The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  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 mus
tering 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.”