The East Coast Road Trip

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The East Coast Road Trip Page 12

by Steve Deeks


  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.

 

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