Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  It was only once I had made it down to the ground level that I could fully relax after another job well done. “Would you believe it? I announced, unable to hold back my joy. “I’ve got the very same drink as before – and it’s nearly full again. Lady luck is smiling on me today.”

  Fraser let out a boyish snigger. “Aye, I’m sure that girl will be loving you for taking her drink again.” The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but when stopping to think about it, it actually made perfect sense, especially as such a drink in this place was rare. “You’re right,” I smiled, coming to terms with the genius of my coup. “She must have gone and bought another one after the first one went missing. How unfortunate for her,” I added, guzzling the drink down.

  The irony of me having such a beverage, apart from the ludicrous expense, was that ever since my 18th birthday I had despised gin with a deep, unrelenting passion. On that fateful occasion a friend and I thought it a good idea to purchase a large bottle of the stuff and then proceed to force it down our throats at whirlwind speed. Unfortunately for me, apparently I began to look and sound very unwell before being found a short while later barely conscious and slumped on the downstairs toilet seat with the door open by my friend’s startled old dear. She never really liked her son drinking excessively and I couldn’t help but feel that she saw me as a negative influence in this regard. Though, in my defence, all I will say is that gin is very strong.

  A while later and against all the odds, it must be said, I somehow roused myself to make it out into town where I spent the entire evening asking everyone what the England football score had been earlier, despite having watched the whole 90 minutes at my friend’s house. Then, while walking down the street, I somehow became embroiled in a heated dispute with a large nose-ringed thug who was proudly informing me how he had just got out of prison and would happily go back there again just to put me in my place. Not deterred or frightened in any way, I hit back by administering a haughty lecture telling him that it was his lack of breeding that ultimately resulted in his incarceration and that his actions that had put him there weren’t acceptable and should be addressed as a matter of urgency.

  Anyway. It’s fair to say that I’ve had some bad hangovers in my time but that one certainly came right out the top draw, after leaving me feeling like I was undergoing a particularly slow and painful death. Ever since, unsurprisingly, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid gin, with even a hint of the smell putting me off. However, this tantalising opportunity had inevitably prompted a rethink. First of all it was free and, secondly, I wasn’t drinking a large bottle of the vile stuff. It was a no-brainer.

  The night continued with us going back and forwards outside with all the regularity of chain smokers. Without fail there would always be a drink of some sort there. Although I didn’t get any more gin and lemonades – I think my victim must have been on high alert after being duped twice – I still racked up a number of scooners, some of which were nearly full. By the end of the night I calculated that I had saved up to $40. Fraser reckoned he had saved $35. The minesweeping experience had added a whole new dimension of fun and frivolity to the night. As well as being a great source of camaraderie to each of us, we had a great time for free while others around us were forking out small fortunes, which made it even more pleasurable.

  Our minesweeping tour of the city continued a few nights later as we targeted a different venue just across the road from the hostel. Unlike the first establishment this place was multi-levelled and a lot bigger, and didn’t have an outside area, which theoretically could have posed some difficulties. Accompanied by two new men who were keen to learn the art of minesweeping, myself and Fraser made our way to the middle level. After eventually fighting our way to the front of the packed bar we purchased a beer each, buying us time to scope out the joint.

  Fraser gave me a subtle wink after spotting a table in the corner that to our disbelief had four reasonably full drinks just sat there alone. Moving quickly, we claimed the table before anyone else got there. “You think the people who left these drinks here are coming back?” one of the new additions asked.

  “No, but even if they did they’ve lost all rights to their drinks and the table by leaving it unattended,” I replied brutally. “But to avoid any potential trouble we’ll have our drinks first and then if nobody returns for the drinks we have them.” The four drinks consisted of two half full beers and two vodka and oranges, just over half full. After slyly selecting our drinks by slowly pulling them right to the edge of the table, I then gracefully slurped down the vodka and orange like a man who firmly believed that drink belonged to me.

  With no other potential drinks in the immediate vicinity we decided to take a wander, after intensely surveying various spots we finally came to settle on the edge of the dance floor. Taking up this excellent vantage point was a no-brainer, as people would regularly put down their drinks before going off to strut their stuff. It was also useful because there were three escape routes, with one adjacent to an area where the dance floor merged with those standing about mingling. As if this was not enough, tables and shelves to rest glasses on were plentiful, while artificial smoke was being pumped out from by the stage making visibility poor. We anticipated ripe pickings.

  Amongst the four of us there was a competitive element to see who could get the best and most drinks, but at the same time we agreed to work together as a unit. Starting off with a few easy confidence boosters - half or a third of a drink here and there – it was Fraser who scooped the first major drink of the night; an invitingly fresh beer that someone had taken a sip from before putting down to go to the toilet. I had little sympathy with such people losing their drink. After all, it was foolishness in the extreme to do such a thing and I, for one, would never contemplate such a reckless action with one of my own drinks. Without fail I would always take my beverage into the toilet and place it down near my foot under the urinal so there would not be any spray that fell into my glass.

  It was great watching a colleague in action. Fraser would eye up the beer, then look over as he assessed the surrounding landscape and who it might belong to before, in that natural way of his, inch ever closer before one last glance and then pounce like a fox catching a rabbit. In the blink of an eye he had disappeared somewhere into the background. It was a joy to watch, with his deep look of concentration and childlike innocence, along with a hint of fear, as he moved in for the kill, before a gleaming smile would appear across his face once he was in the clear.

  Locating myself across the bar area and opposite Fraser with a perfect view, I took pride in knowing that I had given the signal to move in once the unsuspecting paying customer had made his way to the toilet. On his return he scratched his head wondering where his lovely full scooner had gone, then looked from side to side, before shrugging his shoulders and picking up another nearby drink that was just under half full and walking off – sucking another innocent person into its murky web.

  The two new lads were soon wearing glazed cheeky looks on their faces as they established their flow of pulling various drinks. I offered a proud smile in return at my protégés who were buzzing more with every drink. Needing to up my game, I lined up a near full beer belonging to a pissed up twat who had been bouncing into anyone within shouting distance. When he continued spitting into the ear of the girl he was trying to chat up, I gently reached across and began to pull the glass toward me with my right hand. “So long you big oaf,” I muttered ecstatically, before quickly moving away from the danger area. I was back on track, with it spurring me on to greater success, including a double whiskey and coke followed by a cider in the space of half an hour.

  The only drawback to such an activity was that it could be quite lonely at times, especially when taking it as seriously as we were. Nothing else mattered. We all had to go where the drinks were and unfortunately that sometimes meant working in separate areas, or certainly far enough away from each other so you couldn’t socialise. Often communication became intuit
ive or was achieved through body language.

  But, as with any craft, there can always be drawbacks no matter how refined your skill level. Fraser had narrowly avoided being caught in the act after not seeing the owner of the drink when moving in for one sweep. But for a stern shake of my head to abort the mission, as the Scot’s hand was creeping along the table, things could have turned ugly, especially as the big meathead seemed to be aware of what was happening. I turned away to conceal my laughter to myself.

  My hysterics, however, were to be short-lived, as the joke was soon on me. Despite feeling rather smug after swiftly dispatching an appealingly full scooner, no sooner had I turned to walk off when I felt a solid hand on my arm. “That’s my drink you’ve got there,” came the deep, hostile voice of a man roughly twice as wide as me. Slightly startled that I, a master minesweeper had been caught red-handed, I quickly resorted to the back-up plan and studied the glass with disbelief, before looking up at his irked face. “I think you’ll find this belongs to me,” I replied indignantly, hoping my bluff would force him to back down.

  “No that’s definitely his, I saw him put it there,” a reasonable sounding woman, standing with the giant, reasoned. With an eyewitness account and it being two-to-one I knew I was in big trouble now. But nonetheless decided my best way out of avoiding either a beating or an escort off the premises was to maintain the pretence that it may still be mine. “Well, where’s my drink gone? There must be some mistake,” I said, still looking perplexed at the glass, but hoping at the very least they would think it was a genuine mistake.

  “I don’t know but that’s mine. Maybe someone took yours,” he growled, growing increasingly irritated at my reluctance to hand back his beer.

  “Well I suppose I’ll just have to go and get another one,” I added, shaking my head with disgust that someone could have taken my drink, before handing his beer to him as I scuttled away.

  I found Fraser, who had been watching hysterically from afar at my misfortune. “I saw you in a wee spot of bother there,” he grinned. “One of the pitfalls of minesweeping. But least you didn’t get laid out. Back home in Glasgow you’d be on the floor by now,” he added comfortingly. Time was getting late so we called it a night. Despite ending on a sour note, overall I felt I could leave with my head held high, happy with my efforts for the night.

  The following day after waking up feeling somewhat groggy, Fraser and I decided to hit the world famous Bondi Beach to catch some rays. We went to a Seven Eleven shop where Fraser purchased his bus ticket (in Australia for some strange reason you generally have to buy your ticket at a shop before the journey and not on the bus). As someone had handed me what I thought was a perfectly good ticket I didn’t bother splashing out the $3.50 for another one. In any case, with there being a ticket swipe machine - which you could conveniently ignore - and with the bus driver having about as much interest in checking your tickets as smelling your bum, it meant the opportunity for a free ride was often appealingly overwhelming. Not that I had ever done it, of course. Though, from my experiences, thousands of others seemed to regularly indulge in this popular national habit. There were stories that ticket inspectors frequented the odd bus, but sightings of these were apparently rarer than a spotting of the Loch Ness Monster. Certainly my Aussie friends had never witnessed such an inspector in all the years they had been using this mode of transport.

  So, taking on board all these compelling reasons, as I climbed on the packed bus I didn’t bother swiping my ticket. It looked different to the one Fraser had, which I found odd. “Aye, you riding for free then I see,” the Scot smirked.

  “Well, they did put the swipe machine a long way away,” I replied smugly, as we settled into the journey.

  After about 20 minutes we went through Bondi Junction, which I presumed meant we were near to Bondi beach, when I looked up from my phone to see two large men covered in hair wearing striking blue uniforms, who were acting like police, boarding the bus. As I sat there wondering why the cops would get on a bus and then just stand around talking, disaster struck. Once their heated discussions had drawn to a close they began making their way methodically down the bus checking tickets. “Holy shit,” I grunted as the penny dropped that they were in fact bus inspectors. Fortunately we were sat near the middle so I had time to figure out my plan of action as they made their slowly way down the aisle studiously checking everyone’s ticket.

  As the bus pulled into a stop I was struck by the sheer volume of people from behind me who suddenly, and somewhat hurriedly, got off. “That’s a bit weird,” I mumbled and turned to Fraser to discuss what to do, but he was still talking to his mum in Scotland, so I really didn’t feel that I could interrupt him. Nor did I feel that I could suddenly just jump off the vehicle with no explanation.

  When the bus was back in motion I figured I would just have to quickly waft my ticket in front of the inspector and hope he was none the wiser. After all, this approach had brought me a degree of success in England as a teenager.

  Nevertheless, a sense of dread came over me as they got nearer, before all too quickly it was my time. “Can I see you’re tickets please,” the hostile man – someone who clearly relished his smidgen of power – said, while towering over me like I was an ant. I pulled the ticket from out of my wallet and gave it a quick but casual wave before putting it hastily away.

  A frown came over his face. “Let me see that again please?” he said sternly.

  “Sure,” I replied, trying to keep things casual as I handed it over to him.

  He looked at the ticket for an unhealthy amount of time before looking suspiciously back at me. “This is a concession ticket so can I see your concession identification please?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  I got my wallet out and trawled through the never-ending array of cards, hoping to convince him I was genuine. “I can’t appear to find it,” I said shaking my head in confusion. “Maybe I’ve left it at home.” He didn’t look convinced. After all, it was unlikely that I could pass as a student and, although I was not as young as I used to be, I don’t think he could have been persuaded that I was a pensioner.

  It seemed my best option was to pretend I had a disability but again, sadly, was not in a position to be able to prove. “You’ve got a concession ticket, so I need to see your concession pass,” he demanded, with the eyes and ears of the entire bus now firmly transfixed on me as I somehow sought to circumnavigate this increasingly tricky and humiliating ordeal.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to it, someone must have stolen it,” I replied blankly, shrugging my shoulders.

  After pausing and looking at his colleague, who by now had joined him in standing aggressively over me, I was suddenly asked to pass my identification over to them. Without a second’s thought I handed him my UK driving licence and instantly regretted it. “Right Mr Deeks, if you can’t show me your concession pass then I’ll have to issue you a fine,” he said forcefully.

  “But I’ll happily pay you the $2 I’m short by,” I suggested enthusiastically, hoping I’d struck a fair compromise deal for all of us.

  “Oh no Mr Deeks that’s not how things work here.” And before I knew it he was writing out a fine.

  Disgust at this jobsworth suddenly started flooding out of every pour of my body. “You fat tossers. Were you bullied at school? Or do you just like cock?” I found myself saying aloud. But neither of them flinched. I suppose a bit of stick comes with the territory. As the bus came to a standstill my predicament worsened as I was suddenly ushered off the bus. Fraser, still on the phone, glanced over from the seat in front and had a look of genuine confusion over his face. “We need to get off, there’s been a mix up,” I said bullishly, desperately trying to save face in front of the viewing public, whose attention soon turned to outside once they had me on the pavement. The only saving grace in amongst my abject misery and humiliation was that two elderly women, who couldn’t prove they were pensioners, had also been forced off and were having fines wri
tten out. This made me feel a lot better, as at the very least it showed that no one was safe from these scumbags.

  Despite the ticket being written up, I continued to forcefully argue my case but it wasn’t getting me very far. “You can appeal if you’re not happy or if you’re concession pass shows up,” the inspector said. I braced myself for the fine that was coming my way. I didn’t think it would be cheap, maybe around the $20 mark I reasoned, which wasn’t far off the £10 I had to pay for not having a train ticket in England when I was a teenager. “So if you pay before the first deadline it’s only $120,” the ever so helpful inspector said. “It goes up to $170 after that. Then you go to court if you still haven’t paid.” My jaw hit the ground. I looked at Fraser in disbelief who in turn, sensing my agony, seemed equally perplexed. “So I have to pay $120 even though I’m only technically just $2 short of the fare?” I raged, steam coming out of my ears. “Why don’t you just rob me? Oh no you have already,” I said as sarcastically as I possibly could. With anger burning through me the insults started to flow effortlessly. “Were you a member of the Hitler youth by any chance?”

  After being handed the form the inspectors jumped on the next bus that pulled up. I somehow managed to cool off slightly after several minutes before the next bus appeared. Although I had been royally shafted I was still determined to get to our destination and enjoy the day. I still had my one concession ticket in my pocket but as we were so close to the beach I chose not to swipe it in the machine. “Wouldn’t it be your luck if the inspectors got on again huh?” Fraser joked.