The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  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.

  M
ocking 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.