Mark committing to a lengthy period of self enforced abstinence.

“No can do I’m afraid,” the old timer went on, with a kind of barbaric pleasure in upholding the rules. Although in a strange kind of way he seemed to hate us less the more we chatted with him.

Then, like an eagle, he spotted the smallest of movements in Stevo. “Oh I see there’s people in the vehicle as well. You know that’s not allowed either and counts as camping too, which means it’s fineable?”

“Really? But there’s only one tent up?” I quickly countered, now sensing it may have been cheaper for us to stay in a deluxe hotel rather than a tent and a car on an available bit of grass.

“Yeah unfortunately these are the rules, look here.” And then he smugly highlighted a passage in the rulebook he pulled out from his back pocket, specifically bringing our attention to camping breaches, which included sleeping in a vehicle. He had us dangling by the bollocks and knew it, while also loving every second of his power trip.

Then, as was often customary in these situations, the official then made out that he was doing us a favour. “Ok what I’ll do is just fine you for camping in the car and the tent. If I wanted to I could fine you all individually, so that would be five camping fines rather than two. And if you didn’t have enough money on you I would have to take you back to the station where things may escalate. As it is, I appreciate it was an honest mistake, and in any case you guys will be leaving the country soon.”

Waiting to be put out of our misery he finally revealed the damage. “So in total that will be $250 please. I don’t care if you all chip in or if just one of you pays.”

“That’s fucking good of you,” I muttered, raging like an angry rhino at the prospect of handing over such a sizeable sum for sleeping rough. I wondered what they would have done had it been a homeless person? Come to think of it they would probably have locked the person up and thrown away the key. This was Australia, after all. Dejectedly, with the painful realisation we wouldn’t be pulling off a great escape, we all sought out our wallets and counted up as much cash as we possibly could. Simon only had a few dollars on him, which meant Sam would be stumping up $50 on his friend’s behalf until he could be paid back.

Begrudgingly the cash was handed over. I couldn’t bear to see all those notes go into the hand of the authorities again. After the ranger had counted it he stamped the ticket he had handed us, indicating we were free men. “That’s it, all done,” he said passing the ticket back with the pleasure of someone who had just performed a spot of daylight robbery and got away it, which of course he had. With tensions reduced now the fine had been paid the local law enforcer suddenly developed a friendly side. “You see we’re just a convict nation so need all the money we can get,” he said bizarrely, all but admitting that he had robbed us. “Anyway enjoy Byron Bay and the rest of your travels.” And off he went, as if he was now our mate.

“I think he was making a bit of a meal of it by going on about being a convict nation. Perhaps he would have had a point 200 years ago.”

Simon was more blunt, “What a fat, ugly cunt.”

Spitting venom that we had been violated in such a spectacular way, we decided to vengefully lash out following our heinous crime; by ever so slowly eating our breakfasts on a nearby bench, before packing away our stuff at a snail’s pace and then gently driving out the area – undoubtedly one of the most expensive places on earth to camp – that would forever now be etched in our brains with painful memories. I reflected on the heartbreaking set of circumstances that had occurred, where we had all scrimped and saved so expertly and then had our hard earned money unceremoniously ripped away in a flash. “I guess it’s some kind of karma for all the things and places we’ve stayed for free,” Sam suggested, as though there was a fair-minded god. Showing our fighting spirit in adversity, we all took a pledge there and then to step up our money saving exploits to an even higher level in a bid to make up for our newly acquired shortfall.

We drove through the centre of Byron Bay and into a supermarket car park where we hoped to get some much needed supplies. It was the first time we had seen the place in day time and like many of the places we had visited down the east coast it was another quintessential Australian surfing town with a quaint cosy feel to it. Having just come from the more lively and city-like Surfers Paradise, it was, it has to be said, somewhat underwhelming though. “We should have stayed in Surfers longer,” I declared honestly. Still, we had to make do with our lot so myself and Sam grabbed a fresh coffee and discussed accommodation strategies while the others did the shopping. We had been urged to stay at the hostel where Sam’s older Irish girl, Jane, was crashing.

After an age the others came out holding bags galore. It was time to get our stuff out of the car and settle up any money that was owed, as Mark was ready to hit the road back to Sydney. Following some awkward small chat it was now time for us to go our separate ways. “Right have a good one then,” Mark said, turning the engine on. “And Sam, make sure you get your dick wet ok? Remember fingering doesn’t count. Make sure you lot look after Special Steve too.”

As he pulled away we waved him goodbye like a bunch of demented fools, with Simon giving him one last viewing of his backside, before saluting him with a variety of hand gestures. In return he beeped his horn like a crazy chimp and stuck a single digit out of the window before accelerating off. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see the back of him,” Simon mused dryly, as we watched him drive off into the distance.

“Yeah…I’ll miss Stevo though,” I smiled. “It will be a lot more hassle without a car.”

“But at least we won’t have anyone to look after now,” Sam added. We all nodded. It felt odd that Mark wouldn’t be with us after the journey we had been on together and in a bizarre way we would miss him.

With great difficulty we lugged our ridiculously heavy backpacks up from the ground and painfully made our way toward the backpackers’ accommodation. After all, we were technically homeless. After taking several lengthy detours we arrived at the hostel, throwing down our heavy assortment of luggage with great relief. There was a small queue of people booking in, which I contemplated pushing to the front of before reluctantly joining the back. Before long Simon and Julie were at the front, booking their beds with ease for the next few days, including Christmas and Boxing Day.

Following a further painstaking wait, Sam and I finally made it to the front where we were simultaneously met by different members of staff who began fiddling on the computer in an attempt to accommodate us. “Oh there only appears to be one space left,” the girl said, before pressing some more buttons just to make sure. “Nope there’s definitely just the one space.” And then, just as she went to book it, the computer prevented it going through. “Oh no the last space has just gone.” I looked across at Sam, who had a huge grin across his face, knowing full well that he had just sneaked the remaining bed right before my very eyes. “I’m really sorry about that,” the woman said sincerely.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t fannied about so much I would have got there first,” I remonstrated forcibly. At least that’s what I wanted to do but because she had been nice I instead thanked her for trying and looked to the heavens.

So there I was homeless and on my own again, with the rest of the group all sorted for accommodation. My chances of finding anywhere at such short notice before Christmas were slim to zero. “I know all the other places are fully booked too. We’re the biggest hostel here with the most space so sadly you won’t get a bed anywhere else,” the lady added, twisting the knife she had just plunged into me.

“That’s what you think. I’m sure there will be a bed for me somewhere,” I muttered sneakily, as I shuffled away from reception.

With the hostel charging double prices over the festive season I decided that it was only right that some special allowances should be made for me, especially with the season of goodwill being upon us. I boldly decided I would, therefore, share a bed with Sam or Simon (though they didn’t know this yet) if there was no spare bed available in their room and subsidise the hostel with my joyful presence about the place instead of the usual currency of hard cash. Otherwise I was on the streets, which I didn’t much fancy, especially over Christmas.

We made our way upstairs to the room Simon and Julie were staying in, where I dumped my stuff. Despite what reception had told me, though, there appeared to be a couple of free beds, which was hardly surprising as the staff at these places are about as clever as a baboon. Sam, having been the last person to get a recognised bed, had paid the price by being put in a room with strangers. And just to reinforce the total ineptitude of the staff there was also a spare bed in his dorm, as if to rub salt into my wound a bit more.

In two minds whether to inform the hostel of its gross inefficiency or just lap up the free bed I decided that I would rather part with my money than not confront them over their shocking oversight. “It’s just not good enough is it? You’ve really put me through the ringer. And at Christmas of all times,” I told the receptionist, thumping my finger on the desk.

“I understand sir, we can only apologise once again. There must have been some cancellations.”

“Cancellations my arse. I would have been on the street if you lot had your way.”

“I know and all I can say once again is sorry. Will you accept a discount for a bed?”

“Well, I think it’s the very least the hostel should offer me. But yes I suppose I will accept.”

And just like that my accommodation worries were over. In amongst the tense conversation it was hard to know exactly what had been agreed but I took it that I had been granted a bed for an indefinite period and smugly walked off.

Following a stressful day I was now finally able to relax for a few hours by thrashing people on the table tennis and pool table in the common area, before my winning streak was abruptly brought to a halt when Simon walked in with a four-litre box of goon and a glowing smile. It was that time again. “Ah this is the first time we’ve drank without Mark,” the Swede remarked nostalgically, before adding dryly, “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“It feels good to be free once again,” I smirked as I took a giant gulp.

“I can relax now,” added Sam.

In amongst our fevered drinking it soon became clear that Sam was like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe chasing Jane, which meant Simon and I were forced to go wherever the Irish girl and her friends went. So, that evening we headed to a place down the main strip called Cocomangas. There was a queue outside with a bunch of bouncers who appeared to have a combined IQ well below double figures. The upstairs room looked from the front like the far livelier of the rooms and had a man on the balcony attempting to impress some ladies by revealing his backside to them. “This is the ideal place for you,” I told Simon, who naturally agreed.

After handing over what I instinctively knew would be an extortionate sum of money I made my way into the venue and headed for the safety of the bar. Sam wasn’t hanging about, desperate to go upstairs immediately to meet his cougar. So, with little choice, Simon and I grudgingly followed him into the chaotic main room, where like every other backpacker place in Australia there were people dancing on tables with stupid grins on their faces. I shook my head in a slow and disgusted way, especially at those who foolishly thought they were somehow superior merely because they were a few feet higher than those occupying the floor.

How I longed for someone to fall down flat on their face. With this in mind, and to brighten up my evening, I accidentally-on-purpose barged into a few revellers as I fought my way through the room, causing several to wobble dangerously, before they unleashed a series of expletives. On finally reaching the other side where Jane and her friends were, Simon and I, having finished our drinks already, decided to escape and made our way back across the dance floor to the stairs and back into the less crowded room where we sat and drank beer like civilised people before realising what a shit night we were having. Within seconds we had left the venue, marking the highlight of our evening.

The following morning while in my top bunk I rubbed my eyes having felt my leg rub against something. I moved it again to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t. Wanting to discover what on earth could be in my bed I peered under the cover where I found, to my great astonishment, a leg which judging by its hairiness belonged to a large man. Along with an unmistakable cheesy smell I could just about make out the outline of the body, which was of a substantial size. Annoyingly the head, which was at the other end of the bunk, was buried beneath some pillows. I double checked my boxer shorts to make sure there had been no tampering while I had been asleep, which to my great relief it appeared there hadn’t.

I was still baffled as to who could be in my bed and why. I prodded the leg. Nothing. And again. Still nothing. I was beginning to get angry. This time I kicked it. Finally there was movement. Slowly the head began to rise. I was ready to throw the cheeky drunken fool – as that is what I had assumed he was - on the floor without so much as a warning.

After a delayed pause, there was a deep voice, “Hello mate.” Still unsure who this weird person was I manoeuvred my head to try and establish the mysterious individual’s identity. “Not a bad bed you’ve got here,” he continued casually.

Following a further pause, the penny finally dropped, “Ben? Is that you? What are you doing here? And what the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

He let out a snigger, seemingly appreciating the bizarre nature of what I’d witnessed on my awakening. “I arrived last night and was out with Sam. I needed a bed and he told me there was space in your room, which was open, so I just came in. There weren’t any beds so I climbed into your bunk. I knew you wouldn’t care.”

His remorselessness somehow made you see the merit of his unorthodox method. “Well,” I said, taking in a deep breath, relieved that I was not a victim of some misguided opportunistic man’s desires. “At least your head was the other end of the bed. And you’ve got your clothes on. If you’d been naked then things might not have turned out so rosy.”

“Don’t worry mate, the last time I got my cock out in front of other men was in a bar after losing a drinking game with my rugby team. I wouldn’t just do it in a bed with another man for no reason.” If this was meant to reassure me then I didn’t find it totally convincing, but gingerly accepted the point he was trying to make.

After getting up and washing myself more thoroughly than usual, I treated myself to a bacon and egg sandwich from a café round the corner. Wandering around the centre still getting my bearings I was suddenly nearly ran over by a clapped out banger as I strolled day dreamingly onto the side of a road. Coming to an abrupt halt with smoke pouring out of it, the door, which appeared as though it was falling off, slowly opened. To my shock and amazement out popped my English friend Andy, who I’d met at the infamous hostel in Sydney – the one I’d finally been given the boot from for allegedly making a German girl cry (I’m still sure to this day they were crocodile tears) and then being accused of exacting revenge a week later in a drunken haze by leaving the kitchen looking as though an avalanche of snow had fallen on it after an impromptu meeting with a giant bag of flour.

It was good to see Andy, especially having narrowly avoided meeting up on a variety of occasions down the coast. Once the humiliation of climbing out of one of the worst cars you could possibly imagine subsided, it was just like old times back in Sydney, with Andy quick to remind me of times gone by, “I bet you miss that hostel?”

I smiled nostalgically at the memory, “How did you know? Staying in a room with 19 other people, with loud orgies above my bed, water being thrown in my face, twats turning the light on in the middle of the night and kicking a football as hard as they could, cockroaches everywhere, people Stealing your food…” I could have gone on and on with the delights of that particular hostel but concluded on a high point. “Well, at least I went out with my head held high.”

Andy was travelling with two female friends over from England – a bold move. And judging by the pain on his face the risky nature of undergoing such a feat was beginning to take its toll. Nonetheless he was valiantly trying to make the most of his travels, but like myself was suffering from a sense of déjà vu. “All these places look the same don’t they? They even have exactly the same people in them; surfers, backpackers and hippies,” he announced sharply, exasperatedly shaking his head before taking in a deep breath, “And fuck me, I’ve never seen so many Germans.” This we could all agree on. He was camping nearby and would be staying for a few days so, not for the first time, it was agreed we would meet up. I wished him a good day as he left to do a spot of clothes shopping with the girls.

Back in my hostel room I was sifting through the array of creased and filthy items in my backpack looking for a top to wear when a man with a bowl hat waltzed in with a crazy but friendly demeanour. I can’t say I was surprised to discover Rick was Dutch, especially with him appearing to be on a diet of amphetamines thanks to the eccentric way he would walk from side to side for no apparent reason as he spoke.

During our chat Ben suddenly entered the dorm with an umbrella he had found somewhere. I made the polite introductions, as you do in such situations, but bizarrely almost as soon as they had acknowledged one another things turned sour. Though, it has to be pointed out, this may not have been helped by Rick grabbing the umbrella and swinging it around like he was Gene Kelly from the musical Singing In The Rain. Ben looked concerned, and rightly so, as within a few minutes of swirling the German’s pride and joy around it was broken - with it now providing about as much protection from the rain as a soaking wet sock.

“What the fuck have you done?” Ben squealed, mortified that this umbrella he had proudly only just acquired – and which was bound to come in handy with the pouring rain – had been taken from his grasp so brutally. And by a crazy stranger he had only just met. Rick just shrugged his shoulders, making it abundantly clear he couldn’t care less. I put the friction down to the historical hatred between the German and Dutch nations and couldn’t help but be amused at the way Rick had immediately set about toying with Ben – someone who normally likes to dish out the abuse to others.

That evening, with the Swedes and Ben opting for a chilled night, I had been talked into going out for a few drinks with crazy Rick. I had a feeling I could be in for an interesting evening. Being an experienced resident of the place he proposed a party venue not too far from where we were staying. Despite having drank a reasonable amount of goon I was still feeling relatively sober as we headed out into the night rain, no doubt because I was numb to the affects of alcohol following a heavy session the night before, and indeed for the many months prior to that, come to think of it. With special vouchers bulging out of my pocket I was determined to make the most of the discounts for drinks as we rocked up to the place.

Things started off normally with us standing around drinking two drinks at a time to save ourselves the torture of going to the bar every five minutes. Rick appeared to be getting more and more restless with every drink and after our third double round he was unable to keep still for any longer, resulting in him suddenly performing an impromptu dance, if that was what you could call it. “Ish good danshing yesh?” he confidently stated, before declaring he was popping off somewhere for a couple of minutes.

After standing around like a lemon for longer than I was comfortable with I walked down the corridor and spotted Rick in the smoking area harassing everyone for a cigarette. After a few short minutes he had rounded up five smokes which he placed neatly into an old packet he conveniently had in his pocket, before sparking one up and puffing out the smoke like a steam train, as he briskly stomped about the area in no particular direction.

He returned to the bar area looking like a man who was buzzing in a techno rave and sipped on his drink like he was drinking water. Standing to the edge of the dance floor was never going to be good enough for the Dutchman and before long Rick had literally fought his way up on the adjacent tables, dancing manically alongside other revellers. One poor, unfortunate youngster lost his balance after bumping into Rick, forcing him to take drastic action and jump ship, causing him to land awkwardly on the floor and painfully twist his ankle before he hobbled to the nearest wall to support himself, his face etched in a cross of agony and humiliation. As Rick continued to bounce around to the irritating songs, he soon sought further entertainment by squeezing the buttocks of any female within his proximity, prompting the braver – and more foolish ones - to look behind them, where Rick would be winking while thrusting his genital area vigorously in their direction with his hands behind his head.

One woman took great exception to Rick’s forthright methods and after turning around looking like she was ready to kill the depraved man responsible for the atrocious behaviour, then proceeded to shove him as hard as she could, causing the Dutchman to fly back a few feet. Rick, questioning the heavy handed approach with his hands out open to the side, looked utterly confused as to what may have prompted such an attack on his good self. Suddenly his shock turned to outrage at the common assault he had just been a victim of, perhaps in the heat of the moment forgetting the small detail that he had transgressed against her in the first place.

Seething with rage, he squared up to the obtuse scantily dressed woman and offered her a few choice words, before leaving onlookers stunned as he looked to make amends for her reaction. Somewhat surreally, in what seemed like super slow motion, the brazen Dutchman suddenly reached across and squeezed her breasts – which had been out on display thanks to a ridiculously low cut top – together. Not satisfied he had inflicted enough humiliation on her he then delivered the coup de grace and yanked her top down, causing her boobs to flop out like a pair of water balloons for all the club to see, before rounding things off by squeezing her left nipple. I anticipated fireworks, especially with the woman looking like she was somewhere between stunned, humiliated and apoplectic, as she tried in vain to cover up her expansive chest area. “She wanted everyone to shee her breashts sho I’ve done her a favour,” Rick quipped in a deadpan voice.

Cool as a cucumber he then strolled over to the bar and got another round in. Fearing reprisals may soon be on the cards I suggested that now may be a good time to check out the other areas of the establishment. Nonchalantly he agreed, so we made our way to the smoking room and then to a quiet spot around the corner. Sadly these things can catch up with you and after 20 minutes or so Rick was confronted by two large bouncers who didn’t appear from their menacing stares they would be overly sympathetic to his plight. “You need to come with us,” one of them growled.

Looking surprised, but remaining totally composed, the astonished Dutchman fired back. “Why? I’ve done nothing wrong. That stupid bitch attacked me. You need to throw her out.”

I feared, however, it would be Rick being asked to leave. But to my surprise the doorman attempted to reason with him rather than squash him. “Mate,” the head of security began, “we saw you pull her top down. The whole place could see her chest. You think that’s ok to do in a public place?”

Rick shrugged his shoulders, “Yesh.”

“Well I’m telling you mate it’s not, not in this country anyway.” He flicked his head as a signal to show it was time to leave.

“I jush finish my drink then.”

“Hurry up.” To my great shock the door staff had actually been remarkably tolerant, especially having actually witnessed the whole sorry incident.

Dazed we had got out of there with no broken bones, which under the circumstances was a minor miracle, we sharply made our way up the street. “At leasht I fucked up that shlag’s night,” Rick, with a devilish look on his face, smirked.

“And at least I didn’t have to watch a bunch of sweaty wankers dancing on tables for any longer,” I replied, looking on the bright side of our ordeal. So in a strange kind of way we were both happy with the outcome as went back to the hostel following another peculiar night.

CHAPTER 13 – THE ARTS FACTORY

The Swedes and I had been invited over to the place Ben was now staying at, The Arts Factory. One of his German friends had arrived so rather than sharing a dorm bed with me or any other man, he had taken the pragmatic decision that it was better to stay in a tent with his pal. For free, of course.

Following a sloth-like walk we arrived at our destination, or at least we thought we had, but it was hard to be sure, especially as from the front it was no more than a subtropical jungle. Added to this our directions hadn’t exactly been of military precision. “Follow path in jungle past huts and you wankers will find me,” Ben’s text read. We followed a narrow alley through the towering trees and eventually came to an area with a sea of tents to either side. Unsure if we were even in the right jungle let alone on the right path, we continued forward along the winding trail like three explorers hoping to reach our zenith.

The place had an eeriness to it, with intermittent piercing wildlife noises and even stranger people, many of whom appeared to communicate telepathically with each other while gazing into thin air silently. The rest looked strikingly familiar to some of the characters from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. The place was peaceful and calm, to the point it was freakishly so. Following the Swedes, I insisted on glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to ensure I was ready for any potential assailant partial to a spot of guerrilla warfare, who may jump out from behind and drag me off.

So afraid were we in fact to wake the living dead that we didn’t even risk talking above a barely audible whisper. And then it struck me why the place had less life than a morgue, as a strong waft of cannabis found its way up my nostrils. Further up the track this happened again and then again, until finally I was lucky if I came across a patch of fresh oxygen in amongst the thick smog of weed hogging the air. I was starting to get a sense of what this place was all about.

Then, out of nowhere, we heard an unmistakable deep voice. “Over here.” It was Ben. Relieved we had somehow found our friend without a search party having to be called out for us, we made our way to the large communal hut where he was sat, along with several other smaller groups. Although there was some idle chat I had rarely seen a bunch of humans that were so chilled out. All they needed was a bed and some pillows to top it off. Being the interlopers that we were a few of them cast suspicious glances at us. “Ummm weirdoes from the outside world,” they seemed to be collectively thinking. Just to throw a further dagger into the sereneness we had violated was the unfortunate fact that I also had a football shirt on, with us now stereotyped as rampant football thugs, only adding to the hippies’ fears.

As well as the tree huggers I noticed there were also a few backpacker types, whom at least I could talk to without feeling as though someone was casting a mystical spell whereby I could turn into a frog should I say or do the wrong thing. “You found it then,” Ben mocked, shaking his head slowly.

“You couldn’t miss it really,” I joked. “If you’d just told us to follow the cloud of weed it would have been much easier.”

Ben laughed, “So what do you make of my new home?” I cautiously glanced about once more and spotted a white male with dreadlocks (always a weird sight) sucking vigorously on a bong like his life depended on it, while another was standing on his own manoeuvring his hands in wonderment, in what I could only assume was a strange hallucinogenic dance to the trance-style music that was softly playing in the background. Everyone else was enjoyably puffing away like they were determined to poison their bodies as much as humanly possible. “It’s very chilled out,” I replied understatedly to avoid offending any of the nearby zombies.

The next thing I knew, some odd looking man wearing a puke coloured top, more than likely in his mid sixties, had taken it upon himself to sit down on our table and fill us all in on the glorious history of the place. “You boys should have been here in the 70s,” he began, as if it was somehow our fault that we were not born during this golden era. “They talk about free love and drugs and I’ve got to say,” he looked up with a reminiscent smirk, ”it’s all true.” He let out a grainy laugh, no doubt made considerably worse by all the years of punishment he had joyfully inflicted on his lungs. “Yep bagged myself many a Sheila back in those times,” he said proudly, smiling at those halcyon days.

And then, just as I was hoping he had finished his trip down memory lane, he saw fit to continue sharing his insight. “It’s just not the same anymore. This place used to be a major place where all the hippies and international musicians came for a good time. That’s when the Arts Factory Village was created. And then in the 80s it was a serious rock and roll venue. And I mean serious, you know?” He paused, looked to the sky, as if to recall some more of those gilt edged memories. “But you know the best thing about it all?” A glowing smile was now worryingly appearing across his face. And before we could utter a single guess he was off again. “All the women wanted cock, like really wanted it…you know? So we gave it to ‘em. Hard. It didn’t matter if you had been with their mates the night before or anything stupid like that. No one gave a rat’s arse about that. They were the good times.”

“Well, I reckon with the way some of them carry on in backpacker hostels today you’d still be in with a shout with some mate,” I quipped, prompting the old-timer to look over at me, his eyes sparkling with just a hint of new found optimism.

As odd as he was, though, it couldn’t be denied that the scruffy individual was entertaining. And then, after holding court for a substantial period of time on what he’d like to do with some of the young ladies of today, he was gone, “Right good to talk to you boys. I’m off to get my gear.” As crazy as this place was – not too far behind Nimbin, you would have to say – I could not deny the character of the place. And just like with that bizarre village you could argue that these people – however peculiar – were also completely harmless, as well as amusingly entertaining, without knowing it, of course. I could not have felt as though I was much further from day-to-day home-life than if I had imagined such a sanctuary, which only added to the surreal nature of it all.

We returned to the Arts Factory the following day drenched, after the heavens had opened once again. To raise our spirits we had a selection of booze and some of the worst baseball caps imaginable – the beak was ridiculously long and wide so that someone could easily have sat on it, while it had the unforgettable encryption “Wild Oats” plastered across it - that we had been given for free from a liquor store after being taken pity on.

We marched past reception and into the outside sheltered area, all of us proudly wearing our hats like we were on an excursion trip of underprivileged children. Despite the bad weather there was still a selection of people relaxing in the hammocks overlooking the pond. Ben was reading his book and after spotting us was quick to sum up our new attire. “You all look like retards,” he laughed, pointing at our heads. The German’s delight soon turned to misery when Rick, who had gone to the toilet, appeared, also wearing his Wild Oats cap. “You not wearing one of these?” the Dutchman joked, pointing to his head. “I think one of these would suit you more than anyone.”

The scathing edge of Rick’s remark was not lost on Ben, not that it had been concealed in any way though. “No mate I think it suits you just fine,” Ben replied cuttingly. Somehow I got the impression these two would never get on.

Amid the swampy environment there was a swimming pool that had been torpedoed by the incessant rain. So naturally, after a couple of hours of pouring goon down our throats, it seemed like the obvious thing to go for a dip. Spotting his opportunity, Rick went up behind Ben, who was stood cautiously by the water’s edge, and gave him one almighty shove into the pool, causing him to land heavily, and somewhat painfully by the looks of it, on Simon, who in traditional fashion was floating along with his bum out. “I thought you liked men’s arseholes,” Rick shouted gloatingly.

“No I think it is you who likes dick,” Ben barked back.

Sam, standing at the edge of the pool, was mockingly daring to pull down his own shorts. But the Swede, inevitably, when switching off, was given a helping hand as Rick yanked them down to his knees, causing Sam to fall off balance and into the water. Ben did the rest as he pulled them off completely, prompting a game of piggy in the middle. “Look I don’t care who sees, “Sam, now somewhat inebriated, announced after climbing out of the pool and standing statuesquely naked having failed in his attempts to reclaim his shorts. Unsurprisingly it wasn’t long before the staff intervened. “You think you can put them back on now please?” a young woman politely asked.

“Only if you suck his cock,” Rick blurted back, while doing a licking motion.

“I heard that,” the lady smiled. I was astonished that even when faced with full frontal nudity the staff - like their customers - were about as animated as a wooden chair.

We spent the rest of the evening playing pool and hanging around the bar area. I was still struggling to take in the sheer numbers of people who gave little if no concern to how they looked. Never in my life had I come across a bunch who looked so bad yet were so totally comfortable with it. That applied to the women too, many of whom had apparently never come across the invention of make-up, or indeed footwear as they fleeted about with their filthy feet on display for all to see. Hygiene was not a concept many of the inhabitants had embraced either but they seemed happy enough and as long as they didn’t get too close to me so was I.

There had been no formal plan of how long we would stay in Byron Bay but having heard all the coaches to Sydney were fully booked until after Christmas we had little option but to stay put until after the festive season. In any event, we had got wind of a Christmas Day rave somewhere in the jungle so thought this would be the ideal way to celebrate the lord Jesus Christ.

Having wisely, and somewhat unusually, taken it easy on Christmas Eve – treating ourselves to nothing more than a favourite Swedish pastime of dark chocolate and red wine – we were all feeling surprisingly human when Christmas Day arrived. There was a buzz around the hostel as people raced about getting ready, phoning friends and family back home and buying whatever supplies of drink and food they could get their hands on.

The Swedes and I spent upwards of an hour in a small liquor store as we assessed the merits of every deal against how much alcohol we could possibly consume, in what we hoped, and fully expected, would be the monster of all binge sessions. A giant queue that stretched outside the door and into the pelting rain wasn’t helping our cause, but we didn’t let this blight our very serious consideration of what alcohol to purchase. The door was kindly held open as, finally, we shuffled out to quizzical looks as we each underwent what effectively amounted to a strenuous weightlifting contest, thanks to the mountain of booze we were straining to hold onto.

Without waiting a second longer than was necessary we cracked open some beers in the lounge area once we had dropped off our weighty alcohol supplies with sweat and rain dripping off us. The room was, by now, heaving full of merry people. With the rain still smashing down outside, a group of daring individuals had made a bold statement that the weather would not deter from their festivities by sitting on the sheltered outside benches in the courtyard area. Not wanting to be outdone this seemed to provoke Sam. “This is fucking boring,” he suddenly announced. “I’m going in the Jacuzzi. With beers.” In need of some refreshment I decided there was no other option but to join him. After changing into some shorts and grabbing a delightful four pack of cold beer I marched through the lashings of rain and plunged straight into the hot tub, which looked extremely inviting with glowing warm air floating from it.

The only drawback was that two men were now luxuriating in the bubbly water, both of who looked slightly disturbed about the prospect of us joining them in such an intimate confine, especially as you could not see below the froth at surface level. This fear was undoubtedly exacerbated by the fact they had in all likelihood assumed no one else would dare use the hot tub in such treacherous weather conditions, with doing so potentially being seen as some kind of “come on”. Feeling slightly awkward that those in the hostel, as well as the men in the tub, may view our encroachment as distasteful, I quickly moved to clear any lingering doubt of our intentions. “It’s ok we’re not here for any botty love,” I joked, making sure I smiled in a manly way in an attempt to put us all at ease. However, they looked at me anxiously and back at one another, clearly puzzled by my colloquialism.

“It’s ok, we don’t like men…you know in that way,” Sam, quickly jumping to my rescue, added before doing an upward fisting motion with his arm, while adamantly shaking his head. But, if anything, the strange men, who spoke little English, now looked more scared.

The tension was rife, with them giving us the odd distrusting look as we knocked back our beer like a couple of menacing reprobates, at least this was how it felt we were viewed. Devoid of a sense of humour and looking increasingly uncomfortable, particularly as the decibel levels increased with every gulp of beer, it became clear the odd males weren’t entering the Christmas spirit. Finally, to our utter relief they could bear no more and got out of the tub without even so much as a goodbye. As soon as they turned their backs Sam and I spontaneously turned toward them and raised our middle fingers, followed by a healthy bout of fist pumping, to indicate what we thought the men would soon be engaging in with each other. “Fucking peasants, I bet they have sore arses in the morning,” Sam declared with a scornful smile.

At last, though, we had the Jacuzzi to ourselves, allowing us to stretch out and relax wholeheartedly. I noticed the water, although comfortingly hot and bubbly, had a slightly odd smell to it. I had been in blissful ignorance until Sam alerted me, having accidentally swallowed a mouthful. “I think people must have been pissing in here,” he spluttered.

“Well maybe it was mine you could taste, as I just took a leak in here.” I was joking, of course, but there’s nothing like putting doubts into people’s heads. Our fun was rudely interrupted when the two weirdoes, surprisingly, returned from whatever it was they had sneaked off to do. As they entered the water we decided now would be as good a time as ever to get out. “Be careful not to swallow the water, people have been pissing in there,” I helpfully warned the pair, leaving them shuffling uncomfortably after I’d reinforced my message with graphic images, just so nothing would be lost in translation.

Once changed, we went back downstairs and started slurping on our beer, with anticipation to the Christmas dinner now firmly underway. But Sam seemed agitated and before long began lamenting about his illicit relationship with Jane. “She still wants to keep things quiet,” he said, rolling his eyes.

I needed no encouragement to offer my agony aunt services. “Sounds to me like she wants to have her cake and eat it mate. If she feels that you’re too young for her then what is she doing slurping your tool like a lollypop? She’s being a hypocrite and you should let her know that.” Sam nodded, he knew I was right but I sensed that being such a diplomat and not wanting to forego his guilty pleasures on a regular basis, he would not say anything to this manipulating cougar in case she called off the clandestine fling.

I felt angry for Sam and attempted to lighten his load with a further few suggestions, “Why don’t you deny her access to your loins until she does the right thing and comes out into the open about your relationship? Or perhaps you could threaten to tell everyone if she doesn’t play ball?” He didn’t seem convinced by my wise advice and it was, sadly, all too obvious that he would continue to trundle along unhappily with the situation.

A short time later Simon and Ben showed up, as we sensibly stepped up our drinking prior to the bonanza Christmas meal, with it now officially decided that we would be attending the nearby jungle rave later. We were joined by Jane and her friends as we made our way to the large outside table that had been assembled for the 50 or so people who were attending the meal. Although I had fully anticipated being royally ripped off I was pleasantly surprised to see the well presented layout, which to my amazement included crackers, candles and a high quality festive table cloth, fit with pictures of Father Christmas himself emblazoned all across it. Added to this there were candlelights and white foam spray across the windows letting everyone know, just in case they were unaware, that it was indeed Christmas, which was just as well, as apart from the rain it felt nothing like the traditional day.

We progressed sumptuously through our surprisingly impressive feast, which included a personal old favourite of pawn salad for starter, before moving on to the less than festive sausage, pasta, chicken and salad main course. All of this with seemingly endless amounts of goon supplied by the hostel, which was going down a good deal faster than the gassy beer that had left me with a vast bloated stomach that made me look like I was pregnant. Spirits were rising as people jovially chatted while munching on their food.

But as good a show as the hostel had put on, the truth was that it still felt like what I’d imagined Christmas in a homeless shelter would be; a large gathering of assorted strangers with no money and a great love of booze – many of whom, coincidentally, hadn’t come across the invention of a shaver judging from their furry faces - who’ve been thrown together to eat a mediocre meal that somehow comes to feel like you’re eating caviar at The Ritz Hotel because it’s a massive step up from the usual daily grind of eating plain noodles with stale bread.

It’s all about expectations, and having spent nearly a year away living in some of the biggest shitholes known to mankind, this was undoubtedly a vast improvement to what I had been used to. But, in saying that, had my mother delivered this on my plate at Christmas then I would have looked at her with withering disappointment while slowly shaking my head before having no choice but to march outside and give it to the dogs in a state of unbridled disgust. However, under my current circumstances with my lifestyle more akin to that of a modern day peasant, the meal was refreshingly decent.

While the friends I’d been sharing my Christmas experience with had made the evening fun, unfortunately the same could not be said about me by Sam’s cougar, Jane, and her friends. Having consumed more than my fair share of alcohol throughout the course of this holy day, I had reached the stage where dementia kicks in; whereby you forget what happened all of five minutes ago. Sure, forgetting stuff the next day was part and parcel of a heavy night of drinking but when it happens before you even go out you always fear the worst.

Unbeknown to me there had been an incident at the dinner table, which I was suddenly reminded of by Sam shortly afterwards. “You probably shouldn’t have said that,” the Swede politely quibbled.

I thought hard for a few seconds but my thought processes kept being sharply interrupted by the feel of a sledgehammer grinding on my skull from the grand concoction of alcohol I had guzzled. After looking blank for several seconds I finally replied, “Shouldn’t have said what?” He looked at me with a mixture of amazement and sorrow. At first he thought I was feigning not remembering until realising I genuinely had the brain of a sieve. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, “At the table?”

“What at the table?”

He took in a deep breath, while I braced myself for the worst. “At the table you got everyone to be silent and then stood up in front of all 50 or so people and asked what people’s views were on an older woman ‘rogering’ a man who’s ten years younger than her –“

“- Did I?”

“-Yes…,” Sam winced at the recollection. “But then, even worse than that, you asked if everyone thought it was right for the older woman to force the younger man to keep it a secret just because she was embarrassed, or as you actually said, ‘was being a selfish manipulator who was having her cock and eating it’.”

I paused in stunned silence and put my hand over my mouth as I sought with all my waning power to dig out the memory from my mind. “Really? I said that?” I glanced back at Sam hoping he was joking, but the deeply troubled look on his face made it abundantly obvious that, regrettably, this was not the case.

“Yes you said that,” he continued, disappointment absorbing his eyes. “And then, in front of everyone, you specifically asked Jane what her thoughts were on the subject. That’s when everyone started laughing. Well, everyone apart from Jane and her friends. And me of course.”

I rubbed my stubble thoughtfully as I continued my vain attempt at accessing my memory recesses, with my palm also serving the added benefit of shielding the smirk that I could feel impulsively trying to force its way across my face.

“You’re not making this up are you?” I enquired desperately, as if to also imply that there may have been a case of mistaken identity.

“I wish I was,” Sam shook his head disconsolately. “You might as well have just shouted out ‘hey look Jane’s shagging someone ten years younger than her’. She was pretty mad about what you did. I don’t think she wants to talk to you ever again, especially now everyone knows.”

It was a lot for me to take in and while I could understand Sam’s frustrations I reminded myself that the whole sorry mess was really Jane’s fault. Feeling emboldened, I struck back with a passionate defence. “Well maybe she got what she deserved, after all she was treating you like a bit of meat. Someone had to stand up for you and I’m glad it was me.”

“I know, but did you have to do it in front of the 50 people at the Christmas party?” Sam asked despairingly.

I rallied myself before going on the front foot once more. “Look, I can appreciate that, perhaps, it may not have been the ideal place or time and that things are a bit awkward at the moment, but now it’s out in the open it will be a lot better for you. You need to remember that she can’t just help herself to your sausage when it suits her.”

I could see he agreed and that emotions were just a bit raw. “Well, I hope when it settles down she still sucks my dick,” Sam shrugged, with a hint of a smirk once again appearing across his face.

“I’m sure she will be more than keen to suck like it’s a lollipop and if not then who cares? I’m sure there’s plenty of others out there who are willing to have a good old slurp if she doesn’t play bat and ball,” I replied comfortingly. Sam laughed and took a large gulp of goon, as if to mark moving on from the episode. “You’re right,” he added, his mood brightening further still, “There will be plenty more looking for a feed …come to think of it I shagged that Finnish girl in the room the other day. I didn’t tell Jane about that.” He laughed again.

CHAPTER 14 - THE CHRISTMAS RAVE

With excitement building for the Christmas rave, I rounded up the Swedes and Ben before we briskly headed to the Arts Factory in a taxi. Eating a sizeable amount of food and then pouring a gallon of water down my throat had taken the edge off the alcohol intoxication I had been nursing and given me hope that I would not end up in a bush before the rave had even began.

We paid the taxi driver and immediately went to the bar area where we knocked back a quick beer before going to the hut, which was packed out with those attending the rave. If I thought the place was an asylum of freak-shows before then the theory justified its tag even more on this occasion, as I was confronted by a plethora of people guerning their heads off from a concoction of substances. For a second, in my drunken stupor, I thought it was Halloween, with so many tortured looking souls nearby; a healthy proportion of whom were rolling their eyeballs back, eerily showing just the whiteness, while others seemed to have had their bodies taken over by flesh hungry vampires, as they munched incessantly on their own lips, while sticking their chins out in a grinding motion, which certainly did nothing to help the looks of these most hideous of creatures.

To make matters worse, many of these lamentable humans had face paint on, giving the impression they were part of some weird cult, for which the primary purpose remained unclear. I fully expected someone, perhaps an outsider of the group like myself, to be carted off against his will by the congregation and defiantly impaled on a burning stake so they could be sacrificed for the greater good, before everyone took to joyfully dancing about naked in front of my smoking corpse.

Cautiously we sat down on a table with some acquaintances of Ben and continued our drinking amid the weird smells and candlelights that were brightly flickering in the darkness, distinctly adding to the sinister atmosphere. My friend Andy and his girl pals were also meeting us at the Arts Factory for the rave. When they turned up they bore similar facial expressions to the ones we had when first setting foot inside this crazy place – one combining an unusual blend of bewilderment, fear and amusement. “What the fuck is this place about? I’ve never seen so many freaks in my life,” Andy whispered, unable to take in the sites. His female accomplices, the types, it has to be said, who clearly didn’t believe in discretion, were left open mouthed at the flux of odd characters. “What the hell is he doing?” one of the girls laughed like a foghorn while pointing at, admittedly, a rather odd chap who was performing a slow motion trance dance, manoeuvring his legs alternatively – and somewhat impressively, it has to be said - above his head as he glided effortlessly in time with the freakish music from his vantage point on the muddy ground.

Andy looked about as comfortable as a nun in a brothel but, nonetheless, did his best to enter the spirit and knocked back a few beers, which began to slowly ease his twitches. A philanthropic woman then suddenly appeared before kindly offering to paint people’s faces free of charge. Simon, fully embracing the evening, signed up straightaway. “But you have to do his as well,” he said, pointing at me cheekily, as a condition of the woman ruining his face for the night.

“I don’t think so,” I objected indignantly. The next thing I knew the whole table, plus a few others, were almost pinning me down telling me I had no choice. “Look I will only do a little on you. It’s just a bit of fun. Where are your balls?” the face painter insisted, suggesting my masculinity was in question should I not go ahead with it.

So with the brute force of peer pressure hanging over me, not to mention that I would look like a coward should I pass the opportunity, I reluctantly accepted. “Ok, ok, but only a little bit,” I specifically stipulated in agreeing to have my face blighted.

“Of course, don’t worry,” she replied in a wholly professional and believable manner.

We all watched intently as she rather artistically, it has to be said, painted around Simon’s face. Showing great powers of concentration, not to mention poise, the Swede soon found himself with a dark glittery circle around one eye, which linked down to his cheek, making him look as insane as one of the Joker’s cronies out of Batman. Remarkably, though, he looked strangely stylish and after looking in the mirror was overjoyed about the job she had done for him.

Now it was my turn. I braced myself as she came in close with a tiny brush, which in truth looked more like an eyeliner. But I least I could comfort myself with the professional job she had done for Simon. I seemed to have the whole hut looking at me as she studiously brushed across my face, only broken up by interludes of her dipping the device into one of her many colours having stopped to closely inspect my face. If you’ve never had this done to you before then I can tell you that it is a slightly disturbing feeling to have a complete stranger stare at you from point blank range and deep within your personal space as you sit helplessly in a chair while they paint, sorry decimate, your face.

After a few minutes my face muscles were not quite so tense. “Oh well everyone else here looks like they’re from another planet so I may as well join them,” I muttered to Andy, as he sniggered at my demise. “Are we nearly done yet? Simon’s didn’t take this long did it?” I enquired to the woman, who seemed to be intent on conjuring up a masterpiece. “Not long now,” she replied with barely a blink of the eye. As more time passed I consoled myself with the thought that at least she was making sure everything was right. “There you go, all done,” she finally announced with a big enthusiastic smile, before handing me a mirror.

As I looked in the reflection, I spontaneously glanced away having nearly been permanently blinded by all the colours that were now entrenched on my once pure face. Open mouthed and speechless I looked in the mirror again, then away before looking back to double check that my eyes weren’t deceiving me after possibly being slipped a hallucinogenic pill in my drink by one of the resident hippies when I wasn’t looking. “You happy with my work?” the woman smiled beamingly, making it almost impossible to disagree. “No it’s fucking shit, I look like a heroin addict,” I said shaking my head in disgust. At least that was how I wanted to react. Along with pouring a bottle of bleach in her face. But instead I opted for a less confrontational response. “You’re quite the artist aren’t you?” I quipped rhetorically, putting on a brave - if not severely botched - face.

I had a stinking suspicion that she may have deliberately stitched me up. After all, I was left with a sea of colours blended across my face, including an army of scary red dots that made me appear as though I had a cross contamination of leprosy and chicken pots. “You look great man,” Simon chirpily observed, as he put an arm round me. This, if nothing else, confirmed my desperate appearance.

I quickly drank some more goon in a bid to forget who I was and waited for the mini bus. “At least it’s dark so no one can really see,” Sam said comfortingly, sensing my pain. “And they’ll all be too fucked to notice you…plus there’s way bigger freaks than you here.” This cheered me up. Kind of. The free bus finally arrived and we climbed on board and set off through the windy mountainous roads before finally arriving at our destination somewhere deep in the jungle.

After a quick toilet stop on some nearby bushes we made our way through the darkness, following the sound of trance music that was getting louder the closer we got. Wading through the soggy field we finally got to the rave, which, it’s fair to say, was based on something of an economically efficient model, containing a modest sized marquee with two speakers at the front of the stage, which in reality was nothing more than a table where you would have been lucky to squeeze in six people. There was a couple of stalls offering a selection of food and drink, plus other essential rave items including glow sticks, hats, whistles and a wide variety of vital drug paraphernalia, not to mention enough strange looking concoctions to sink a small battle ship.

It was still early – before midnight – but in any event there was a mill of people at the front bouncing about to the music like free spirited orangutans who had been plied with amphetamine. One woman with beaded hair flapped her arms about like she was trying to take off, while a lonesome barefooted man with his mouth wide open did his impersonation of a breaststroke swimmer. All of which was taking place next to a couple who appeared as though they were auditioning for the Kamasutra position(s) of the year award, as they strangely absorbed their bodies slowly between one another, alternating between crouching down to the ground before motioning upwards. I fully expected the woman to pull out a butt plug at one stage and casually plant it up her man but fortunately, to my surprise, this never materialised.

Deciding I needed to capture this magical moment, I walked over to the pair and brazenly took a photo of them on my phone before smugly wandering off, leaving them to their weird parallel universe. I was glad I had gone to the rave now and knew that even if all else failed I could happily stand and watch these crazy people in amazement.

Wandering about in a daze I bumped into Andy, who I had lost in amongst the mayhem. While I felt sorry for myself with my face defiled by paint, I quickly realised that perhaps my problems weren’t as bad after all, especially as Andy had just returned from some nearby bushes after helping his blind drunk friend as she vomited everywhere. His other female friend was also well refreshed judging by her slurring words and the vexatious scorn that was being directed at anyone who happened to be within shouting distance. “You’re a fucking cunt mate,” she bellowed venomously, spit flying from her mouth, while waywardly pointing in the direction of no one in particular, causing shocked revellers to fearfully look over their shoulders, unsure if she was directing her abuse toward them or some other unfortunate person. The truth was she didn’t know herself. But at least she could take pride in having made a genuine impact on the night. “You want some too you fat prick?” she shouted to another smattering of people, happily minding their own business. And so on it went.

Andy looked a beaten man and shook his head in disbelief at how his Christmas was unfolding. “Think I might have to call it a night and get them back before they do any more damage,” he sighed wearily, resigning himself to the bare faced reality of his unfortunate predicament, caused through no fault of his own. “Normally I’d have just finished my Christmas roast and would be chilling with some beers in front of the box…now I’m stuck in a fucking jungle in the middle of nowhere with these two pissed out of their skulls, trying to stop every Tom, Dick and Harry kicking the shit out of us. Oh well, least your face is cheering me up a bit.”

Despite the joke about my face you could not help but feel for Andy, after all it was Christmas and all he wanted to do was have a good night but instead found himself having a truly crap time. He was not the type to moan, though, and after forcibly rounding up his abysmally drunk mates, he somehow managed to herd them back in the general direction of the mini bus, which was a notable achievement in itself. “Don’t ya look at me ya silly cunts or I’ll fucking have yous, right?” The loud mouth girl wasn’t going quietly. Luckily for her, though, the group of six-foot plus meatheads she was trying to pick a fight with, sporting tattoos of the devil, knives and an array of other colourful symbols, just laughed at her. Well, laughed, and in the case of one of the members, showed how intimidated he was by flopping out his bare masculinity before giving it a good wholesome rub.

I wished Andy the best of luck as she struggled to get the girls and himself safely out of the vicinity. Moving away from the danger area I went to look for the Swedes and Ben. Having walked around like a stray dog for half an hour I finally spotted them near the front of the dance floor. “Where’ve you lot been?” I shouted, trying to be heard above the music.

“We’ve been here man,” Simon smiled contently, his eyes looking rather large.

I pointed at his face, “What’s happened to your eyes?” Of course I already had my suspicions what the answer may be.

“He bought this stuff from a hippie by the counter,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes paternally.

Simon shrugged, “The guy said it would help me have a good time…and he was right. You should get some man.”

And with that, he turned toward the speaker and started dancing by pretending he was bouncing an imaginary basketball and throwing it into a non-existent hoop. “Yeah I might do that,” I joked, as he threw another pretend shot in the hoop.

Ben, in typical brutish manner, couldn’t believe his luck, “What the fuck is he doing?”

I smiled, “He’s playing basketball, of course.” And then, after steadying myself, I threw a few shots in the imaginary hoop, before linking up passes with Sam and Ben and slam dunking a couple of balls, having accidentally slapped a bald headed guy, while elbowing another, as I followed through. Following a series of hard slapping high-fives to rejoice, I stood about, unwilling to demean myself by jigging to the strange music that I was being forced to endure, while squashed like a sardine between a bunch of hyperactive zombies.

I managed to persuade Sam to leave the crowded dance area to escape for a bit – it would, of course, have been impossible to drag Simon away, while Ben was more than happy to stay and laugh at him. Wandering about the place I looked curiously at the collection of people happily sat around drinking, smoking and, last but by no means least, sucking on some form of contraption. No one was in their right mind here. In fact, it felt like it was illegal not to be engaged in some form of recreational stimulant. The side effects of such intoxication weren’t altogether unpredictable, with inhibitions dropping while amorousness spiralled, making for a dangerous combination, the type I had become desensitised to witnessing through no fault of my own since landing in Australia.

As I happily minded my own business while swigging my drink I glanced to my left where an odd looking couple with too many nose rings to count were engaged in full blown tongue intercourse that left you wondering if they were training for a new Olympic sport such was the intensity at which they were performing. I looked away in disgust only to spot a slimy looking man seemingly taking full advantage of a woman sitting down wearing a highly accessible skirt, with his hand straying into the dark abyss between her legs, with not even so much as a drop of discretion or self consciousness as he ploughed on full steam ahead. To return the altruistic gesture the girl’s hand was buried down the front of the man’s trousers, with her arm gently motioning up and down like she was milking a cow.

It was too much for Sam. “I must have a picture of this,” he squealed, eyes lighting up as he reached for his mobile camera. He strolled over to get a better vantage point and returned a happy man having snapped away incessantly like a paparazzi. “Your mum will like that one,” I observed reassuringly. Though, on closer inspection it appeared Sam got more than he bargained for thanks both to the angle of the shot and the invention of the flash. “We know there’s more than one jungle around here now,” I helpfully pointed out.

Sam nodded. “I will show my dad this one but not my mum.”

We continued our stroll across the field and before deciding to sit down on an inviting looking mound, we spotted a group of men holding hands while whispering sweet nothings into one another’s ears. There was also a female couple – who, if truth be known, could easily have passed as men – caressing each other’s breasts, while grubbily licking each other like they were dogs. It’s fair to say, though, you would definitely rather French kiss a rhino then one of these individuals, both of whom were covered in hideous tattoos that stretched up their necks with a wide collection of body piercings. “Perhaps you should get a photo for your scrapbook?” I announced.

“You’re right,” Sam’s eyes lit up again, as if he had stumbled upon a great piece of art. And then, with the minimum of fuss, did his usual and strolled over to his targets before unleashing his flash on them. “Another great photo,” he smiled on his return.

The night was getting on but it was still dark, though there was now a hint of brightness, suggesting we were well into the early hours. In my mind, however, it already felt like I had been serving a long prison sentence. “When are we escaping this shithole? And how are we getting back?” I asked curiously.

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I’m guessing Simon will want to stay right to the end. No idea how we’re getting back…what about the mini bus?”

I had hoped for more incisive answers and became fearful we would be trapped in this jungle with hundreds of zombies while listening to the most monumentally tedious music anyone has ever heard, all of which made the idea of self-performing colonic irrigation seem like an attractive proposition.

Sam, though, had the calmness of a Buddhist Monk as he sat sipping his goon, “We’ll figure something out.” Was that it? That was his proposed solution to our impending dilemma? It never ceased to amaze me just how unfazed the Swedes would be at any given obstacle. It wasn’t just them. Every Swedish person I had ever met was the same. “Look a giant meteor is heading right for us?” you may hysterically yell.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be ok,” they would reply softly, having slowly brought themselves to look up from the newspaper their head was buried in, before returning to sip their freshly roasted coffee. And, of course, somehow they would be right.

While I was fearing being held captive in the jungle and forced against my will to dance naked around the fire, Sam was only thinking of his next sip of goon. I admired the calmness of the Swedes, even if sometimes you felt like they needed a rocket up their backsides.

We spotted Simon and Ben walking nearby and shouted them over. If anything, the Swede’s eyes were bigger than before. That combined with his devilish face paint, not to mention his penchant for throwing a pretend basketball, which he was still doing even though the dance floor was some distance away, all helped Simon to blend in naturally with the other folk at the rave. “You been having fun?” I asked teasingly. But the Swede was in a strange world of his own and continued to stare straight ahead at nothing in particular.

Ben was more forthcoming, “These people need shooting.”

While I empathised with Ben, the irony of his comment wasn’t lost on me or Sam, “Is shooting people you don’t like the German answer for everything?” Ben, as usual though, took it all in his stride and laughed it off. It was hardly a convincing rebuttal. But still, it was good to see a German with a sense of humour.

Daylight was straining to break through, making it a whole lot easier to see across the field. The place had emptied out a fair bit and now resembled a rubbish tip-come-field-orgy gathering. There was a variety of desperate drunkards engaged in saliva exchanging with random people they had only just laid eyes on, clearly determined to go home with a little something and shrug off their feelings of worthlessness having not being desired until people were too drunk to care what they looked like.

While traipsing through a particularly strong whiff of Bob Marley’s favourite pastime, a bare-chested man walking nearby decided to helpfully point us in the direction of some entertainment not to be missed. “If you want a laugh then head to that hut over there,” he sniggered while stabbing his finger. “Follow the path a bit, you can’t miss it.” Without any hesitation we jumped up and headed over to the location, keen to provide some relief from the growing boredom. We stood still in silence behind some bushes like soldiers ready to ambush the enemy.

Just when we were beginning to think we had been the victims of a practical joke we finally caught sight of the shocking occurrence.

“That’s what we call a sandwich in Germany,” Ben, grinning from cheek to cheek, said admiringly. Simon, unsure if he was hallucinating, finally realised exactly what was happening. “I’ve seen it all now,” he mumbled with a shake of the head.

“Yep she’s getting fed from both sides,” I replied matter-of-factly, as if narrating on a wildlife show involving three participants, two male and one female, who in her varied role was also sucking feverishly on one of the fellow’s midrange like you would on a quickly melting ice pop on a hot day. One of the men, it transpired, looked suspiciously like Rick, the crazy Dutchman.

“Picture time,” Sam announced with Machiavellian relish, before moving in to get a better view of the action and add to his photography portfolio to show his family back home.

Sam was joined by Ben, with both soon snapping away like seasoned professionals, alternating their vantage points, while occasionally bending down on one knee to ensure the best possible snaps. “Is that Rick?” I muttered to Simon, who was hanging some way back with me.

Then, without any warning, Simon shouted, “Snake”, causing the threesome to momentarily glance over, causing us to dive for cover. “What are you doing?” I screeched, worried our cover would be blown, for want of a better word.

“I thought I’d see if it was Rick,” Simon replied.

“Fuck off,” a Dutch sounding voice came roaring back.

“It is Rick,” I laughed.

“Hey Rick, how you doing, it’s me Steve,” I waved.

“Oh hello mate, I didn’t realise,” he came back after momentarily pausing to look up.

“You look like you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Yesh it’s been a busy night,” he smiled.

“It sure looks that way,” I muttered before adding, “You about tomorrow?”

“Yesh, maybe I’ll be able to come over to Arts Factory,” he said before waving and continuing his roasting session without further ado.

Desperately looking around for the mini bus, the depressing news soon spread that the last collection had already come and gone. I looked at Sam mockingly, “So how are we getting back now?” He smiled with a hint of embarrassment. And rightly so.

“I knew it,” I said, feeling vindicated, while at the same time monumentally pissed off at our predicament. There were no taxis we could see and no other discernible mode of transport other than walking. So, reluctantly, off we went on a journey into the wilderness.

Having walked for about 15 minutes and feeling in need of a good long sleep our mood was helped when we discovered a half full goon bag. We passed round the disgusting wine as continued along our tortuous journey on the road to nowhere.

But then, out of nowhere, some crazy bearded man started beeping his horn as he approached us in his 1970s style campervan, before enthusiastically winding down his window prompting a giant cloud of marijuana smoke to pour out. “Hey mate,” he said nodding his head at Simon, having taken a giant puff and blowing it casually out of his mouth, infecting the rest of us with the disgusting smell that was becoming way too familiar to my nostrils for my liking.

After an awkwardly long pause, Simon finally acknowledged him. “Oh hey man.” It appeared these two knew each other.

“That was good shit earlier huh?” the odd male continued, as he sucked in enough smoke to kill a small rainforest.

“Yeah man, the stuff was gooood.”

The rest of us looked quizzically at each other pondering what had happened earlier, or specifically what substance Simon had agreed to taking. But with our need to get home more pressing than to find out the sordid recreational details of the evening, not to mention the obvious likelihood that it wouldn’t even occur to Simon in his warped state to ask his acquaintance for a lift, Sam grabbed the opportunity, “Mind if we grab a lift?”

“Of course guys, it would be epic to have you in the love wagon – “

“- The love wagon?” I muttered, with a discernible trace of anxiety in my voice, concerned at what this strange but agreeable fool had in mind for us.

“If he tries anything we will slit his throat,” Sam hissed, before breaking out into a smirk and then back to a serious face. I nodded, unsure if he was being serious or not, and then climbed cautiously aboard the love wagon.

And off we went, like a group of ignorant school children not having a clue where they were heading, but just glad to be onboard and heading somewhere. Sam looked over and gave me a smug grin. “Told you we’d sort something out.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You bastard.” But, I have to admit, I have rarely been happier to be wrong. Yet again that casual mystic Swedish belief that somehow the elements, through god or whatever, would rescue us had come through just when we were ready to throw the towel in.

Or so we thought, because for the next hour and a half we ended up driving around getting our lungs polluted by a never ending supply of marijuana smoke, when really it should have been for no more than 20 minutes. Our driver, whom apparently had been living in the area for over a year, certainly enough time to know his way around, you would have thought, had got so lost that he didn’t know his arse from his elbow. “It’s definitely got to be down this road,” he proclaimed confidently for the umpteenth time.

“I’m sure they all look the same after you’ve smoked so much,” I muttered condescendingly under my breath.

To speed things along we ended up trying to direct him, as his memory now made fish look like they had the aptitude of Einstein. “I think we need to do a left down this road,” he asserted, taking another drag.

“Umm no mate, it’s got to be right here…we’ve already been down that road three times.” Even I, of all people, had become so concerned about our welfare that I felt obliged to take an active role in getting us back.

The man looked genuinely gobsmacked, “Have we?”

“Yes – three times.” I scowled at the back of his head.

“Easy mistake to make.”

“If you’re a retard.” Sadly, I don’t think he heard me.

Then, after driving past the same set of bushes and buildings a further three times we eventually arrived on the main road. From there, under our careful stewardship, we managed to guide the buffoon to the Arts Factory where we dropped Ben off before heading onto our hostel, where we quickly jumped out of the Love Wagon. As our driver rolled away with a chimney of smoke pouring out of the window I prayed I would never see him again. After wearily climbing the stairs I managed to make it into bed by the sprightly hour of 8am.

As you would expect, the following day was a total wash out, particularly as I finally arose by 6pm - with it beginning to get dark. It was to be my final evening in Byron Bay as I was heading back to Sydney the next day with the Swedes on the Greyhound coach. Having summoned all my power, I pulled myself out of bed and into the shower before gingerly wandering downstairs to find everyone else. Despite my best efforts I still had half my face etched in paint from the previous night. Though, such was my mood I couldn’t have cared less. “Heavy night was it?” the lady receptionist joked, nodding at my face.

“No, I’ve got scabies – it’s very contagious,” I said with a straight face before waltzing off.

I found the Swedes and Ben in the television room, staring at the screen like zombies not saying a word. I got the impression that they, like me, were still feeling the affects of the rave and wouldn’t be going out tonight. I managed to pierce the depressing silence and rouse enough energy to convince Simon and Ben to cook us a snack from the kitchen’s free food section, while Sam and I popped down to the wine shop where we bought stacks of dark chocolate and red wine, allowing us to unwind on our last evening in the surf town by engaging in this sophisticated Swedish past time.

Feeling better after our cheese and ham toasty, we reviewed the previous night’s antics and flicked through the pictures while sipping the rich red wine and chocolate. “You must put this on the internet,” Ben pleaded with Sam, eyes lighting up at the adult picture and video themes.

“No worries, I will make sure this is the first thing I do after we get to Sydney,” he replied studiously, as he admired his work once more.

Simon, who had also been unable to remove yesterday’s face paint, couldn’t remember much of the night, nor the pornographic train scene we had stumbled upon as we attempted to leave. “You remember bending over and putting your hairy bum in that girl’s face who was sitting down on her own?” I enquired, referring to one of his more memorable acts of the night.

Unsurprisingly he looked blank and just ever so slightly ashamed of himself. “I’m never doing any of that stuff ever again,” he said shaking his head in disbelief. “I will not take stuff that people force on me ever again.”

The Swede was trying to pull off a familiar trick of blame deferral for the night’s excesses and although he had seemingly convinced himself that others were to blame for the concoctions he had absorbed, the rest of us were sure it wouldn’t be long before we saw him throwing an imaginary basketball into a hoop once again. “Well at least you didn’t piss and puke on yourself this time and nearly die,” Sam quipped, as we fondly reminisced another tale at Simon’s expense before heading for bed.

The following morning we checked out on time before the 10am watershed – therefore saving ourselves the $10 fee that hostels like to pinch off you as a thoughtful departing gift – and dumped our belongings in the storage space while we went outside to get some food and fresh air.

On returning to the hostel we killed some time by watching television and playing table tennis before it was time to make our way to the coach stop. We said our goodbyes, or in some cases good riddance. I waved enthusiastically to Jane and wished her the luck of the Irish in finding a man closer to her age. “You won’t need to hide him away then if it embarrasses you will you,” I said helpfully.

Then there was Julie, who was heading back north to Surfers Paradise, though presumably to surf on various male anatomies as opposed to the ocean. “Have fun up there – I’m sure you will,” I smiled mischievously, as we spoke to each other for undoubtedly the last time in our lives. “Good luck with everything…and make sure you use a rubber from now on, especially with you being number 125 with Mark’s mate.” She took it all in the right spirit and smiled, followed by some inaudible noise that left me stumped for the final time. We had lost Mark and now we had lost Julie, another original member of the road trip crew. Not that we had ever really noticed having her on board with us.

But, nonetheless, at least she had provided us with some entertainment thanks to her grubby antics as the trip unfolded, while also helping to reduce our petrol, food and caravan costs. I wouldn’t miss straining my ears while trying to figure out what the hell she was on about, though.

Like mountaineers, we made our way with great difficulty clutching our backpacks and assorted bags and waited for the coach in the pouring rain, seemingly with half the population of Australia’s travelling fraternity. After breathing in enough smoke from nearby cigarettes to qualify as a chimney, and having been shoved in the back by too many towering backpacks to remember, we climbed on board the coach. Our hope that the Swedes and I – Ben was on a separate coach – could sit together quickly evaporated as we climbed up the steep steps and onto the packed vehicle. At least we were able to sit in close proximity to one another, though.

As I made my way down the sweaty carriage I was left with two vacant seats to choose from. The options weren’t great so I took the plunge and went for the spare seat next to a middle aged man, who although appearing slightly odd, at least wasn’t involved in a heated conversation with himself. “That’s a bloody clever method to scare people off from sitting next to you. Might have to use that one in the future,” I thought admiringly, as the angry man’s aggression suddenly went up a notch when beginning to have a go at someone or something, though it wasn’t obviously apparent which. Despite his menacing behaviour the seat was finally, and somewhat reluctantly, taken up by a geekish looking young man with glasses, who had made the fatal mistake of being last on board, and was now paying the price.

Shoehorned into my seat with my bag below my feet, taking up even more of the non-existent leg room, I attempted to get as comfy as possible before the 13 hour drive to Sydney began. I alternated between attempting to read the newspaper and shutting my eyes as I tried to block out the torturous journey I had been forced to embark on. “I hope Mark had a shit Christmas,” I thought, as I sought to blame him for the uncomfortable predicament I was now in, having left us early to get back to Sydney.

As we bounced along the bumpy road my foot accidentally rubbed against the weird man’s leg next to me as we went round a bend, not once but twice. I looked down and noticed the peculiar male had made himself right at home by casually slipping off his shoes and leaving himself luxuriating with his bare feet out on display, with no thought for anyone else who may have an aversion to strange people’s toes rubbing against them. We made awkward eye contact a few times, as I attempted telepathically to urge him to do the right thing by withdrawing his vile bare feet away from mine and not look at me. “Put your fucking shoes on and stop rubbing my foot,” a voice inside my head said.

But then, to my surprise, and dismay, he took the plunge and started a conversation. “Bit bumpy around here,” the hippy looking Aussie said, peering through his beady glasses. I nodded politely and made some small acknowledgement of this groundbreaking statement. And before I knew it he was off chatting away to me on a variety of subjects, including the Monarchy and his Republican belief that Australia should now go it alone from the Queen, as well as touching on other topics like London, Sydney and the Australian weather.

While I suppose he was friendly enough, I couldn’t help but feel my skin crawl as he spoke. I prayed he wasn’t coming on to me as he stared deeply into my eyes. The alarm signals really started going off when he opened up about his spiritual beliefs, having mistaken me for someone that gave a shit. In truth, he was one of those strange people who just loved to be listened to and because he had a captive audience with me for the next 12 hours I was easy prey. “I love to walk around barefooted wherever possible so my feet can feel the earth beneath me. It helps to keep me grounded. I strongly suggest you should do the same,” he said softly, but with the undercurrent of someone who was liable to poison you in your sleep if you dared to disagree with him.

After realising that he wasn’t joking and with the uncomfortable reality now dawning on me that he was in fact a new age Pagan – though he did “believe in the inherent goodness of Hinduism” – I steadied myself before offering a measured response. “So you’re kind of a modern day Jesus Christ?”

He looked away philosophically. “I suppose I am, we all are in our own way.”

I couldn’t believe the bollocks the man was talking and, moreover, that we still had to navigate a good portion of Australia’s massive east coast together.

I managed to get the conversation off spiritualism and religion and soon enough we were discussing easier more appropriate discussions that you would normally expect to discuss with someone you’ve just met. Such as things both of you have in common. Inevitably, therefore, the topic soon switched to Australian soaps, before he made a bizarre revelation that one of his parents used to star in a popular show (whose name I will not mention just in case he was totally making it up).

After revealing the person’s identity, I looked into his eyes, wondering if he was in fact some kind of delusional Walter Mitty type character, which couldn’t be dismissed. After some deliberation I decided to go with it, after all, why would someone fabricate such a story?

I found the revelation all the more coincidental because while at school - and even, I must admit, into my adult years – myself and friends would often liken people with wrinkly necks to the character. This was simply because no one else on television had a neck with so many lines around their throat, thus giving the appearance of an old rotting apple. It, therefore, stood to reason that if you wanted to draw a comparison with someone who had an equally - or god forbid worse - wrinkly neck in your day-to-day-life then that character was the standout choice of reference.

As I went to share this fact with the man, something within restrained me right at the last second. I couldn’t be sure what, but I just felt that he wouldn’t quite see the same humour in it that we all did. Added to that, he seemed rather proud of his affiliation to it all, so I reasoned it may not have gone down too well to point out that my overriding memory of his parent’s character was not, in fact, the strength and wisdom in handling a minefield of issues over the years but was instead the crinkly neck skin that used to bring tears of laughter in the school playground.

After exhausting our soap chat I closed my eyes to signal that I would not be interacting anymore for the foreseeable future. After all, listening to someone else speak so much does become tiring, especially when it was from this odd individual.

A few hours later with darkness having descended we pulled into some derelict petrol station with an adjacent café and outside toilet. I ordered one of the worst sandwiches imaginable to go with an equally hideous coffee and had a catch up with the Swedes. “You won’t believe who I’m sitting next to?” I said excitedly before recounting my story.

Unfortunately the Swedes’ had no knowledge of Australian soaps and therefore didn’t have the faintest clue who I was talking about.

“That’s too bad,” Simon replied. “At least he doesn’t smell of shit, like the guy I’m sitting next to.”

“Well, at least you can sit on your chairs. The guy next to me is so fat he needs two seats to himself,” Sam added dejectedly.

“Still, only six hours until we get to Sydney,” I joked, attempting to put a brave face on the deep pain of our journey, which we were still only half way through.

With five minutes to spare I got back on the coach in preparation to move to another seat but was amazed to discover the man had already moved his stuff. While, of course, I was immensely happy to see the back of this self-loving barefooted hippy, I couldn’t help but feel indignant that I had been rejected by him, of all people, especially as I had politely listened to his endless array of dull stories and spiritual theories. I had even kept my shoes on, and now I was, in effect, being told I was not worthy of sitting next to this musky man dressed like a new age peasant.

“Maybe when you were sleeping you were snoring like a foghorn again,” Simon suggested, which I agreed was a plausible explanation. I certainly hoped I had afflicted some kind of nuisance in return for the ordeal I had been through.

In any event, I now had the window seat, which meant I had something to lean against and was delighted when his replacement sat down in the spare seat. It was a petit shy looking Chinese girl, which meant no bullshit conversation and more space for me.

Once again we were off, despite calls from the rear of the coach that someone was still in the café or toilet. In response the driver defiantly pointed to the clock – “I said I was leaving at 25 past and I bloody meant it” – and he then ruthlessly pulled away, leaving the unfortunate person marooned in the middle of the bush, presumably with his backpack still on the coach, now facing the unenviable task of trying to get through to the coach operators and convince them to give him a seat on the next bus in four hours, or whenever, if he was lucky. I shut my eyes and went back to sleep knowing that I would, once again, be in Sydney in a few short hours, having been away for what felt like an eternity.

CHAPTER 15 – SYDNEY REUNION

As our highly painful coach journey finally drew to a close as we pulled into the centre of Sydney, I was immediately struck by that comforting feeling you get when arriving in a place of familiarity and fond memories. Being back in the city brought a sense of chaotic order and reassurance, with it undeniably good to be back in the bustling centre after being on the road living in poverty for what felt like years.

Starving and aching all over from being stuck on one of the hardest and possibly smallest of chairs imaginable, the Swedes and I decided to give ourselves a rare treat and went for a cooked breakfast. Wandering about aimlessly, which is never good when carrying backpacks that weigh more than a piano, I opted for us to go to a little cafe I knew just around the corner from Central station. We scoffed down our fry-ups like starving cavemen before blissfully walking out without paying following a breakdown in communication between us on who was paying. “I thought you had it covered after I lent you that $6 in Surfers Paradise,” I insisted accusingly at my Swedish counterparts, who offered nothing but confused expressions by way of a response. “Oh well don’t beat yourselves up. These things happen.”

We scuttled over to the market in China Town where I splashed out on a pair of shorts for $5 that were identical to the ones Simon had reluctantly purchased in Brisbane – the only difference being that mine actually had two back pockets and cost $30 less. “They really do like to fuck you hard in the arse in this retarded country,” Simon complained bitterly.

Weighed down by our overbearing backpacks we struggled over a flurry of busy roads before making our way to the bus stop, which would take us to Bondi, where, all being well, I had a bed – or a bit of carpet, to be more accurate – that I had exclusively pre-booked to sleep on at a friend’s apartment. The Swedes, as ever, were relaxed about their fate in finding adequate accommodation. But if this was not possible due to everywhere being fully booked, or they were not happy with the festive premium rate, which was highly likely, the canny pair, as always, had a back up plan. “We will just stay in Mark’s car,” Sam declared, having once again come up with a viable solution to a potential problem.

Simon nodded enthusiastically, “I don’t care if I sleep in a bus shelter. If the price in a hostel is too high they I would rather sleep outside or in the car.”

Mark was also crashing at the same place as me so the Swedes had figured they would get the car key off him, or if he failed to agree to his car being used as a hotel they would merely just climb through the broken back window and open it from the inside like we had done countless of times when travelling down the coast.

Once in Bondi I made my way down the familiar ocean road to the apartment while the Swedes went off to look for somewhere to stay. I dumped my stuff at the flat after persuading a growling shaven headed man – who appeared to also be staying there – to let me through, explaining that I was another new lodger, or more accurately I was an old lodger who had now returned.

As I entered the lounge with its familiar aroma of stale marijuana and sweat it became clear that my friend had been deploying the apartment in the same way that illegal immigrants do; whereby as many as humanly possible were stuffed into a small place to maximise profits. All the bedrooms were taken and just about all the lounge floor space had been snapped up too, judging by all the sleeping bags everywhere. “A bus shelter doesn’t seem like too bad an option actually,” I thought, wondering what I had let myself in for.

I left the apartment-come-homeless-shelter and went to meet the Swedes on the world famous Bondi Beach. “Is this it? It’s a bit shit,” Sam observed pompously as we walked along the beachfront.

Simon was equally unimpressed,” You’ve been to one beach, you’ve been to them all.” I found it refreshing that they had taken such a view as I had come to a similar conclusion myself and wasn’t sure if it was merely the daily hangover that had clouded my judgment.

Sure Bondi was nice but it was nothing special as far as I was concerned. It had a false air of self importance to it, which didn’t seem wholly justified, especially when it boasted a McDonald’s and Hungry Jacks as its main hub of tourism by the beach. Perhaps this was part of its problem; it had become over commercialised and as a consequence attracted every chav, backpacker, celebrity, wannabe celebrity and person of self-proclaimed class, all mixing as one, while playing it cool in the “place to be”.

Having spent several weeks here after leaving the city I could safely say I hadn’t missed it one bit. And with just a few weeks before my visa expired I had the urge to go back into the city for one final hurrah. The Swedes, however, having regularly stated they hated cities, while not being particularly taken by Bondi, had forced themselves into a corner. “We could have stayed in the hostel by the beach but I would rather have my arse pounded by a large Finnish body builder than pay those prices, so we’ll stay in Mark’s car and see how that goes then maybe go to the city, just to see what it’s like, not because we enjoy being in cities,” Sam declared purposefully. I wasn’t totally sure how they expected living in a car to go but I sensed it wouldn’t be too long before all of us moved to the city.

In fairness, over the next few days the Swedes really stuck it out after kindly being granted permission to stay in the vehicle by Mark, who had briefly taken time out of his busy partying schedule to catch up with us all. Matters were complicated, however, when Ben arrived in Bondi the following day and, as expected, opted to forego an exorbitant hostel fee and instead join the Swedes in sleeping rough in the car – even though there was about as much room to fit an elephant into a Mini as there was for the bulky German in Stevo.

The following morning, after we had shared a night of drinking on the beach like tramps, I peered down from the small balcony in the apartment to where the car was parked on the street and spotted Simon in a sleeping bag curled up on the road’s adjoining grass verge. I also caught sight of a rather big leg sticking out of the nearside window, which I figured belonged to Ben. Sam must have been squashed up inside somewhere. The best thing about the chaos below was looking at the faces of well-to-do people as they walked past, wondering how their supposedly classy suburb had suddenly descended into a low rental district with undesirables sprawled out on the pavement like they were in Delhi. Others weren’t sure whether to call the police - or ambulance, for that matter - with it easy to mistake Simon for someone critically injured, as he lay there motionless with his mouth wide open.

Enjoying the scenes from the luxury above I was suddenly dragged into the mayhem when Ben awoke and shouted up. “Hey mate, is anyone up there?” he asked in a strangely courteous voice.

“No, why?” I replied.

“Alright if I come up for a quick shower? I haven’t had one for three days. I smell like a dog.”

“You smell worse than a dog,” I responded cuttingly.

I wouldn’t have hesitated in saying yes but the person who was renting the flat had insisted on - somewhat ironically given his penchant for inviting every Tom, Dick and Harry to stay - a no vagrants’ policy. In other words he didn’t want the Swedes or Ben in the mouldy place he was fleecing. Nonetheless, I felt for Ben sleeping in a boiling car with barely enough room to raise a leg, and so allowed him up.

Unfortunately, though, after Ben had strolled out of the shower, smelling of roses and looking unrecognisable from the Neanderthal he had resembled moments earlier, the suspicious male inhabitant of the flat opened the front door and knew instantly what had been going on. I had a feeling this revelation may get out. I came clean to the flat renter the next morning but in any event he had declared the festive period was over and that everyone now had to leave, as he wanted the place to himself and his family, as well as his vast quantity of gear no doubt.

So, with just a day before New Years Eve I was now homeless once more, which was not the predicament I had envisaged in the run-in to such a momentous day. With the Swedes and Ben deciding they’d had enough of sleeping in the car, or on the street, we jumped on a bus and headed for the city where we hoped to find a hostel. “You do know that most places were booked out months ago?” I told them, as we got off the bus.

“There’s always the park,” Simon countered with a straight face.

Sam offered another alternative, if it came down to the crunch. “We can just stay out drinking all night.” I could foresee a situation combining the two.

As the rain poured down we set off in no particular direction to find a place. I led the way, as in theory I had the best knowledge of the area. “There’s some really big dumps I know of which hopefully will have some last minute cancellations,” I mooted enthusiastically.

We went from place to place, only to be met with the familiar response, “Hey sorry guys but we’re fully booked.” Or in some cases we would stand in the reception area for about an hour behind no more than two people who apparently were being attended to, while the three members of staff went studiously about their work while never saying a word or being remotely interested in the large queue that was forming.

None more so was this applicable than in Sydney Backpackers, which is worthy of a special mention, with the customer service resembled that of a ghost service. To make matters worse some bolshie ginger northern English female, who for some unknown reason thought the rules of waiting in turn didn’t apply to her, then pushed to the front of the counter and grabbed one of the silent members of staff to resolve a problem concerning her room. By this point we had seen enough and angrily walked out. “It smells of shit in here,” Simon mused thoughtfully in a loud voice, as we vacated the quiet but small waiting area.

After spending four hours walking about getting rejected from every possible dive that Sydney had to offer we decided to change tact. Needing to rest our weary legs we went into the Wake Up Hostel. After the customary slap in the face of being told they had no space, we wisely opted to use their internet to ring every possible place we came across. Why we had decided to walk around a busy city lugging heavy backpacks and bags in the hope of finding somewhere when we could have found out by using a telephone remained an unspoken mystery.

Nonetheless, after getting nowhere for upwards of two hours there was a breakthrough after my approach to a place I had previously stayed in the city paid dividends. The kind Chinese lady had remembered who I was and, perhaps feeling sorry for me, said there was a spare bed in the eight-bed dorm I had had the misfortune of staying in before. But times were tough now, especially when hard uncomfortable hostel beds were in such demand in the city, so without further delay I bit her hand off in accepting. Meanwhile the Swedes had also struck gold after they contacted a friend who was working at one of the largest backpacker hostels in the city, oddly the place where my journey began nearly a year ago, who sorted them a four-bed dorm against all the odds.

Naturally I was delighted for them but hoped there was enough water under the bridge between the hostel and myself after our big misunderstanding, which had led to them confiscating my luggage, before I took it back and moved on to bigger and better things. Inevitably, I would be at the hostel a lot now the others were there and in a way I was relishing going back and reacquainting myself with a place that held such vivid memories of my early days in Australia. There were other pluses to the place too. “I look forward to coming over for the free drink and food they provide during the evenings,” I smiled to the Swedes. In the hostel world this makes it a very attractive commodity.

After checking in at my hostel I went over to meet Sam and Simon at my old stomping ground. As I strolled up there was the familiar sight of backpackers smoking like their lives depended on it, while talking loudly as they spilled out onto the pavement, causing normal pedestrians to cautiously sidestep them. With no choice but to inhale I then barged through the group and inside past the busy reception area, before going up the creaky stairs. It felt just like old times apart from now I, of all people, odd as it seemed, was the experienced backpacker who knew the ropes, rather than being a naïve, fresh off the boat tourist like when I landed nearly a year ago wondering what the hell I was doing in such a place.

Nothing had changed. Backpackers were still spread out in the social areas listening to music, reading, fiddling with their laptops and socialising either in broken English or rather more fluent English, depending on what part of the world they were from. You still could barely move in the heaving kitchen, and as ever there was a small group of deviants smoking outside by the emergency exit stairwell on the third level. It felt like I had been in a time warp, as I recalled my first memories of Sydney as if they were only yesterday.

I spotted Sam and Simon sat down at the back of the room and joined them just in time for dinner. “We made all this from the free food section,” Sam smirked.

Simon nodded, “Good value.”

As I sat down and helped myself to the surprisingly tasty pasta and tuna dish, Ben appeared from around the corner to reveal some good news. “They give me a job here starting tomorrow. I don’t pay rent I just work instead for my bed. This way I don’t spend money and hopefully in a few days they forget about me working anyway, but I still keep the bed.”

You couldn’t help but admire Ben’s resourcefulness and ability to survive on nothing. “So you are effectively a slave then?” I joked provocatively. “Call yourself German? You’re a disgrace to your country.”

Ben laughed, “Maybe but I will have free food and drink and a bed until I leave.”

“I think you would have sucked the manager’s cock if it meant getting a free bed,” Sam teased, motioning a phallic object going into his mouth.

Ben paused thoughtfully before hitting back, “I think you like being fucked in the arse by men.”

Sam shook his head, “You like it more.”

Once food was out the way we were the first to take full advantage of the free eight litre goon box the hostel had supplied for the evening’s entertainment, before then embarking on a pub crawl, which included free drink vouchers at a variety of places. “You can’t argue with the hostel’s generosity,” I said admiringly, as a member of staff brought out another eight litre goon box. Once that was finished off, and with many residents now adequately refreshed, it was time to hit the city.

I rejoiced at how welcome I was made to feel by the hostel, especially when each of us were handed drink vouchers before we followed our guide in a large and disorderly queue up the road and into the first pub. Upon reaching the bar I was immediately reminded of how the female staff were as needlessly bitchy and unhelpful as ever. But unfortunately for them they could not argue with our free drink tokens and so reluctantly poured out our liquor. I gave a beaming smile and raised my thumbs enthusiastically while sarcastically shouting, “Thank you” to acknowledge the spiteful woman’s bitter service, before walking off shaking my head, but nonetheless happy I had at least worsened her mood.

We spent the next hour drinking in the establishment – even forking out for a jug or two from our own pocket – before it was time to head to a backpacker venue nearby. It had been a while since I last stepped foot in the place and I was immediately reminded of just how seedy it was as I made my way across the sticky floor.

I would happily have never gone in this place ever again, especially with my indifference toward the door staff, which had prompted an undercover trip while working for the newspaper. But, with me now on the run-in before going back to England, I was in reflective mood as I thought back to the rare good times I had surprisingly enjoyed in this wreaking venue. Most of these, naturally, had centred around the Mine Sweeping antics with Fraser. For old times sake I went outside and grabbed a delightfully looking fresh beer at the top of the stairs before returning smugly down the stairs to the club. “Still got it. Fraser would have been proud of that one,” I thought.

The night passed without incident, which seemed odd, and after leaving the place I was encouraged by the others to join them for a drink back in the room. This turned out to be fairly pointless as within a cup of goon I had passed out on the floor, where I stayed until the morning and awoke confused with nothing more than a couple of shirts and socks as my cover.

To make matters worse it was the final day of the year – New Year’s Eve – and I was hanging out of my arse, as the expression goes. To make matters worse we had paid our ticket for the hostel event, where we would start off with a glass of sparkling wine at 11.30am before linking up with another place in Kings Cross, where we would drink some more for a few hours, which was to be followed by a coach journey to an idyllic grass area overlooking the harbour and bridge, where we would join a load of other people in getting smashed out of our heads.

With time against me I rushed back to my crap hostel and after a much needed lay down on my rock hard bed for a few hours, I forced myself up to have a shower and try and make myself as human as possible. Experience told me, however, that it would simply be a case of muddling through the impenetrable self-inflicted nausea and pounding headache until the all day drinking began to finally numb the tortuous pain in my body.

Once ready, following tremendous effort, I met back up with the Swedes and Ben, who looked in far better health than me. Simon was smiling naughtily with a cup of goon in his hand, explaining his chirpy demeanour. Knowing that drinking through the pain was my only chance of surviving the day, I hastily grabbed a plastic cup and pulled myself a cup of the urine tasting wine. I took my first sip, forcing myself to swallow, which caused a violent reaction in my body that instantly tried to propel the contents of my stomach out of my mouth. With a purple face and eyes watering like a river, I summoned all my power and miraculously managed to keep it inside before bracing myself for the next sip. I knew it could only get easier from here. “You look like you’re dying,” Ben laughed.

After knocking back our free glass of champagne we began the arduous 20-minute walk through the city to Kings Cross. Only the thought of getting some alcoholic supplies kept me going. Following painstakingly forcing our way through a heaving liquor store on Victoria Street we safely emerged with an array of goon and some boxes of beer as a special treat. After all it was New Year’s Eve.

We crammed through the tiny hostel to a roof decked outside area that was packed full of people drinking merrily in the sweltering heat. Needing space badly, I was about to go inside to the lounge when a beer was thrust into my hand. “There’s a giant fridge full of cold beers so we’re going to drink these instead. I’ve hidden our beers so we can take them with us later,” Sam winked like a naughty schoolboy.

“Great thinking,” I replied, as I downed half a can. “It always tastes better when it’s free.”

My outlook was beginning to improve as I slowly began to feel the benefits of the free beer and beverages. The entertainment of watching drunk people making fools of themselves only helped to lighten my mood further. One of whom, an English man with no hair and a face that looked like it had been slapped repeatedly at birth who had moments earlier been talking to us about his plans for the afternoon – “I’m gonna have to get my dick wet today lads,” he announced, pointing in the direction of a group of girls – was now leering in the centre of this female group.

After ascertaining which of the women was probably the easiest, he moved in for the kill like a predator. He began gently rubbing the girl’s buttocks, before somewhat presumptuously grabbing her hand and pulling it onto his genitalia – all with a ridiculous grin giving off the impression he was some kind of lothario. And all this right in the middle of a crowd, which may not have been the wisest strategy when adopting such an aggressive approach.

Needless to say things didn’t quite work out for him they way he had planned. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing you sick pervert?” shrieked the incensed female, before delivering a hearty slap across his face that left red marks like he had been on a barbeque. Then, in a scene like one from Eastenders at Christmas, everyone instantly stopped what they were doing and gave the man a look of disgust, prompting him to boldly put his hands up innocently to the side as if to question what the fuss was all about, before walking off alone in shame. “You disgusting wanker,” a friend of the girl spewed.

“Yeah fuck off you pecker,” another screamed.

Once Simon, Ben and I had just about calmed down from laughing we ducked inside to tell Sam, who had sadly missed the incident, and to refresh ourselves. But, to our surprise, as we opened the door to the television room we saw the Swede sprawled out on the sofa kissing a scantily dressed girl. We quietly pushed the door ajar some more, so they wouldn’t hear us, and with our better vantage point noticed the female’s hand was coincidentally placed down Sam’s trousers while slowly motioning up and down. “Look, she’s tossing him off,” I pointed, amused that such an event was taking place in the television room, where anyone could just wander into.

Simon shrugged his shoulders and shook his head disapprovingly before marching off, while Ben had a cheeky grin on his face. “Watch this,” he whispered and started videoing the fornicating pair, before somewhat deliberately letting the cat of the bag. “Thanks mate, great footage,” he said, causing the lusting pair to suddenly look round in embarrassment. As the startled female struggled to get her hand out of the Sam’s trousers, Ben lapped up the opportunity to grab a picture. “I hope your hand’s ok in there,” Ben laughed, as we left them to it.

Having drunk more than our fair share of the free beers, as well as our own supply, it was time to move onto the next destination. We made our way outside and struggled onto a packed coach that took us to the harbour where we ploughed through crowds of people camped on the grass before finally finding a decent spot. Although this was not the ideal place for claustrophobic sufferers, if you were of such a disposition then at least you had the vast openness of looking out across the water to the iconic Harbour Bridge, Opera House and city skyscrapers.

I had not seen the city from this position before and with the piercing blue sky as the backdrop to the inviting looking water it was definitely postcard standard. After all the never ending deliberations of where to go – with many people in the end forking out a small fortune to go to an overrated club or a packed rave on a sandy beach where you had to queue for hours to urinate or get a drink – I was now glad I had spent next to nothing on coming to this place, which had the feel of a festival to it (though the music level was reasonable enough to be able to talk), but was more relaxed and had far better views than looking out over a cow field, like you would do in England. And, of course, you didn’t need to wear Wellington boots and worry about the heavens pissing all over you, or for that matter have to degrade yourself and use those hideous portable toilets where vast piles of turd builds up on the seat like a mud mound.

We basked in the hot sun merrily drinking and chatting crap. It would have been unusual, though, if there wasn’t some kind of incident and it appeared that drinking all day in the sun had finally resulted in a casualty. We were told by a reliable source that an affable German (yes you heard correctly) in our party had got a bit carried away with an attractive female police officer. “He was harmlessly chatting away to her and then for no apparent reason, perhaps fancying his chances, reached over and squeezed one of her breasts,” the female witness told a stunned, yet delighted, group of us.

How I wished I had been there to see the mortified officer’s face as her nipple was suddenly yanked without her permission in broad daylight in front of hundreds of boozed up revellers. “As you might expect the policewoman didn’t take kindly to it and he very quickly got thrown out. But he was lucky he didn’t get arrested,” she added.

“Top marks for effort though,” Simon said dryly.

Sam, nodded forcefully. “He can always say that he squeezed a police woman’s tit on New Year’s Eve in Australia. Must make you proud to be German...”

“He did a good job but it would have been better if he put his hand further down,” Ben replied with a deadly straight face.

As day turned to dusk the place started to clear out. We were determined to stay until the bitter end to see in the New Year. Incredibly, though, the police began shepherding people out of the area by 10.30pm, which struck me as extremely odd with it clearly against the tradition of “seeing in the New Year.” In fact, it meant we wouldn’t be able to see it in properly at all, with us no doubt, instead, being forced to aimlessly wander the street trying to find the nearest tube station or attempting to flag down a rare taxi as the clock hit midnight.

It transpired that the vast majority of revellers had wisely left early enough in order to get back to one of the central vantage points where they could watch the fireworks, having been fully aware, unlike ourselves, that this gathering was due to close a whole hour-and-a-half before the clock struck 12. This had gone down with us about as well as it would if you were a female police officer who had just had her nipple squeezed by a cheeky, drunk, German backpacker.

“But I still have a full drink,” an outraged Ben shouted at ape sized male officers, who judging by their widening scowls were beginning to run out of patience.

The larger of the two policemen cocked his head in a menacing way, “It doesn’t matter mate, the place is closing so can you hurry up and leave?”

Ben shook his head in disgust and continued slurping his drink, much to the officers’ annoyance. We were given five minutes to finish up while they ushered out the other remaining few people.

But upon the officers’ return, much to their pain, we still had half our drinks left. “Right that’s it you need to finish up right now.” The Swedes and I took the last few sips but Ben was lagging behind and seemed determined to finish off his drink. “What is wrong with this country? You have a New Year’s Eve party which finishes an hour-and-a- half before midnight? That makes no sense.”

The copper looked ready to explode, “Right that’s enough.” And then went to grab the drink.

“No this is my drink. I pay good money for it,” Ben hit back as he turned away from the seething officer’s grasp, allowing him to steal a couple more much needed sips.

Things descended even further when two other members of the law arrived as backup seconds later. As they began manhandling Ben, the German showed respectable defiance using his bulky frame, “Get off me you fat wankers. This wouldn’t happen in Germany.” And after a struggle reminiscent of a rugby maul, Ben found himself firmly planted on the ground with his hands tied behind his back while having one of policeman’s knees painfully pushed into his back.

“Well you’re not in Germany now,” one sneering officer retorted and pushed his knee into Ben’s back a bit deeper.

The handcuffs were duly put on before he was humiliatingly hauled up and unceremoniously dumped in the back of a police van, despite our vigorous protests that such action was wholly unnecessary and, moreover, against his human rights. “Unless you want to join him then I suggest you shut up,” we were told in no uncertain terms.

I turned to the Swedes and put my hand over my mouth and whispered, “Don’t worry, he was probably bullied at school-”

“-What was that?” the sharp hearing policeman scoffed menacingly, sensing the derogatory comment had been aimed at him, which of course it had, though in my defence it was not mean to be personal and was merely an observation based on years of experience.

I looked up blankly in his direction, “What? Oh nothing.” And to avoid any further difficulties with the thin blue line we quickly marched off as the van door was slammed shut.

“I guess we’ll see Ben tomorrow sometime then,” Sam joked.

“What a way to see in the New Year – in a police cell,” smiled Simon.

I couldn’t have agreed more. “It’s one he won’t forget. Just like the lad who pinched the officer’s nipple earlier. The police here don’t seem to gel with the Germans.” It was good that, despite trying circumstances, we were at least able to keep our spirits up as Ben was led away like a caged animal.

Just as we feared, we couldn’t get a taxi and spent the next two hours agonisingly traipsing about in confusion as we became thoroughly lost. The New Year arrived in all its glorious splendour with the dark sky being lit up by a sea of mesmerising patterns from the fireworks. The flamboyant scenes, though, were contrasted by our predicament as Sam and I waited on a quiet suburban street corner for Simon to finish watering a nearby bush with his bladder. It wasn’t quite the way I had envisaged seeing in the New Year in the city world famous for its firework celebrations. After pausing for a couple of moments we shrugged our shoulders and continued our lengthy walk back to the city centre feeling weary and wishing for nothing more than our crap hard beds. Far from the first time in my life, New Year’s Eve had failed to deliver.

This was especially true for poor old Ben, who finally appeared on New Year’s Day afternoon looking worse for wear having spent the night in a cell. It’s fair to say he wasn’t impressed with the heavy-handed treatment he had received. “They threw me in a cell and just left me there,” he shook his head ragingly, as he recounted the painful night he had endured on a hard padded bed that made sleeping on a rock seem enticing judging from his ordeal. “I don’t have to go court or pay a fine but I don’t deserve to be treated like a dog. I wish I could shit in all their faces.”

“Maybe they thought you were a Nazi?” Sam teased.

“They did tell you to finish your drink about ten times,” I added.

But Ben wasn’t having it. “They could have waited a few extra minutes. They weren’t going anywhere. I think they were bored and just wanted something to do.” Maybe he had a point, but in any event, perhaps he will drink more quickly next time.

CHAPTER 16 – THE FINAL HURRAH

Having unusually, but wisely, taken it easy over the following days I was chomping at the bit to go and watch the much hyped Ashes series between England and Australia at the Sydney Cricket Ground (SCG). Pat, my Aussie mate, had won an online competition and got us some quality seats. As we rolled into the ground it felt more like we were at a convention of English football teams in the UK than Australia, as we were met by a scores of English football shirts, with the incumbents merrily refreshing themselves with beers in the boiling sun before play was ready to begin at 11am.

Undoubtedly, drinking alcohol has to be the best thing about watching a five-day test match of cricket, as apart from allowing you to find great amusement in ordinarily dull things - excluding the millisecond where play is actually taking place once the ball is bowled, of course - it also provides a legitimate excuse to get plastered all day, under the pretence that you are watching the game.

We took our seats in the top tier of the stadium and settled down to watch the Aussies bowling to England - all from a good few hundred metres away, which was not ideal when you wanted to see the ball. But having been gifted such a fortunate seat I didn’t complain and squinted as hard as I could, and on occasions could even make out the round rock hard red ball. In any case, I was honoured to be at such a prestigious match – the biggest in cricket – even if it was all for some old burnt ashes the size of a finger from more than 130 years ago.

Entering the spirit of the occasion we hastily got some mid morning beers – two each to save us the torture of going to the heaving bar more than we needed too. I settled down to enjoy the morning’s play, interspersed with reading the newspaper and talking cricket with Pat, as well as some of the friendly people located around us, all of whom happened to be Australians. Naturally there was a bit of banter, but all good fun.

Matters took a turn for the worse, though, when five of the empty seats next to us – next to Pat to be precise – suddenly filled up with a bunch of heavily intoxicated, baseball-wearing young Aussies, who for reasons best known to themselves were shouting to each other when talking would have sufficed and whom, judging from the smell, had a deep dislike of soap and water. This was not just a bit of sweat, this was stale Class A body odour that made the smell of a rotting rat seem pleasant.

Suddenly the whole experience of watching England smashing the Aussies, while conveniently placed in the middle of a load of them (allowing me to modestly gloat, naturally – “Oh look, there goes another six…”), had taken a turn for the worse. Everyone looked at the gross youngsters with a mixture of disgust and hatred, but none more so than Pat, initially at least. “They smell worse than my dad’s arse,” he said with a pained expression that made me fear he could be violently sick at any moment. I reminded him that should he need to projectile vomit then it would be better for all concerned for him to turn to his left and do it over the spotty pube-heads he had the misfortune of sitting next to. “Steve mate, don’t worry, nothing would give me more pleasure.”

As time went on and the pests became drunker they inevitably became more abusive, hurling insults about some of the English players and making claims about their after-match shower habits of bending over a lot when in the company of teammates. They then went on to mock the fact that England hadn’t won on Australian soil since 1987, which pretty much summed up their intellect, as this record was on the cusp of being smashed with England leading 2-1 in the series and already dominating this last test match.

The drunken oafs were more annoying than threatening and dare I say would have been relatively entertaining, in a way where you could laugh at them, had we not had to sit next to them and smell their unmistakable array of shit. Suddenly, the main protagonist from the gang stood up and vigorously rubbed his genitalia as England lost a wicket, “Suck on this,” he shouted gleefully before spluttering some more bile incoherently, as alcohol continued to dim an already slow mind. Then, he turned indiscriminately to the rows behind and asked, “Any Pommies sat here?” Everyone ignored him or just smiled it off. But he wouldn’t be deterred and asked the question several more times. One of the men behind us then teasingly pointed in our direction, prompting the pest to approach us. Pat shook it off, “No…I’m Aussie.”

A few moments later, seemingly having forgotten that he had just asked Pat, he lent towards him again, “You a Pommie?”

“No,” came the terse reply - that was clearly of an Australian accent.

By this point I’d had enough, as had everyone else in the nearby vicinity judging from their demeanours. “There’s a strong smell of shit round here,” I projected scathingly while casting daggers in the obnoxious male’s direction. He looked slightly confused and by the time he had realised that I was a Pommie it was already too late as I steamrollered him in front of all the nearby onlookers. “Have you heard of soap and water? It’s just that you smell of crap, as well as looking like it…”

His riposte was limp and pathetic, just like him, “Why don’t you fuck off mate?”

I smiled broadly, after all, was that the best he could do? “Why don’t you fuck off you stinking weasel and do everyone a favour and go wash your cock.”

And then, as if by magic, a couple of stewards turned up to see what the fuss was about. “As you can see,” I began, pointing at the worse for wear Australian, “he’s had too much to drink and has been a total dick ever since he sat down here. Plus, he stinks worse than cow shit.” I then slowly wafted my hand below my nose in disgust, to reinforce the point.

“Fuck off you Pommie cunt,” the incensed buffoon slurred in his defence, and then embarrassingly fell off balance before belatedly trying to steady himself against his chair.

“Right you’ve had enough mate, you’re coming with us…it’s time to go,” the senior steward announced to our great delight. And off he went, with his mates also being advised to leave. “All’s well that ends well,” I smirked victoriously.

“What a bogan, so glad to see the back of that prick,” Pat added, rubbing his face with relief.

“Yeah,” I nodded, “he sure was a little pecker.” It had been a good day all round in the end with England totally dominant in the cricket and with us having seen off the grubby pest.

The following day we returned to the match. But this time we were in the economy stand, beneath a giant concrete slab that was the underside of the upper tier section that made visibility about as clear as being in a snowstorm. These were the cheapest tickets available and it’s fair to say the view fully reflected that.

While we were just about able to see the far side of the oval pitch, it was impossible – far more than the previous day - to spot the ball, as we were at ground level adjacent to the crease. All you would see was a man run in and bowl and then, if on the rare occasions the ball was hit, see the batsman take a swing, followed by a delayed noise of bat against ball before the batsmen scrambled down the wicket for runs. That was as good as it got. There were many other scenarios in which it was even worse, such as when the ball was more than ten feet in the air, which was not uncommon. In such instances we may as well have been wearing eye patches because it would have defied the laws of physics for us to see through the giant stand that overhung us like a giant baseball cap.

To add to the ridiculousness of it all, Simon had decided to take up one of the spare tickets I had left over. As a Swede he naturally had no clue about the game of cricket and after we had sat down I warned him that even after a day’s play he would still probably be none the wiser. It was only when trying to explain the game to novices that you realised just how odd it actually is. “So why are both teams wearing white? Normally in other sports they wear different strips so you know who’s who,” Simon began quizzically.

Pat and I smiled at each other knowingly before I painfully attempted to explain a few basics. “It’s just tradition and you know who the opposition is because one team fields and the other team bats.”

Simon pondered thoughtfully before continuing his dissection. “If they want to score as many runs as possible then why do they always leave the ball? And if the bowler wants to get them out then why does he never bowl it at the wood sticks?”

By now the people in the seats around us were looking over and sniggering at the staggering naivety of the Swede, much like adults do to a small child when they ask about the birds and the bees. I took in a deep breath and braced myself as I attempted to clear matters up. “It really is very simple,” I continued patiently. “England is batting now so that means we try and get as many runs as possible before the Aussies take ten wickets -”

“- Why ten wickets when there’s 11 players?”

“Because you have to have two men at the crease –“

“- What’s the crease?”

“You know…the wicket…where the batsman are…the bit where there’s no grass.”

I gathered myself before continuing. “So after we’re all out the Aussies go in to bat and try and can get more runs than us. Then when we’ve got to get them out before we can go back in and try and get as many runs as possible before they get us all out again – unless, of course, we declare with some wickets remaining because we’ve built up a good lead and are worried we may run out of time -”

“- But I thought you said the match lasts up to five days?

“Yes that’s right, so?”

“So how the fuck can you not have enough time?”

It was a fair point and one where, to the novice, at least, there were no easy answers. “Just trust me.”

I looked at Simon who looked lost in a world of confusion. But perhaps in fear of looking stupid was putting a brave face on it. “The Aussies then go back in and try and chase down our target – which they won’t get as we’re spanking them. But say they did, then they would win. However, even if they don’t reach our total but we don’t get all their wickets then the game is a draw. It’s as simple as that. You see?”

Simon scratched his head, “So how do you get people out?”

“Well,” I continued enthusiastically, after taking a huge gulp of beer. “Firstly, you get them out by hitting the stumps, you know those three sticks, and knocking off the small pieces of wood on top of the sticks, which are called the bails. Secondly, if the ball is hit in the air and someone catches it then they are out, which is probably the most common method of dismissal.” He seemed to be following my explanation so far, albeit with a slightly tortured look on his face.

I then revealed the third and perhaps most controversial way – if you’re a cricket fan, which Simon was not - to remove someone. “The final way to take a wicket is by something called lbw, which stands for leg-before-wicket.” Simon looked at me like I was insane, or at the very least some kind of English eccentric. “This is basically where the ball is going to hit the stumps but it hits the batsman’s pad instead yeah? However, this can only be out if the ball bounces in line with the stumps – unless it pitches outside off stump of course.”

The Swede rubbed his face and squinted his eyes as he attempted to keep up. “Whether he’s given out or not also depends on if the batsman is deemed to be playing a shot – if he is then he’s more likely to get away with it, as he’s not being negative by just trying to block the ball hitting the stumps. Also, if the batsman takes a good step down the crease then it’s harder for the umpire to give it out as he can’t be sure if it was going to hit. Though, in saying that, they have introduced TV replays now to show if it was going to strike the wickets. But this can only be used twice in an innings under the review system and isn’t always conclusive anyway, in which case the original decision of the umpire stands, you get it?”

Simon’s pained expression had multiplied and he now looked a pale imitation of his former self. There was even a hint of anger as he tried to come to terms with a variety of the game’s idiosyncrasies, before seemingly thinking better of it. “So who actually plays this game apart from you and Australia?”

“Well there’s the West Indies, Pakistan, India, New Zealand, South Africa….”

Simon had heard enough to see where this was going. “Oh I see…all the countries in the Great British empire. So you take over these poor countries and then make them play the shittest, longest game known to man as well. Fuck your Queen and fuck your country.” He shook his head sorrowfully, a beaten man.

Pat looked bemused by the conversation, “Well you didn’t expect a Swede to get the game did you?” He had a point.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking, talking, reading the newspaper, wandering around the stadium, going to the bar, going to the toilet and occasionally looking up and trying to see what was happening in the cricket. Although we didn’t have a clue, fortunately some people around us were kitted up with radio earpieces so we would just ask them whenever we needed to find out. Naturally, we couldn’t see the scoreboard and giant screen from our crap vantage point.

After a riveting eight hours of live cricket we left the SCG and made our way out through the carnage of people. This was followed by a quick beer in the city before Pat departed on a bus. “Glad I’m not going tomorrow to the game, we’ve been rogered good and proper today.”

With it being as much as you could eat $2.95 buffet night at Maloney’s – providing you had the discount voucher, which fortunately we had several hundred of – there was only ever going to be one place we were eating that night. We met Sam and Ben there and caught up on our day’s activities. “So you have fun at the cricket?” Sam asked Simon.

The Swede paused thoughtfully before delivering his response, “It was an experience. I drank a lot of beer, read the paper and saw a lot of fat men drinking but I didn’t see a single ball.”

Sam smiled. “So you going again tomorrow?”

“No.”

As hard as I tried to make Simon realise the historic nature of the match – with it England’s first victory over Australia on their own soil since 1987 – it didn’t seem to make any difference. “You’ve just witnessed history,” I announced enthusiastically.

“I’m sure I have,” Simon shrugged carelessly.

Sam and Ben were also unwilling to share in my unbridled joy as we closed in on a famous victory. “This game sucks arse,” Ben scoffed.

“Well it’s better than your national pastime of starting world wars,” I winked.

Ben smiled. “What about all the places your country has taken over?”

“Yes but they liked having us there,” I replied.

The following day I met Andy to go and watch the conclusion of the cricket, after all, tickets were free as play wasn’t expected to last for more than an hour or so on this final momentous day when we finally won the Ashes on Australian soil after so many years of hurt. I was in a fatigued state after some heavy all day drinking over the past few days and really just needed to be in a quiet room somewhere on my own. Instead I found myself jammed into the centre of a packed, rowdy corner of the stadium that was adjacent to the “Barmy Army” – a collection of raucous faithful England fans, including a now iconic trumpeter, who follow the team all round the world and get completely pissed wherever they go.

Mocking the Aussies at every opportunity - particularly the few hardcore fans who bravely turned up at the stadium to see their humiliating defeat - certainly helped my mood as they chanted a number of catchy anthems, including my personal favourite: “God Save ‘Your’ Queen”, in jest to our Antipodean colonial cousins. Rain had delayed the start of the day, which meant the bars were even more packed than normal by 10.30am.

And by the time the players came out on the pitch at midday we were already on our fifth beer and with the burning sun now fully out – and with us having no shelter above our heads - we were forced to speed our drinking up to prevent the beer boiling. “There’s nothing like being pissed by late morning in the oven heat,” Andy joked, as he fought hard to minimise the painful burning he was already suffering from.

After some surprising Australian defiance for an hour or so we finally wrapped up the watershed victory, sparking further gloating celebrations and beer swelling. It had been a long time since our last win on these shores having been battered and ridiculed for a generation but now it was our time to rub their faces in the dirt, with the Motherland back on top after this thumping victory. I managed to sneak a couple of memorable photographs as I left the stadium, including one where my foot was positioned victoriously on the laid down body of a hapless and rather drunk Australian who had a kangaroo flag wrapped around.

After catching a bus into the city Andy and I pitched up on a table in Maloney’s and took it in turns to buy rounds of jugs for the rest of the afternoon while wallowing in our famous victory before sensibly heading back to our respective pits to freshen up prior to going out.

I met up with the Swedes and Ben back at the hostel and despite their insistence on staying in and taking things easy, Sam and Simon’s attitude quickly changed when a six litre box of goon was plonked on the table by hostel staff for the quiz night. Having drunk successively for the last forty or so days it was unimaginable for them to not partake in the free inebriation that had been thrust in their face. It was, sadly, a different matter for Ben, who had to work and miss out on all the fun. “They work you like a dog here,” Sam mocked. “It must feel weird for a German being treated like a slave. Revenge perhaps.”

Ben shrugged, “I don’t care, it’s better than being like a tramp on the street,” which was his alternative plan of action if he couldn’t stay in a hostel.

We said our goodbyes to Ben for the evening and wandered down to the pub. As we sat down with two large jugs, I got a phone call out of the blue from Joe, having not seen him since before I left to go travelling down the coast. “I’ll meet you there in 20 minutes mate alright,” he announced sharply and hung up the phone.

You never knew with Joe if he would turn up. But on this occasion he did bang on time while looking like he had swallowed a bag of amphetamine such was his brisk and sketchy demeanour, talking at the speed of a horse racing commentator and moving about like a startled rodent who was under siege. “Has he escaped the asylum?” Simon joked when Joe went to the bar. I confessed that my friend could be described as eccentric at the best of times, before he stormed back over to our table with a tray of double vodkas and coke – all for himself.

“Good to see you mate,” Joe said, smashing my shoulder with delight. “I’m fucked mate, just come from Kings Cross.” He smiled. I knew what that meant. “Yeah had to let off some steam you know? Spunked my load twice on this dirty blond’s face. Feel better for it now though.” The Swedes, in their polite way, sat there open mouthed as they were forced to endure an explosion of graphic narrative that flowed endlessly out of the Londoner’s mouth, before he changed topic. “Yeah been busy mate, working hard,” he smiled and then showed me the inner contents of a small plastic bag, that was empty but for a few white smears.

“It’s not your spunk is it?” I replied, fearing the worst.

“No mate, this stuff gives you a pick-me-up. You want some?” He winked naughtily.

I looked at him as he downed another vodka and coke and jumped up, as if he had been electrocuted, and marched to the bar to get another round of drinks. I thought better of his offer, although it was very thoughtful of him.

“Is he racing against something?” Sam laughed. “He’s a gangster right? Well he’s entertaining for sure.”

After another quick fire round for Joe we made our way to the club, the renowned Chinese Laundry. We met Andy and his two female friends outside before entering the venue. Despite releasing some steam earlier in Kings Cross Joe appeared to be looking for his next fix and was doing a good impersonation of a shadow on one of the girls, refusing to let her get more than an inch away from him at any one time, much to her beleaguered amusement. “What the fuck is he on?” Andy snorted, expressing a mixture of curiosity and exasperation, before Joe came back with drinks for himself and his target.

Then, true to form, he brashly pulled a wedge of notes out of his wallet, showcasing them in front of her for no particular reason, other than that she presumably might be immensely impressed that he has the ability to store wads of cash in his wallet. “Maybe he hopes he can turn her into a prostitute for the night,” Sam winked, which wasn’t a bad assessment of his intentions. But unfortunately for hapless Joe he hadn’t picked up on the signals that she wasn’t interested. In fact she was doing her very best to avoid him whenever he came near her, repeatedly turning away laughing or shaking her head in utter disbelief at his antics.

I went to the toilet and by the time I returned Joe was nowhere to be seen. I sensed matters had taken a turn for the worse, which was duly confirmed. “That guy’s off his head,” the girl laughed. “He said I could come and work for him as his personal assistant and that he would take me to the Caribbean when he went there on business.” It was shocking stuff to Andy and his two friends but not to me. I had known Joe a good while by now and was aware of his penchant, especially when inebriated - or otherwise – to offer strangers he had just laid eyes on the chance to join his business empire in a variety of supporting roles.

The fact he didn’t own or run a business and was not remotely even close to doing so was not important, at least not when he was in this kind of state, acting out his own inner Tony Montana again, where the world and everything in it was his oyster. I tried to explain this to the others in a vain attempt to rationalise his peculiar behaviour. “So he would have expected you to weight on him hand and foot and give him sex on tap whenever he felt like it after sniffing a mountain of white powder,” I told the girl.

“I don’t fucking think so,” she snorted.

In amongst all the chaos with Joe I had lost the Swedes, who I reasoned had delved into the manic dance area after becoming visibly mashed. I fought my way through a swarm of flying elbows as I scoured the area for the pair, before finally laying my eyes on them. Simon, just like at the Christmas rave in Byron Bay, was once again throwing his imaginary basketball as his trademark dance move, while Sam was making his own entertainment by alternating between mincing mockingly and doing the “Hitler Dance”. To avoid any serious head injuries I left them to it and went to get a drink instead.

I managed a couple of vodkas and coke before the Swedes returned to the bar area, looking like they had just ran a marathon. Andy was struggling to look after his friends again after one had insulted a bouncer for no apparent reason, “You’re an ugly wanker. Bet you haven’t seen your cock for years you pecker”. The other lady, well female, at least, had just been sick on a man’s shoe, which judging by his frothing mouth and venomous finger pointing meant he was not overly impressed with having to wipe the contents of a strange girl’s stomach off his top of the range Brogues. Once again it was time to go. Though, I made sure we left shortly after Andy and his friends – mainly for self-serving security purposes.

But the night wasn’t over yet. As we strolled through the city I received a phone call from Joe. He demanded we immediately go round to his hotel room where he had a selection of beers, wines and spirits for us to get, “Properly fucked up on”, as he put it. While I thought everyone was already suitably deranged from the night out, the Swedes did not and were keen on an after party back at the hotel.

We arrived a short while later with Joe grinning like a madman as he met us in the foyer. “There’s not meant to be any guests here now but I’ve sorted it,” he winked, and then walked over to the night porter and slipped him what looked distinctly like a $50 note before waving us through. “That should keep him sweet.”

As we entered the self-contained room there was a stash of alcoholic refreshments as promised, so without further ado we poured ourselves some drinks. At first I thought it was my own drunkenness that had misled me but I soon realised that the rest of them were on a whole different level judging by the total crap that was coming out of their mouths. “I agree,” Simon, eyes bulging out of his head, commented thoughtfully as matters suddenly turned deep and meaningful, as often they do at this point of the night when everyone’s well and truly off their rockers. “I believe we are all on a pre-determined journey that can only change slightly depending on our actions.”

Sam, also looking like someone had slipped him a jar of coffee, shared the sentiment. “We all have a destiny, whether we know it to be or not.” Joe, too, was thriving on this intellectual debate and the bonding that was clearly now in full swing as he visibly was bursting to get his views out to the floor. “Fate provided the booze for us.”

I felt like I was in the room with three Shakespeare’s, with it suddenly dawning on me that the Swede’s odd behaviour may have been the result of a herbal high mixed with the alcohol. “Well how do you lot even know whether we’re really here at all? Perhaps this is all a figment of our imagination, a bit like in the Matrix,” I chipped in dryly – far too dryly, in fact, for them in their states – as I attempted to throw a spanner into the works of their pointless discussion.

Simon, rubbing his chin in deep thought, looked at me like I was some kind of visionary. “True, how do we know? Perhaps this is just what we all want to believe.” And so, frustratingly for me at least, that’s how the conversation went for some time, as full blown sunlight began to make its way through the window. To entertain myself I even ended up watching a heated politics discussion program on the television. The only problem being that it was in Arabic. Still, it was better than listening to the others going on about the meaning of life.

As soon as the opportunity presented itself I pounced and questioned Joe over what had happened with the woman he had been stalking earlier. “Oh mate she was a right dog,” he laughed, as he shook his head. “She was all over me…said she wanted to take me in the toilet and suck my dick and swallow my cum. Think the silly slapper just got a bit jealous in the end when I was chatting to that other better bird. I had to leave anyway, it was shit in there.” It was, if nothing else, certainly a colourful, if perhaps slightly wayward, account of what had happened.

Things inevitably started to mellow out before the Swedes and I called time and decided to head back to the hostel. “Yeah I better get to work,” Joe, taking a sip of straight vodka, announced bizarrely before gathering his stuff and following us outside. “Right better get my car then. You lot want a lift back to the hostel or you ok?” The Swedes turned to one another disbelievingly, genuinely seeming to think that Joe was officially insane, after all he had been getting plastered for nearly a day and a half and was now prepared to drive to work like it was no big deal.

“I think we’ll be ok for a lift man, the place is only round the corner,” Simon replied politely, no doubt wanting to avoid being involved in a pile up. We said our goodbyes and made the short walk back to the hostel. “Joe’s a nice guy, but not someone I am in a rush to see again,” added Simon.

Sam, breathing a sigh of relief, agreed. “I think we would be dead in no time if we did.”

CHAPTER 17 – GOING HOME

It took my liver a good number of days to get over the last few heavy sessions. The fact I was living in a hostel made my recovery on those occasions infinitely harder, particularly as I didn’t have all the home comforts that helped the healing process, such as hot water, a bath or a shower that offered more than a pathetic dribble, a bed that wasn’t like concrete and somewhere you could relax without being disturbed by crowds of drunk people when all you wanted to do was wallow in your own self pity. I valued personal space but living in this environment meant I got precisely none, which at times made you about as friendly and approachable as a crocodile.

Despite several botched attempts to meet up we had only seen Mark once briefly since being back in Sydney. Out of the blue, he phoned up to say he was leaving for New Zealand and that we should arrange a farewell drink later that day. In typical Mark fashion he was running late after frantically trying to get all his jobs done before he left Australia, so we had to forego the drink and instead settled for him quickly dropping off some of the Swedes gear that he still had.

Meeting near the market just off George Street he pulled up in Stevo. “Sorry lads it’s been crazy getting everything sorted before I leave,” he said, rubbing his face. In particular, his clever business plan to sell the car on for a sumptuous profit had backfired, like we all knew it would. He blamed the rain and the fact no one was travelling up the coast. But either way he was left with a car he couldn’t sell and was therefore short of cash. “So if you good lads can do me a favour and sell it then I would really appreciate it,” he asked, or rather insisted of the Swedes. I made sure I was looking the other way when the subject came up to avoid being dragged in, though I knew he didn’t trust me to be of any use anyway, which was ideal as far as I was concerned.

“Yes ok, but you want $6,500 for it? I don’t think it’s worth a shit,” Simon suggested, sensing his task would be akin to selling snow to an Eskimo.

Mark shook his head in stern disagreement, “$6, 500 and not a dollar less.” We felt it could be a while before Mark saw any money from the car.

We caught up on each other’s news, with Mark’s main talking points unsurprisingly involving the pleasure bestowed upon his genital region. “Oh yeah forgot to tell you about New Year’s Eve,” he laughed excitedly, as if not knowing this information had been gnawing away at us all. “Remember I said about that party where there’d be loads of fit birds including one who I’d pulled before?” I nodded with an over-exaggerated feverish excitement, vaguely recalling the story. “Well you never guess what happened…? I was getting in with one of the decent ones but after she went outside I got it on with that one I’d had before, who if I’m honest isn’t all that.”

Shaking his head with a smile on his face as he recalled the memory, Mark ploughed ahead with the story. “Anyway the fit one came in and saw me fingering her, so that was that. I was gutted. Bit of a shame but least I still got a fuck out of the one I’d pounded before.”

I“Oh no mate, you must be mortified,” I joked.

I don’t think, though, Mark picked up on my gentle mocking. “Well you win some you lose some. Anyway better shoot off now.”

And then after that awkward male goodbye of handshake-come-hug he was off. It was agreed we would all meet up in England at some point where Mark could no doubt fill us in on the microscopic details of his sex life once again.

“I can’t wait for more of his stories,” Simon said dryly.

“I miss them already,” Sam smiled, as Stevo pulled away for the last time, for me at least.

The weekend arrived, one of the few I had remaining in Australia, so I felt obliged to party having just about recovered from the recent excesses. It was like old times as Aussie mates Darren, Rob and Pat, came to the hostel for some pre-going out drinks. It turned out to be a decent gathering as the Swedes, Ben and some other random people from the hostel joined us. I hadn’t seen Darren since before my travels and it wasn’t long before he was back to his old ways trying it on with anything that moved as the pool room got increasingly louder. Rob was laughing hysterically at nothing and everything that was happening, while doing his usual crazy dancing to any pop song that came on. Pat was happy laughing at everyone else while sternly discussing the downfall of the Australian cricket team.

As the drinks flowed and inhibitions reduced, things inevitably descended, resulting in drinks getting thrown onto the floor and rubbed into the carpet with people not even bothering to smoke in the fire escape. Enjoying a rare day off, Ben, was well refreshed on goon and beer and was in antagonistic mood, particularly toward a beefy Australian who apparently was on his third hostel in less two weeks after being kicked out of the other two for fighting and drug dealing.

Specifically, Ben decided to capitalise on the fact the Australian had engaged in intercourse with a blond Scottish girl with Barbie-like features, the previous night. The joke, as far as Ben was concerned though, was because the woman was something of a laughing stock in the hostel after injections of botox in her lips had made her look like she had two giant rubber rings on her mouth. And it wasn’t long before the irritated Aussie squared up to Ben after the German had provocatively and repeatedly impersonated the woman by blowing out his lips in the disgruntled man’s face. “Fuck off you cunt,” the peeved Australian shouted, as he pushed Ben in the chest. But if anything this seemed to inspire Ben on to greater amateur dramatics, prompting me to step in and prevent a fight seconds before any punches were thrown. “Just because you like cock up your arse mate don’t have a pop at me,” the Aussie snarled.

Although the plan had been to head out into the city, by the time we remembered that had been the intention no one was in a fit state to do so. My abiding memory before passing out was of dodging a pool of sick on the carpet and a couple of bodies so still they could have been dead. Unable to make it back to their homes the Aussies were afforded the luxury of sleeping on the bedroom floor with nothing more than their jackets as covers. It was the kind of hospitality they had become accustomed to when crashing in a hostel with me.

By late morning when I had finally awoken, the Aussies, in typical fashion, had already gone having presumably had enough of the hard floor. I forced myself to get out of bed and wandered downstairs to the kitchen area in a daze where the Swedes, not for the first time, were busily making full use of the free food section, or so it appeared. “Great value,” Sam smiled, as he tucked into a large portion of pasta, sausages and melted cheese.

It looked tasty. “Were those sausage in the free food section?” I asked curiously, thinking it suspicious that someone would leave such a valuable commodity there.

“It’s all free food to us in the kitchen,” Simon, intervening on his favourite conversation, smirked.

I couldn’t help but laugh at their bare faced cheek, especially as they revelled in their self-imposed pauper label. “So some poor person will go to eat their sausages and then find they are no longer there? You are evil,” I laughed.

“No Steve we are survivors,” replied Simon, taking a succulent bite of his gourmet food.

“It’s dog eat dog out there man,” added Sam, winking mischievously.

Ben was also looking happy with himself as he emerged with an empty plate from the social area. “That was a good meal,” he smiled. “Free food and free accommodation, I like this place.”

“But you’ve been working like a dog here?” I said, seeking clarification he was still running errands.

“Well, they don’t ask me to work for six days now but I still have my bed and no extra charge.”

“After sharing beds with people, living on the street, sleeping in cars and tents, and generally living like a grade one peasant, I have to say you deserve this break,” I said shaking his hand.

Later that afternoon I got a phone call from Andy insisting we go out for a couple of drinks as he was leaving for Melbourne. Although I had been keen to stay in I said I’d meet him for a bit. We met at the notorious Scruffy Murphy’s. As always on a Sunday afternoon the place was packed out with the usual assortment of drunk Irishman dropping their glasses and begging wholeheartedly to security to not be thrown out for being barely able to stand or speak. The combination of watching these people and listening to the live music always made for an entertaining afternoon.

I got to hear the latest news of our Irish friend, “Crazy Irish Steve”, who I had not seen for a long time, especially after things had got serious with his deaf prostitute girlfriend. “You won’t believe it, she’s now had his baby, or at least he thinks it’s his,” Andy announced wide-eyed, barely able to believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

I paused attempting to take it all in. “Well good luck to him, but more importantly good luck to the baby. I think it might need it.”

Andy laughed, “What chance does it stand?” Still, Crazy Irish Steve was happy, regardless of whether he was the baby’s natural father, and that’s what was important.

Fancying a change, Andy suggested we go to a popular Irish pub out of town. We arrived at the venue and made our way inside and enjoyed a couple of social drinks at the bar before taking the plunge and entering the live arena where a band was blaring out classic Irish music. Flocks of people were jigging about performing what appeared to be their own take on River Dance. It was not the kind of sight I was used to seeing in a pub, as smiling revellers bounced about with their arrowed feet while doing their quintessential dancing. I shook my head at the waste of alcohol as gallons of beer were chucked across the area as they bobbed and weaved through a cluster of different partners. For a second I even thought I was at the theatre watching a musical not in a pub. It was easy to spot those who weren’t Irish as they were the ones stood still around the outside with curious looks on their faces.

After finishing a further few rounds of drinks and seeing enough of the River Dance, we attempted to leave. But it was heaving with pissed Irishman, which made organising and directing them toward the exit impossible. Naturally, things soon turned ugly and it wasn’t long before two separate fights broke out with the bouncers. Probably for the simple of crime of merely trying to clear rowdy people from the place.

Being squashed in the exit corridor was not my idea of fun, but finally we found space as people spilled out onto the street where spotting revellers from the pub was all too easy. First of all, I had the misfortune of seeing two men joyfully holding a loud conversation while attempting to urinate against a parked car, then I came across a woman relieving herself behind a tree, before walking further down the street where a group of men were squaring up to each other.

“Well, least it’s better than last time I was here,” Andy observed sarcastically. “There was a full blown riot and two people shagging by someone’s front door on that occasion.”

“The police must be getting a grip on the problems with the pissed up Irish then,” I quipped. It had been eventful if nothing else, as I knew it would be, but I was happy to be heading back to the hostel. Once back in the city I wished Andy well on the rest of his travels and marched to bed, where I slept like a baby.

Waking with a sore head, I took the out-of-character decision to ban alcohol for the next few days and focused on getting some sun before I had to head home to a cold, wintry England. I passed the time by going to Hyde Park or the beach with the Swedes, Ben (now he wasn’t working) and other various people who had tagged along from the hostel.

The trip was slowly grinding to an end and the various people leaving was a constant reminder that I too would also soon be departing. Ben was next, though. He was off to New Zealand before heading home to Germany. I was forced back on the grog as we went out for some farewell drinks before getting a relatively early night, as he had to leave at the crack of dawn. “You’re a good German,” I told him, as we said our goodbyes.

He laughed. “You’re ok for an Englishman.”

“It’s ok I won’t mention the war again,” I winked while patting him on the back of his thick head. “See you back in Europe some time.”

“Yes of course. We should have taken it over by then,” he smiled, before leaving for the airport.

Ben leaving, along with my visa due to expire in a matter of days, had reminded me that I really should book my own flight home. So that morning I went to an internet café and paid for my flight, before firing off a few emails to people back home explaining that contrary to rumour or any misinformation I was, in fact, still alive and would be returning to my country. On getting the confirmation email of my flight it really started to sink in that I was leaving after a long and eventful year away. I had mixed emotions, of course, but realised I couldn’t live in a hostel out of a broken backpack like a peasant for the rest of my life.

I had a final night out with my Australian friends, inevitably reminiscing about the good times, with it feeling like I had known them a good deal longer than the one year since my arrival. Naturally I would miss the banter, the adventures and seeing them waking up in my crap hostels face down on the floor like drunk tramps, with nothing more than their jacket as a cover following a night out. But, in particular, I would miss being endearingly called a “Pommie Cunt”. At least, I had assumed throughout the duration of my stay that they were merely being friendly to me when calling me this name.

My next goodbye was to the Swedes, who were moving to Bondi to get out of the city, which by now they thoroughly hated living in. We sat chatting in the hot sun on the steep grass slope that overlooked the packed Bondi Beach and bright blue sea. It felt odd to know this was the end of our journey having spent almost every second of the last two and a half months together. This was not a long time in the grand scheme of things but when you consider that you were effectively joined at the hip for this period - and not always under the greatest of circumstances - then it was certainly some achievement, none more so than for them. “I don’t know how you put up with me,” I joked, as the time came to go our separate ways.

“Neither do we Steve, neither do we,” Simon riposted dryly.

“You’re not too bad,” Sam winked.

I smirked, before making one final crack at their expense. “I didn’t think I would have such a good time living with two gay Swedish men.”

To be judged as “Ok for an Englishman” by Ben, “Not too bad” by the Swedes and a “Pommie Cunt” by the Aussies was a sign of the esteem I felt I was held in by them all. Or, at least, this was how I chose to view it. The feeling was mutual, of course.

The Swedes and I tried saying goodbye on numerous occasions. “Right ok then,” I would say purposefully as if to signal it was time to go, before ending up talking crap for another 20 minutes. Finally, though, we managed to pull free. Sam and Simon jumped up and put their backpacks on once more, before we fleetingly embraced by smashing each other’s shoulders to avoid any hint of emotion. “Right…great times…come visit me in the Motherland,” I said.

“Fuck your Empire and your Queen,” Simon replied with a cheeky grin.

“We will come and fuck up your country for sure. Make sure you get on the right plane,” Sam laughed.

And then, having done the hard work, with it fairly assumed by all that we would now finally be going our separate directions, we then all walked to the traffic lights together and stood waiting for the green man awkwardly for a couple of minutes. We just couldn’t get rid of each other it seemed. This was quite possibly the longest goodbye of my life. At least with the Aussies everyone was blind drunk. Finally, the green man showed and we crossed the road before I turned left to go and catch a bus back to the city, while the Swedes continued to wander straight toward the unfortunate hostel that would be putting them up.

So that was it, they were gone. They had finally got rid of me. I got back to the city and had one last stroll about and soaked up the warm city air for the final time. It was a strange thought to think I would be back freezing my arse off in England within a couple of days after my year away. I had lived like a middle aged peasant for much of that time; running out of money, being homeless, living out of a broken and agonising (when put on) backpack, wandering the streets seeking refuge before happily snapping up some of the biggest dives you could possibly imagine. But despite all this and despite all the hand-to-mouth living I had endured, often with about 20 strangers in my room, I couldn’t deny that it had been a worthwhile experience. I could now even look back fondly on being thrown out of the crap hostel I had overstayed my welcome in.

I was, though, if truth be told, tired of the rough living and of the constant battle to feed and wash myself in cockroach infested buildings and of starting out from scratch time and time again, due to the high turnover of people who would come and go. My liver needed a break, too, from the constant alcohol abuse it was forced to handle by way of the social environment I inhabited.

While this had to go down as undoubtedly one of my most entertaining years, it was also easily my most unhealthiest. I longed for a normal diet of home cooked food and looked forward to getting back in shape and to getting out of the clothes which I had worn day in day out for the past year, which I now couldn’t wait to burn. Many of my boxer shorts, for example, now resembled nothing more than a piece of cloth that several giant moths had attacked, such was the gaping nature of the holes, offering little in the way of support and coverage, which was not ideal in a hostel with flocks of strangers around.

I had, against all the odds, enjoyed the Australian experience immensely with its easy, outdoors way of life and the friendly, dry sense of humoured people that made up this vast and varied place with their honest straight forward attitude, whose endearing quirkiness was well complimented by the insanely dangerous wildlife and stunning landscape the country has. It was just a shame the place had to be so far away. But I suppose that was my forefathers fault for sending convicts to the other side of the world. In any event, it really was time to go and I was sure I would be back to visit some time in the future.

I collected my stuff from the hostel and stood incredulous for a few seconds that I had survived the whole year, having thought I would only last a month when I arrived all that time ago. Then, like a seasoned backpacker, I picked up my broken and knackered old backpack and for the last time threw it suffocatingly over my back and neck, before struggling my way to Central station, where I caught the tube to the airport ready for the long flight home.

As I looked up at the airport I afforded myself a wry smile as I remembered my arrival where I wondered what the hell I was doing in this far away land and what the adventure would bring. Well, it had brought me a lot, a lot more than I had ever expected. But for one thing, despite my wealth of travelling experience, it was fair to say I still hated backpacking.

Ends

OTHER BOOKS BY STEVE DEEKS

Baring All Down Under: Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Contents

Chapter 1 – The road trip begins

Chapter 2 – The boat trip

Chapter 3 – Behind the wheel

Chapter 4 – Hervey Bay

Chapter 5 – Fraser Island

Chapter 6 – Deep in Fraser Island

Chapter 7 – Debauchery on Fraser

Chapter 8 – Noosa Heads

Chapter 9 – Brisbane

Chapter 10 – Surfers Paradise

Chapter 11 – Nimbin and marijuana

Chapter 12 – Byron Bay

Chapter 13 – The Arts Factory

Chapter 14 - The Christmas rave

Chapter 15 – Sydney reunion

Chapter 16 – The final hurrah

Chapter 17 – Going home

Other books by Steve Deeks