by Steve Deeks
It didn’t seem to overly deter the kindly lady, fortunately though. “Oh ok, you better have a drink and come and meet her then.” And then, without having a chance to catch our breath, we were briskly ushered through into the kitchen area where there was another congregation of people, including aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins, who greeted us like family members they hadn’t seen for years. “How are you?” I asked one elderly woman.
“Hello dear, I’m well as I can be considering I don’t walk anymore,” she joked, pointing out her wheelchair. “You look well though?”
“Can’t complain. Really good to see you all,” I responded before pretending I had spotted someone and making my excuses to leave.
As welcoming and kind as everyone had been so far been, again, the party had not quite been as we’d expected. Glancing over my shoulder I spotted Darren roll his eyes as he was introduced to the birthday girl’s grandma, causing an involuntary snigger from Rob, who began performing a rhythmical motion with his groin behind the old lady’s back.
We were guided back outside where the birthday girl was pointed out. Not that this needed to be done as she had several large badges - like a child would - on her top indicating as much. We weren’t able to do the formal introductions at this precise moment, though, as she was otherwise engaged blindfolded while trying to spank a blow-up donkey hanging from the ceiling. Swinging the stick like an aggressive blind person who’d been robbed, she wasn’t having much success. Not until her dad intervened, anyway. Grabbing the stick, he started pounding the donkey like a demented zombie before it finally burst, causing vast amounts of sweets to tumble from it to the floor. Pat and Darren looked like men in a lonely dark place, contemplating how things could have come to this. Personally, I wasn’t surprised one jot.
With a bonfire in full force down the garden, we grabbed our opportunity to get out of the family spotlight and made our way quickly there. To our eternal gratitude there were up to 20 young people drinking and messing about. As I settled down on a seat near the lovely hot fire ready to drink my beer I was suddenly cornered by what appeared to be a rather drunk woman, though she could just as easily been male from her broad jaw and masculine features. Without seeking my permission she then sat on my lap, causing me to almost collapse under her impressive weight.
It turned out she was another keen equestrian and once again, apart from feeling great sorrow for the poor horses that had to cart her about, left me asking the eternal question: why do women who are passionately into horse riding look like their horses? Maybe they spend too much time with their horses and through a kind of osmosis end up looking like one of their animals. Or perhaps it is more to do with them subconsciously presenting themselves in the manner of one of their much cherished fillies. Or then again, maybe they’re just attracted to the animal in the same way that studies reveal how men and women who look alike are supposedly drawn together. In any event, as nice as she was, in a massively overbearing and slightly arrogant way, I wasn’t delighted about her forcing herself on me.
As best friend of the birthday girl - who I’d only just been told was called Hannah - and an honorary member of the family, she felt fit to help herself to whatever she liked. After grabbing me by the arm and pulling me to the kitchen, a succession of tequila shots were lined up and dispatched, leaving me gagging and spluttering on the floor like I was dying of the plague. “Get up you big pounce,” she shouted in my ear as she knocked back a further three shots.
Before long she was telling me her life story and said she worked for her dad, who was a multi-millionaire. “We can rule together, you and me, how does that sound?” she said, seemingly expecting me to get down on one knee and propose by the bonfire. “Yeah sure” I replied, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. And then, to my great horror, I caught sight of her giant horse-like-face moving in for the kill on me like a predator swooping for its prey. “Shit,” I thought, before diving for cover and miraculously managing to get out the way of her dive-bombing tongue. As I looked round while making my getaway I caught sight of her lying with her legs and arms in the air having fallen off the chair following her surprising move.
I urgently needed the toilet so found myself a bush, where as I was ecstatically relieving myself when I heard footsteps behind me. “Only me, thought you might have got lost,” a voice said. I didn’t need to look round to see who it was and knew instantly that it was my stalker. With my exposed manhood dangling freely outside of my trousers I felt seriously concerned about what this crazy girl would try next, especially with her being so temptingly close to it. “Oooh what have we got here then?” she whispered seductively.
“Nothing,” I mumbled fearfully, desperately trying to flick the last few drops of pee out before stuffing my organ back into the sanctuary of my buttoned up trousers. Relieved I had just about protected myself I then suddenly felt a tight squeeze on my buttocks, causing me to jump forward like a jack-in-the-box. “Think I better see where the lads are,” I said anxiously, half expecting to be dragged into the bushes against my will.
I briskly walked up the steps and toward the swimming pool, with my stalker still in hot pursuit, where I noticed some people splashing around. Then from nowhere, Pat, in just a pair of Superman pants, sprinted before bombing into the deep blue water, making a colossal splash, which unfortunately for the poorly placed grandma, left her drenched. She sighed and shook her head with a sheepish smile, before retreating inside for a change of clothes as Pat lined up another dive. “Steve, there you are,” he shouted excitedly. “Get yourself in here.” And without further ado he launched himself into the water again. I politely declined the invitation, especially as Pat was the only one in the pool, and sauntered off sharply. “I’ll be ok thanks,” I mumbled. The only good thing to come out of the tidal wave of water being sprayed everywhere was that it forced my stalker to seek refuge elsewhere, which I was eternally grateful for.
After wandering aimlessly about I eventually found Rob and Darren, who had been drinking in some back room discussing girls. “She’s hot ay. Think I’ve got a chance,” Darren declared as I walked in.
“Yeah man for sure,” Rob, replied reassuringly.
Darren, looking troubled, still wasn’t convinced. “What even though I fingered her mate tonight?” he added holding a couple of fingers up.
Rob, laughing, shook his head. “Yeah for sure man, stop being such a girl about it. She wants it.” And so the conversation went, with Darren attempting to fill a void of doubt created by his wandering fingers.
A short while later he was spotted up against a prominently placed wall close to the house with another female who, with her hand down his trousers, was vigorously thrusting away. It wouldn’t have been so bad but for the fact that a handful of senior members of the party were forced into performing double takes as they awkwardly motioned past.
With the party drawing to a close we were generously invited to stay over by the mother, which was just as well because we had nowhere else to go. We were shown to an adjoining building out the back. As we entered Pat was sprawled out unconscious on a sofa clutching a cushion with just his infamous Superman pants on. We tiptoed in the dark over to the corner where the bed was. It was a single bed so only two people could get in. “You go on the floor,” Darren told Rob.
“No man you go on the floor,” Rob fired back. Without hesitation and not wanting to be the one left on the floor I capitalised on the hesitancy and quickly got under the covers. A mini scuffle broke out to see who would join me. Darren with his bulkier physique brushed Rob off, who was left with a couple of blankets to rest on the hard wooden floor. It wasn’t the most comfy of scenarios but it would more than do under the circumstances.
Waking up to bright sunlight shining directly on me, I rubbed my eyes wearily before slowing getting up and slapping the others. Like a bunch of uninvited guests at a party – which was actually what we were - we made our way awkwardly through to the main area of the house. Despite
feeling like drunk trespassers we were again made to feel at home, with our timing totally perfect, as a fry-up breakfast was being prepared. The hospitable mother insisted we sat down alongside the remaining few friends, including my stalker, and family members, who were intently nattering around the table.
One of Hannah’s friends, a young cheeky lad in a wheelchair, was full of the delights of life after having an enjoyable night. “I had sex with…um… what’s her face last night,” he announced proudly to the table and assembled members of family standing nearby in the kitchen. “She had the time of her life,” he added with a grin. I did a double take at the youngster before glancing over to the Aussies who were all open mouthed at what they were hearing.
The looks on their faces told a story as they struggled to come to terms with how someone in a wheelchair could be engaging in intercourse; especially someone, who in the nicest possible way, looked like Harry Potter. On a personal note I wasn’t sure if raising this particular subject at the breakfast table in front of his friend’s parents and grandparents was the right time or place for such a discussion. But it didn’t seem to matter to him. “She wasn’t as good as the one I had last week,” he continued with a snigger, continuing full steam ahead with his tale.
Thinking the parents would step in and reprimand him for crossing the breakfast table boundary, to my great shock I could not of been more wrong. It was at this very moment that I realised what a truly crazy bunch they were. “Not bad for someone who can’t use your legs are you?” the mother - the person who supposedly sets an example - joked, sparking riotous laughter that almost left me deaf in one ear. “Just think how many more notches on the post you’d be getting if you actually had a working pair of legs?” the father shouted hysterically, as he slapped the guy playfully around the head, provoking further screams of laughter – including the lad himself, who was revelling in his condition.
Although it was almost impossible not to get caught up in the hilarity of it all, I still couldn’t help but find the whole thing slightly absurd. Here we had a lothario who couldn’t use his legs but was irresistible to women. But perhaps more oddly, was how the entire family seemed to take a special delight in mocking the fact he would never walk again.
Clearly feeling pleased with his exploits from the night before, the cocksure guy then took things a step further. “Anyone else get any?” he asked smugly, looking about the room, only to be met with a wall of silence and a few sheepish shakes of the head. “Not bad for a cripple huh?” he laughed. “They all love the wheelchair.”
“Hey mate, what’s your secret?” Darren suddenly asked, still at pains to understand how this machine pulls it off.
“So you want my secrets?” he laughed. “Well, some like the fascination of being with a guy in a wheelchair, some like to be in control and some just feel sorry for me,” he explained. “But as long as I’m getting regular pussy then I don’t care how I get it.” Darren nodded vehemently in agreement, making a mental note of the advice. “Typical,” Pat whispered in my ear. “The cripple gets some action but not a crumb for me.”
After breakfast we were ushered into the lounge to wait for my stalker who had offered to give us a lift back to the city in her sports car. As we sat patiently waiting to leave I noticed a gangly spider on the wall and, more out of passing the time, asked what this frail, static creature was. “It’s a Daddy-Long-Leg-spider, the most deadly one we have in this country,” Hannah added in a carefree voice. “But don’t worry they’re harmless.” This seemed like something of a paradox to me and I could only assume the revelation left me with fear and confusion etched on my face as I tried to absorb the information and deal with the reality that a highly venomous spider was only a matter of feet away from me. “They only bite if you attack them,” the mother added, as if to put my mind at ease.
I still wasn’t convinced and hoped we could hurry up and escape this dangerous craphole. But then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the mother added, “We found a tarantula in the room where you stayed a few weeks ago.” I instantly swivelled round and looked her square in the eyes to see if she was joking. Sadly, she wasn’t.
“We caught it walking along the floor. Mind you, as I’m sure you can imagine with a place like this out in the country, we get all sorts around here.” I took a sharp intake of breath and grabbed my balls for reassurance as my naivety was laid bare for all to see. I was aware that Australia is reported to inhabit more deadly species than anywhere else on earth but somehow it just didn’t occur to me they would be near where I was.
I began freaking out, thinking how I could easily have ended up with one of the vicious hairy monsters on me while I lay blissfully asleep with my mouth wide open. I started itching and fidgeting, worried there may even be one lurking beneath the sofa or under the cushion as we spoke. How do these people live out here? Maybe that’s why they’re all so laid back, I concluded, because if they faced up to reality they would be fleeing the country at a rate of knots.
In the end I couldn’t wait to leave and was almost happy to see my stalker emerge ready to give us our lift. We said our goodbyes and walked briskly to the car where I strategically piled into the back to keep as much distance as possible from her as we made the awkward lengthy journey back, breathing a massive sigh of relief when we were dropped off in the city.
Adding to my spider woes, I was alarmed further when informed from a helpful well-wisher back in the UK that there had been a massive increase of the Sydney Funnel-web spiders (a species which reportedly had caused 13 of the 27 recorded spider related deaths in the country), coincidentally at about the same time as I had arrived in the country. The combination of high humidity and particularly wet weather had been the cause, resulting in the Australian Reptile Centre, which collects captured funnel-webs, having roughly 40 of the spiders once I was in the country but only a mere two before I had landed.
“Watch out for the ‘plague’ of funnel-webs out there,” my kind friend emailed. “They’re ‘breeding-up’ apparently and are ‘coming thick and fast’. Watch your back. Good luck mate,” he added, having quoted from sources in the media. For it to be making news back in the UK I knew this outbreak was severe and decided there and then that I would keep us much distance as humanly possible from rocks, shrubs and trees, though even then I may not be safe with spiders seeking refuge inside buildings due to the relentless downpours. I thanked my friend for his helpful update and wished him good luck in avoiding catching rabies when he was in France for his holiday.
Chapter 9 – Hostel tensions
Over the following days all I could think about was the much anticipated rugby clash between Australia and England at the ANZ stadium, which I was going to with the Aussies and some people from the hostel. It would, incredibly, be the first time Johnny Wilkinson, the hero from the 2003 World Cup victory over Australia, had set foot in the ground since his drop goal all those years before.
Naturally there was a fair bit of banter flying about, with the atmosphere a bit spicy. Fearful of a backlash if we lost, fortunately my prayers were answered when Wilkinson himself strode onto the pitch as an early second half substitute and then, with his first touch, kicked a 50 metre penalty straight over the posts giving us a crucial lead. “Almost as good as you’re drop goal for the World Cup win,” I shouted out boastfully, while surrounded by hundreds of peeved Australians. To make matters even better, the kick turned out to be the winning points, so I wasted no time in rubbing it into my friends. “That must have felt like déjà vu for you lot?” I asked cheekily.
“I’m sick of you bloody Poms,” Pat muttered, though I sensed there was a slight grain of truth to his comment. Rob was feigning crying hysterically while Darren really didn’t give a toss and couldn’t wait to continue his never ending quest for “pussy”. As we left the stadium I grabbed Rob’s Australian flag and put a flame to it, as if to symbolise our triumph, and made sure they all took a selection of photos of me so we could all vividly remember this victor
y.
The serious business of drinking back at the hostel began. I took advantage of a sign that read, “Guests only beyond this point” by interpreting it as meaning that my friends were allowed upstairs even though I had strong suspicion it may just have been intended as a warning to indicate the reverse. In any event, I felt that legally, should anything go wrong, I was on fairly strong grounds because the term “guest” could just as easily have referred to those invited over as to those who were paying residents. I, therefore, took it upon myself to let my friends upstairs where a large crowd of watery-eyed, red-faced people were playing drinking games in the kitchen and hallway, all while crap European dance music pumped out.
We got two four-litre goon boxes after being worried one wouldn’t be enough and began drinking as though we had been stranded on a dessert for several days. Darren’s white face soon turned to a blotchy red colour as he eyed up his female targets staggering about. Meanwhile, Pat was drinking steadily while passionately discussing the poor state of Australian rugby to anyone who would listen. After going awol, Rob suddenly emerged from the out of bounds roof top area - transformed into a smoking area after the door had been kicked in.
We joined Rob, who was smoking like a chimney, and immediately began to up our intake of goon. I fetched a pair of yellow Australian pants I had found a few days earlier and carefully placed them over my trousers in a Superman-type style. Before long I was proudly posing for photographs from people in the hostel I had never laid eyes on.
