Tony Hawks - Round Ireland with a Fridge

Tony Hawks

Round Ireland with a fridge

1998

Whilst in Ireland for an International Song Competition, Tony Hawks was amazed to see a hitch-hiker, trying to thumb a lift, but with a fridge. This seemed amazingly optimistichis Irish friends, however, thought nothing of it at all. I had clearly arrived in a country, writes Tony, where the qualification for eccentric involved a great deal more than that to which I had become used. Years passbut the fridge incident haunts our author. Until one night, heavy with drink, he finds himself arguing about Ireland with a friend. It is, he insists, a magical place, so magical in fact, that a man could even get a lift with a fridge. The next morning there is a note by the bed. I hereby bet Tony Hawks the sum of One Hundred Pounds that he cannot hitch hike around the circumference of Ireland with a fridge within one calendar month. The document was signed. The bet was made. This book is the story of Tonys adventures through that incredible month. The people he meets, the difficulties, the triumphs. The fridge.

A ll the events described in this book actually took place, and all the characters depicted really exist. I have used real names except on one or two occasions when, out of respect for a persons privacy, they have been re-christened. I should like to express my heartfelt thanks to all of those who have helped me in the lead up to publication of this book, not least the characters about whom I have written. I hopeI have done you Justice.

I m not, by nature, a betting man. However, the pages that follow in this book do not bear testimony to that In fact they exist wholly as the result of a bet.

Im not by nature, a drinking man. However, the making of the bet which led to this book does not bear testimony to that. Because I made it when I was pissed.

Everything you read from this moment forth is a tribute to what can be achieved as a result of a shabby night of booze.

If Only

I n 1989 I went to Ireland for the first time. I dont know why it had taken so long. Some parts of the world you make a conscious effort to visit and others have to wait until fate delivers you there.

When the moment arrived for me to set foot on the Emerald Isle, it was as a result of a badly written song. An Irish friend from London, Seamus, had urged me to compose a piece for him and his mate Tim to sing at an International Song Competition which was held each year in his home town. Qualification for the final, he explained, was a formality provided I agreed to do a twenty-minute stand-up comedy set for the audience whilst the judges were out. Seamus wanted to perform a humorous song, and had asked me to come up with something that would set it apart from the other mundane entries. In the event, what would set it apart would be a quite significant drop in standard.

The song I had written was called I Wanna Have Tea With Batman. Now I consider myself to be a good songwriter (in spite of my only commercial success being a one-off hit record called Stutter Rap by Morris Minor And The Majors), but this song washow can I put it?yes, thats itpoor. To their credit, Seamus and Tim conjured up a performance to match it.

In an extraordinary gesture which was at best surreal and at worst embarrassing, they dressed as Batman and Robin. At least thats what they had aimed to do, but a limited costume budget had left them in borrowed tights, miscellaneous lycra and academic robes doubling as capes. They resembled a couple of children entered for a fancy dress competition by uninterested parents. Seamus seemed unconcerned, his theory of comedy being that if you had an outrageous outfit, that was enough; and then he announced his master stroke that one of them would carry a teapot and the other a kettle.

One had to admire his courage, for he was performing in front of his home town and everyone he had grown up with was there. Friends, family, teachers, shopkeepers, barmen, drunks and priests were all rooting for him. If one was going to let oneself down very badlyand Seamus was most definitely going to do thatit would be difficult to imagine an assembled throng with which it would have more resonance.

Seamus and Tim took centre stage. The audience responded with an audible inhalation of breath. For them, there was little to suggest that the two characters before them were supposed to be Batman and Robin, and they were clearly taken aback by this magnificent fusion of colour, tights and kitchen appliances.

I watched from the back, experiencing for the first time a curious blend of wonderment and discomfort, and could see in the faces of both performers that their self belief in the costume selection was ebbing away with each elongated second. Thankfully, from the congregation, astonishment subsided into applause. The conductor caught the eye of our superheroes and they nodded to establish they were ready. The band struck up. The musical introduction finished but neither Tim nor Seamus began singing. They looked accusingly at each other. Paralysed with nerves one of them had missed their cue. Somebody near me allowed their head to drop into their hands. Seamus, man of the moment, stepped forward and signalled to the conductor to stop the band. Astonishingly the maestro ignored him. He was pretending he couldnt see Sheas frantic signals. For Gods sake, how bad could his eyesight be? Was it possible not to notice the flapping arms of a multi-coloured caped crusader brandishing a teapot in anger?

That conductor was more focused than most of us could ever hope to be. He had a long evening to get through and he was going to get through it in the shortest available time. Going back and starting again for those who had screwed up wasnt on the agenda, even if it was Good old Seamus from down the way. And so, with all the obduracy of a first world war general, his head stayed firmly down and the band played on.

Time went into stasis. I simply have no way of knowing how long it was before Seamus abandoned his frenzied gesticulations, punched Tim, and they both began singing. Indeed, I cant recall how badly they performed the rest of the song. Who cares? The audience applauded, they won Most Entertaining Act, and so began my fascination with Ireland.

Aside from the song contest debacle, there had been another incident which had made this first trip to Ireland stand out in my mind. On arrival at Dublin Airport, I had been met by Seamuss lifelong friend Kieran and driven to Cavan. As we headed north and discussed Batman and Robins prospects (Kieran was peculiarly guarded on the subject, but later I understood why when I learned that he had watched their rehearsals), I noticed a figure by the side of the road, hitch-hiking. I looked closer, as one does with hitch-hikers, to make that split-second assessment of their appearance to judge their suitability for travel companionship. This was odd. Very odd. He had something alongside him and he was leaning on it It was a fridge. This man was hitch-hiking with a fridge.

Kieran, was that man hitch-hiking with a fridge?

Oh yeah.

There was nothing in Kierans tone of voice to suggest the slightest hint of surprise. I had clearly arrived in a country where qualification for eccentric involved a great deal more than that to which I had become used.

Years passed. (Ive always wanted to write that.) The Song Competition had become an anecdote which was given an airing at dinner parties approximately once every two years, and a reference to the fridge hitchhiker always accompanied it as something of a postscript. For some reason, the image of this man and his large white appendage was indelibly stamped on my memory. I could still see him there by the roadside, something in his face demonstrating a supreme confidence that the presence of his refrigerator would in no way impair his chances of a ride. Sometimes I wondered whether I had imagined nun, but no, Kieran had witnessed the miracle too.