Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  The man, whose head reminded me of a squashed tomato, was alternating between whaling as if he was being castrated, while, impressively, managing to squeeze out the odd expletive – “Fucking cunts”. But the more he resisted the harder they were on him. As is usual practice, a group of spectators quickly formed to watch the fallen individual, whose crime had been to throw an empty bottle of beer at no particular individual on the street. Sensing the opportunity for a possible story we pushed to the front of the crowd, with Brad and Paul wasting no time in pulling their phones out to record the action, before a hot headed police woman stormed over.

  “Turn those cameras off now before I smash them on the ground,” she screeched, not knowing we were members of the media who had every right to be recording, before aggressively attempting to thwart filming by shoving my colleagues. Two other large policemen backed her up, manhandling Brad and Paul, who soon became apoplectic at their treatment. Just when it appeared they both were about to be arrested, Paul, not renowned for his cool temperament, hit back. “Fuck off, we’re media. You can’t fucking stop us being here,” he bellowed, shaking with rage.

  “You’re such a hero aren’t you?” the cocky female officer responded.

  However, after showing our media cards a strange thing happened; the cops who just seconds earlier were preparing to arrest my colleagues, changed tact, instead preferring the, “Come on let’s calm it down” approach. The crowd had been told to get back, which just left us out front on our own, with attention now firmly drawn toward us. An intolerant officer, curious why I was quietly standing near this heated confrontation but away from the main crowd, ordered me to, “Get back now”.

  With a hint of smugness, I replied, “I’m media,” and defiantly remained where I was stood, before getting out my notebook and pen and jotting down my observations.

  Once the male policeman - anticipating some bad press - had attempted to calm the situation, we turned and made off at a hasty speed with Paul, still in a blind rage, raining expletives into the night air. “Fucking cops, who the fuck do they think they are.” It was decided that we would make a complaint about the female officer’s bullish handling of events. So off we went around the corner to the police station, where upon attempting to file our complaint we discovered - perhaps somewhat conveniently - there was nobody appropriate about to talk to.

  Although adding to the frustration, Brad and Paul were not to be deterred and had now opted that justice would be best served through the forum that was most accessible to us, while having the biggest impact: the media. Paul spoke to his producer and convinced him to run the story. But before he was interviewed back at the TV station I got a few words from him. “It was pretty disgusting the female officer’s treatment of you, wouldn’t you say?” I asked, prompting the inevitable tirade as Paul left no stone unturned in his scathing assessment of the officer’s conduct, to the point where I could quite easily have written a book such was the level of angry comments that spewed out of his frothing mouth.

  Over the following days Paul was all over every major television and radio station, raging about his harsh treatment and how his liberty had been brazenly impinged. Meanwhile, a high-ranking police official was left apologising for the actions of one of his officers after the discriminating video footage was screened in all its glory across television and newspapers. “The officer’s behaviour in this case could have been handled better but she has acknowledged the issue,” the superintendent said, stating the bleeding obvious. Soon after we heard the female police officer, of junior rank, had been taken off the streets in a bid to help her continued learning. “What a shame that is for her,” Paul laughed on hearing the news.

  “Don’t think we’ll be seeing her for a while,” Brad added

  Chapter 14 – Liverpool Council burns down

  It had been a slow night with many false dawns and near misses. Dan was in need of an urgent sugar hit to keep him going for the rest of the shift, so we decided to hit a McDonalds drive-through while out in the western suburbs. As with everything involving my workmate, nothing was straightforward with attempting to order and pay for food proving to be a major obstacle. Waiting in the car with the window open a voice finally came across on the speaker asking for our order. Half way through telling the assistant what food he wanted Dan suddenly had a rethink and instead ordered chicken McNuggets with his ice cream, leaving the Asian employee, who had what could best be described as a limited grasp of English, in a state of dazzled confusion, as he tried to firstly come to terms with Dan and then figure out how to change the order on the till.

  To add an extra layer of confusion for the hapless employee, Dan and myself were debating how much we each needed to pay. By now I was as lost as the servant, as a rather large tailback of cars began to build up behind us. “If I take your $10 note and give you $2 back then I’ll give you whatever change we get back, ok?” Dan said, as he grabbed the note out of my hand and slung it onto the counter along with some coins.

  “No, no, no, you’ve got it wrong. It’s $5.90 not $6.90 for mine,” my colleague, at the top of his voice, unaware of the growing frustration from the cars behind, pointed out to the assistant, vociferously arguing he had been short changed by a dollar. “I’ll tell you what,” he continued, with his finger wagging, “You give me five dollars and I’ll give you four dollars and then we’re equal, right?” The gobsmacked member of staff bore the look of a man who’d just been on the receiving end of a hearty beating. Without understanding the arrangement the assistant gladly accepted the offer, hoping to get rid of Dan as quickly as possible.

  Off we went with our food through the car park, at which point I noticed I had only been given a normal cheeseburger and not a quarter pounder with cheese. “Right let’s go back,” Dan announced without any hesitation, as he lit-up at the prospect of another duel with the incompetent assistant. Once again we made our way through the all too familiar drive-in and back to the window. “You’ve given my friend the wrong burger. He needs a quarter-pounder with cheese. Do you understand?” my workmate shouted in the assistant’s face.

  The shell-shocked man could barely believe his misfortune that having just escaped from us, there we were once again right before his very eyes. “We need you to hurry up as a job could come up at any moment,” Dan added, overtly gesturing toward the radio scanner, as his necked almost reached inside the assistant’s booth. The petrified employee, without asking any questions, scurried into the kitchen and came back with a quarter-pounder with cheese.

  As we slowly pulled off once more, Dan suddenly applied the brake. “I fancy a coffee,” he said, eyes lighting up mischievously.

  “You want to see your friend again don’t you?” I smiled.

  “Yes I do.” And off we went back round again, as Dan roared out his Dracula laugh, revelling in the misery he was causing this particular member of staff. As we got to the counter the beleaguered worker was met by Dan’s beaming face. “Me again!” he announced. “I need a coffee to go. Quick as you can as we don’t want to miss anything, you understand.” The poor guy had the aura of someone contemplating jumping in front of a train as he trudged off to the coffee machine, wondering if he would ever be free of us. He handed over the drink wearily. “Thanks mate, see you again,” Dan added chirpily, only to be met with a wall of silence. I suspected the Indian fellow would rather have his testicles removed than see us again. So for the third and final time we made our way out of the McDonald’s car park and drove off onto the dark streets, filling our faces as we went.

  While slurping on our drinks having scoffed our food down, a series of animated voices came over the scanners. “Red, red, red,” a fire operator shouted urgently. “Red, red, red, the whole building’s gone up.” This happened to be one of the few codes I understood. It was bad. In fact it couldn’t have been much worse. “Liverpool Council building is on fire. Repeat Liverpool Council building is on fire,” the animated voice added. I looked at Dan, who was overwhelmed by it all.
“Well, fuck the Lord,” he said ecstatically. “That place must be the size of five rugby pitches. I knew it, I fucking knew it. I knew something major would be going off tonight. I could smell it in the air,” he added before letting out another Dracula laugh. In all fairness to Dan he had predicted a catastrophic happening at the beginning of the shift. Then again, he often did.

  We raced to the inferno in Sydney’s western suburbs, following the towering flames that were lighting up the dark sky, before heading down the main road less than a mile from the building. We screeched to a halt as fire engines and police blockaded our main route through. “Where’s the media set-up point?” Dan frantically queried, shoving his press pass into the face of an unimpressed officer stopping any motorists. “You won’t be going anywhere if you carry on driving like that. You’ve just accelerated over a fire hose,” the policeman growled.

  “My deepest apologies officer but the council building is on fire and we need to get there.” And without any further delay we reversed at a speed so fast that my head was thrown forward, before we swivelled around like a getaway car in a Hollywood movie, and then accelerated over the fire hose once again as we attempted to find our way to the offices via a series of side roads.

  After several hair-raising minutes of flying around streets in the manner of a racing car, we pulled up in a car park before jumping out and sprinting across a field to the council building while knocking residents, who had come to see the carnage first hand, out of the way. “MOVE…press coming through,” Dan yelled at the startled people. Suffering with a twisted ankle at the time, my cause wasn’t helped by getting held up behind a large group, causing me to lag behind slightly.

  Dan looked back anxiously. “Hurry up Steve.”

  “I don’t think the fire’s going anywhere Dan.”

  We finally got to an adjacent road, about 40 yards from the building, which was as close as we were allowed to be, though you could still feel the warmth of the blaze on your face, which was handy, what with it being a chilly night. Dan started snapping away like a madman. The longer you stood there the more intense the heat got, as the flames swamped the entire chambers (apart from a small annexe); a modern building having only been erected in 1987. A special cherry picker, that gave extended height and reach, was in full operation, as a small ocean of water was unrelentingly sprayed into the middle of the offices where the busy firemen couldn’t get anywhere near.

  Swarms of open-mouthed people had gathered, watching in disbelief as flames dwarfed the place. I had seen some big fires on the shift already but this one made them look like small bonfires. It was an incredible sight. Despite all the firemen and the never ending flow of water, it didn’t seem to be making a blind bit of difference as the blaze raged on.

  We moved to a different side of the building to get another perspective of the inferno, before teaming up to get the usual mixture of shocked residents’ reaction, albeit with a dose of good humour thrown in. “That’ll teach the council for not doing what they said they would,” one man, who could hardly contain the smile on his face, said. We lined up a couple of middle-aged men for a shot after I had interviewed the astounded pair. Seemingly forgetting the fireball was about 50 yards from them - and with more concern for their appearance and new found publicity - the grinning men posed for shots. “Try not to look so happy about it,” Dan said.

  As a regular to fires it seemed people were starting to recognise me as someone always in the background on television after some hideous event had taken place. “I’ve seen you on the TV,” a bearded fellow suddenly announced as we got chatting. “You were at that fire talking to the old lady with the cat where the army veteran was rescued the other week weren’t you?”

  “Yes that was me,” I answered, playing it cool like it was no big deal.

  “Yeah I saw you on TV at the recent stabbing as well,” another man said, which I duly confirmed.

  “I was starting to think you might be the Grim Reaper,” the man with the beard joked.

  “I suppose in a way, I am,” I smiled proudly.

  Standing around during such major incidents, I would grab my opportunities by going for the big interviews with victims or eyewitnesses, who it’s fair to say weren’t often keen or in the right physical or mental state to talk. Of course, I never let that get in the way, though. One of my prouder moments, for example, was getting a grief stricken grandma’s reaction as she was being wheeled to safety with a blanket over her, having just being pulled from her burning old people’s home. The fact this happened to mean I was right in the full glare of the media’s spotlight was just coincidental. Gate crashing chaotic live television interviews had also probably added to my newfound public status; where I would suddenly appear from nowhere to muscle in and fire questions at the interviewee, who was in the middle of speaking to a TV reporter - no doubt ruffling a few feathers in the process.

  In total, during this latest disaster at Liverpool Council, we remained at the burning offices for over three hours and by the time we left there was still no sign of the flames being dampened down, such was the massive scale of the blaze. In the end it took four whole days for it to be completely extinguished. To add to the misery the estimated cost would be in the region of $20m, with neighbouring councils’ premiums rocketing as a result of the insurance claim. Many sentimental items had gone forever in a blaze of smoke and the mayor revealed, somewhat bizarrely, that much of the important paperwork had not been backed up on computer, which appeared a slightly foolish oversight for a large public body. With it seeming as though the fire may have been deliberately started, it wasn’t surprising it went down as one of the biggest arsonist attacks on government property in Australia’s history, with it expected to be years before the building would be restored.

  The big stories were now coming thick and fast and it was only a few days later when I was in the thick of things again, as I was sent out to cover the rugby league Grand Final celebrations. A team called the St George Dragons had triumphed and as a result I was off to their home ground, Jubille Oval, in the southern suburb of Kogarah. I jumped in a company taxi and made my way there.

  Having fought my way through the packed streets of honking cars and delirious fans, singing and waving their flags, I pushed through a queue to the clubhouse, flashing my media pass on the way, before finally gaining entry. After wandering about studying the pictures on the wall and trophy cabinet, I decided it best to get my work for the night out the way as soon as possible so I wouldn’t have to hang round any longer than I had to. I loitered near the gambling machines and bar, eying up people to speak to, preferably those who were not well over 20 stone, blind drunk or who looked like they had served a significant amount of time in jail, who I might be able to grab a quick word from on what this victory meant to them. This left me with few options.

  Finally, I came across one candidate, who looked rather out of place. He was a small middle-aged fellow clearly basking in the glory of the momentous win. I introduced myself and started scribbling down his thoughts, before I got a phone call and was told me there had been a change of plan and that I had to go down the road to the stadium, as the players weren’t going to the clubhouse anymore, where I had been patiently waiting.

  I made my way out and headed toward the stand, fighting my way through the raucous fans, who were still banging their drums and screaming at the tops of their voices. Cars had been brought to a standstill as people climbed onto bonnets, cheering and singing ecstatically, leaving me wincing and constantly rubbing my ears. Nursing a hangover had only added to my woes and it was at this point that for once I craved the comfort of my bed in the 20 bed dorm.

  The enthusiasm of the fans was contrasted by my total indifference. After all, this was rugby league; a sport in England which is only played in a smattering of northern towns, consequently giving way to the vast majority of the country not giving a toss about it. This I could completely understand, particularly as all that seemed to happen would be one playe
r being fed the ball before steaming into a defensive wall, hoping on the off chance they may be able to gain some territory, or even at some point if they were really lucky during the 80 minute match, make a break through and score a try. Anyway, strangely, here in NSW it was the main sport and the players were treated like heroes.

  I made my way round to the press entrance at the side of the stadium and after declaring my name and having it checked on a lengthy piece of paper by a club official, I was eventually allowed through the barrier into the car park. I had received a text from my colleague saying she was inside the stadium and that I had to come down the tunnel. I looked over and saw a herd of serious security men standing around, and checked with one of them I was heading in the right direction. “You better hurry up, the players will be coming out this tunnel with the trophy any minute,” a helpful man said.

  I made my way down the long passage with the noise of the crowd getting louder and louder with every step I took. I noticed the faces of fans peering down the underpass waiting in anticipation for their heroes. Instead, though, they got me. I finally made it outside, with the roaring of the crowd almost bursting my eardrums. I was met by thousands of screaming fans above me in the stadium, as well as those fenced in behind barriers on pitch level as I strolled out toward the stage where the media were congregated, concentrating hard on avoiding falling flat on my face on live television and in front of a stadium full of people. After finding a much sought after space, I glanced behind me toward the packed main stand and gave them a celebratory clap above the head. At least, in my head I did.