Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  Chapter 7 - Messy nights

  Being in the hostel was a bit like being in a halls of residents at university, though I never remember drunk couples barging into busy rooms and stripping down naked and start having sex while others sat a few feet away playing scrabble, as I was delightfully informed one day. Or having sex pest women like an Asian girl with no front teeth and only a smattering of English, who walked round trying to pull men’s towels off when they weren’t looking or rubbing various legs while they were asleep, before eventually getting her rewards, resulting in her being highly regarded by countless men for her altruistic services to them.

  In the hostel people were only too aware that it represented a brief stay so felt obliged to do as they pleased. The worst scenario would be getting kicked out but who really cared about that? Even members of staff didn’t seem bothered about what went on. In fact several females reported that some employees were using the place as a kind of knock-up shop. With the use of the master key they had reportedly been entering female dorms before trying it on, or sometimes taking their drunk captures to vacant rooms. A variety of women spoke candidly of the occurrences but saw it as an annoyance rather than anything more sinister. “He lets himself in and starts trying to touch me when I’m in just a towel the slimy twat,” one girl said.

  The day, though, when the real carnage and scandal took place was on a designated night once a week when the hostel came together. My debut appearance at one of these much hyped nights out started with free drinks – advertised as sangria but in reality was red goon – in the bar area, where backpackers and hostel staff could be seen guzzling away like it was their last night on earth. Many of the men, including the male members of staff, of course, were fleeting about speaking to anything in a skirt, occasionally taking the sly opportunities that presented themselves to gently squeeze scantily dressed bottoms of the girls in a light-hearted kind of way in order to test the water and see if, after they had been plied with alcohol, they would potentially be fair game for a roasting.

  I stood near the bar area, ensuring my drink was always topped up while making small talk with some of the revellers. Feeling like I was in a nursery, I made sure I got more than my allotted allowance of drink before it was time to depart for the bar crawl. Then, after everyone was finally rounded up, we made our way onto the street like a large group of special kids out for a day trip. As we made our way down a packed George Street I felt a lingering sense of humiliation that I was part of this youthful convoy making its way conspicuously through the city.

  After about 15 minutes of purgatory we were finally off the streets and now just exclusively with those of our kind, as we entered a venue rammed with some of the biggest morons you’re ever likely to see. I wrestled my way through all the sweaty bodies to the bar, where holding aloft my drink voucher, I was soon rewarded for my efforts with a beer. A selection of the finest cheesy anthems were ringing out, pounding my eardrums along the way, as all but everyone deliriously jigged around like demented fools. I had only just got in there but wanted to get out already.

  Although a staunch non-smoker, I decided now was as good a time as any to start-up the habit, so made my way to the outdoor smoking area where I lurched a cigarette off a youngster having the time of his life. There I stood, delightedly puffing on the toxic fumes, just grateful to be away from the noise and people. Although I had drunk a fair bit, I found the whole ordeal had sobered me up somewhat. But despite all this I knew I had to give the night a proper chance, even if just so I could collect more damning evidence on why never to return. I sucked in some more smoke, as if to hype myself up, before bravely striding back into the arena like a soldier going into battle.

  Making a beeline for the bar I ordered two beers – one for each hand – and mingled strategically near the exit door. The limited, broken conversations I was partaking in where people would shout and spit in each other’s ears soon came to an end with the announcement of the wet t-shirt competition. Matters were not helped by the customary self-loving pleb on the microphone, who had his shirt fully unbuttoned and thought nothing off continuously grabbing his own balls on stage in front of a couple of hundred people, as if to subliminally reinforce to the ladies out there that he was ready and available for action once his shift finished.

  Exuding a special kind of appeal, he endeavoured to round up some contestants. “Hey ladies,” he bellowed excitedly, “who’s getting their tits out tonight then?” And then looked enthusiastically about the room as several shrieking females bounced their way to the front.

  The showpiece event started with eight eager girls, all of different body proportions, but all desperate to win the not-so-life-changing prize of a trip to the Blue Mountains, or $100, or something equally derisory. Whatever the winnings, surely it wasn’t worth humiliating yourself in public for? But clearly I was in a minority of one. As a Britney Spears song blazed out, all the girls began gyrating, or not so seductively in some of their cases, as they attempted to out dance each other, before the music was stopped and the girl’s performance put to a public vote where whoever got the least shouts from the depraved public was dumped out of the competition.

  And so on it went. By the time it had reached the semi-final things were heating up. As the dancing reached unparalleled levels of debauchery, one girl, the clear outsider, sensing she was facing elimination, went for broke and pulled off her top, leaving her large melon shaped breasts bouncing ferociously like hard rubber balls, much to the delight of the crowd. But despite this bold strategy, it wasn’t mean to be, as she too was cast aside and left to rue what might have been.

  As the final kicked off it quickly became apparent that both competitors would stop at nothing to win. But it was about more than just the prize. Both egos were on the line here and the agony of losing could prove catastrophic for either. Strutting their stuff while maintaining a beady eye on each other, things began to unravel just as the promoters had hoped and before long both were topless and squirting water all over themselves, as if they were featuring in a porn movie.

  But nothing could prepare the crowd for what followed, as out of the blue one suddenly whipped off her thong, leaving members of the crowd open mouthed at the seemingly unprecedented action. “She’s got her muff out,” an odd looking male next to me observed while excitedly pointing, nodding his head enthusiastically. Not wanting to be out done, though, the other girl then jumped into the crowd and plucked out a succession of random men, whose throats she then stuffed her tongue down, after doing the honourable thing of rubbing them frantically in the groin area. The final was going to the wire.

  But in the end the girl who leapt boob-first into the crowd, as widely predicated, just edged it. It was tough on the runner up, who had put so much into the contest but now left with nothing, apart from with her reputation in ruins. Feeling weary after a testing night, at last I could make my way back to the hostel where, if lucky, I might eventually get some sleep.

  The following occasion the hostel went out saw a female mud wrestling competition in the bar area of the hostel. I was beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that the night out was really no more than a vehicle for randy men to ogle and hopefully exploit heavily inebriated, bare fleshed women. What was even more remarkable was that some women were more than happy to play along. As far as management were concerned it was a no-brainer.

  Following a massive build up to the event, with posters plastered everywhere you could see in the hostel and streets, a sense of excitement had spread like wildfire, with backpackers knowing they were in for a real treat. The reception area had been transformed, with a paddling pool of chocolate sauce mixed with ice particles set up in the central area near the bar. The atmosphere was crackling as a sea of travellers packed out the room desperate to watch the dramatic events unfold. I had only decided to come along as I felt it may provide slightly more entertainment than staring at the blank walls in the dorm.

  With barely enough room to breathe in the packed bar
, I did well to steal a vacant chair to stand on after someone had foolishly left it unguarded momentarily. Several girls, leaving very little to the imagination, were stood nervously by the side of the pool as they waited for proceedings to get underway. A trip to the Gold Coast was the prize for the winner – a far more generous prospect than the pathetic one on offer at the wet t-shirt competition previously. In order to claim victory, the winner would be decided by whoever was able to pull off the sock from their opponent’s ankle first. Management’s only other stipulation was that all contestants must, of course, wear a bikini in the interests of being able to perform properly.

  Egged on by the packed crowd baying for blood, the girls threw themselves at each other like sumo wrestlers - with some of the participants coincidentally not looking too dissimilar, it has to be said. I winced at the force some were striking their rivals, especially one rather stocky sadistic girl who was sticking her bulky knee into the head of opponents gleefully. Though, as with everyone else, I would be a total liar if I denied not taking some morbid enjoyment from watching their very public emotional and physical pain.

  As much pleasure as the men took from the fierce battles, it was abundantly clear where the real source of joy came from. Things reached fever pitch on a couple of occasions when, first of all, one girl’s bikini slipped down, leaving her puffy right nipple and breast sorely exposed, much to the great amusement of the viewing public. “I wouldn’t mind a suck on those baps,” a voice shouted excitedly from behind me.

  “They look like chocolate digestives,” another yelled. Of course it had been an accident waiting to happen, especially as her bikini offered very little in the way of adequate support.

  The second highlight - if that was what you could call it - came when one hopeful, taking a battering after having her head thudded against the floor and struggling to breathe in amongst all the chocolate she was being dunked under, somehow reached across and yanked her rival’s g-string down. Although she was unable to pull it down the leg too far she had, nonetheless, made a valiant effort, leaving her competitor’s large round chocolate covered buttocks out on display for all to see. “You should have wiped your arse,” screamed a voice.

  “Yeah put it away I’m trying to eat,” another bellowed. Unfortunately, much to the crowd’s displeasure, the hefty girl had somehow still managed to recover and seal victory and take the crown and, with it, the sought after prize.

  Things were a bit less hectic on the following occasion a hostel night took place, but on a personal level brought me far greater satisfaction after I scooped the prestigious Killer Pool competition, having not missed a shot en-route to fending off some stiff competition from the 20 odd challengers. After seeing the winner of the mud wrestling secure an expensive trip to the Gold Coast I expected a similarly rewarding gift. Yet, my prize? Four drinks of my choice from the bar. Following my flawless display of verve and steel I felt somewhat underwhelmed by this measly prize. In fact, to be more precise, I felt as though I had been robbed, or at best like a beggar who had only been thrown some small change by a passing pedestrian merely as an afterthought.

  I was struggling to come to terms with my winnings, or lack of, which in reality amounted to a pathetic $12, as all drinks were $3. Determined to seek justice I figured in my half drunken state I could save myself some much needed cash on rent by doing a deal with management and getting a prize that properly reflected my unstinting efforts.

  Despite raging inside, I casually strolled over to the manager and pleaded my case that I deserved sufficiently more that what I got. With hindsight I should have realised the futility of my case, after all this was the man who offered backpackers jobs of two nightshifts a week of insanely boring reception work for a week’s free rent, like he was doing them a favour. Clearly a big fan of slave labour and exploitation, he preyed on the naivety and desperation of guests, some of whom actually thought they were lucky to get such a job.

  After the inevitable rejection I wandered over to the bar to collect my winnings in the form of four vodka and cokes – naturally having given the manager the finger behind his back – as everyone was rounded up before we headed out for the next phase of the night. “Come on everyone, drink up we’re leaving now,” the organising girl announced sternly. Once more I felt a deep sense of humiliation at being treated like a small five year old.

  On arriving outside our destination like a bunch of non-violent prisoners on day release, we were then herded up like a bunch of dumb cattle as we waited in line, before being met by a scowling bouncer. “ID,” the big oath growled.

  “There you go,” I said politely, handing him my UK driving licence. He looked at the card and back at me. “How many drinks you had tonight?” Here we go again, I thought. If only I had a pair of breasts and a skirt then I wouldn’t have to go through this crap every time I went to a bar in Sydney. “I’ve had three drinks,” I said sharply.

  “Where?” he replied suspiciously.

  I named exactly where we’d been, which for some reason seemed to catch him by surprise. He paused, staring at me for what felt like an eternity, as he held up the queue to deliberate and emphasise his power. To my surprise he handed my licence back and flicked his head signalling that I could enter. I thanked the lords and strutted down the stairs to the bar and found our rep to collect my free drink voucher, before moments later convincing her she’d dropped it so she had to give me another one.

  I made my way to the pool table in a bid to avoid the dance floor that was overflowing with the usual array of sleaze, jostling for position near anything with a pulse. I teamed up with the Kiwi I had earlier beaten in Killer Pool, as we set about hammering challengers from far and wide who fancied their chances against us. Playing for the right to stay on the table, with the losing duo forced to buy the drinks, brought out the best in my partner, who had upped his game after I thrashed him earlier. It was great for the bank balance, as time and again cocksure individuals would throw down the gauntlet before being sent packing to the bar with tails between their legs to fetch us our victory drinks.

  Before long a posse of onlookers had congregated around the table and adjacent to the bar watching intently as we put opponent’s to the sword with ridiculous ease. Apart from all the free drinks we had collected, and having the pride of winning, avoiding the dance floor was all the motivation I needed to continue the winning streak, until we decided to retire unbeaten when holding a cue straight started becoming a challenge.

  Chapter 8 – The Aussies

  In need of escaping the hostel and the impoverished Veiko – who had suddenly reappeared on the scene and invited himself to sleep on the floor in my room – I went down to a nearby bar to play pool with a random I’d just met in the dorm.

  After a few games we struck up conversation with some Australian lads on the table next to us. One was holding the cue about as well as a baby elephant and occasionally, when fortunate enough, would strike one of his own balls after lining up a shot with his wobbling hand. His other two friends weren’t much better. They were playing winner stays on and I’m certain that had a chimp been there he would have wiped the floor with them.

  We went up some stairs to the tiny balcony smoking area that overlooked the streets, where one of them, Rob, sparked up a cigarette before bursting into a giggle for no apparent reason. I soon noticed that he found a lot of things funny and spent half his time laughing like a schoolgirl and the other half singing the chorus line from various boy band songs. With his slicked hair and sparkling stud in his ear he should have been in one. Darren, showcasing his tattoos and muscular frame in a vest – an item I had noticed was incredibly popular among men in the country – was sipping broodingly on his beer eyeing up any female that came within a stone’s throw of him. Pat, seemed like the sensible one, drinking his beer in a measured fashion. They were all beginning to show obvious signs of drunkenness. “You Pommie cunt,” Darren joked. At least I thought he was joking.

  I knew the term was mea
nt as mildly offensive Australian slang to disparage an English person (with it widely thought to be an abbreviation of Prisoner of Mother England). Although I had known fights to kick-off over less, I took it in the way I believed it was intended - as banter, before naturally coming back with a sharp riposte, “Who’s your Queen?” He paused blankly, seemingly unsure what the relevance of my comment was, before glancing round at a woman’s rather large cleavage. But nonetheless I still got the distinct impression that Darren, a young man of not even 20 years old, had other interests outside of history and politics, with it doubtful he even knew that Australia’s Head of State was still Britain’s very own Queen Elizabeth.

  Appearing well intoxicated by now, Darren and Rob had assumed responsibility of the cloudy smoking room. Anyone who tried to open the door was assessed from behind the glass, before eventually being granted entry. Most could see it was all one big joke but others, desperately in need of supplementing their craving, didn’t always see the funny side. As they shuffled out, having been made to feel about as welcome as a naked male gymnast, the door would be loudly slammed. “See you wank breath,” Darren would shout, or something of equal resonance, while offering various hand salutes to their back as they went down the stairs.

  Before long, anyone walking along the street below had unwittingly become a target. “Can I have a go on those?” Darren, clutching his groin, yelled at an unsuspecting elderly woman, with obvious reference to her breasts. The poor lady looked up and around, unsure where the filthy shouting was coming from, before shaking her head and continuing about her business. The smoking area had been quickly transformed into a something akin to a school playground. It’s funny how alcohol brings out the juvenile in everyone.