by Steve Deeks
To compound our agony the photo editor then rang Ron up. “I heard you were chasing McGrath – you got him yet?” came the animated voice over the phone. The photographer and journalist from the previous shift – who had effectively alerted McGrath to our presence by foolishly standing outside his mansion, without any mode of transport in which to track the couple down, had helpfully placed all responsibility on us after informing the team back in the office that we were in hot pursuit. But, of course, despite our valiant efforts, once McGrath knew the campervan had the media inside, our cover was blown and the task tougher than an old leather boot.
Ron rolled his eyes and took a deep breath before replying, “We were but he’s got away.”
“Got away? So you haven’t got the bloody picture then?” the voice down the phone bellowed angrily.
“No mate. He came speeding out of his drive and pulled over in the town centre somewhere and short of stopping in the middle of the road and having cars smash into us it was impossible to stop and get the bloody picture.” By now the photographer looked like he was ready to kill someone. “Ok, well just keep looking for him,” came the pissed-off reply.
We spent the remainder of the shift alternating between driving aimlessly about Cronulla, stopping off for the odd coffee, walking the streets and popping in to swanky restaurants and bars where we thought McGrath may be – but not a jiffy. He was gone and we had to face up to the agonising fact we had come within a whisker of getting our man but cruelly, through no fault of our own, fallen short. Trudging around we consoled ourselves by nipping into an Indian and scoffing our faces before returning to the mansion, painfully counting down the seconds of the shift, fully in the knowledge McGrath wouldn’t be making a second outing – if he did so happen to be inside, which of course we had no way of knowing.
After twiddling my thumbs for a further hour I was put out of my misery and told to come back to the office. A taxi was sent for me, which took three quarters of an hour to arrive and after the same amount of time to get back to the city my shift was finished. It meant that during my eight hour stint I had not written a single word. But at least we had given McGrath a good run for his money and I had been able to remind him of his recent questionable judgement in forecasting victories over England.
Strangely enough my next shift a couple of days later also involved cricket. I was attending the Don Bradman Dinner at the hallowed turf of Sydney Cricket Ground (for those who don’t know, Bradman, an Australian, was widely thought to be the greatest batsman that ever played the game following his 20 year career from 1928 - 1948). Sadly Pigeon wouldn’t be there, though. It struck me as ironic that on these sport related jobs I had to cover – something I had a great passion for – sport was really something of an irrelevance as far as the newspaper was concerned. For them it was an opportunity to get some gossip and glamour pictures of players, retired or otherwise, with their wives. In fact, anyone with their wives – whether they were a celebrity, politician, or looked smart in a tuxedo. Moreover, I also found it coincidental how elegant women made the paper when crusty old bats with bushy eyebrows never seemed to get a look in.
Despite my role as a gossip columnist I decided to make the most of my opportunity and put my sports journalist hat on. On finding a publicity assistant after roaming the outfield of the pitch I managed to get two interviews with retired legends of the game. First-up was Indian cricketer from the 1970s and 1980s, Sunil Gavaskar, who was being honoured at the packed ceremony. We had an interesting chat about the value of the trust and the pride he felt in being acknowledged into the Bradman Hall of Fame. Despite my initiative I got the nagging feeling that somehow this wouldn’t get a run.
The same too with Australian icon Adam Gilchrist: here politely stood the man who had redefined the wicketkeeper-batsman role, who was thoughtfully answering my questions when he should have been making his way off the playing surface to his seat on the top table where he would also be receiving his integration into the Hall of Fame. All the while, I knew his pride at being bestowed the award, not to mention his predictions on the upcoming Ashes series and reflections of playing in one of the greatest teams ever would sadly not get much of a look in.
Alas, this was proven to be the case when I relayed the copy to my night editor a while later; with it feeling like I was speaking Dutch. It was evident from her constant pauses and requests for me to repeat sentences I had just read out to her that she may not have been expecting a trip down cricket memory lane (“Sorry, did you just say the proudest moment of his career was against the West Indian touring party of 2000/01 season when he captained Australia for the first time, despite only making nine and ten runs on a bowler’s wicket in respective innings?”).
After bending the night editor’s ear with cricket anecdotes I made my way to the giant hall where I was forced to endure a number of guest speakers – Australian, of course – who spent the vast majority of their speeches predictably mocking past England teams (if only they knew that in a few weeks we would trounce them on their own patch for the first time in 24 years). After they had finally finished their gourmet dinner and were mingling around the bar areas over a glass of bubbly, the photographer and myself went hunting for material.
I poked my head in-between groups of various people, performing split second judgments on whether any of them were worth wasting oxygen on, before often deciding they weren’t. I was probably one of the only Englishman at the function out of about a thousand Australians so I felt a bit outnumbered, but I didn’t let that hold me back. “England won the last Ashes, you expecting the same again this time?” was my opening line to any Antipodean interviewees I could get my hands on. I would then wait for the inevitable double take as the penny slowly dropped that I wasn’t in fact Australian, as they initially assumed I was, before shockingly realising that I was indeed part of the Old Enemy, masquerading as a journalist for one of their very own newspapers.
Strutting about at the apparent star-studded event, there weren’t too many faces I recognised until I spotted Richie Benaud OBE, the highly regarded Australian player from decades ago who was more recently known for his wit and wise observations on television commentary. We managed a brief exchange of platitudes (I somehow felt it amiss to start disparaging the Australian team to such a legend, particularly when we both knew which team was now better anyway) before someone, who looked vaguely familiar, cut in. “Thanks a lot,” I muttered sarcastically, as I stood awkwardly having been frozen out of the chat.
Following a break in the conversation I grasped my moment and pinged a couple of grenades to the fellow who had ambushed my bonding with Richie. “So you expecting England to win on Australian soil for the first time since 1987?” I asked, causing him to pause blankly at my brutal questioning. “They’re by far the better team right now wouldn’t you agree?” I continued forthrightly, though I’m not sure he was taking much notice of me as a wry smile appeared across his face.
It was starting to mildly irritate me who this person was, as I had a feeling I’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it. Not to mention he seemed to be on rather friendly terms with Richie, so I started to think perhaps he was someone in the public eye. “Sorry, but I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere,” I queried, as much out of curiosity as to keep the conversation flowing, which was proving rather difficult.
I looked quizzically back at him, “Sorry…still not sure.”
Then someone standing behind me whispered quietly, “He was the Australian Prime Minister.”
“Really?” I responded dubiously, thinking it was all one big wind up.
“Yes,” the helpful source insisted. As I looked back at the individual it began to dawn on me that he might not be lying. “Well, congratulations. I did think I recognised you from somewhere,” I said, before briskly leaving, but not before wishing them bad luck in the Ashes series, of course.
After locating my colleague I pointed out the individual who was apparently the former Prim
e Minister to seek confirmation of his identity. “Oh nobody important really…just John Howard, the former PM,” he joked. I could just about recall hearing of him, but to put his face and name together at the same time was definitely a leap too far, especially when stood next to the great Richie Benaud. Nonetheless, I would have thought the former leader of the country who served an impressive 11 years in power, between 1996 – 2007, would have been more recognisable.
But I suppose that’s the beauty of Australian politics; no one outside the country knows who you are. Yet despite this the Australian’s - perhaps in keeping with their lofty self image - somehow seemed to view themselves as key players on the world stage. The impression I got from the media here concerning world politics, and specifically regarding the “War on Terror”, was that Australia and America were the two big players leading the way; standing together fighting this modern day evil heroically as one. “We’re the best of mates,” the then Prime Minister Julia Gillard declared gushingly when meeting with US President Barack Obama.
Yet without trying to be harsh on my Aussie mates, I found it ever so slightly warped just how much influence they were attempting to claim for their stance on world affairs, with it equally bizarre how rarely Britain’s far more instrumental role was mentioned. Obviously the Aussies do their bit, but the amount of sacrifice and money they had spent on the war was dwarfed by that of the UK. Next our friends Down Under will be telling us how they single-handedly battered the Germans during the Battle of Britain and saved the French’s bacon in the Second World War.
On the flip side of all that, at least the Australians dedicate a healthy proportion of their television airtime to classic British comedy shows like Blackadder and Fawlty Towers. There’s nothing like sitting next to a bunch of up-tight Germans in a hostel watching Basil Fawlty insultingly perform the “Nazi walk”, with his legs almost touching the ceiling. All this as they awkwardly frown and chat amongst themselves and occasionally glance at you like they wished your bollocks would suddenly be chopped off, especially after you couldn’t help but laugh out loud offensively in their faces. For the joy this gave me I forgive Australia everything.
My next shift that weekend was to be my last for the newspaper before I went off to Darwin and Cairns, having been persuaded to at least visit a couple of places apart from Sydney before I left the country. And I couldn’t have asked for a more befitting send off as I went out to cover a massive petrol station fire in the inner west where, incredibly, a solitary member of staff working through the night had for no apparent reason been tied-up and left to burn to death as ferocious flames engulfed the building. But in a strange twist, the assailant had bizarrely grown a conscience after taking the money and setting the place on fire and went back into the dragon’s den to release the hapless individual, as flames tore through the place.
The thief made off with a petty amount of cash but it remained a mystery why he saw it necessary to tie-up the poor assistant, who must have wished he had chosen to work the afternoon shift instead. As black smoke poured into the sky from the giant inferno that had by now engulfed the station, while firemen desperately toiled with sweat dripping from their faces, I watched on gently working my right arm muscles as I occasionally scribbled the odd word. I always felt a bit guilty when these brave workhorses were clearly swimming against the tide in trying to contain flames and save lives while I, an able-bodied man, was merely standing-by sipping coffee, happily munching on my donut watching the show. I would certainly miss such occasions.
Although these disasters were a bit like watching a gripping movie over and over again, I never got tired of the raw emotion and adrenalin, with it still as absorbing to watch these events unfold before your eyes as when I first started the job.
Just as the fire was being gradually brought under control we heard news of an outbreak of violence on a party boat in Darling Harbour that had crashed, so without delay and with my final fire under my belt, we made our way to the location. As we arrived, I immediately noticed the boat – not so aptly named the Jolly Rider or something – had been unceremoniously squashed against a pontoon, with the front end totally smashed up. To compound matters it had come to rest close to an array of bars and restaurants. If the captain had wanted to steer his ship and dump it somewhere anonymous away from the gaze of the public, this was certainly not it. Instead, to heighten the misery and acute embarrassment he must have already been suffering, the poor man had to contend with drunken revellers jeering him.
The worst thing about it, just by looking at the wreckage, was that most people had naturally concluded the captain had either misplaced his glasses, wasn’t a very good driver or had taken the concept of the party boat too far by getting on the bubbly himself. Apparently, though, sources indicated that problems arose due to a mechanical failure beyond his control and that he had been heroically battling to resolve the problems all by his self.
To add to his woes, as the vessel bounded about the harbour like a dodgem car, the intoxicated party-goers on-board showed their gratitude to his valiant efforts just like people did to an outcast who could be blamed for all evils in the Middle-Ages, when someone’s word would be taken as gospel that another is a witch. Just as in those days, the captain became a hunted man; the one who must burn for his sins. Why take into consideration a person may actually be completely innocent of the perceived crime when you have the opportunity to give him a good kicking? And with only the freezing ocean offering any real kind of sanctuary, the captain opted not to jump overboard and instead faced the music in his small cabin that was soon overcome by the baying mob, letting him know in no uncertain terms what they thought of his steering.
Although, perhaps a bigger miracle than the captain only coming away with a few bumps and bruises (and no doubt some mental scarring thrown in) as a result of his altercation with the “party” crew, was the fact that others weren’t more seriously hurt. This was especially so with some having suffered broken bones after being vigorously tossed about as the boat veered out of control. But, moreover, one person was lucky not to die after staggeringly being thrown from the top deck onto the bottom. Incredibly, he didn’t suffer anything more severe than bruising and shock, despite worrying early signs when not moving and placed in a neck brace on the pontoon.
There were ugly scenes as injured people were treated after being pulled off the boat to safety by the emergency crews, still blaming the captain for the crash. One eyewitness on the pontoon said it was absolute carnage. “I looked out and saw a boat bouncing around the harbour like a flaming pinball,” he recalled, shock etched on his face. “Totally out of control it was. It must have gone on for half an hour. And then all of a sudden there was a big surge and a load of men smashed into the captain’s cockpit, which he had barricaded himself into, and dished out a good beating. Unreal mate.”
I caught sight of the bearded captain being consoled by friends and workmates, shaking his head in disbelief at the turn of events. Police were standing by him as a protective barrier. I tried my best to earwig one final conversation but they were frustratingly just out of my reach. Knowing it was a long shot, I then revealed my identity to one of his sympathisers, asking if he would like to speak to me and have his say, but he was too upset to talk. He probably wanted to maintain a diplomatic silence as investigations got underway to determine exactly what happened, with the age and maintenance of the boat coming under intense scrutiny. In any event, for whatever reason, the party boat hadn’t quite lived up to its billing as the Jolly Rider.
Back in the office I wrote up both colourful stories, content there had at least been some action on my final night. I had gone out with a bang. I filed my copy, said my goodbyes to the few people in the office and the friendly security staff on reception, who I’d always share a chat and a joke with, before walking out the spinning glass doors and down the street for the final time following an action packed and highly enjoyable stint at the newspaper. Strolling through the city my thoughts soon turn
ed to my trip to the Northern Territory and the jumping crocodiles I had been told about.
Chapter 17 – Darwin
For someone whose previous views of travelling amounted to nothing more than making a short two hour trip to Spain while openly joking about the stereotypical backpacker types – who wear sandals, are unshaven, smoke roll-up cigarettes and have an aversion to soap and water. Yet amazingly, here I was like Captain Cook setting off on my own voyage of discovery into the unknown. (With regards to those fond of wearing sandals I would just like to say what a crime it is to broadcast your hairy toes in public and wear a piece of footwear like Jesus. It has long been a wonder to me why so many men do such a thing to themselves having made the gross error of thinking they look good. Sandals were for the Romans and women.)
After taking the overly expensive airport line from Central station (and wishing I’d got a bus there instead for about a sixth of the cost), I put the disappointment behind me and muddled my way through checkin and security before finally getting on the plane and settling down for the four and a half hour flight to Darwin, in the Northern Territory. I found it absurd that it would be taking me so long to get from a place in the south east of the country to a place in central north. And this was not even the longest flight you could do in Australia. It was an odd notion to think I could have got a plane from the south of England to the north of Scotland six times in the same amount of time it would take me on this trip. Or put it another way, I could have got a flight from London to a variety of countries near the equator in Africa in the same amount of time.
When I finally arrived in Darwin and stepped outside, I was hit by a wall of hot air like I had suddenly been dropped inside a fan oven. After doing my research I knew Darwin virtually never dropped below a steady 31 degrees centigrade, no matter what time of year. It had just two seasons: wet and dry. As it was October now, I had arrived as the dry season was just turning to the wet. I looked to the sky. It was cloudy, which pissed me off, especially as Sydney had been doing its best to impersonate England in recent months with its lack of sun after suffering one of the wettest and mildest years for decades. Of course, the day I had left city it was sunny. And now the place I had arrived at – “guaranteed hot weather” they all said (I suppose they weren’t actually wrong but hot weather to me does mean the sun is visible) – was also gloomy. I struggled to breath in adequate levels of oxygen in the muggy atmosphere as I glanced around the airport, which seemed surprisingly small for a city, with it more the size of a regional airport in England.
