‘You see? I’m not fucking around here, mate. We had guys ready to intercept you if you tried to make a break for it. It’s a good thing you were straight with us. I’m going to let you go because you’ve conducted yourself like a gentleman. But you leave India now, and you don’t ever come back to this country and gamble again. Are we clear?’
Crystal. You couldn’t blackmail me into going back on court in Chennai.
I shake my head in disbelief as I’m released into a dark backstreet, dazed and surrounded by begging children. The worst part is I practically expected – nay, waited – for it to happen. I was just doing my job; but it’s clear now that my job is not worth the consequences faced in developing countries. I jump into the back of a spluttering rickshaw. That was not pleasant. It’s not nice to be treated or spoken to that way and it infuriates me. That guy would have ruined my life … but why? If I was a murderer, thief or rapist, I could understand his hatred. But he knew what I was doing and he still wanted my blood. I guess I underestimated just how strict the anti-gambling enforcement is in India.
I’m in a hurry to get back to the hotel now, and for good reason. The previous year in Chennai, a Czech trader, and friend of mine, had his hotel room raided by officials, who confiscated his laptop and other electronic devices for their investigation – an ‘investigation’ that exposed four-fifths of fuck all, because he was just a regular trader like me. There is no way I am going to spend a night in the same hotel after security have just rifled through my wallet and copied down my personal details and hotel information. I pay the rickshaw driver and bolt up to my room. Archie is sitting on his bed watching a movie when I storm in, still pumped with adrenalin, and insist that we get the fuck out of this place right now. We pack our bags, book another hotel, check out of the one we are in and jump in a taxi. An hour later, we’re kicking back in a different hotel. At least this way, my nightmares will remain just that tonight.
*
The next day, we sold our leftover tickets and steered clear of the venue. The remainder of the week was spent in the gym with the occasional sightseeing venture around Chennai. We visited Buddhist temples, wandered through a number of crowded street markets, enjoyed southern Indian food and even made it down to the beach – a beach I was deeply disappointed with. Litter was strewn all over the place. Stalls and shops let their rubbish and products mar the natural landscape, and the water was a murky, unnatural brown that signalled rife pollution in the area. I was disillusioned with humanity and capitalism. Here was a country rich in history, culture and natural resources. Yet all the burgeoning young generation wanted to do was join the consumer culture of materialistic wealth and self-prosperity. In the land where Buddhism originated, it was sad to see such ideals fall by the wayside in favour of a petty and superficial lifestyle. But who was I to talk? My sojourn to this part of the world had almost cost me everything. All to trade two tennis matches. Was making a quick buck from a tennis match worth dying in a filthy jail cell? I had some serious thinking to do about my future on the tour.
As the week drew to a close, I realised it was not going to be a good one in my books. My experiences in India had not exactly gone swimmingly. I found the place to be a decrepit shithole, and it’s rare for me to dislike a new country. There’s no doubt that my run-in at the tennis soured my opinion. I know it is a jaded and unfair view, which is why I also know that, one day, I’ll return to India to explore its more natural and beautiful regions – hopefully on happier terms.
17
DEBAUCHERY IN VAN DIEMEN’S LAND
It’s Sunday, and I’m on a plane with a hangover, yet again. The lady next to me has never been on a plane before. She’s understandably tense.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her as we descend into Hobart, ‘I’ve been on about two hundred and I’m still here.’ She stares in amazement as the landing gear clunks down. ‘See?’ I smile. I’m happy because I’m back in my home country after the ordeal of India. As a bonus, I will be working with the two most hilarious, nefarious and downright entertaining individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. The rapscallions have assembled: Fitzy, Archie and I will all work together for the first time. We’re sharing a gigantic apartment room in the centre of Hobart’s trendy Salamanca district.
Much to my disappointment, they’re both in a dull mood when I arrive. Fitzy has broken ribs after falling from the lofty heights of Jethro’s shoulders at a music festival last week. So he’s munching down opoid painkillers and can’t even fart without cringing in pain. That’s the least of his worries, though; thanks to the oxycodone, there’s no movement in the bowel region whatsoever and Tim is proud to report that he hasn’t done a poo in over four days. Looks like we’re having a quiet one this evening, so I crash out and wake up fresh the next day, ready for work.
To our complete and utter disgust, Archie and I are recognised, approached, thrown out and banned in record time. That’s two first-day kick-outs in two weeks. Disastrous! If this strike rate keeps up, I will be looking for a new career very soon. Not cool at all. To add insult, the head of security here didn’t even know what he was doing. He was stuttering and ultimately reciting a script that must have been given to him by the officials. I tried to talk my way out of it but he had another security officer in tow. He was a real ballbreaker, a strong-looking guy with a shaved head and a constant glare in his eye. He was trying to go through all of my belongings, snapping photographs of me while I proclaimed my innocence, and insisted that I had to be trading because through his binoculars he ‘could see the tendons in my hand moving after each point’.
It is clear what is going on here – the powers that be have obviously decided to launch a new offensive on court-side gamblers this year. I am ejected from the venue and issued with a trespass warning. They make it clear that legal action will be taken if I dare to return. Amazingly, Fitzy (the most recognisable of all of us) survives the first day.
*
We had our suspicions that this year might see an escalation in security issues, and now they have been confirmed. It used to be that we could get the boot and keep coming back in to trade the week out. Only if we really pissed off the officials and received a second strike would a trespass order be issued. Now, we’re being turfed out on the first day and threatened with severe consequences if we return.
Scouts have even been hired to sit on court and look for us! They watch until they are certain they’ve identified a trader, then alert security. If you’re spotted on court with a phone, you’re a suspect. If you’re searched and have spare batteries on you, it’s game over. The authorities want us gone and they are well on their way to making it a reality. Many of the small-time traders are simply starting to give up.
Things have turned sour and we fear the golden days are over. It’s only the second week of the year and, after being in contact with the other traders, I’ve discovered that everyone has been kicked out of the concurrent tennis events in progress around the world right now. To put it in perspective, last year, only one of our crew had trouble during the first month. Now, everyone is feeling the pressure. It’s an ominous and alarming change.
*
While Fitzy is still at the tennis, Archie and I go back to the hotel and spread cheeky rumours about him to the hotel receptionist. Her name is Celeste and she blushes when we tell her Fitzy is keen on her. Once we see that she’s interested, we run with it. We’ve set Bin Bin up for a date and he hasn’t even finished his second match for the day! When he returns to the hotel that evening, we tell him about our little matchmaking effort, and he’s amused.
‘Thanks a lot, you clowns! I’m just going to call reception now and see what the reaction is,’ he says.
During the brief but friendly phone call, he gets her number, and afterwards begins to text her privately. This is all going according to plan. He looks her up on Facebook while I’m hovering over his shoulder and asks,
‘Should I just add her as a friend or is that creepy?’
‘Too late!’ I shout with glee, stabbing the ‘Add’ button on his Ipad. What’s done is done. Furthermore, she accepts his request in the space of seconds and they’re chatting away. It’s late, so we all crash out, but our mission has been accomplished and it sounds like Fitzy has a date lined up for tomorrow night.
Considering the picture messages he shows us on his phone the next morning, it looks like he is in for quite a week. Even more amazingly, the cripple has still not done a poo. It’s been five days now and, as Fitzy explains, ‘It feels like I’m going to have a fucking baby! I’m actually scared for when it finally arrives; it may be the end of me!’
When the poo baby finally does enter the world around mid-morning, Fitzy spends a good twenty minutes in labour on the porcelain throne. Being the sharing guy that he is, he even has the decency and thoughtfulness to take a photo on his phone and upload it to Facebook. That’s something I (and about five hundred other people) could have done without seeing. His phone’s photo gallery must be full of filth after the past twenty-four hours, (apparently he took a few snaps of his old fella for Celeste too!) So Fitzy heads off to the tennis feeling about ten pounds lighter and, against the odds, gets through another day. Archie and I feel like complete and utter failures. We spend the day checking out the city of Hobart and play a few games of tennis at a local court.
When Tim arrives back at the hotel, things get interesting. He calls down to reception and the conversation goes something like this …
‘Meet at 9.02 in room 406? Yeah, that’s cool with me. No worries. I’ll see you then.’
Archie and I stare in anticipation. Fitzy looks at us and laughs.
‘Well, this is happening! She’s got a key for one of the spare rooms and wants me to meet her there as soon as she knocks off work at 9 p.m.’
Amazing. Good on him. The kid deserves a reward for flying the flag on our behalf and evading security for the past few days. So he meets up with our receptionist and (despite the broken ribs) strikes up quite the holiday fling. Apparently she has an impressive array of sex toys and is not afraid to use them. I’ll spare the dirty details but from Fitzy’s graphic recounts she sounds like quite a nymphomaniac! This takes the hospitality industry to a whole new level.
The weather goes to shit on Wednesday, so Tim wears a hoodie to work. This comes in handy when the security crew finally approach him and try to take a photograph. He puts his sunglasses on, pulls the hood over his head and pushes through them before stumbling out half-blind and running from the venue. Strike three – we’re all out. There’s no chance of Tim returning after creating a scene like that.
Now that the team has properly assembled, it’s time to party with one of my good mates who happens to live in Hobart. I met Mongrel while snowboarding in Canada a few years ago, and it’s a great opportunity to see him thriving in his home town. He runs a tasteful and successful seafood cafe and bar on the water’s edge and lives in a cosy beachfront shack on the next bay over. Swimming, diving, kayaking, fishing and wakeboarding are all at arm’s reach on a daily basis. It’s great to see your friends do well in life and we all enjoy a barbecue and some Boag’s beers on the balcony as we watch the sun set over the Tasman Sea that afternoon in Mongrel’s little corner of paradise.
Upon returning to the hotel, we realise that Fitzy’s new squeeze has become a little too friendly and let herself into our room while we were away. As the receptionist, she has access to all the keys. Apparently, she was hungry and helped herself to a bowl of leftover green curry that Archie cooked for lunch. The psycho warning signs are there but we’re happy to share curry and we let it slide.
The next day is one of leisure. The three of us lounge around Hobart’s inner-city parks, practise a little slacklining and enjoy a bit of downtime in the picturesque city. There is greenery and wildlife everywhere, and the atmosphere is tranquil. If you’ve never been to Tassie, I highly recommend it. While it may not be the most ‘happening’ place on earth, it is serene and undeniably beautiful – a protected gem in Australia’s south.
We’ve been told that Thursday night is the big night in town. The pub directly across the road from us does five-dollar steins. Yes. Five. Dollar. Steins! Mongrel and his mates come down to join us and pretty soon we’re sinking copious amounts of beer while shooting pool and the proverbial shit. Celeste comes down to join us, with a girlfriend in tow. Apparently, this girlfriend is well and truly up for a threesome with her and Fitzy. Happy times for Bin Bin! Soon enough, he’s making out with both of them at the bar and looks set for a great night. Thing is, his confidence is at an all-time high, so when a pretty girl walks past and strikes up a conversation he just can’t help but bite. Uh-oh. He’s mid-conversation with this girl when the other two members of the potential ménage à trois return from the bathroom. Celeste goes ballistic and storms out of the room with her friend. The pretty girl is disconcerted by this uproar and flees the scene. Tim’s gone from hero to zero in a matter of seconds. He runs outside to patch things up and we continue to sink steins.
By this stage, we’ve downed four or five and are well on our way. I start chatting to a girl, who invites me to the nightclub across the road. I accept and tell her I will be there shortly. I step outside to try to round up the troops and see Tim making out with the two girls again.
‘Don’t you wish you were that guy?’ a local asks me.
I laugh and ask Fitzy where the rest of the crew have gone. Apparently, they’re inside doing shots. Shit, I’d better partake. After a few Jägerbombs, we’re all feeling club ready, and Archie and I decide to head back to the hotel to get changed. We walk outside and Tim is nowhere to be seen. Good for Tim! There’s only one place he and the girls could be, though, which is awkward because we need to get changed or we won’t be allowed in the club. We assume they haven’t been gone long and leg it to room 214. Bouncing around in the elevator with a few litres of beer and shots of Jäger in us, Archie and I jump out of the lift and run to the room. The door is ajar so I burst in with the salutation, ‘How’s the group sex, fuckers?’
Archie flicks on the light behind me, and to our confusion and amusement we are greeted by the distressed shouts of three senior women all sat up in bed in their nightgowns. They even have those weird old-fashioned nightcaps on! I’ve never even seen a person wear one until that night. In my drunken state, they provide quite the spectacle.
‘What?’ the poor old ladies all cry in unison.
‘Oh, dear me,’ I manage, as the fluoro light finally flicks into action and illuminates the room properly. ‘This isn’t room 214 is it?’
‘No, it’s 314!’ they all yell at me. Oh … I see what’s happened here.
‘Right, well, your door was unlocked. And this is quite awkward, so we’re going to go now. Very sorry to disturb you, have a good night!’ And with that Archie and I flick off the light, slam the door behind us and burst out laughing as we run down the hall.
This time, we make sure to hit 2 in the elevator and surge into 214 to see … nothing. An empty, silent room. Interesting. And convenient for us. We get changed and head back across the road to round up the other local lads before going clubbing.
Major problem: the pub now has security on the door, and the bouncer who greets us is none other than the angry security guard with the shaved head who kicked us all out of the tennis earlier in the week! A smug grin crosses his face as we reach the front of the line, and we don’t even bother taking our IDs out. We spin around on our heels and head straight for the nightclub. Luckily, it is a two-minute walk across the road.
Once inside, we grab some shots and I bump into the girl I was chatting to earlier. Archie stumbles off somewhere and I go for a dance. An hour later, my new-found friend returns to the hotel with me. She’s very amused to find Archie passed out on his bed with the remote control still in hi
s hand. He’s dead to the world – just what I was hoping for.
I wake up in the morning, next to my Taswegian friend, and find both the lads in their respective beds across the room. As I make a trip to the bathroom, I notice a bundle of stools piled up against our hotel door from the inside.
‘What’s going on with this makeshift fortress?’ I ask the boys.
‘Umm, yeah, that was to stop psycho bitch from busting in here at 5 a.m. and murdering the lot of us,’ Fitzy mumbles from under the covers.
‘Right, of course,’ I reply. ‘What the hell happened, Fitzy?’
‘Well, she got all jealous and clingy again, which is not a good thing if you’re trying to tee up a threesome. We started arguing and she really pissed me off, so we got into a barney … again, and I just bailed and came back here. Then I remembered how she got in here the other day by programming a key at reception, so I devised a makeshift barricade and finally got some shut-eye!’
The Hobart sun rises on a disgruntled psychopathic nymphomaniac receptionist, an unforgiving security guard, a perplexed local girl whom I’ve just put in a taxi, and a bunch of hungover mates reeling from epic stein intake. We’ve certainly made our mark on this city, and it is time to move on. Just across the Bass Strait, Melbourne calls with more fun in store at my favourite tournament of them all – the Australian Open. Luckily, another receptionist is manning the desk as we check out. We hail a taxi and Fitzy sums up the collective feeling while loading his bag.
‘Well, it’s been a sick week. Thanks, Hobart. Now let’s get the fuck out of here!’
‘Hey, you can’t complain,’ Archie chides. ‘At least you got it on with the hotel receptionist – none of the other lads have ever managed that feat on tour!’
Game, Set, Cash! Page 17
