‘You’ll be absolutely fine,’ Niall had said at a quiet dinner party Jim and his wife Jennifer had rather sweetly thrown in my honour, ‘there’ll be loads of cars heading back up to Dublin after the bank holiday weekend.’
It had all seemed plausible enough, but the experience on the ground was offering up another story entirely. Not many cars, and an overwhelming lack of interest in the hitch-hiker with the fridge.
By 8 am I had made it about ten miles, courtesy of a lift from Cyril, a white-haired but healthy-looking man in his sixties. He said that he had thought the fridge was ‘a big white box’, which was accurate enough, and in essence all it had been to me for the past month. I had made no effort to take advantage of its abilities to keep things cool. At this point I was unaware that as the morning’s events unfolded, anything which could keep me cool would be a distinct asset.
I shouldn’t have accepted the lift from Cyril. Evidently when it came to hitch-hiking I had learned no lessons in the last month, because I made exactly the same mistake that I made with my first lift of the journey. In my desire to get the day’s travels kick-started, I had accepted a lift from someone who was only going a few miles, and in so doing I had relinquished a favourable spot for hitch-hiking, only to find it superseded some minutes later by an extremely poor one.
I was attempting another first. As far as I knew no one had ever hitchhiked to a live nationwide broadcast before. Chauffeur-driven cars are more the norm. I had been arrogant enough to assume that the reputation that went before me meant that I could do it with no difficulties, but I hadn’t reckoned on Cyril dropping me at this particular location, the hitch-hiking equivalent of a barren desert with vultures circling overhead.
I was standing beside the R741 at the junction of the turn off to Castieellis. The junction was in the middle of a long stretch of straight road where the cars were getting up far too much speed to consider stopping for any hitch-hiker. The only ones going slow enough to stop for me without causing a major accident were ones who were turning off, and were therefore no use to me anyway. It was a hopeless situation. By 9.00 I was getting desperate. I tried waving at cars, but this made me appear like a crazed convict on the run, and consequently reaped no reward. My growing concern edged towards mild panic when I got a call on my mobile phone from The Gerry Ryan Show asking me to talk to Gerry after the next record finished. I was just preparing myself for the interview when the signal disappeared and the line went dead. Not only was this an appalling stretch of road for hitching, it was in an area where the phone signals came and went with the same regularity as my breaths.
For the first time in three and a half weeks I was distinctly awcalm. I had to be in Dublin by 11 am, and yet I was going nowhere with little prospect of change in that position. I had to try something different.
I left my fridge and rucksack by the roadside and began to walk down the narrow lane towards Castieellis. I had no idea what I was going to do, but all I knew was that I couldn’t afford to stay where I was. After a hundred yards I passed a driveway and saw three men struggling with the task of loading a mare and foal into the back of a horsebox. I waited until the job was done and then called out to them.
‘Excuse me, but you don’t happen to know if there’s a callbox around here do you?’
‘Well, there is,’ one of them replied, ‘but that would be in the village, and that’s some walk now.’
‘It’s just that I’m supposed to do an interview on the radio, and I can’t get a signal on my mobile phone.’
‘Well,’ said another, ‘we’d give you a lift, but the Range Rover’s full of gear and there’s barely room for the three of us.’
They seemed friendly, and circumstances required a degree of pushi-ness. So I pushed it.
‘I couldn’t squeeze in with the horses could I?’ I said, desperately attempting to disguise my desperation. ‘It’s a matter of some urgency.’
I was a desperate man.
‘Well…it’s just that the foal’s not used to travelling in the horsebox.’
‘Maybe I could calm it down. You know, soothe its nerves with some gentle words.’
I was a very desperate man.
Well…
‘I promise not to sue you if I get kicked or anything.’
I was heading off the desperation scale.
Time was an issue now. No lift here and a long walk into the village would mean I’d need Damon Hill for my next lift. It was a possibility because he had a house in Ireland, but even so we were looking at very long odds.
The tallest of the three looked at me, shrugged, and then pointed to the horsebox.
‘Oh, all right then, in you get.’
Yes! Boy, was I grateful.
‘Oh thank you so so much, that’s such a help,’ I said, possibly overdoing the gratitude. ‘I’ve got some luggage I’m afraid.’
‘That’s not a problem.’
They hadn’t seen it yet.
I walked back and waited for them at the crossroads and as the Range Rover pulled up, the driver caught a glimpse of the fridge. His jaw visibly dropped.
‘I don’t feckin’ believe it!’ he said. ‘I’ve been listening to this fella for the past two weeks!’
‘What do you mean?’ said the one in the back seat.
‘I’ve been listening to him. He’s been all round the country with his fridge.’
‘With his what? ‘ gasped the passenger.
‘With his fridge. His fridge—this is the fella with the fridge.’
The passenger leaned out of the window.
‘Jesus Christ, you’re right—he’s got a feckin’ fridge!’
‘Never!’ said the one in the back, whose view was obscured by a pile of saddles.
‘He has! Get out and look.’
He got out and looked.
‘Fuck me, it’s a fridge.’
‘I told you.’
‘This is the fella off the radio. The fella with the fridge.’
‘What in feck’s name do you mean, Des, fella off the radio?’
‘I told you, he’s been travelling round the country—I think it’s for a bet.’
‘Abet? A fridge? ’
Lucky I wasn’t in a hurry.
It was a further ten minutes before who I was and what I was doing had been sufficiently discussed for us to consider going anywhere. One of the three fellas simply couldn’t believe what I was doing.
‘But a feckin’ fridgel Why a feckin’ fridge? ‘ he kept saying.
It didn’t matter how many times I told him why, he still shook his head in disbelief.
I climbed in the back with the horses and did my best to be a calming influence on the foal. The reality was though that it was much calmer than I.
Time was ticking by.
This was one of the most bizarre journeys I had made in my life. In less than two hours’ time, the last hour of The Gerry Ryan Show was being given over to a celebration of my journey around Ireland. Yet here I was, the lead player in that event, stuck in the back of a horsebox with a mare, a foal and a fridge, being towed through the country roads of County Wexford by three hysterical horse trainers.
I slumped down on to the hay floor of the horsebox and considered my position. To be precise, it was below a horse’s arse somewhere in southern Ireland. But it had a greater significance, and there was a profound parallel to be drawn, at least for someone with a mind as confused as mine. Three Wise Men. A stable full of hay. A Triumphal Entry into a nation’s capital city. Wasn’t it obvious? I was the new Messiah.
Maybe my journey wasn’t over, but was just beginning. Perhaps the lessons I had learned and the wisdom I had attained in the past month heralded an era of pre-eminence for the fridge philosophy. The future was pre-ordained. I had to take the message of the fridge out to the people, I had to spread the word.
‘I am the Lord!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t you see, horses, I am the Lord!’
And with those words, the mare raised its tail and ce
remoniously dropped three large dollops of quality manure into my lap. It was too well timed not to be a reaction to my risible claim. Had I made it to another human they might have turned to me and said ‘Horseshit!’ but the mare had been able to offer a practical demonstration of the same sentiment.
Apart from the unholy response of a horse, there was another reason to doubt my Messianic credentials. According to the New Testament, Jesus actually managed to turn up to his Triumphal Entry. It was looking increasingly more likely that I would have to rely on second- and third-hand accounts to find out exactly how mine had gone.
The Three Wise Men dropped me by a callbox in Ballycanew, just out side Jericho.
‘Good luck,’ said Des. ‘We were just saying that we haven’t named the foal yet, so we’ve decided we’re going to call it ‘Fridgy’.’
Fridgy. New life, in the form of a young horse, had been named after the fridge. I was quite touched. The fridge had become part of a family when it had been christened Saiorse Molloy, but now in its own peculiar way, it had started an adopted equine family of its own. I thanked my three friends and told them that if in years to come I saw a horse called ‘Fridgy’ win the Grand National, then it would be the happiest day of my life.
§
‘How is it going, Tony?’ said Gerry, as he kicked off the interview.
‘Not that well, so far. I’ve had a slightly dodgy morning’s hitching, and I’ve only got as far as Ballycanew.’
‘Goodness, if you don’t hurry it up, you won’t make it Well if there’s anyone in a car, bus or van anywhere in the vicinity of Ballycanew, then do look out for Tony and his fridge and speed him on his way to Dublin, it is after all a matter of national importance. We’ve got to get him to Connolly Station for eleven o’clock so you can join him with your chosen domestic appliance, in the triumphal procession to the ILAC Centre. Obviously Tony, people will be turning up in their droves, but have you got any last words which may encourage the undecided to get down there and show their support?’
‘Well, all I can say Gerry is that some marches are for things and some are against things, but never has there been a march for absolutely nothing. Now is our chance to put that right. Grab your toaster and kettle and discover like me, how great it feels to devote yourself to something truly purposeless. By doing something with absolutely no point to it, we eliminate the possibility of failure, because in a sense the worse it may go then the more it can be considered a success.’
‘Absolutely. Very rousingly put Tony, and not at all confusing. Well, there you have it good people of Ireland, now is your chance to join a march which will liberate the nothingness and pointlessness in all of us.’
‘That’s right. Of course we’re using the word ‘nothingness’ in its most positive sense here.’
‘Naturally. Now Tony, good luck on the rest of your hitch this morning, and we look forward to talking to you later on. Both our crack reporters Brenda Donohue and John Farrell will be giving us a detailed word picture of exactly what’s happening during the triumphant march and the ensuing celebration in the ILAC Centre. It’s going to be quite an event, and remember to get yourselves down there because this is the time to make your domestic appliance count. Tony, good morning.’
‘Good morning Gerry.’
When I emerged from the callbox, a lorry immediately drew up alongside me, and the driver wound down his window.
‘I just heard you on the radio there, if you wait here for twenty minutes, I’ll be back and I’ll take you as far as Arklow.’
And he was gone.
I had no reason to doubt that he would be back, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of twenty minutes, and if I could get a lift before, then I would have to take it.
Whilst hitching, I tried to think of chants which I and my fellow marchers could shout as we strode proudly through Dublin. I came up with a few, but my favourite was one I would have to teach the crowd on my arrival.
TONY: ‘WHAT DO WE WANT?’
CROWD: ‘WE DON’T KNOW!’
TONY: ‘WHEN DO WE WANT rr?’
CROWD: ‘NOW!’
It seemed to strike the right chord.
§
Kevin and Elaine beat the lorry driver to me. They had heard the interview and had made a small detour especially, and since they too were going as far as Arklow, I jumped into their small van and we sped northwards. They were a young couple, both about twenty and probably the youngest of all those who had stopped for me.
‘If I phone ahead, Elaine’s mother will cook us all breakfast in Courtown Harbour,’ said Kevin.
‘I’d love to really, but I’m running really late.’
‘That’s a shame, because she does a fine breakfast’
Just beyond Arklow-1 was back hitching again. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 9.45 am. Meeting my deadline was still possible, but a long wait here and The Gerry Ryan Show would need to hastily rethink its last hour.
A red car pulled up, and I ran forward to address the driver.
‘Where are you headed?’ I asked.
‘Dublin,’ came the magical reply.
I was cutting it fine, but it was all still on.
Peter was unemployed at the moment and on his way to visit friends in Dublin. Not long since a student, he still seemed comfortable with a way of Me which was extremely relaxed and laid back. Unfortunately one area where this manifested itself was in his driving. What should have been a horn-honking, tyre-screeching, risk-taking charge into Dublin was a casual Sunday afternoon tootle into town. All we needed to complete the picture was a tartan blanket on the back seat and a tin of boiled sweets.
Because I was spending most of my time looking at my watch and checking how many kilometres were left before we hit Dublin, I failed to focus on the sadness of the occasion. Peter was my last lift. This was it, the hitch-hiking was over. No longer was I to spread myself by a roadside and put myself at the mercy of a nation’s drivers. I would miss it.
Well, bits of it, anyway.
‘I could drop you at Sydney Parade Dart Station, my friends don’t live far from there. It’ll be quicker than suffering the city centre traffic anyway,’said Peter.
‘And do you think I’ll make it to Connolly Street for eleven?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Why do people do that? Say ‘I’m sure’when they’re not sure at all. So often people will say ‘Oh I’m sure you’ll be fine’ as an excuse for further dialogue on the subject: ‘I’ve got to make this speech to a group of fundamentalist Shi-ite Muslims about the worthlessness of Allah, and I’m a bit worried about how it might go down.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
§
It was just after 10.30 when we arrived at Sydney Parade Station. The barrier was down in the middle of the road.
‘That means a train is coming; if you hurry you might get it,’ said Peter.
‘How long for the next one if I miss it?’
‘They come every fifteen minutes.’
‘Shit, I’d better not miss this one then. Bye.’
I dashed off, barely finding the time to shake Peter’s hand. My last lift, treated with the dismissive familiarity of a spouse on a daily run to the station. Poor fella wasn’t even invited to sign the fridge.
I did the best hurrying I could do given that hurrying with this load wasn’t easy. As I rushed into the station, the train was drawing into the Trains To Dublin’ platform, and I knew this was the train I had to get. Another fifteen minutes would be too late. There was no time to get a ticket, I would have to risk any fines which might be incurred. Just get that train! I ran past the ticket office, fridge rattling and wobbling behind me until there, directly ahead, horror of horrors, were mechanised ticket barriers. I had no chance of getting through, over, or under any of these, and the gate which had been placed there to accommodate the heavily laden, needed to be released by the man in the ticket office. I called out to him.
‘He
llo, could you please open the gate! Please! I must catch this train.’
He looked up, casually.
‘Do you have a ticket?’
‘I don’t, but I’ll buy one at the other end or whatever, just please open the gate!’
‘It’s just that you’re not supposed to—’
‘PLEASE! I’M THE MAN WITH THE FRIDGE AND I HAVE TO BE AT CONNOLLY STREET STATION TO BE ON THE GERRY RYAN SHOW!.’
I’m not sure whether this made any sense to him or whether he was simply terrified by the urgency with which he was being addressed, but either way he pressed the button which released the gate. I bundled myself through and reached the train just as the automatic doors were closing. I tried to grab the inside of a closing door to force it back open again, a trick which I knew worked on London’s Underground, but on this occasion the force of the closing door was too great and I had to withdraw my hand or risk losing it. The train pulled out of the station, and with it went my chances of making my Triumphal Entry on time. I got out my mobile phone and called The Gerry Ryan Show. The lines were engaged. No doubt they were busy making last-minute arrangements for a very exciting live link-up with their outside broadcast unit.
While they did so, the main protagonist in all this paced anxiously on a suburban station, somehow believing it would speed the oncoming train towards him. Either Peter had been wrong about the interval between trains or the pacing had worked, because seven minutes later another train rolled into the station.
The train stopped at a disappointing number of stations. Sandymount. Come on train, you could go faster than this. Lansdowne Road. We were just dawdling. At Pearse Street I noticed that passengers were beginning to stare at me. I couldn’t fathom why. Okay, I was sweating, and I had a fridge with me on a trolley, but apart from that I was perfectly normal. Tara Street. Tara Street sounded like a star in a cheap skinflick. A woman got on with twin babies in a double-barrelled pushchair. They were too young to know that there was something odd about me, but they looked up at me in a way which suggested they instinctively knew there was. Bastards.
1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge Page 28