Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  Making our way into the hallway, we started on the second goon box with Darren garbling incoherent nonsense to any female with a pulse. The thought of another four litres of the hideous wine seemed to be enough to push him over the edge, as after a few sips the inevitable happened, with a river of projectile spewing from his mouth before he felled like a tree and smashed to the floor. Not wanting to get embroiled in the mess, Pat and Rob sprinted from the scene, while I took full advantage of another great photo opportunity and stood victoriously over Darren’s barely conscious body with one foot proudly resting on his head.

  As I walked into the dorm a knife missed my head by inches before thudding into the wood. “Sorry Steve mate, come and play with us,” Pat, looking as though his balance was in serious decline, shouted ecstatically, seemingly unaware a six-inch army knife had narrowly avoided hitting me in the face.

  “Bloody hell Pat you’re not in the circus,” I shrieked.

  “Yeah I know,” he replied, looking slightly miffed at his poor throwing. “I need more practice.”

  “That was probably the worst throw yet man,” Rob added, once he had stopped laughing. Feeling knackered I crashed out on my bed, where all I could hear was the thudding sound of knives being thrown against the door, before I passed out.

  I woke the next morning with Pat asleep at the end of my bed and Rob lying snugly next to me. I could see Darren across the room on the couch using his leather jacket as a cover. After gently slapping all three to get them up we nipped into the kitchen for a coffee, where I was informed of what a crazy night it was. In full agreement, I quickly realised from the sniggering that other events had taken place once I was asleep. “You know that weird Finnish girl?” Rob said.

  I looked at them, now fearing the worst, “Oh yeah the twitchy one with a moustache.”

  A look of embarrassed delight came over Rob’s face. “Well me and Daz…you know?”

  “You didn’t?” I replied unable to believe what I was hearing.

  Now bursting to get involved, Darren saw fit to elaborate. “Mate,” he started, overwhelmed by enthusiasm. “She was so gagging for it. She was like a river down there, you know what I mean?”

  Rob nodded in agreement. “We had no choice Steve. Anyway she loved it, especially when I spunked on her back.”

  “She loved it more when I came in her face and all over her glasses though,” Darren, feeling outdone, added.

  Rob shrugged his shoulders, “It was funny watching her wiping it off her glasses so she could see.”

  With my concerns that management would come up and spot me with the Aussies, who in their hungover dishevelled states of wearing the same clothes as the night before could clearly be identified as non-paying residents, I ushered them quickly out the hostel.

  After a quick wash to freshen myself up I returned to the kitchen for some breakfast. I sat myself quietly down on the table, where others were gathered intensely eating and discussing outrageous behaviour from the previous night. My ears perked up when I realised they were in fact talking about the Aussies. “Some guys were throwing knives at the door,” a crater faced German woman hissed disapprovingly. “Something must be done,” the gossip added, banging the table like she was Adolph Hitler’s daughter.

  “Oh that’s dreadful,” a whining English girl with a hairy chin concurred. “We must find out who these horrible people are and inform management.” I was surrounded by a load of Mother Theresa clones.

  Later that day, after the enquiry had taken full swing, I bumped into management on the stairs. “I here some of your friends were throwing knives at the door last night,” I was told accusingly.

  “I was in bed so don’t know what happened,” I replied honestly.

  “Well I’ve been told they were your friends so I’m warning you this can’t happen anymore.”

  “What so you’re giving me a warning?” I asked the greasy faced manager.

  He paused bore nodding patronisingly. “Afraid so. Tread carefully from now on yeah?” And with a raise of the eyebrows he began slowly walking off.

  “Smelly tosser,” I said, while making a variety of gestures to his back.

  “What’s that mate?” he said, suddenly turning around.

  “Oh, have a good day.”

  I had my suspicions who had dropped me in it, which were later confirmed by a source. As expected it was the girl in the bunk next to me from Manchester. With one of the most annoyingly whining voices I had ever come across, she was renowned for being a busybody and also had a penchant for putting her foot firmly in it, often causing great offence to anyone within a country mile. And all without knowing it. Nevertheless, I now knew I was skating on thin ice, despite my “long termer” status, having been there for several weeks.

  My attempts at keeping a low profile took a further blow a few days later when out with some other people from the hostel. While drinking in various bars before returning to the hostel for a few drinks, things were naturally getting a bit rowdy. When the bar shut we went upstairs and stormed into the kitchen to drink more. “Let’s rock ‘n roll man,” one highly demented member of the group blasted, before grabbing a beer from the fridge and throwing it down his throat. Clearly pumped up, the man suddenly started to lay his hands on a variety of vegetables, sauces and cutlery. For a moment I thought he was hungry and had decided to engage in an impromptu feast, before his real intention soon became obvious.

  He yanked a cabbage from the fridge – I had a feeling it didn’t belong to him – before, like a shot-put Olympian, launching it as hard as he could against the wall, causing it to smash to smithereens on impact, with some sticking to the tomato sauce and washing up liquid that had already been sprayed up. “Fucking wanker, putting up my rent,” the individual raged, before lobbing plastic cups and bowls across the room and then, just for good measure, squashing a sausage roll and some eggs on an adjacent wall, which had come to look like a smudged rainbow by now. His whirlwind onslaught continued for several minutes before he finally paused for breath. “That’s better,” he said with relish, followed by school-boyish sniggering. “How much did they put your rent up by?” I asked curiously.

  “An extra $10 a week,” he replied with sheer disgust. “Oh well, least they’ve got a bit of payback now.”

  The next morning the news was all over the hostel. People were outraged and rumours were rife who had committed such a despicable crime. The usual gossips were in their element and knives were out with fingers pointed at potential suspects. I had that sinking feeling again, knowing full well that my proximity to events could render my place in the hostel in jeopardy. On the positive side of things there were no witnesses but I knew that word spread like firewood in this place. With an inquiry in full swing it was inevitable that questions would be asked.

  It soon transpired that the demonic culprit had preempted any consequences by jumping before he was pushed. With a strong whiff of suspicion sweeping through the place he had abruptly left the hostel. Naturally everyone assumed that would be the end of the matter. But to my surprise, I was approached by management. “You were seen on CCTV by the kitchen. Did you have anything to do with the mess?” I was asked.

  “I think a lot of people were drunk but I didn’t make any mess,” I replied candidly.

  “Unless you tell me who did it and what happened then you’ll have to leave,” I was then told, rather harshly I felt.

  I couldn’t believe my bad luck. Out of the two incidents I had not done anything and here I was facing the chop. “We think it was the guy that’s left but I want to know for sure,” management continued. Knowing that the guilty individual had moved out, I decided I would not be breaking any street code in confirming his actions. I felt like a police informant who had no choice but to offer the information. Despite my innocence I knew I was a marked man and in last chance saloon to stay in the hostel and so did the only thing I could do. “Of course it was him,” I said shaking my head outrageously, as I thought back to events. “
I don’t think you need Sherlock Holmes to figure this one out. He was going on about his rent going up and didn’t seem too happy about it.”

  The manager nodded understandingly, “Ok thank you, that’s the end of the matter. You’re safe.”

  Chapter 10 - Minesweeping

  Now well into my overdraft and with money at an all time low I was forced to make some dramatic changes to my lifestyle. Even if I had wanted to I couldn’t have afforded to get a flight home so had to somehow dig myself out of the mess I was in. The first way of solving my crisis, I reasoned, was to get some work. The second was to not spend as much when going out. After all, Sydney was dangerously expensive and money just seemed to evaporate on a night out.

  On countless occasions I had looked in my worn old wallet the day after a night out expecting to find a few notes only to stare blankly at the gaping emptiness. Hitting the bars, where drink prices would leave you feeling robbed, was the chief source of money loss. Having identified the problem, something had to be done about this.

  Whilst talking to a new arrival in the dorm, an equally poor Scottish man named Fraser, we soon began discussing strategies for saving money over $3 beers in the hostel bar. Such was the tight-ship Fraser was sailing with only $20 to his name having just paid his rent, he made it clear he could only afford six beers that evening.

  Trying to figure out the riddle to our money problems, our moods were momentarily brightened after spotting a lone man in his sixties across the bar who, with his distinguished grey moustache, looked a dead ringer for Dick Van Dyke from the American hit show Diagnosis Murder. After expertly taking a range of photos of him, with either myself or Fraser in the shot, without his realising, of course, we eventually concluded that the only way we could sustain our drinking (after all, living in such inhumane fashion we were not prepared to give up our only vice) when out in bars was by employing a technique known as minesweeping: the act of taking vacant drinks belonging to others, whether deliberately discarded on the side, or not. “The beauty of it is that people forget which is their drink,” I explained passionately. “So even if they pull you up for taking their drink, you just say ‘Sorry mate I thought it was mine’. Normally you’ll get the benefit of the doubt because, let’s be honest, we’ve all accidentally taken the wrong drink when drunk at one time or another.”

  My experiences as a bleary eyed 17 year old out for the first time in pubs with just £5 in my pocket for a night out had given me some early experience of exploiting the drunkenness of others. I remembered the profound sense of satisfaction I got from my first ever minesweep: a fresh pint that was full to the brim with delightful froth spilling over the top, after some towering unsuspecting fool had made the schoolboy error of looking away when I was near. How I used to revel in such opportunism. The adrenalin rush from such a coup was immense, especially after seeing the look on their faces as they belatedly scanned the bar in sheer disbelief at not being able to find their drink, as I blended gently into the background. Often they would then take someone else’s pint to counter their loss - resulting in an ugly confrontation. But mostly they would angrily queue up at the packed bar again.

  There was a sliding scale on which drinks to go for depending on how full they were. But it all depended on how low you were prepared to stoop. Sweeping a three quarter full drink was considered a fine result, but taking less than a quarter of a drink, for example, reflected a degree of desperation with that person’s backwash likely to be significant and therefore didn’t carry the same degree of prestige as an infinitely fuller glass. I didn’t really have any boundaries and if it was a slow night with not many drinks on offer I would take the plunge and get what I could, pouring a selection of left over beers into a single pint glass.

  Fraser was no one’s fool and had acquired good experience of minesweeping in his earlier days too and began to enlighten me on the benefits of working as a team. “One of you blocks off their view and then the other one swoops in. Or if you want to be really smart you can distract them by striking up a conversation or dancing right in their face,” he explained cheekily. “Once you have the drink never stay in the same place. Ideally you should be on the move when reaching for the drink and when it’s in your hand quickly move away from the area,” he added thoughtfully. It was sound advice. “If you’re not sure who the drink belongs to while you’re standing by it ready to pounce, then it’s important the other person keeps an eye out for whose drink it may be and gives the signal when it’s safe to snatch.”

  Following our thorough debriefing we decided to put our plans into action the following night as we headed to a popular backpacker’s club. I knew from past experience that drinks were often left at the top of the stairs after people were forced to leave drinks on the side on their way out for a cigarette. This would be our main area of execution, though we would of course remain vigilant to any opportunities that presented themselves around the bar. “It’s simple, when walking up the stairs you have a look and see what’s available and then on the way back in you barely have to pause before picking one up, or two if you fancy it,” I declared confidently, putting my experience of the venue to good use. “You just need to be aware of the bouncers as you return, though normally they are facing outside watching what’s happening out there so it’s pretty safe.”

  After getting in the club we reluctantly forked out for a drink each as we blended in to the crowd, our light jovial demeanour masking our predatory instincts. With it still fairly early we knew we would have to wait a while before the inevitable opportunities began to present themselves. After circling the bar and the whole of the downstairs area for over half an hour we were left disappointed by the lack of options. But we knew the night was young and that we’d just have to be ready to pounce when a chance came our way, like lions seeking their prey. “I’m running low on cash so we need to act soon,” I said anxiously, looking at my bare wallet.

  “Aye,” Fraser, with a look of steely intent, replied, as we were forced to purchase a second beer.

  After loitering at various vantage points around the club we made our way outside. As we trundled up the stairs I was delighted to see about seven drinks on the side by the door – just as I said there would be. I caught a glimpse of Fraser, whose face had lit up with relish at the prospect of finally getting his hands on a hard earned free drink. Most were about half full with beer but I spotted a couple of shorts that had barely been touched. The knowing smirk on each of our faces was growing considerably as we sat on a carefully selected table where we could keep a close eye on the drinks and bouncers. “The last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves,” I stated rationally, before letting out a false laugh to throw off any security, just in case they had smelt the whiff of our cunning conspiring.

  After five minutes – enough time for the doormen to reasonably think we had smoked a cigarette – we casually stood up when there was a flurry of activity and made our way toward the stairs. “We don’t want to leave it any longer as the people might come and take their drink before we do,” I whispered in Fraser’s ear.

  “Aye, we need to move quick like,” he replied, looking every inch a man who was born ready for this. Nonchalantly walking past the distracted doormen avoiding all eye contact as we went, I slowed down on approach to the drinks to buy myself a bit more time in selecting which one to go for. It was a toss up between a half full beer or a short that was nearly full, which had some lime in and was clearly a girl’s drink. After a moment of hesitation I went for the latter and briskly removed it from the side and continued on my way down the steps.

  When at the bottom I saw Fraser grinning while holding a three quarter full scooner of beer. “Cheers, not bad hey?”

  I smiled wholeheartedly in agreement. “Yeah, it’s always a relief to get that first one under your belt,” I said, stirring my drink with the cocktail stick before taking a refreshing sip. “Aha, I’ve got gin and lemonade.” I couldn’t deny that I was pleasantly surprised having wrongly assum
ed it would be vodka and lemonade. “That can’t have been cheap,” I added, taking another luxurious sip.

  Fraser raised a toast, “Aye, and the drinks always taste better when they haven’t been touched.”

  I looked at my drink with a hint of concern, “The only problem I’ve got with this drink is that it’s not going to last me long.” And after a few more sips the rest was polished off. “Ready to go again?” I asked, salivating like a junky needing his next fix.

  “Aye, just give me a wee minute here to finish this one and then we’ll go.”

  Once again we made our way up the stairs to the outside area, but this time it was proving difficult to see what drinks were available as people annoyingly crowded around the entrance. As before, we sat on a table with a clear vantage point before disaster struck, as some drunk and overly friendly Italian men tried starting a conversation with us. “Hello, how are you?” one said.

  “A bit drunk,” I answered abruptly, desperate to prevent any chat that could distract me from my plan of action.

  “You want cigarette?” he replied.

  “No we don’t smoke,” I answered swiftly, before once again turning my gaze to the entrance.

  He looked at us both like we were aliens. “But why you outside if you not smoke?” It suddenly dawned on me as I looked at everyone puffing all around us that by sitting there without a cigarette we had unwittingly made ourselves conspicuous. After all, these people were outside to pollute their lungs, while we were just sat there in the cold night for no apparent reason. At least, this was how it would appear to others. “We’re just outside to get a wee bit of fresh air, it’s hot downstairs don’t you think?” Fraser, thinking quickly on his feet, stated smartly. Thankfully his clever response put an end to any more awkward questions.

  Sharply rising to our feet we said our goodbyes and headed for the door. As I got to the top of the stairs I couldn’t believe my luck. In amongst the plethora of virtually empty and half full glasses was an identical drink to the one I had before. The gin and lemonade, yet again fully accompanied by a stirrer and a straw, had my name written all over it. Without a second’s hesitation I lifted it up with a minimum of fuss and continued on down the stairs. My heart was thumping after a bouncer half swivelled round but I shielded the drink so he couldn’t see it, preempting any possible suspicions he may have after seeing a man holding a girl’s drink.