Then there was the other side of the equation. A young Englishman, for whom tonight was to be a celebration of his extraordinary travels with a refrigerator across the length and breadth of Ireland, was unable to understand a bloody word anyone said to him because of the cacophonous din being created by a band sounding like they were in the death throes of their career.
‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ shouted Eric, the architect of this farrago, pointing to the band. He motioned to me and my harem of art students. ‘Sit down over there and we’ll bring you over some beer. Fosters gave us a case of beer by way of sponsoring the evening, so you may as well have it.’
The Fridge Party was sponsored? It was hard to imagine the phone conversation which might have brought that about.
There was one unexpected bonus resulting from this evening’s spectacular shambles, and that was that I could devote my attentions to Mary, my favourite art student. I sat next to her and from close range we shouted intimately, occasionally making ourselves heard over the monotonous strains of the house band. From time to time a fridge devotee would come over to pay homage and sign the fridge, but Piscean decibel levels prevented any lasting exchanges. I didn’t mind. It meant I could carry on my flirtatious bellowing with Mary.
‘SO HOW MUCH LONGER HAVE YOU GOT TO GO ON YOUR DEGREE COURSE?’
‘NOT REALLY, MAYBE LATER. I DON’T THINK YOU CAN DANCE TO THIS, CAN YOU?’
The development of our relationship was temporarily interrupted when I was asked to go outside and give an interview to a media studies student laden with recording equipment. When I returned some ten minutes later, the art students were looking a little sheepish.
‘What is it?’ I asked, but no one could hear me over the music.
Then I saw my jacket.
There cannot be many generic groups who include fabric paint in the list of items which they take with them on a night out, but art students are evidently one. During my absence they had made good use of this fabric paint, and there on the back of my denim jacket was a drawing of the fridge, and above it emblazoned in big bold red letters were the words;
FRIDGE MAN
Nervously, the girls watched me to gauge my reaction. After all, they had breached generally accepted social etiquette by painting all over someone’s jacket whilst it had been left unattended. I, however, was delighted with their naughtiness.
‘It’s brilliant!’ I announced, but they couldn’t hear me over the music. Never mind, they could tell from my beaming smile that I approved.
Although the girls were by now quite drunk (substantial inroads had been made into the case of beer that Eric had carried over to us) their artistic ability was apparently not impaired in any way. I was genuinely pleased with their work. What’s more, I became aware of the greater significance of their actions. As I pulled the jacket over my shoulders and stood proudly before them, I realised that I had become the ‘Fridge Man’. The tide, which I had jokingly bestowed upon the solitary figure I had seen by the roadside all those years ago, now belonged to me. I was now the embodiment of my own obsession.
§
Understandably enough, the band cut short their set.
‘Goodnight Cork!’ shouted the lead singer with a wave, and in a triumphant manner which had to be admired.
The audience, or ‘Cork’, managed a pitiful smattering of applause and the manager gave the boys a shake of the head which must have meant ‘skip the encore’.
I was caught rather by surprise by all this. I had just managed to establish that Mary wasn’t on a degree course at Cork School of Art but was the best friend of one of the others, when I heard a voice over the PA calling me to the stage.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the Fridge Man.’
I felt like a ludicrous third-rate novelty act, only with less to offer. I was cheered to the stage by drunken whoops and hollers which were ominously reminiscent of Ballyduff. I quickly rifled through my pockets to find the notes for the speech which was going to set this performance apart from that fiasco. I had followed Baden Powell’s advice and this time I was prepared.
‘Good evening,’ I began solidly. ‘How many people have heard about me and the fridge?’
Cheers from the art students and hardly anyone else. Oh dear. Whilst I had been holed up in a comer devoting my time to Mary, the pub had filled up with an entirely different crowd who were waiting for the dub out the back to open in half an hour. All the fridge devotees had apparently buggered off, presumably having grown tired of both the venue and the lack of interest that I was showing in them.
On an echoey microphone I explained the concept of fridge travel to an audience whose attention span had already expired. Many had given up on me and had begun talking. All the preparation I had made was entirely useless. Naively, I had based it on the assumption that I would be faced with an audience who would be faintly appreciative. The piece of paper I was holding was as much use to me as a handkerchief to a sky diver whose parachute hadn’t opened. For all the advice of Baden Powell—I still found myself going down as well as one of his scouts giving a short talk about reef knots. I abandoned my plans of performing a passionate discourse on how others should set their fridges free, and quickly switched to the much easier option of holding a second-rate competition. It was either that or die on my arse, and dying on my arse might make me less attractive to Mary.
‘Okay, it’s competition time, and the chance to win a two-week holiday in Barbados!’ I announced.
A lot more people started listening now.
‘As you may or may not know, on The Gerry Ryan Show this morning we asked you to bring in various pieces of fridge paraphernalia. The best one will win the holiday. So who’s brought something from their fridge?’
A lady immediately appeared in front of me and handed me an ice cube.
‘Aha! We have our first entry. Frankly it smacks of blatant opportunism but this lady has entered an ice cube. Quite whether she brought it from home or simply plucked it from her drink is a moot point, but nevertheless ifs entry number one. What else have you got out there?’
No response.
‘Okay, lefs throw the net a little wider. Ill accept any item from the domestic world,’ I said, desperately trying to prolong my time on stage and salvage some credibility. ‘Come on, you can’t let a lady win a two-week holiday in Barbados on the strength of having lifted an ice cube out of her drink.’
One of the art students rushed up and handed me a pair of scissors. The concept of participation began to catch on. A spoon followed, and then a tape measure.
‘Come on, keep those entries coming. In a minute well have a vote and let you, the audience, decide on the winner.’
A plastic fork was next, then a comb, and quite magnificently, a drawing of a toaster. I could never have expected the standard of entries to be so high. I gave one last call for last-minute efforts. There was a sudden rush, including quite a bulky item, a dishwasher tray which I assumed someone had stolen from the kitchens. It proved very handy as a receptacle for all the other entries, which I now announced.
‘So here is the final list of entries for the 1997 Fridge Party domestic item of the year. Please cheer to indicate your approval, and the one with the loudest cheer will win.’ I cleared my throat. I now had the full attention of the room.
Boy, I was some performer. ‘Okay, we start off with some scissors!’
A cheer from the girls who had entered the scissors.
‘An ice cube!’
A cheer from the gang who had entered the ice cube. A pattern was emerging here. It continued, with each one being cheered by its own self-interest group.
‘…a comb! A small plastic fork! A battery! A paintbrush! A drawing of a toaster!…’
I waited for a cheer here because this was my favourite entry, but sadly the response didn’t do it justice.
‘…A tape measure! A spoon! A sewing kit! A lighter! And an empty glass!’
The empty glass was surel
y the least impressive of all these entries, and yet received the largest cheer, purely on the strength of having been entered by the largest gathering.
‘I don’t believe this! You’re a partisan lot, aren’t you? Surely we can’t let the prize go to someone who has simply handed in an empty glass?’
‘You haven’t announced the dishwasher tray!’ shouted the man who had entered the dishwasher tray.
‘Oh yes—I forgot that. Okay, who thinks the dishwasher tray should win?’
A huge cheer went up and victory was duly claimed. I invited the entrant on stage and sought confirmation from him that he hadn’t simply nicked it from the pub’s kitchens.
‘No, I brought it from home myself,’ he assured me and the audience.
‘I see. You’ve got an industrial-sized dishwasher at home, have you?’
‘I have.’
He deserved the non-existent prize alone for his willingness to lie.
‘Are you sure you’re not lying?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Well, in that case you have just won two weeks in Barbados.’ Huge cheers.
‘But unfortunately for you, I’m lying.’ Even bigger cheers. And some laughs too. I had begun to forget what it felt like to get those.
§
‘Would you like to dance?’ I shouted to Mary from the fringes of the dancefloor.
We were in the club at the back of Westimers which was absolutely packed. Any vestiges of a Fridge Party had been comprehensively washed away by this deluge of revellers.
‘Yes I would,’ came Mary’s reply.
I think I might have gulped. I hadn’t expected her to say yes. I now had to grapple with the possibility that she might fancy me. I certainly fancied her. She had very sexy lips.
We danced like no one was watching, and an hour later, not far from the pub, we sat on a wall by the canal and kissed in exactly the same manner. We were so drunk that we had lost all touch with the fact that we were in a public place and were quite oblivious to the presence of a young guy who was stood over us. When I eventually noticed him, he made no remark about our disgustingly passionate kiss which had presumably resembled two people attempting to eat a meal out of each other’s mouths. Instead he said, ‘Have you got a marker?’
‘What?’
‘Have you got a marker? I want to sign your fridge.’
I had forgotten we had Saiorse with us. How embarrassing, carrying on like that in front of a fridge.
‘Yeah sure,’ I said, and fumbled around in my pocket until I found a marker pen for him.
‘Thanks,’ he said on completing his signature, and off he went into the night.
Mary laughed.
‘Have you ever had a kiss interrupted for that before?’ she asked. .
‘Oh God yes. It happens to me all the time.’
Although we were disgustingly, hideously, and embarrassingly drunk, we kissed inspirationally. On each break for air, both of us felt moved to say things like That was nice’ or That was lovely’, and the thing was, we both meant it. Mary’s kiss was extraordinary. As far as I could tell she had been chainsmoking all evening but yet her mouth and bream bore no trace of cigarette’s stale taste. You could keep your Moving Statue of Ballinspittle, this was what I called a miracle.
‘I feel really close to you now,’ I whispered, kissing her gently on the neck.
‘And me to you,’ she replied, hugging me with a surprising intensity.
Then I fell off the wall.
‘Do you want to come back to my hotel?’ I asked buoyantly, after we had established that the grazes weren’t too serious.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, would it?’ came the sinking reply.
Why do girls do that? Say the ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea’ bit, but then add Vould it’ on the end. Like they want confirmation from you. And like you’re going to give it.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, would it? ’
‘Well, of course you’re absolutely right. It was probably the worst idea I have ever had, and I’ve had some crap ones in my time. Your coming back to the hotel with me was a rubbish idea, forget I ever mentioned it.’
The fact is though, I knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea. We needed to pass out in our own spaces.
‘I’ll get you a taxi.’
We kissed again. Kissing her really was terribly good fun.
‘Come with me,’ I said, as we separated ourselves.—‘What? I thought you were going to get me a taxi?’
‘Not, come with me now, come with me tomorrow. Come with me to Dublin. Let’s finish my journey together.’
Mary looked at me like she hadn’t had a drink all night. Shock can have a very sobering effect.
‘Come on,’ I continue bravely, ‘just you and me…well, and a fridge.’
It couldn’t have been more romantic. Remarkably, she was starting to look tempted. I persisted.
‘Mary, do it! Take a chance in life. Come with me. It feels right—we feel so close.’
‘I can’t, I’ve got work tomorrow.’
‘Oh. What exactly is it you do?’
Maybe we weren’t as close as I had thought.
22
In The Doghouse
I felt battered and war torn as I made the short walk to Westimers to say my goodbyes. As I trundled along, I couldn’t understand why my elbow was aching, but on raising my shirt sleeve I saw that it was grazed, and then remembered the heroic way in which the injury had been sustained. Just like Sir Ranulph Fiennes, who returned from his expedition to the South Pole with frostbite so serious that three of his toes only just escaped amputation, I too had paid a price for my valiant exploration. I studied my wounds and decided that severe though they were, the need for amputation would be unlikely, at least until my return to the UK. I rolled my shirt sleeve back down and resolved to get on with the day without giving it another moment’s thought. I couldn’t complain. I had known the dangers of both sitting on a wall, and kissing, and had chosen to do both at the same time. I was in pain, but the hurt wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t carry on. Heck, you get used to it when you’re a risk taker.
§
A guy in a car which had just passed leant out of his window and shouted, ‘Hey, Fridge Man! How ya doing?’
I assumed that he must have been at the party last night, because I had left the fridge back at the hotel and was therefore in ‘anonymous’ mode. But when the same thing happened again, moments later, the truth dawned on me. Of course. I had ‘Fridge Man’ written on my back.
I had surrendered my advantage over Madonna and Michael Jackson.
‘Hello there, Tony, how are ya?’ called another driver, who stopped this time.
That was odd. How did he know my name? I didn’t have Tony written on my back as well, did I?
‘How have you enjoyed your stay in Cork?’ he said, getting out of his car. He was the taxi driver who had driven me and the wedding party from Baltimore to Cork. When he heard I was about to set off on the road again, he said that he’d be back to Westimers in ten minutes to take me out to the main road.
Things happened fast in Cork.
‘Where are you headed then?’ asked Alan as he and the rest of the staff stood outside the bar to see me off.
‘As far as I can get. Waterford would be good. Wexford would be even better.’
Today was going to be my last day’s hitching for a while because I had learned that this weekend was a big bank holiday weekend in Ireland, and holiday traffic was useless to me. I wasn’t going to ‘do it Dunmanway’ again. I was going to hole up someplace and enjoy the holiday weekend in the same spirit as the rest of the country, before the final leg to Dublin.
From the taxi, I called Mary at work to say goodbye. It felt odd. In a matter of a few hours she had turned from soul mate back into relative stranger. The feeling was compounded when the girl on the switchboard said ‘Mary who?’ and I didn’t know.
‘Well,
what does she do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We’ve got three Marys here.’
‘Oh. Well, all I’ve just got is a number written on a piece of paper.’
‘We’ve got one Mary in accounts, one in admin, and a newish girl—I’m not sure what she does—but she’s just gone home feeling sick.’
‘That’ll be her. Definitely.’
‘Hold on, I’ll just see if I can get her.’
Before I could point out the lack of wisdom of this course of action, my line was hijacked by some irritating jangly synthesizer music which someone somewhere perceives may make people more relaxed whilst they are waiting on the phone. My views are quite forthright on this one—I think it’s an affront to one’s personal dignity. Before I could become truly exasperated, the jangly sounds were interrupted by the voice of ‘Oh Bright One’.
‘I’m afraid that Mary isn’t here today, she’s just gone home feeling sick.’
‘Oh right,’ I said, pretending to be surprised. ‘Never mind, thanks anyway. And hey, you hang on for that promotion.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
§
I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long for my first lift. Almost everyone in Cork must have known that the eejit with the fridge was in town. I’d been on national radio advertising the world’s first Fridge Party (and probably the last), and my picture had been plastered all over the Evening Echo.
‘Oh, I recognised your fridge straight away,’ said liam, my first lift of the day, a policeman who had just come off duty.
He took me twenty minutes or so down the road to a place called Middleton, where he signed the fridge and posed for a picture in his uniform, pretending to bust me for having a fridge trolley with bald tyres. A good sport.
1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge Page 25