by Steve Deeks
“Should’ve brought my walking frame,” Pat mocked, with disgust etched on his face. You could almost taste the awkwardness as we drunkenly stepped inside the hallway past the father’s grouchy face.
As if things weren’t already bad enough, it suddenly dawned on me that everyone thought I was only 24 after this had been broadcast, much to my displeasure, the previous weekend. I felt myself sobering up slightly, fearing that I would be ousted as a sick, untrustworthy Pommie. I knew I’d have to be on my best behaviour and watch what I said. After all, it was one thing pulling the wool over a bunch of youngsters but to actually do it over fully-fledged grown-ups was a whole different matter. I knew I’d have to get my life chronology right, but was fearful in my state of intoxication this may not be possible. Even if I pulled this off I still had to convince the father that I looked and acted as a 24 year old would. Someone of his experience would easily be able to detect a fraud so I decided the best policy was to stay away from him and all the other adults, who suddenly emerged as we entered the lounge, including Clare’s mother and grandparents, as well as some of their friends.
Maybe the father wasn’t aware of his neurosis but he certainly couldn’t hide the fact that he was an over protective parent, as he launched a barrel of questions at us designed to reveal if we could be trusted at this party.
“How old is your car?” he barked at Joe.
“I got it last week mate but it’s second hand, think it came out in 1997.”
“That’s an old car. Is it road safe?” he probed further.
“Yeah had it checked out when I got it mate,” Joe shrugged casually.
“So what are you doing in the country?” It was beginning to feel like a ruthless interrogation, with not even any hint of pretence about being interested in us, just more a case of whether we were worthy to be in his daughter’s presence.
Despite Joe’s full and honest answers to a plethora of inane questions about his car, visa and nationality, the brooding man still remained unconvinced. Joe had not helped his cause by constantly calling him mate, especially when they were about as far from mates as you could get. But I for one was at least happy the heat had not been directed on me. “I didn’t fucking sign up for this,” Joe whispered bluntly, as we finally escaped the hostile father’s clutches.
“I’ll just pop to the car and get the cake and jelly out,” I quipped back.
Finally, we found the party, though it resembled more of a wake with many of Clare’s dozen or so friends looking like they wished they’d stayed in to watch TV at home with their parents instead. Daringly, we got some food from the buffet and took advantage of the vodka on the side. Pat, forgetting where he was, committed the treacherous act of turning up the music to a volume we could now hear, before a cry from the kitchen made it quite clear this was forbidden. “Turn that crap down,” the father’s voice yelled.
“No,” came the brave and surprising response from Clare, who in her inebriated state had perhaps forgotten she was dealing with one of the world’s biggest tyrants.
After about an hour of stuffing our faces with sausage rolls, crisps and cake Joe decided he’d had enough. “I’m off to The Cross mate,” he declared dismissively.
“For a blowey?” I replied, sensing he wouldn’t be going there to drink fine wine in one of the classier establishments.
“Yeah,” he said laughing. “I need to blow my load in some filthy slut’s face, especially after being put through this. Know what I mean? Plus there’s fuck all here.”
“What are you talking about? What about the grandma? You’re not that fussy,” I replied. But it was no good. His mind was made up. And when no one was looking he sneaked out the front door to make the long journey back to Sydney alone.
As Joe left I downed my beer before starting on the wine. I felt myself wobble ever so slightly. I knew that now more than ever I had to maintain a low profile. Yet, somehow, a short time later I found myself outside talking to Clare’s mum, who seemed remarkably sober, particularly in comparison to me anyway.
Paranoid about putting my foot in it I adopted the safety-first strategy of letting her do most of the talking. But inevitably there were gaps of silence in the conversation where I had to employ my quick-thinking skills to fill the silence and prevent the subject venturing onto the subject of me and, in particular, my age or anything that may expose it. “How long have you lived in Australia?” I then asked with genuine interest, attempting to fill another awkward gap.
“All my life,” she replied, looking at me like I was some kind of eccentric Englishman who asks stupid questions. “You silly twat,” I thought, annoyed that I could ask such a pathetically pointless question, which thanks to my non-functioning brain embarrassingly continued full throttle against my will. “Well you must like it here then?” I then heard myself actually say out loud.
“It’s my home, so yes I do like it,” she added, raising her eyebrows suspiciously at me.
“Umm I’m sure,” I said, trying to think of what next to say. “Nice hot weather you get here and interesting wildlife. Must make it all worthwhile.” And with that, she smiled curiously and explained that she had to go and see to the other guests. I may not have made the best of first impressions but I had at the very least preempted any possible inquiry into my age.
With my head spinning, I poured myself a large vodka and made my way outside to get some much needed fresh air. Needing to be alone, I stood away from everybody else, who was stood near the swimming pool merrily drinking and chatting away. I thought the crisp oxygen would have resolved my sudden onslaught of head pain, but if anything the outside lights glittering against the swimming pool in the darkness made my predicament all the worse. And then disaster struck, as like a punch-drunk boxer who’s been on the end of a battering and is desperately fighting to remain on his feet, the overwhelming hammering on my body could no longer sustain the vast concoction of alcohol I had consumed, causing me, as if in slow motion, to fall uncontrollably backwards. Before I knew what had happened I had smacked into the conservatory window and then rebounded, ending up on a heap on the patio.
All conversations came to an abrupt halt as everyone’s eyes immediately turned on me, as I struggled to regain my composure and get to my feet, which finally I managed, albeit with all the ease of a wheelchair-bound 94 year old who only occasionally uses their feet. I spotted the stern father shaking his head glumly from the other side of the pool. To add insult to injury - and I was injured, with several grazes to my elbows and knees - Rob began laughing like a hyena at me. But, spotting my chance to desperately divert attention away from me, I cunningly attempted to use this as a cover up. “There was no need for that Rob,” I said indignantly, shaking my head like a man who had been on the receiving end of a prank, or specifically, in this case, of a tripping up. I then stood there brushing off the dirt from my trousers before swiftly retreating to the sanctuary of the house, still shaking my head like a victim, where I got myself a beer.
I luxuriated in the solace of my own company for a period before bravely returning outside with Rob and Pat. As if my attempts to remain under the radar were not going badly enough, I then heard a shout from the other side of the swimming pool where a bunch of Clare’s friends were bouncing away carelessly on a trampoline. “Hey Steve, you’re not really 24 are you?” Darren’s friend, the loud-mouthed girl who’d questioned my age when I’d met her the previous week, shouted aggressively. “cat’s out of the bag,” I thought. This was hardly the ideal scenario, especially as I was surrounded by a pack of blood thirsty wolves ready to rip into me.
I would have preferred to come clean and reveal my age but with so many people already thinking I was 24 I felt like there was no going back now. I took in a deep breath before opting to use humour as my get-out-of –jail card. “You’re right,” I joked, “I’m only 19. How did you know?”
Unfortunately it didn’t wash. “Come on, we don’t think you’re 24. How old are you?” I felt somewhat disg
usted that they could think that I, a youthful looking sort, could definitely not be 24. In reality I was only six years older than they thought I was, which wasn’t that much of a difference, so why the big debate? I laughed off some further attempts to extract my age before Darren, in his drunken state, almost dropped me in it with his stupidity. “Steve, Steve….you’re 24 right,” he whaled laughingly in a moronic voice.
Attempting to put the whole thing to bed one final time I added passionately, “I am 24 thanks, maybe I look a bit younger maybe I look a bit older who knows”.
“Well we think you look about 27,” came the reply. She wasn’t going away easily and was starting to get on my nerves. I shrugged my shoulders and sipped some of my beer. I had rode the storm as an uneasy stalemate descended, with many still not sure what my age really was. In any event I couldn’t believe this fool had made such a big deal about what in her eyes was just three years anyway. True, she had been right that I was older, but ironically her estimate was still three years short of my real age, at least giving me something of a boost in amongst the interrogation.
As the party slowly started to clear out I bumped into Pat who had been outside with Darren. “Good to see all those old wankers finally leaving,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief they had even been there to begin with. “Imagine having a dad like Clare’s though,” he scoffed.
“Yeah bet her mum could do with some fresh cock being stuck with him,” Darren added excitedly, grabbing his crotch.
“Yeah man,” Rob said, motioning like he was thrusting on a horse, ”I’d ride her like Zorro and spunk in her hair.” And then, much to everyone’s deep shock, the mother walked out from behind a door and delivered a steely stare, before abruptly going upstairs. “I think she’s waiting for you lot in her room,” I quipped.
“Shit do you think she heard?” Pat said, fear breaking out across his face.
“Who gives a fuck?” Darren hit back, after a long pause of us all wondering if we would be turfed out onto the streets for the night having assumed, with our lift departed, we would be crashing there.
With the party now clearly at an end we sought confirmation from Clare whether it was alright for us to stay. Naturally she said it was but I wasn’t convinced the power-holders of the household would necessarily be of a like mind. Minutes later we heard intense muttering reverberating downstairs that was clearly not meant for our ears. “We’d both rather they didn’t stay, they’ve been nothing but trouble. Darren’s been like a leach all over every girl, while that English guy nearly broke the conservatory window,” I heard the serious voice of the father say.
“They’re my friends and it’s my birthday though,” Clare replied stubbornly. “If you don’t let them stay then I will leave home and you’ll never see me again.”
It all seemed a bit far fetched, but nonetheless seemed to do the trick. “Ok they can stay just this once,” the father, who was clearly some kind of control freak, answered reluctantly. “But if they do anything then they’ll wish they’d never been born.”
We were conveyed the good news by Clare – “You’re more than welcome to stay” – and were given a selection of worn covers that we could barely stretch over us, as we settled down on the floor next to the dog’s basket ready to conk out.
I woke some hours later with a colossal hangover and a dog licking my ear. To make matters worse the dog had knocked over a glass of water on my socks, which I had taken off once hot enough under my cover. There was no way I was going to walk round with wet feet before making the long painful journey back to the city and fortunately Pat, showing fine initiative, spotted an opportunity with the microwave, which he duly placed them in. When I got them out they were hard and crispy but more importantly they were warm and dry. I spotted the father, who appeared to be doing his best to avoid us, walk past the room shaking his head at the latest escapade.
Ready to leave now, we said our goodbyes and made our way slowly out of the front door with Clare, who was giving us a lift to the nearest train station. Just as we were half way down the pathway, the father came rushing out. “Make sure you drive very carefully,” he warned desperately. Despite thanking him, we were left with nothing more than a stony silence. It was obvious that he hated nobody more than us in the entire world. After a long journey back in silence to Central station, I made my way to the hostel where I collapsed into my bed.
Having miraculously saved my liver and bank balance for a period of days I was reunited with the Aussies the following weekend, where we were off to a place called Northolm, somewhere out to the west, as Darren claimed he knew of a party there. As usual the plan to get there was vague at best. We supposedly had a lift lined up at a nearby station and after stocking up on enough alcohol supplies for a small army began our epic journey to get there, which we were told would take anywhere from an hour and a half to two hours.
I was struggling to get my head round how far away everything was in this giant country and how the Australians would think nothing of a trip this length for a party, whereas in England if you embarked on such a trip for another potentially anti-climatic gathering, you would be considered insane or desperate or both.
The journey, as expected, took an age. Though, we were not helped after choosing a train that stopped at every station. Fortunately to keep us entertained, while knocking back our large bottled beers that we had disguised in tramp-style brown bags, we had Rob singing some pop songs in his distinctively high, squeaky voice, while bursting out into the old jig around the metal pole that most ordinary people use to hold onto when standing. Darren, already feeling the effects of a few beers, was picking on a selection of random targets sat nearby minding their own business. “Hey there mate,” he sniggered to a shy Asian man, who looked up from reading his book. “You getting some pussy tonight?” The spectacled individual frowned and buried his head deeper into his novel, sparking hilarious laughter from the Aussies.
By the time we eventually got to the station I had consumed several of the large bottles of beer. “This crap’s done nothing,” I said brashly as I swayed my way out of the exit. After finding our lift in the car park I was taken aback when a vile female whose face looked like a cow’s rear, confronted me having apparently been at Clare’s party the previous week. “I see you’ve had a shave then this week,” she screeched, attempting to make a public scene. “How old are you again?” she continued, her face all screwed up with fury, as she exuded all the charm of Cruella Deville.
“Is it an offence to shave now then? Perhaps you should try it,” I fired back sarcastically.
My canny response momentarily threw her, before she came back for some more. “Well, I know you’re older than you say you are. Look at him, don’t you think he’s older than 24?” she added venomously, pointing at my face from no more than two feet away to the man who must have been her extremely unfortunate boyfriend, who just shrugged his shoulders.
“Look,” I said, sucking in a lung-full of night air after growing increasingly irritated by her vicious assault on my age. “If I’m honest I think you need radical facial surgery. But you don’t hear me going around shouting about it and waving my finger in your face do you?”
“Oh my god,” she yelled angrily. “You’re such a lying dick.”
“No, I was telling the truth. The sooner you get the surgery the better.” And then I glanced toward the boyfriend. “Mate,” I said comfortingly, “you can do a lot better than this.” I pointed with my eyes at his girlfriend. “I would suggest your quality of life would dramatically increase if you got rid of her. Seriously.” He didn’t say a lot in return, but I sincerely hoped for his sake that he could rescue himself from a life of misery.
The angry girl stormed off shouting expletives in my direction, prompting me to offer her a saintly wave in return. “Right let’s go,” I said, with a huge grin on my face.
“Ummm we were supposed to be following her to the house as she knows the way,” Clare, who had kindly put herself out to
come and collect us, declared anxiously after the girl had screeched off in her car.
“Oh really?” I replied, feeling a sense of responsibility for us being stuck in a station car park in the dark wilderness with no clue how to get to our destination. But thankfully all was not lost, as after a round of heated phone calls Clare finally had some vague idea where to head.
As we made our way up the dark, winding forest roads my apprehensiveness of what may lay in wait for me at the party, with the possibility of potential further inquisitions, was not helped by Clare’s shocking driving. We pulled up at some temporary traffic lights showing red, where the small matter of the Highway Code was apparently no obstacle, as without a second’s hesitation she ploughed on through, forcing back a car that had dared to make its way down the one-way road. “Female bloody drivers,” Pat screamed.
Following a good half an hour of holding on for dear life in the back of the car we somehow made it to the party. As we pulled into a field adjacent to the big country house, surrounded by giant overhanging eerie trees, we cautiously followed the bright display lights and noise that was coming from the front. My sense of foreboding was worsened after finding out that none of the Aussies even knew the birthday girl and that we had no official invitation. Making our way along the footpath of the ranch, I noticed there were horse stables and a collection of show jumping areas.
Making our way up the steep wooden stairs to the front of this solitary house it felt like we were in the Wild West. As we got to the top, we made our way around the decking area and safely beyond the outside swimming pool without any of us falling in and then awkwardly toward the group of assembled people, none of whom we knew. As if to indicate our awkwardness, we naturally stood alone, before a friendly middle-aged woman approached us. “Hello, how are you?” she said warmly. “How do you know my daughter?” she continued politely, assuming that we must all be very good friends - perhaps from horse racing or wherever – with us having come so far out of our way to see her on her 21st birthday. We all paused, looking blankly at one another. “Oh we’re all mates with Clare and she invited us,” Pat chipped in after an awkward pause, desperately hoping that would suffice.
