1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge (3 page)

I looked up at my father and he was smiling at some of the jokers. It was all right for him—it hadn’t been
his idea
to bring the gun. What an idea. What had I been thinking of?

I asked him to take the machinegun and put it under his coat He told me not to be silly but then when I asked him again, and he could see the tears welling up in my eyes, he did what a father has to do in these situations—he had to watch a football match whilst holding a toy machine-gun.

I was now beginning to feel that I was heading for an embarrassment as deep as that. I would just start to pull the fridge to the roadside to begin my hitching and someone would make a wisecrack and that would be me finished—the whole escapade shot to pieces at the first instance. And I wouldn’t have my father to suffer my embarrassment for me this time. That’s growing up I suppose—you have to hold your own toy machineguns. Or be like most people and use toy machineguns for playing with at home and fridges for keeping things cold in kitchens.

The night before I was due to leave was a very sleepless one. There are occasions when the night can seize upon problems and worries and magnify them to such an extent that by about 3.30 am they seem completely insurmountable. I genuinely started to fear for my life. What if I got stuck on some remote rural road, miles from anywhere and simply couldn’t get a lift and night fell? If the temperature dropped (it had been snowing recently) and I failed to find adequate shelter I could die of exposure.

The next morning I went straight to London’s top camping shop to look into the purchase of a tent and sleeping bag. When 1 got there I immediately dismissed the tent idea, even the smallest ones were too large, and I knew I would die of frustration trying to erect the thing before the threat of exposure had even begun to become a factor. Instead I bought the top-of-the-range sleeping bag. It was small and light and over a hundred quid, but on leaving the shop I felt death to be a more distant proposition than it had been the previous night.

I packed in sombre mood. I’m very rarely jolly when packing anyway because there are few things I dislike more, unpacking being one of them. I was in a hurry because packing is something which you always do at the last minute. Anyone who packs two days before departure should seek counselling. Balanced people are still shoving stuff into their bag as they are leaving the house. That’s normal.

I was having an especially bad time because I’d dug out an old rucksack for this journey and I had forgotten what displeasing items of luggage they are. Their only advantage is that you don’t need hands to carry them, but that’s not enough; the same can be said of contagious diseases. I seemed to have the worst model available on the market—it was like a kind of inverse tardis. Big on the outside, it seemed to hold sod all. The inclusion of two shirts, a jumper, a pair of trousers, shoes and a healthy quota of pants and socks left it overflowing, and a measure of undignified ‘shoving down’ of things was required before the bloody thing would shut. Or close. Or whatever it is a rucksack does when it isn’t open anymore. Then I remembered that I hadn’t included waterproofs. So, I had to tug once again at the abundant array of strings and cords which seemed to be all over it in order to get the bloody thing open again, take everything out and go through the whole infuriating process one more time. I hoped that my relationship with the fridge would be more serene. Anyway, I had done it, I had packed everything I needed. I was starting to feel rather pleased with myself when my heart sank, because there in the corner of the room sat the sleeping bag.

Well, I wasn’t going without that—it could save my life. I slumped down next to the rucksack and tried to work out what I could sacrifice to make room. Pants? One month without pants hitching round Ireland with a fridge? No, I was doing it with pants or I wasn’t doing it at all. I stared at the rucksack and resisted the temptation to get up and give it a good kicking. Then I suddenly realised that all the tags, tassles, cords and ropes which hung from it weren’t just there to make the carrier of the bag feel like an accomplished traveller, but that they did, after all, have a function. The designer of the bag had realised that he had created one which held next to nothing and so had made provision for numerous items to be secured on the outside. An hour and a half and a good deal of swearing later, the sleeping bag was successfully tethered to the exterior of my rucksack. I forced my way between its shoulder straps, hauled it around on to my back and stood proudly in front of the mirror. I was pleased with what I saw. I really did look a hardy and experienced traveller. But for the bedroom slippers.

§

I was ready. I waited for the taxi to arrive and remembered that it was Royal Gala day. I wondered if the other artistes had been preparing for performance in the same way that I had.

I was going to fly straight on to Dublin the following day, so I was wearing the gear I would be in for the next month. I had my suits for the performance and after-show reception in a suit holder which my agent would bring back to London after the show. Carlton Television were providing the taxi to take me to the airport where I would fly up to Manchester. Hardly worth getting the plane for such a short journey, but they had offered it and somehow it seemed more glamorous than the train. I wasn’t dressed for glamour—windcheater, scruffy trousers, hiking boots and holding a rucksack. The taxi arrived, except it wasn’t a taxi but a stretch limo. The TV company must have got me mixed up with Phil Collins. I expect he was well pissed off with the seven-year-old Datsun Cherry waiting outside his door.

And so my neighbours were treated to the unusual sight of a scruffy hiker having a peak-capped chauffeur holding the door open for him whilst he climbed into the back of a shiny black stretch limo. It may have appeared that I hadn’t fully embraced the true spirit of backpacking.

In Manchester another impressive car was waiting to meet me at the airport. I remember thinking that I should enjoy this, the zenith of travel experience, for the nadir was surely to come. I arrived at the theatre to find hordes of photographers and autograph hunters. Were they here for me or was there just a chance they might be more interested in The Spice Girls, Phil Collins or Jennifer Anniston? I emerged from the limo and a wave of confusion engulfed the onlookers and, at a stroke, their excitement was supplanted by bemusement. Was there a band called The Backpackers on the bill? Was there a new member of The Spice Girls called Itinerant Spice? I made my way to the stage door, rucksack over my shoulder, and a strange kind of silence fell over the crowd. It almost felt like resentment. How dare I get out of a car like that and not be someone they were excited about. If a frown made a sound, the noise would have been deafening. As it was you could hear a head drop.

The show went fine. Not great—just fine. I wasn’t sure how well I had done but as we lined up for the finale bow, one of the dancers from Kid Creole And The Coconuts gave me the thumbs up. That was enough for me, I was happy to have the approval of a Coconut That’s why we do it. The show’s producers, whilst rewarding me with a position in the front row for the curtain call, had put me right at the end of the line which meant that when I was required to turn to my right and bow to the Prince, I was so far across the stage that I was just bowing directly into the wings. There before me, instead of HRH Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales, was a fat member of the stage crew who acknowledged my bow by giving me the wanker sign and pissing himself with laughter. I smiled, largely because I couldn’t think of what else to do.

Moments later the curtain had dropped and I was in a line waiting to be greeted by Prince Charles. As he worked his way up towards me I could hear the kind of mind numbingly superficial conversation that he had to engage in. This kind of social intercourse clearly wasn’t something that came naturally to him but years of experience had left him accomplished enough in the brief inanity. I felt sorry for him—but for an accident of birth that could have been my gig.

Finally, he arrived at me, having had the relative ease of chatting with performers from Cirque du Soleil who had made life easy for him by coming from all over the world and having performed a spectacular and unusual act involving contortion and acrobatics. It all went rather well—there was even a slight moment of amusement when he asked the Russian girl how she got her body into that position. Then me. The bloke who came on and talked to the audience for six minutes, got a few laughs and then went off again. He shook my hand. I could see from his eyes that the poor guy could think of absolutely nothing to say to me. A moment of complete silence. What is it about me? I haven’t got the rucksack on now. I looked into his eyes—he looked right through mine. He wasn’t focusing, he was trawling his brain for a suitable question.

‘Have you had to travel far to be here?’ he eventually managed.

‘Not really, London.’

I hadn’t given him much to get his teeth into there. He could hardly say, ‘Oh, London—that’s where my mother lives—she’s got a little place in SW1.’ Again the flash of panic in his eye. Come on Charles, hang in there—two more questions and you’re on to Frank Bruno, he’s going to be much easier.

‘And were the audience difficult?’ This was better, but although meant well, isn’t exactly a question a comedian longs to be asked. In an ideal world you would have been so funny and the audience would have tost themselves in laughter to such a degree that a question like that would have been redundant.

‘Oh, they were okay.’

I wasn’t really helping him very much here but I suppose there was a part of me that didn’t want to. What
was
the point of this? My instinct was to say ‘Look, let’s talk properly or not at all’, but there seemed little point in making this thing any more gruelling for him than it already was.

Prince Charles seemed to relax slightly, perhaps in the knowledge that however unsuccessful his next conversational gambit might be, at least it was his last one with me.

‘And what are you up to next?’

I waited a moment and then offered in my best deadpan delivery, ‘I’m hitch-hiking round Ireland with a fridge, Your Highness.’

His response was a Royal masterstroke. He simply smiled and pretended not to hear. Or understand. Or both. And who can blame him? My answer had invited the kind of follow-up question for which there simply wasn’t time. I warmed to him as he smiled again and moved on—after all, why ask when you don’t care? Oddly our little exchange had afforded him a rare opportunity to show some honesty. For that, I’m sure he will be eternally grateful.

§

The flight from Manchester to Dublin is only forty minutes or so. It feels slightly longer when there is a stag party three rows back. I was sat next to a matronly looking middle-aged woman whose tuts and sighs were more irritating than the unpleasant noises emanating from the stag boys. It was only 11.30 am and they were already quite drunk. Nothing like pacing yourself. The woman was reading a very impressive, thick hardback book. I couldn’t see what it was called but the chapter she was on was entitled ‘Domination and Hegemony’. I concluded that she was either an academic or a sado masochist. I closed my eyes and let the gentie rhythm of the safety instructions lull me to sleep. I was woken soon enough by the stag party who had broken into song. I wanted to stand up, turn round and say ‘Please stop, I beg you’ but I didn’t need to because matronly lady had taken roughly the same approach only with a less supplicatory tone. Needless to say, her words had the reverse effect, causing an increase in volume and the personalisation of a number of songs in her honour. Suddenly I found it all more relaxing. The lyrics were more entertaining now they had found a focus, and the woman’s increasing discomfort somehow had a soothing effect upon me.

Ignoring the surrounding turbulence I began to study my map of Ireland. I knew very little about the place and had no real idea of the distances involved, but my brain wasn’t up to the taxing task of trying to work them out now. I gave some thought to what I might try and tackle on my first morning. My intention was to get a bus out of Dublin in the direction of Cavan and try and start hitching in roughly the area where I reckoned I had seen the original ‘Fridge Man’ all those years ago. This, I decided, was somewhere around Navan. I looked out of the window. It was raining. Ireland is good at that To cheer myself up I started to scan the map for places with silly names. I noticed a Nobber and another place Muff. Muff was on the coast and I was momentarily amused by the idea of going there and attempting to hire some diving gear. The plane touched down. The Odyssey had begun.

This Bus Is Going To Cavan

S
hane must be a very good friend of Seamus. I can just imagine his face when he got the call.

‘Oh hi Shane, it’s Seamus here—could you do a favour for me?’

‘Sure.’

He had already made mistake number one by not finding out the nature of the favour first.

‘There’s this friend of mine Tony and he’s going to hitch-hike round Ireland with a fridge.’

‘Hmmmmm.’

‘Could you buy a small fridge and a trolley for it and pick him up at Dublin airport? Hell give you the money when he gets there.’

‘Er—’

‘Good, grand…I’ll ring you Friday with the flight details.’

§

And there he was at the airport, the man who had been entrusted with the responsibility of purchasing someone’s travelling companion for the next month, a role more commonly associated with Bangkok than Dublin. Although we’d never met, we knew each other instantly. He must have been able to recognise the wild apprehension in my eyes and I could see the dismay in his. He greeted me cordially enough and we made our way to the car. That was where the fridge was, he told me, accurately assessing that its whereabouts were my main concern.

I was rather nervous about meeting it. He’d been given detailed instructions and he seemed bright enough, but what if he’d bought the wrong kind of fridge? I suddenly felt it had been a mistake to have abdicated responsibility for this, the most important of all my pieces of baggage. After all I knew so much about fridges having been given the lowdown by an expert like Darren. But it had to be like this because today was a Sunday and not a good day for fridge shopping, and I wanted to make a start first thing in the morning. It was almost like starting a new job—in on Monday morning, bright and early, looking your best and keen to impress.