Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  Bizarrely it was the third taxi that had struck a pedestrian in recent times, prompting calls for more regulations of drivers. Though, as with this case, I very much doubt that would have made any difference where someone has a death wish.

  As the shift could be long and quiet we had to use our initiative to produce material. In particular, I saw it as my duty to target those who rode roughshod over the law. So during an uneventful Saturday night I suggested we do a piece close to my, and indeed many other people’s hearts, on brutish and sexist bouncers. In anticipation of Shane ’s willingness to go along with my crusade I had already started writing up the story days before, such was my passion for the topic. The perfect shot we wanted was either of a gargantuan doorman pounding a smaller guy – something I had witnessed with great regularity when out in the city myself - or a picture of one impishly chatting up a scantily dressed female. After all, I was keen to push the sexism angle, though in truth this didn’t need much help.

  We scoured the city, stopping the car and suspiciously hovering on the roads outside various establishments. But with no violence or sexism to capture after driving round for an hour or so we ventured down a street where finally we noticed a sleazy doorman outside a pub drooling over a young lady, who had legs the size of a giraffe and was wearing a belt masquerading as a skirt. If he had been a dog he would have been panting profusely and vigorously wagging his tail while sniffing her bottom before attempting the inevitable mount. But, just as with dogs, who often seem to be in the dark about the bitches having no interest in them, so it was with this bouncer, who was merely being buttered up to ensure entry. Shane wound the window down and zoomed in to grab some good shots of the Shrek like doorman as he tried to play it cool with his arm leaning against the wall.

  After a further substantial wait, with our patience beginning to run thin, we were rewarded when an odd altercation erupted, between the door staff and two women, of all people. I discreetly rushed over to see what was going on, making sure I blended into the background, but close enough to hear what was being said. One lady was crying after just being thrown out for being too drunk. While it was fair to say the women were of a fuller figure, they seemed perfectly lucid, as they argued their case for re-entry to the disinterested bouncer, who was attempting to usher them away like an irritating fly.

  As the ladies turned to walk off in a sobbing wreck I seized the moment and grabbed them for a comment. “If I was a size eight and beautiful d’ya think he would be kicking me out?” she spluttered, as tears rolled down her face. “It’s disgusting,” she went on, anger levels now notably increasing. “They’re nothing more than sexist pigs.”

  This was pure dynamite and all I had to do was gently prod her in the direction I wanted. “So do you think they let attractive women in the premises who are too drunk or under age?” I asked provocatively, having a slight inkling of the answer I would get.

  “Bloody right they do, no doubt hoping the favour will be returned. They should be castrated at birth the filthy jerks.” As was perfectly normal in the reporter role, I had taken on the role of social worker, helping this troubled soul through a difficult period. “You’ve been a great help. Talking with you has really cheered me up,” she added.

  “That’s ok, I don’t mind,” I said compassionately, before walking off to save some more victims.

  We got back in the car and headed across the city to the various backpacker bars I had been familiar with. I didn’t know of many places where you get told, “You’ve had too many,” before being rudely ushered away in front of a massive queue when you’ve not had a single drop of alcohol, but some of these venues were certainly a bit partial to this behaviour.

  We walked nearby to one of these establishments, agonising where we could get the best shots of the door without them seeing us, before going for the jugular and beaming the blinding camera light right in their face. A disgruntled Irish man in his thirties with grey hairs had just been refused entry for not having identification so I grabbed a word with him and got his thoughts on the door security. “They must have small cocks the way they carry on,” he said in a remarkably calm voice, before turning in the direction of the door and yelling, “Do you have a small cock?” The bouncer looked over and scowled, while people in the queue began sniggering quietly.

  The doormen, by now, were aware of the ambush. It was, of course, a joy to behold watching them squirm, unsure of why they were being snapped. We waited for the inevitable approach. And, sure enough, a short while later the manager walked over to us alongside the bouncer, who true to form, tried to frighten us off. “You need to leave,” the doorman snarled, before showing a not so surprising lack of knowledge of the law, “You can’t take photos of me.” Shane and I looked at each other with a wry smile, after all we had been here many times before.

  The poor bouncer was struggling to come to terms with the role reversal and the fact he could not bully us as he could with desperate punters begging for entry. “I’m afraid we can take pictures as we’re on public land,” I said cheerily.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” the manager asked curiously, while trying to calm things.

  “Nothing much…just doing some research on a story about going out in the city,” I added mysteriously, leaving them scratching their heads as we strolled off into the night.

  Chapter 16 – Out with a bang

  One of the great things about the job was the excitement and variety, not to mention the sheer joy derived from reporting on some of the antics people got up to. Of course, it wasn’t always like that. I couldn’t say my whole soul was completely absorbed when having to chase up some stories, such as whether it was true if Julia Gillard, the newly appointed Australian Prime Minister at the time, had just had her hair and nails done at a Sydney beauty salon. Nor for that matter was I dancing on the table when informed I would be spending a significant amount of time laboriously researching and writing up the best places to go for the children’s holiday guide.

  Episodes like this, though, were few and far between, which was a good job as they brought me out in a cold sweat, particularly as they reminded me of times at an old newspaper where I spent some of the most desperate hours of my life covering parish council meetings at the suffocatingly small local community centre. Without fail every month there would be a bunch of deaf 90 year olds with hearing aids, who bore the resemblance of Uncle Albert from Only Fools and Horses, who angrily waved and pointed fingers at one another. All this, while relentlessly putting each other down when discussing the hotly disputed issue of whether a tree should be erected outside the village bike store, or something of equal magnitude.

  Sadly, many details of such barnstorming hearings have been lost forever, as quite often I was asleep. In fact, on one occasion in the public gallery (five knackered old seats behind a rotting table that was the press bench), a senile bearded fellow with a giant hearing aid took exception to my snoring during a meeting. Before I knew what had hit me I was awoken from a beautiful sleep with a familiar stern finger viciously prodding my arm, followed by a scathing look like I had just urinated in his face.

  My agony wouldn’t be complete, though, as then I would get in the following morning where I was forensically quizzed about the meeting before being ordered out to investigate the deepening bramble crisis on a nearby footpath, before returning to the cold damp portakabin, that was my office, adrenalin pumping ready to write up my groundbreaking news story.

  Anyway back to Australia, and apart from those bleak occasions when reminded of former glories, I was now like a fly revelling in cow dung, such was my pleasure at the staggering happenings during the night shift.

  One tale I was particularly fond of in light of my doormen crusade was of a man who had been denied entry to an establishment for having a few too many. Unlike most people, who would either trudge off sheepishly, albeit perhaps after some well deserved put downs, this man swore revenge and stormed off in a blind rage.

  So bitter w
as this man, in fact, that he got his car and returned to the place, before demonically speeding towards the bouncers standing outside the entrance. “He was really angry,” an eyewitness expertly revealed, before continuing, “Following the treatment he received he raced towards security in his car and after two attempts to get up the curb he then piled into the hotel steps.” Although encountering a few set-backs on his crusade, what came across here was the sheer unbridled determination to see the job through and for that he must take great credit, despite his best efforts leaving him falling agonisingly short and helplessly stranded in no man’s land like a lame duck. His misery was then fully compounded a few seconds later: “Bouncers then reached into his car and started punching him before police arrived,” the witness added.

  You’ve got to feel for the man, though. Not only was he harshly treated in the first place by door security, but then he was cruelly deprived of his revenge by the steps, before being on the receiving end of a second round of lashings from his foes. Naturally the bouncers got away with administering the beating while the antagonist, nursing minor injuries from his ordeal, was led away shamefully defeated with only the prospect of prison to look forward to. Sometimes there’s no justice.

  The shift certainly threw up a variety of different challenges. When I turned up for work one day I wasn’t expecting to be tasked with staking out Australian cricket legend Glenn McGrath, after the national idol had sprung a surprise secret wedding to his girlfriend at his Cronulla home in southern Sydney. Security had been extremely tight, and with the former speed bowler going underground in the days following the small private ceremony, the media was left mystified as to his whereabouts. Everybody wanted the shot of him and his new wife but no one had it. The race was very much on to get it first, especially with it worth tens of thousands of dollars.

  This explained the extraordinary lengths some were going to in order to get it. One paparazzi had already been photographed in an anorak lying down with his giant lens poking out over the miniature fishing boat he had hired on the river adjoining the back garden of McGrath’s mansion, in the vain hope he would be the first to get that all important shot. That was the lengths people were going to in order to get the picture.

  I knew that, essentially, myself and the photographer accompanying me were going on nothing more than a fishing expedition – ready to catch any crumbs in the unlikely scenario we, firstly, came across him and, secondly, something happened. But I knew that if his cunningness in real life was anything like his bowling, we were in for a difficult time. This was compounded by the fact McGrath had already released a short statement to the media about his marriage, that also politely asked the press to leave him alone at this happy time. He must have been joking.

  Nonetheless, I went with nothing to lose, especially as I wasn’t the one taking the pictures. I also had the added incentive of being English and saw it as a mission on behalf of my country, particularly after all the pain and misery he had inflicted on us for over a decade. McGrath’s attitude toward England had generally stunk too, with his constant put downs and predictions of thrashings - even after our rehabilitation from a laughing stock.

  I followed the photographer Ron outside, who was not exactly in good spirits having injured his back the day before. Wincing in pain he climbed aboard his strange mode of transport, a camper van, before leaning over with extraordinary difficulty to unlock the passenger door for me. I lifted myself into the littered vehicle that came complete with those bizarre fluffy seats – the type children are fascinated by. Ron’s mood wasn’t helped after being instructed to do this particular job – only a five minute journey from where he lived – before being told he had to return to the city later to snap some pop star. “It makes no fucking sense. Now I’ve got to go all the way back to the city and then all the way back home again. Just what I need,” he said sarcastically.

  We gingerly made our way toward Cronulla before predictably becoming embroiled in heavy traffic near the airport. “This day just gets better,” Ron snarled, shaking his head in disbelief, as we ground to a halt. I didn’t know what it was about photographers but it seemed to be a pre-requisite for their profession that they must feel the world is constantly against them, before spending hours boring the pants off anyone who will listen - strangers or not - to their sorrowful tales of incredible injustice.

  All of a sudden his phone rang. His partner was on the other end. “You won’t fucking believe what they’re making me do today….” The conversation must have lasted half an hour with him bleating on about his misfortune. At least someone else was bearing the brunt of his angst, after all, there were only so many ways in which you can engage with someone in the hope they will get the hint and shut up.

  An hour and a half later, and following several phone calls from the office and our colleagues we were meant to be taking over from, who were waiting patiently outside McGrath’s house, we finally pulled into the quiet leafy road where the former cricketer lived. Our workmates didn’t look overly impressed having had to extend their dull shift of standing outside in the cold by nearly two hours, hoping they would catch a glimpse of the newly weds.

  In any event, Ron was seething with anger at where they were stood. “Why oh why are they standing right outside,” he said scornfully. “They may as well have flashing lights strapped to their heads. Even if McGrath comes out in his car they wouldn’t be able to get a shot through the window,” he added, shaking his head once more. As we slowly pulled over and were exchanging niceties, a four by four with tinted windows suddenly pulled out hurriedly. “Shit…it’s fucking McGrath,” Ron screeched and hurriedly reached into the back for his camera. The photographer standing outside swivelled and fired a couple of rushed shots, as the car momentarily stopped to make sure there was no traffic, before burning off, desperate to get away from us.

  Realising he wouldn’t be able to get a clear shot, Ron threw his camera into the back seat and reversed the camper van and accelerated off after McGrath. “Not exactly a fair race is it?” I thought to myself, as we attempted to hunt down a top of the range vehicle in an old banger that was more accustomed to chugging along at the pace of a milk float. Not only this but McGrath knew the terrain of the area. The odds were stacked against us. Nonetheless, we ploughed on manfully, just about hanging onto the coat-tails of our target. Then, suddenly, an idiot pulled out in front of us, which we somehow narrowly avoided smashing into the back of by a matter of inches. “Watch where you’re going cunt,” came the cry from my partner. “He’s paparazzi…that figures,” he added, recognising the car from a previous job.

  We continued in hot pursuit; overtaking cars, taking turns at such a pace that we defied gravity by going round bends on two wheels, and pulling out in front of speeding traffic that had to screech to a near halt as we accelerated off with all the pace of a pregnant cow. Somehow, though, we still had McGrath in sight. We made our way down a steep hill into the centre of Cronulla where traffic was heavy.

  Despite our frantic efforts looking around we couldn’t see him, until further down the hill I spotted his car had pulled over, with the man himself standing on the pavement saying goodbye to some old folks. There was nowhere for us to stop and with cars breathing down our necks as we crawled along we had to take a split second decision on what to do. We opted to go past him to the bottom of the hill where there was some space, where we hoped to continue following him when he got back in his vehicle.

  As we rolled past him I wound down the window, “So Glenn, do you think Australia will rout England, like you did with your last prediction?” I shouted quizzically, referring to his poor previous forecasts and the upcoming Ashes series between the two countries. He gingerly glanced over his shoulder, performing a double glance before looking away. “Or do you think England will win like last time Pigeon (his name)?” Not even a disparaging look back this time. Nonetheless, I took satisfaction in knowing that he had definitely heard me and pulled my neck in from outside the car. “Inte
resting line of questioning,” the bemused photographer said.

  “Well, I had to try something to get Pigeon’s attention.” But we were still no nearer getting the picture. I had managed to take a shot on my crap mobile phone camera but all I got was a massive blur of colours like someone had been sick.

  It had always puzzled me why this legend of the game, who holds the world record for the highest number of Test wickets in history by a fast bowler (fourth highest overall), numerous World Cup winners medals and a rack of Ashes victories (and destructions) over England, should be bestowed with such a strange name. “Apparently it’s got something to do with his bowling action and the way the ball flies through the air,” the photographer explained. Whatever the meaning behind it, it was hardly the most flattering of names for such a great of the game. Surely they could have come up with something more fitting like Hawkster or Swifty, but Pigeon? It is hardly complimentary to be compared to one of the fattest, slowest, stupidest and most pointless birds alive.

  After waiting around the corner at the bottom of the hill we braced ourselves for McGrath. Peering in the mirrors we could see no sign of him. After several more minutes we started to feel as if something was amiss so we pulled out back onto the road and headed back up the hill, where there was no sign of him. We then observed a small but well hidden horseshoe turning in the road near the bottom and immediately realised he must have cunningly used his expert local knowledge to lose us. “That bloody Pigeon,” I muttered. “He’s flown off and left us.”

  We spent the next few minutes frantically driving around in the desperate hope we could still find him. In truth, though, there was more chance of getting a smile out of my colleague, who was suffering in a world of mental and physical torture. The old fox had given us the slip. After we had been so heartbreakingly close too. I now knew what it felt like to be an England batsman in McGrath’s pomp: you think you’ve got him, then he waddles in and bang, you’re out, in a blink of an eye.