The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  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 hea
ring 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 be
en 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.