by Steve Deeks
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 pa
sta, 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 t
he 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.