1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge (31 page)

§

Not for the first time on my trip I began the day on national radio speaking to Gerry Ryan. He was intrigued by the notion of a Fridge Party.

‘So what exactly do you intend to
do
at this thing?’

‘We don’t really know.’

‘What about getting people to turn up with the bits and pieces from their fridges, the ice tray or the egg tray or anything else that identifies them as a fridge groupie.’

‘Sounds good to me, although quite where it goes from there I have no idea.’

It didn’t matter. According to the fridge philosophy, we would wait and see.

I got up, made use of the few facilities in the bathroom which were operational and made my way over to Westimers to meet Eric. Outside the pub was a huge blackboard with a misspelled chalk message inscribed upon it;

FRIDGE PARTY TONNIGHT

I felt a tingle of butterflies.

§

It was the maritime port of Cobh which became my sightseeing venue for the day, Eric having phoned to explain that he had forgotten about his involvement in a charity golf event, and therefore couldn’t make the Blarney Stone outing after all. My winning line about being ‘lost for words’ would have to be put on hold.

From behind the bar, Alan and Noelle were insistent that I should take the fridge on the day trip.

‘Ifll be lonely if you leave it all on its own all day.’

Tough. I needed to conserve energy for tonight and I knew that if I took the fridge with
me
, some kind of adventure would befall us, and no doubt we would end up getting hopelessly delayed in a watering hole somewhere or other.

Getting to Cobh involved my first train journey in Ireland. It was marred by my having made the mistake of sitting opposite a man whose hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed since 1967. It smelled like it hadnt been washed since 1952. It looked extremely heavy, the equivalent of having three damp cloths placed on his head. The pungent aroma of his hair easily justified a move up the train, but I didn’t do so, partly out of a cowardly wish not to cause offence, and partly because I believed he and his hair would soon get off at one of the many stops which the sluggish train was making.

Cobh is a wonderful example of a Victorian port, commanding one of the world’s largest natural harbours. The only negative thing I can say about it is that the man with the smelly hair lived there, and as a result I was absolutely gasping for fresh air on arrival. I climbed the hill to take a closer look at its magnificent cathedral. With a population of only eight thousand, Cobh didn’t seem to deserve such a sizeable edifice, and the burden on its congregation for its refurbishment was equally disproportionate: £3,700,000. What is it with churches? Without exception
all
churches in Europe need money for refurbishment, yet in the mid west of America you’ll very rarely see a church appeal for restoration. Which is odd, because they were the ones which were built by cowboys.

On the train home I saw someone reading the
Evening Echo
with my picture on the front, and I pondered the concept of fame. This was an area where I had found myself in the unique position of having complete control over my status. If I wanted to get recognised and be the centre of attention then I took the fridge out with me. If I wanted to have some time to myself and revert to some semblance of normality, then I left it indoors. It was beautiful in its simplicity. How Michael Jackson and Madonna must long for such an arrangement. Still, they should have thought of that before they sold million upon million of albums and plastered their faces on posters all over the world. I may not have had their wealth, but I had certainly outwitted them on the fame thing, and that was satisfying.

That night in my hotel room, I paced anxiously, rehearsing the speech I was going to make at the party. I had no desire to find myself floundering as I had done at the Bachelor Festival. This time I was subscribing to Baden Powell’s motto for the scout movement—‘Be Prepared’.

I set off for the pub. Things began well. As I crossed the footbridge dragging my fridge behind me, I bumped into a group of about half a dozen girls from Cork school of art who were on their way to the party. If they were a sample of the kind of audience the fridge was going to attract, then things boded well for the evening.

‘Look, it’s the Fridge Man!’ said a pretty girl with a cheeky little face, who I immediately identified as being the one I fancied most There followed a constant stream of questions, all of which I was able to provide answers for, except one. ‘So what exactly
is
a fridge party?’

‘I really don’t know. We’re just going to have to wait and see. I think it’s up to us.’

These were unchartered waters and there was no previous experience to draw on to ascertain what environment might be the most appropriate for the holding of a Fridge Party. However, there was to be no such difficulty in identifying the wrong environment for such an event, because it awaited us as we entered Westimers. The whole ambience of the place had changed. The lights were dimmed and loud music was blaring out from the stage where a young male duo surrounded by synthesizers and drum machines were performing.

‘What’s going on?’ I shouted to Alan who was behind the bar.

They’re a band called ‘Pisces Squared’. Unfortunately two months ago they were booked to play tonight, and we couldn’t get hold of them to cancel.’

Right So that meant that the background noise for the Fridge Party was cover versions of the hits of Erasure and Soft Cell, all stamped with the duo’s trademark of excessive volume. I shouted hellos to some familiar faces—Dave, my Scottish PR man who had brought Ms wife to meet me, and Barry the Caffreys salesman who had arrived with his girlfriend and chums. However communication was limited to rudimentary greetings, saeh was the noise from ‘Pisces Squared’. Now I’m no expert �n astrology bat here were two Rsceans wife whom I was definitely net compatible.

The boys’ manager hovered proudly by the stage, offering them encouragement and completely failing to notice that their techno pop message was falling on deaf ears. It became clear through the body language of the boys and their manager that this gig was something of a showbiz break and a milestone in their career to date. And so, a wholly unsatisfactory situation existed. An ambitious band, with eager manager in tow, were playing to an audience of the kind of eccentrics and quirky misfits who had been attracted by the concept of a Fridge Parry, some carrying items which they had brought from their home refrigerator. The lead singer of the band looked visibly shaken.

Then there was the other side of the equation. A young Englishman, for whom tonight was to be a celebration of his extraordinary travels with a refrigerator across the length and breadth of Ireland, was unable to understand a bloody word anyone said to him because of the cacophonous din being created by a band sounding like they were in the death throes of their career.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ shouted Eric, the architect of this farrago, pointing to the band. He motioned to me and my harem of art students. ‘Sit down over there and we’ll bring you over some beer. Fosters gave us a case of beer by way of sponsoring the evening, so you may as well have it.’

The Fridge Party was sponsored? It was hard to imagine the phone conversation which might have brought that about.

There was one unexpected bonus resulting from this evening’s spectacular shambles, and that was that I could devote my attentions to Mary, my favourite art student. I sat next to her and from close range we shouted intimately, occasionally making ourselves heard over the monotonous strains of the house band. From time to time a fridge devotee would come over to pay homage and sign the fridge, but Piscean decibel levels prevented any lasting exchanges. I didn’t mind. It meant I could carry on my flirtatious bellowing with Mary.

‘SO HOW MUCH LONGER HAVE YOU GOT TO GO ON YOUR DEGREE COURSE?’

‘NOT REALLY, MAYBE LATER. I DON’T THINK YOU CAN DANCE TO THIS, CAN YOU?’

The development of our relationship was temporarily interrupted when I was asked to go outside and give an interview to a media studies student laden with recording equipment. When I returned some ten minutes later, the art students were looking a little sheepish.

‘What is it?’ I asked, but no one could hear me over the music.

Then I saw my jacket.

There cannot be many generic groups who include fabric paint in the list of items which they take with them on a night out, but art students are evidently one. During my absence they had made good use of this fabric paint, and there on the back of my denim jacket was a drawing of the fridge, and above it emblazoned in big bold red letters were the words;

FRIDGE MAN

Nervously, the girls watched me to gauge my reaction. After all, they
had
breached generally accepted social etiquette by painting all over someone’s jacket whilst it had been left unattended. I, however, was delighted with their naughtiness.

‘It’s brilliant!’ I announced, but they couldn’t hear me over the music. Never mind, they could tell from my beaming smile that I approved.

Although the girls were by now quite drunk (substantial inroads had been made into the case of beer that Eric had carried over to us) their artistic ability was apparently not impaired in any way. I was genuinely pleased with their work. What’s more, I became aware of the greater significance of their actions. As I pulled the jacket over my shoulders and stood proudly before them, I realised that I had
become
the ‘Fridge Man’. The tide, which I had jokingly bestowed upon the solitary figure I had seen by the roadside all those years ago, now belonged to me. I was now the embodiment of my own obsession.

§

Understandably enough, the band cut short their set.

‘Goodnight Cork!’ shouted the lead singer with a wave, and in a triumphant manner which had to be admired.

The audience, or ‘Cork’, managed a pitiful smattering of applause and the manager gave the boys a shake of the head which must have meant ‘skip the encore’.

I was caught rather by surprise by all this. I had just managed to establish that Mary wasn’t on a degree course at Cork School of Art but was the best friend of one of the others, when I heard a voice over the PA calling me to the stage.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the Fridge Man.’

I felt like a ludicrous third-rate novelty act, only with less to offer. I was cheered to the stage by drunken whoops and hollers which were ominously reminiscent of Ballyduff. I quickly rifled through my pockets to find the notes for the speech which was going to set this performance apart from that fiasco. I had followed Baden Powell’s advice and this time I was prepared.

‘Good evening,’ I began solidly. ‘How many people have heard about me and the fridge?’

Cheers from the art students and hardly anyone else. Oh dear. Whilst I had been holed up in a comer devoting my time to Mary, the pub had filled up with an entirely different crowd who were waiting for the dub out the back to open in half an hour. All the fridge devotees had apparently buggered off, presumably having grown tired of both the venue and the lack of interest that I was showing in them.

On an echoey microphone I explained the concept of fridge travel to an audience whose attention span had already expired. Many had given up on me and had begun talking. All the preparation I had made was entirely useless. Naively, I had based it on the assumption that I would be faced with an audience who would be faintly appreciative. The piece of paper I was holding was as much use to me as a handkerchief to a sky diver whose parachute hadn’t opened. For all the advice of Baden Powell—I still found myself going down as well as one of his scouts giving a short talk about reef knots. I abandoned my plans of performing a passionate discourse on how others should set their fridges free, and quickly switched to the much easier option of holding a second-rate competition. It was either that or die on my arse, and dying on my arse might make me less attractive to Mary.

‘Okay, it’s competition time, and the chance to win a two-week holiday in Barbados!’ I announced.

A lot more people started listening now.

‘As you may or may not know, on
The Gerry Ryan Show
this morning we asked you to bring in various pieces of fridge paraphernalia. The best one will win the holiday. So who’s brought something from their fridge?’

A lady immediately appeared in front of me and handed me an ice cube.

‘Aha! We have our first entry. Frankly it smacks of blatant opportunism but this lady has entered an ice cube. Quite whether she brought it from home or simply plucked it from her drink is a moot point, but nevertheless ifs entry number one. What else have you got out there?’

No response.

‘Okay, lefs throw the net a little wider. Ill accept any item from the domestic world,’ I said, desperately trying to prolong my time on stage and salvage some credibility. ‘Come on, you can’t let a lady win a two-week holiday in Barbados on the strength of having lifted an ice cube out of her drink.’

One of the art students rushed up and handed me a pair of scissors. The concept of participation began to catch on. A spoon followed, and then a tape measure.

‘Come on, keep those entries coming. In a minute well have a vote and let you, the audience, decide on the winner.’

A plastic fork was next, then a comb, and quite magnificently, a drawing of a toaster. I could never have expected the standard of entries to be so high. I gave one last call for last-minute efforts. There was a sudden rush, including quite a bulky item, a dishwasher tray which I assumed someone had stolen from the kitchens. It proved very handy as a receptacle for all the other entries, which I now announced.

‘So here is the final list of entries for the 1997 Fridge Party domestic item of the year. Please cheer to indicate your approval, and the one with the loudest cheer will win.’ I cleared my throat. I now had the full attention of the room.

Boy, I was some performer. ‘Okay, we start off with some scissors!’