The Camino

by Eddie Rock

  SCUNTHORPE

  URBAN LEGEND SAYS that an illicit union between a prostitute from Hull and a circus troop from Grimsby produced Scunthorpe’s first citizens first recorded in 1354. In modern day the town center can often resemble a cross between Michael jackons Thriller video and Trainspotting. Immigrants arriving from war torn countries such as Syria and Bosnia often ask, “What the hell happened here?”

  “Keep off the grass” signs adorn most green areas. Not however to protect the grass but to prevent you slipping in dog shit and falling onto discarded drug syringes.

  Scunthorpe Backpacker blogger Salvador (Bugsy) Malone says this about his home town on his return in 2014:

  The place now resembled Zagreb or worse. I saw one of my former school friends standing on a corner selling herself to buy drugs and the boy who used to deliver our newspaper was sat begging outside a kebab shop whilst continually scratching his scabby arms. “Hey Sally mate” he shouted “Can you lend us a tenner for old times sake?”

  * * * *

  So, with the Apocalypse well and truly over, my sorry little tale had to end somewhere, and here I am in hell back in my hometown of Scunthorpe, with no wheels, no job, and no life. As the rain comes down, I dive into the electrical store and spot McCallum on every single television screen in the place. “Bloody hell.” I can’t believe it. I can’t get away from him. Seeing him again only makes me more depressed and angry as he plays some kind of mad scientist on an American police drama.

  “The Great Escape will never be the same again. Thanks a lot, McCallum, you moron.”

  “Can I help you with anything, sir?” asks the spotty clerk.

  “Yes, do you sell time machines?”

  “Erm . . .” He even thinks about it for a moment as I turn to leave.

  Back out in the streets my puzzled thoughts debate the concepts of life and religion and how the good citizens of Scunthorpe fit into that equation. If God really did create us in his own image, then I would strongly advise him to lay off the cheap booze, turn off the chip pan, and quit staring into those crazy fairground mirrors. I’d always wanted to get my name in the papers someday, but drunken three-wheeled stunt driving is perhaps not the best way to let off steam. Neither is urinating your name and skillfully managing to dot the i of Eddie in the middle of the road outside Scunthorpe’s infamous Blarney stone nightclub, while being cheered on by the queue. Neither was threatening doormen with a stolen antique pistol and whistling the theme tune to Laurel and Hardy while being pinned up against a wall by three angry policemen. A good night in the cells is just what you need to bring you back to earth, and a week later on page three of Scunthorpe’s Evening Telegraph, the quality headline:

  “Man Runs into Chip Shop to Avoid Police”

  Followed by nearly half a page chronicling my recent ill behaviors. And my subsequent appearance before the magistrate.

  However, the best way I find of dealing with complex issues of the law is to pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile all the way to the nearest point of departure. But to where?

  My friend Steve has said I can go and work for him in the USA, renovating houses in San Francisco. So I suppose it’s an option.

  Or maybe I could visit Johnny R in Seattle?

  Failing that, I can always go back to Holland and work as a carpenter again. But either way I gotta get out of this situation somehow!

  In bed that night I dream about my old hippie friend Suzie dressed as a leather-clad vixen, flexing a riding crop and telling me I’ve been a very bad boy again and how she’s going to correct me! With the crack of the whip, her skimpy leather panties hit the floor . . . but what the hell . . . ? My mobile phone is ringing as total darkness descends and I’m awake back in my own bedroom with Suzie long gone.

  “And who the fuck is that ruining my fucking dream?”

  Missed call: Waz.

  * * * *

  With Suzie still fresh in my mind, I head directly for Scunthorpe library.

  “Aye up, have you got any books on that walk in Spain?” I ask the dour librarian.

  “Which one?” she grunts.

  “The Cameo San Diego, I think it’s called?”

  She spends an age gawping into the computer, and I wonder why I seem to have a knack for rubbing these fuzzy-felt-loving bookworms up the wrong way. Silently she directs me over to the travel section and then disappears in a cloud of dust.

  One book is about a pilgrimage, but I’d always thought pilgrims were those God-bothering folk who set sail to America in the sixteenth century. The Pilgrim Fathers, or Christian Brothers, or whatever they were called, dressed in black and white with those silly hats with buckles and square shoes and all that shit. But at last I find a Spanish travel guide with a map of Spain and the Camino de Santiago.

  Now, according to this guidebook, I start at a place called Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in the French Pyrenees, then head down into the city of Pamplona and walk five hundred miles across Spain to a place called Santiago de Compostela and have all my sins forgiven by putting my hands in the special sin elimination handy hand-hole in the cathedral.

  I flick back to the Pamplona section, with photographs of the San Fermín festival and numerous pictures of the running of the bulls down the narrow streets. A few of the pictures are quite disturbing. One man has a bull’s horn stuck through his cheek and another has a horn stuck through his leg.

  The running of the bulls often results in the death and serious injury for many participants.

  “Think I’ll give that a miss then!”

  On my way out I pick up a well-worn copy of Bravo Two Zero by SAS action man Andy McNab and a copy of As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning by Laurie Lee, for 50pence each. “Bargain!”

  Back out in the streets the aroma of chip-pan impregnated fabrics and cheap tobacco fills the Scunthorpe air, and an unemployed scumbag wearing a dirty tracksuit adds to the ambiance by loudly announcing to his equally scummy friends, “I’m just off to McDonald’s for a shit!”

  The Basques have got it right, I reckon. Running savage bulls with sharp horns down your local high street is a brilliant idea, especially on benefits day in Scunthorpe without warning. I would love to be the man in charge of opening the barn doors. I notice more groups of track-suited douchebags prowling outside the benefit office and pound shops—swearing, spitting, and shouting while viewing the world with utter contempt through their wicked little reptile eyes set deep in rodent-like faces with miniature spitting clones of themselves gathered at their feet, screaming for Evo-Stik or heroin or whatever they were weaned on. Why they tuck their tracksuits into their socks is a mystery to me. They look like unhealthy spotty gray-faced baseball players, only in this case the ball will have been replaced by a cat or hedgehog wrapped in gaffer tape, a dog with fireworks nailed to its tail, or in most cases a human head.

  * * * *

  Rows of badly parked Motability scooters clutter the pavement outside the cheap bars, and at ten past ten on this cold morning some good citizens are settling in to their second pint of Nelson Mandela premium-strength Belgium lager. One of them I recognize as Big Jase, an old school friend. He sees me passing and shouts me in for a few beers.

  We discuss numerous topical Scunthorpe subjects, such as money or the lack of, recent violence, who’s beaten up who, who’s fucked who, alcohol abuse, and exchange ideas for getting out of this grim town. We chuckle away the morning while enjoying several pints of quality Export Lager, observing the interesting diversity of North Lincolnshire, so interesting in fact that a couple of old ladies we know actually come to Scunthorpe just to take the piss out of its unfortunate citizens, often stalking their victims up and down the high street while giggling along behind them like drunken schoolgirls.

  “Dog the Bounty Hunter, look!” Jase points, laughing his head off.

  Through the dirty window we see a strange person struggling to light a Superking cigarette in the fierce wind. It’s hard to tell if it’s a man o
r a woman, but either way it’s the same face and hairstyle as Dog the Bounty Hunter.

  “Great doppelganger,” I tell him.

  Jase looks at his watch and scoops the last of his pint and then he’s off to God knows where, so I finish my drink and leave.

  * * * *

  At the zebra crossing on the high street a learner driver screeches to a halt, almost flattening a group of asylum seekers, and now the hooter is beeping loudly with Big Jase leaning out the window, shouting abuse and waving a big tattooed arm at the frightened foreigners as his comb-over-hairstyled driving instructor sits beside him in a state of terror.

  A lot of famous people came from Scunthorpe they say.

  Tony Jacklin, the golfer, for instance. Bond villain Donald Pleasence; Ian Botham, the cricketer; Graham Taylor, the useless England football manager; and even a member of the Royle family, Nana Royle. Played by actress Liz Smith.

  The fact that none of these people ever chose to stay in Scunthorpe is irrelevant.

  My mobile is ringing. . . .

  “AMSTERDAM,” says the excited voice.

  AMSTERDAM

  CITY OF SIN

  IN HINDSIGHT maybe I should have spent the weeks prior to my epic quest studying maps and learning some useful Spanish phrases, maybe a few long walks in the woods or in the hills with that behemoth of a pack on my back. But instead I spent my time wisely in the local pubs with Laurie Lee and Andy McNab.

  Why waste valuable energy is my theory!

  Ironically, while I prepared to be a pilgrim, my friend Lindsey Pilgrim (actual name) was, in fact, preparing to be Lindsey Knowles, and I had agreed to go on her stag weekend to Amsterdam. Thus killing two birds with one stone by wearing in my new boots while window-shopping in the red-light district.

  * * * *

  I check my pack, then check again, making sure I don’t forget anything important.

  Checklist:

  A light-summer shower-proof jacket. After all, I doubt I will hardly wear it, as it’s bound to be boiling hot over there.

  A small tent.

  A self-inflating roll mat.

  Two British Army ration packs.

  A small camping stove and cooking pots.

  Two pairs of jeans.

  Five T-shirts.

  Two pairs of shorts.

  Seven pairs of underpants.

  Seven pairs of socks.

  A first-aid kit.

  A roll of toilet paper.

  A luxury Egyptian cotton bath towel.

  Aftershave.

  A Frisbee.

  A travel washing line.

  A head torch.

  A Swiss Army knife.

  A sun hat.

  A fold-up chair.

  Two plastic water bottles.

  A travel pillow.

  A cheap yellow poncho.

  One pair of earplugs.

  A large box of condoms.

  A map of Spain.

  A day pack.

  A Spanish phrase book.

  A harmonica.

  Sun cream.

  Sunglasses.

  A shaving kit.

  Bravo Two Zero.

  Laurie Lee book.

  £3,000 bank loan.

  Last but not least, my Franklin W7 Euro Translator (every budding Bond should have one).

  BON VOYAGE!

  Amsterdam has all you can ask for when it comes to sins of the flesh. The new boots are wearing in well, pacing up and down the various seedy alleys, and all this window-shopping has worked up a hearty thirst for strong lager, so we all pile into the Old Sailor in the very heart of the red-light area.

  Luckily we get window seats across from the prostitutes and play our silly game, Whores and Jockeys, a gambling game invented by Waz, where we bet on how long we think the rider (punter) will stay in the saddle (whore), with Waz commentating on the probable or improbable action behind the curtain, with hilarious results.

  Our friend Jay wins today’s money with a straight-in-and-out fifty-four seconds. Crack whore versus puzzled Japanese tourist.

  Waz, the Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal of our group, has become very adept at this game. He can tell you if the whore is high on crack or smack, often both in some cases. He can also tell how many pints of lager are swilling around in the punter or if they are stoned or high on cocaine.

  A strange-looking man walks by with a small tree growing from a pot on his head, bringing a whole new meaning to the word pothead.

  I rush out and take his photo, and he gives me a lump of cheap Moroccan hash as some kind of insane reward. He reminds me of someone I know back in Scunthorpe, but I can’t think who.

  As more pints of lager are ordered, the search for enlightenment continues. So we score some quality marching powder from an old friend and the night gets into top gear. As things start getting messy, we lose some of the group and end up in Excalibur another cool pub with its legendary heavy-metal jukebox. Now, I must admit I enjoy a good line of Amsterdam’s finest yayo just like the next man, but I hate sniffing around in dirty toilets like some kind of drug fiend, so I convert euro into porn and visit a private polishing booth just around the corner. A two-minute walk, two euros in the slot, two barrels of bugle up the hooter, and bingo! I rise sniffing to the vision of a naked munchkin wrestling a farmyard animal.

  “Oh my God!

  Frantically, I hit the forward button and now a dwarf has hold of a cat by its tail!

  “What the fuck!”

  I unbolt the door and race out quickly, and for a moment I feel total weightlessness, then pain and shock as I clatter heavily onto the floor with the wind knocked out of me and my head smacking hard on the glossy tiles.

  I can’t breathe, let alone speak, as the big mop man helps me to my feet in front of an audience of United Colors of Benetton faces.

  I limp out clutching my ribs and rubbing my head as my Good Samaritan gets to work mopping up the gentlemen’s spendings.

  “Too little too late, you useless fucker!” I shout back while limping my way painfully back to thebar.

  “Are you OK, Eddie? Shall we administer first aid?” Waz laughs.

  “Yeah, get me a double Jameson’s! I just went fucking flying in that porn booth place,” I wheeze in agony.

  “He slipped in spunk.” Waz laughs, telling everybody in the pub.

  “It wasn’t my fucking spunk!” I protest vigorously.

  “Haw, haw-haw-haw-haw,” they all laugh.

  “Glossy tiles,” I retort.

  “Haw. Haw. Haw.”

  I can’t laugh; it’s too painful.

  “Anyone fancy taking some magic mushrooms?” asks Waz, thankfully changing the subject.

  * * * *

  The next morning I’ve got a lump the size of an ostrich egg on the back of my head as an array of hallucinogenic flashbacks pollutes my mind, and I’m sure I’ve broken at least two ribs!

  As well as this, a Columbian flu epidemic has hit our group, and I sneeze painfully, wondering why I keep doing this kind of shit to myself. I can’t wait to get on the Camino and chill out and hopefully sort my life out. Waz keeps bringing up the spunk skating incident every ten minutes, but I don’t care. I’ll be the one laughing when I get to Spain with naked Euro chicks dancing round a big fire on the beach. “You just wait and see, Waz!” I tell him.

  I say my goodbyes to the group and walk up to the train station in pain. My ribs twinge as my heavy pack compresses each vertebra in my already-weakened body.

  “Five hundred miles! Bloody hell, I can hardly walk five hundred meters!”

  On the train all alone, anxiety grips my fevered mind as Amsterdam disappears from view. The trolley man comes past, and I buy four Heinekens for the trip (all fifteen minutes of it).

  Outside the airport foyer, I smoke my last joint to calm my frayed nerves before my flight. On the third pull of my smoldering Bob Marley, my weakened brain implodes into six million broken pieces and my life crumbles around my feet as alarm bells ring out in my panic-
stricken paranoid brain!

  “Miiiinnnndddd ffffuuuucccck!”

  In a flash I throw the joint in the bin, then the twenty grams of hash I had stashed in my sock and the bag of philosopher’s stones in my boot. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

  I frantically check my pockets and wallet for any more contraband.

  “Hang on, I smell burning! What the fuck ? Shit, the joint!”

  Smoke puthers from the bin as I delve in like a drunken hobo, rummaging through smoldering newspapers, carelessly discarded drugs, and chocolate wrappers. Finally I locate and extinguish the rogue spliff with a can of Heineken. Then I quickly dash inside the building before I cause a bomb scare and end up in hand and leg cuffs, wearing an orange romper suit with a sack on my head on the next plane to Guantánamo Bay, no doubt.

  I check in and aim straight for the busy airport bar, hiding underneath the peak of my hat while nursing a pint of lager as a deep, dark depression sets in.

  The first pint calms my nerves and I psychoanalyze my actions of the last few months leading up to this point.

  The second and third pints deal with the intense feelings of fear and self-loathing, and the fourth and final pint of lager steadies my nerves for the plane journey.

  I sweep up the pieces of my broken life and head for the terminal.

  TO BE A PILGRIM

  BASQUE COUNTRY

  I’M HOLED UP IN A CHEAP HOTEL and spending like a drunken sailor on shore leave, with nothing to show for it except a very bad hangover yet again. This week I’ve been mostly drinking sherry, wine, port, and brandy in an array of Spanish, Irish, and Australian bars and even a midgets’ disco. I thought at first it could have been a children’s disco, but then I noticed that nearly everyone seemed to have a mustache and were all drinking beer and wine, so who knows? I finally bit the bullet and bought a guidebook about the Camino, with photographs, maps, and historical facts. Thirty euro it cost me. It’s more expensive than the Bible, for Christ’s sake! And I don’t even feel like reading it yet, with its pilgrim this and pilgrim that, No, I still don’t like the sound of it one bit anyway.