by Steve Deeks
The final straw came when I had to get myself to an obscure location for a match, with nothing more than a map and weekend public transport to rely on. The journey was fine until on the second bus I caught, I had to figure out where to stop. I told the driver the name of the place I had to be at when I boarded and asked him to let me know when the stop was. But as we got to the area he emphatically revealed there were no sports pitches in the vicinity anymore. With few alternatives I stayed on the bus and rang Franco, who was not impressed. “You have problem, you find solution,” he shouted and hung up the phone.
“Tosspot”, I replied, shaking my head.
With all other passengers having got off the bus, I was now standing right at the front having a full blown conversation with the driver, who rather than going back to the depot was going out of his way and driving aimlessly around trying to find this place no one had ever heard of. With us getting increasingly lost, I told the driver enough was enough, just like when a doctor makes the decision to stop trying to revive someone. I knew Franco would be exploding with rage but if a bus driver with 30 years experience on the road didn’t know where it was then what chance did I have?
I got taken back to the depot where I was ushered into a room with other bus drivers who were chatting and joking. Before long my predicament was the focus of fevered discussion, with the unanimous conclusion being that nobody had a clue where this venue was. The only good thing to come of my aborted two-hour mission around Sydney to nowhere was that I had bonded with the lads from the depot.
I didn’t know if this was in any way down to my sudden development of tourettes. Although I am partial to the occasional use of industrial language in the right environment, for some unexplained reason here I was in front of a group of strangers freely throwing about expletives. “Ever since I made my way out of the fucking hostel, it’s been one fucking thing after a fucking another. I’m going to have to fuck off this football coaching if I can’t fucking get to the fucking matches. That Franco’s a fucker.” My shame was exacerbated by the fact the whole group of guys were hanging on my every word, having found it extraordinary but refreshing that an English man had rocked up with a driver in the staff area of the depot, who, out of the goodness of his own heart, had bravely tried to get me to the match. This, I was told by one, had never happened in the 25 years he had worked for the company, so naturally I felt a sense of honour and pride in such special treatment being bestowed upon me.
It has to be said, though, that in my adrenalin fuelled rant I was largely oblivious to my loose language. I was hardly a shining example of Mother England, but I put this down to multiple strong coffees I’d had and the stressful ordeal that I’d been subjected to. “I’ve never heard someone swear so much in my whole life,” one of the men, approaching pensionable age, commented with wonderment. But, despite this, and somewhat out of the blue, I was then offered a job as a bus driver by whom I presumed was the boss. Needless to say all the other men rallied around in ferocious agreement, desperate to get me to join up. I had never felt so wanted in my whole life. Nearly falling off my chair and spitting out my coffee, I took several minutes to regain my composure, such was my shock at the unexpected offer. They clearly didn’t know me as well as they thought they did.
Nonetheless, I thoughtfully chewed over the proposal for a few moments. As I pondered, however, less than glorious memories of various driving experiences popped into my head, including the time I drove a truck for a delivery job where after successfully dropping off some items the gods were against me when misfortune saw me reverse into a high brick wall, knocking half of it to the floor, before speeding off in a kind of hit and run. Things got worse for me that day as the company whose wall I had knocked down informed the agency that I was working for (it was my first and last day in the job) that one of their drivers had left a mountain of bricks where there had once been a wall.
To further compound matters, on the journey back the driver door had for no reason suddenly swung open while I was motoring at 70mph, leaving me clinging on for dear life. My misery was completed a short while later when I couldn’t work the truck at a busy roundabout for several minutes due to a shockingly stiff clutch, causing a huge tailback of angry honking motorists. I may also have knocked over a road sign, though I couldn’t be totally sure because of the restricted view. Of course, I put all this down to the large, oversized contraption I was driving. So although I wanted to say yes to the bus job, I knew that on the grounds of safety (mine and the public’s) I couldn’t and had to come clean. “I will kill someone if I’m driving a bus in the city,” I said, albeit with a heavy heart.
After delivering the damaging blow to my fans, I was told by the saintly driver that I could be dropped off in the city free of charge in an out of service bus before it collected customers. I gladly accepted the offer and made it clear I would like to thank him officially. I was given a website address and instructions to follow by one individual, who revealed his colleague had been put through the mill recently following a malicious unfounded complaint, which had nearly ruined his career. So after being dropped off in the city I immediately went to an internet café where I filed a glowing report on the driver for his efforts in going “above and beyond what was expected” of him. I later found out he had been put forward for a commendation, which he truly deserved. I don’t know many public servants that would have gone to such lengths to help a member of the public.
While sat at the computer I checked my emails where my eye was conspicuously drawn to a message that appeared from Franco titled, “Ghost??????????”
In the email he had the cheek to question my commitment to the academy while leaving the door open for a return. Having decided that it wasn’t feasible for me to rely on others or indeed public transport to get to matches, I left a reply confirming my departure. Following this, I was told by a friend, Tobias, at the coaching academy that the mere mention of my name was banned and if anyone was heard saying it Franco would erupt like a volcano. “He’s an English son of a whore. No good. Bastard,” were apparently his last words of me. In the interest of stirring things up Tobias took things upon himself to often deliberately talk about me in front of the Chilean and how well I was doing.
Chapter 5 – A new home
Following two weeks of purgatory it was time for me to move into the $18 a night 20-bed dorm hostel down the road that I had been promised. I must admit the thought of sharing a room with 19 strangers did not exactly fill me with joy but the dirt cheapness of it was a massive appeal.
After doing the formalities of signing in I heaved my way up the spiral staircase from reception to level 3 and, after steadying myself, made my way down the corridor to room 301. I didn’t need to use the key card as the door was propped open by a flip-flop, which I found intriguing and sensed was an indication of the room’s happy go lucky nature. I paused warily, before gently pushing open the door and quietly slipping into the giant sized room. I had never seen so many beds in one place and thought I had accidentally been placed in a homeless shelter.
There were bunk beds running parallel all the way down the room, with ridiculously cheap plastic chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a sofa that looked like it had been plucked from the dump – no doubt it probably had. Unsure which bed I was supposed to have, I wandered cautiously about before spotting a bottom bunk bed in the corner that looked free. I glanced around the room and noticed a handful of people on their beds who were listening to music, on their laptops or reading.
I felt like I was in a gold fish bowl, with every move observed by the sea of watching eyes. With my new environment I knew that even such luxuries as a brief scratch to my balls would now have to be performed with great care when no one was looking, rather than the usual elongated hearty rub until I felt immensely satisfied the itch had gone. The same principle applied to my bum, while I also knew I’d have to be wary of releasing bodily odours when close-by to others. After all, I’m English not French.
Not to mention th
e greater care I would be forced to take in covering my genital regions, particularly when wearing boxer shorts that offered little in the way of coverage. I could just picture the scene where I was introducing myself to fellow backpackers, before returning to my bed only to realise in horror that my manhood had been poking out the side, or one of the many holes, in all its glory. I would then forever be known as “Winkle Steve”.
I decided to check out the facilities. Wandering into the kitchen I pulled a glass from the shelf to refresh myself with some water from the tap. As it flowed out I noticed it was a bright white colour, almost identical to what you get from cows. “This must be the milk tap,” I mocked, holding the glass up. Bravely, I took a gulp hoping I wouldn’t be poisoned, before noticing there were two fridges that had bags with everyone’s food in. There was a large table in the middle with two ovens in the corner. One of which had a sign, “Not working”, that due to the smattering of old food looked like it had been there a while. “They like to keep on top of things here,” I observed and walked out shaking my head in disgust.
Next, I went to the toilets and shower area. Although the toilet seat was hanging off, everything else appeared to be in working order. Having fetched my towel I then entered the shower, where there was an arrow pointing clockwise for hot water. I turned the knob, naturally expecting lovely heated water to come effortlessly flowing out. But instead was only intermittently sprayed by ice drops shipped in from Antarctica. Jumping out of the line of fire I quickly fiddled with the handle and was finally rewarded with the occasional drop of lukewarm water, after figuring out the knob was the wrong-way-round.
To make matters worse there was someone in the shower next to me, clearly enjoying a warm soak while blissfully humming to himself. Looking down at the floor I noticed a gap at the bottom of the separation in which I unwittingly saw the reflection of the man. It was far from a pretty sight. But with me now totally naked I suddenly realised that if I could see his reflection then surely he could see me. Without a second’s thought I grabbed my towel and leapt out of the shower with foam from my shower gel still frothing under my armpits.
After quickly drying off and throwing on some clothes, I popped out for a solitary evening of food and beers before returning to the hostel around midnight. I gently pushed open the door. The lights were off and people were sleeping so rather than wake the whole room up I used my trusty mobile phone light to guide me to my bed. Following careful navigation, where I somehow thwarted several trips over errant boxes of goon and people’s dumped belongings, I finally got to my bed. Just as I was about to climb in I realised that a strange young woman was fast asleep in there. I was speechless at the sheer cheek of it. I had placed my backpack to the side of the bed making it abundantly obvious that bed was mine and had also, if I wasn’t mistaken, left a pair of shorts on the pillow. Apart from leaving a giant sign stating the bed was taken I really couldn’t have done much more.
After strongly considering rolling her out of the bed and onto the floor before tucking myself under the warm covers, I then decided to get some of the Baltic water from the shower and tip it over her instead. It was the only way she would learn, after all. In the end, though, in the interests of international relations I scuttled off into the darkness after one final look of disgust and shake of the head. It was becoming obvious that in hostel life, lower bunks are a sought after commodity and I knew she had exploited my absence to claim the sought after prize. But one thing was for sure, I wouldn’t forget this.
Just when I was beginning to panic there were no free beds and was about to storm down to reception in my holy boxer shorts, as if by magic I spotted a top bunk that was free in the far corner. After double checking to make sure nobody was under the covers I climbed the creaking steps and collapsed into the bed and fell asleep instantly. Several hours later when it was light but still dangerously early I was awoken by a young woman prodding me viciously in the arm. Judging from the exasperated look on her face she had been there for some time trying to wake me.
The combination of early morning light from the giant adjacent window and her constant stabbing had finally had the desired result as I gradually broke into consciousness. “Sorry,” she whispered politely but firmly, “this is my bed”. I realised I had committed bed theft and naturally blamed it on the girl who had stolen mine.
“Sorry I didn’t realise. But if you want someone to blame then it’s her fault because she took mine,” I mumbled, pointing in the direction of my brief former bed, before uneasily climbing out while trying not to expose too much of myself, knowing full well large clumps of my body hair and saliva would have been left in there for her.
Thankfully most people in the room appeared to be asleep or had got up and were not aware of my indiscretion. Yet again I was forced to scour the room for a bed and after tiptoeing about like a strange voyeur, peeping at bunks before realising someone – or sometimes more than one person – was sprawled in amongst the sheets and assortment of dumped belongings, I eventually found another bed in the far corner. It had been an eventful start to life in the room.
Over the next few days I got to know my way around the hostel a bit more. The level below me, where reception was, also had a bar, although this was only occasionally open. There was also a knackered pool table and a couple of televisions in each corner with some second hand furniture where you could sit and gaze out the window at the busy street. Of course the best aspect of the hostel was the bottom level, where the main bar was located - with its dirt cheap drinks. Although I had been there several times since arriving in Sydney, I was now more of a regular and it wasn’t long before I was on first name terms with all of the staff. I had also begun to get to know some of the characters in my room, following that initial process of weighing up which people you might like and the ones who you wished had never been born.
Already having suffered one experience of sharing with a couple, I was extremely wary of having to put up with more here. But unfortunately my luck was out yet again, as I glanced over and spotted a couple opposite my bed. They were from northern England, but worse than that they just would not shut up. The girl, who would randomly break into song while other people were present in the room, thought she had the voice of an angel. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Her singing reminded me of a cross between a foghorn and a squealing pig – with her face not dissimilar to one either. But for some mystifying reason she thought she had talent. I felt slightly sorry for the boyfriend, who had to put up with untold amounts of agony. Then again, come to think of it, it was his choice to be with her so he deserved everything he got. I shook my head and wandered off to the kitchen for a glass of milky water as reality set in that these were the kind of people I would now be living with.
The habits of the room soon became clear with regular drinking games – even though alcohol, according to a large emboldened sign on the wall, was strictly prohibited – an essential part of the culture. Returning from my forays into the city I would regularly have to tiptoe through a giant circle of drunks spread out in the middle of the room who were downing large glasses of goon. As people became more drunk they would use a window in the corner to go and smoke out of to save them going down three levels. No smoke alarm ever went off (I doubt it even worked) and the room was like being stuffed in a chimney, with a never-ending flow of puffers and the inevitable smog that followed. I got the impression that anything went here, which could only be good news for me. Being nearly a decade older than many in the room, I had resisted offers to join in the drinking, though I had a suspicion that sooner or later, whether I liked it or not, I would get sucked in to a booze-fuelled night.
And so it was. After returning from a walk one early evening I was dragged into a drinking session. My options were either lie on my bed and quietly rage about the irritating noise levels for several hours, or join in and drink their alcohol. So I chose the latter. The party seemed especially raucous and resulted in one person throwing up on someone else’s be
d and another projectile vomiting out of the window onto the street below and splattering on the head of a variety of hapless by-passers.
With only a few survivors remaining by the end of the night I climbed across a sea of horizontal bodies before making my way to the toilet where I pushed open the door that was slightly ajar. In a state of shocked-amusement I was faced by the shocking sight of an unconscious man slumped over the seat with his trousers and boxer shorts down by his ankles. All this while he cupped his flaccid manhood. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had been occurring before he had apparently lost interest and passed out in his state of intoxication.
Overwhelmed by a schoolboy-type desire to share my finding I naturally got some other people to come and have a look. “Someone’s been bashing the bishop,” one observantly shouted deliriously. Realising the humiliation and suffering that could be caused, another lad pulled out a camera and started taking pictures. “He’ll wish he finished the job now,” he said grinning.
The next day various people in the hostel were shown the photos with the guilty party confronted and asked if he had a good time. “Yeah it was alright,” he responded casually, oblivious that half the hostel knew about his nocturnal activity. Deciding to do the right thing, though, we came clean. As he was informed, remarkably, he kept calm, but aware of the gravity of his unfortunate situation proposed a deal: that he would buy the person with the pictures a couple of beers as long as the incriminating evidence was destroyed. It was agreed.
It’s not often in your life you end up sharing a room with total strangers yet here I was going against every fibre of my being and somehow doing just that. Even for the toughest of individuals it was often a testing and surreal experience, particularly when you turn round and see a strange man’s hairy arse staring you in the face, or accidentally catch sight of a dangling testicle. I found it absurd just how many people thought nothing of stripping off in front of a bunch of strangers. Though, I should say that nearly all of those were continental Europeans. While I am proud of my anatomy I wouldn’t dare inflict a free viewing on others. I remember an old school friend who when naked after physical education would vigorously rub himself down with his towel in the centre of the room, which naturally left us all sniggering while doing our best not to be caught looking anywhere near his general direction. And here in the hostel this was the norm among many.
