The Contiki Kid

Thought I'd write a book based loosely on a Contiki Grand European Tour that I took in '84... at least I think it was '84... anyway, here's the first chapter.

THE CONTIKI KID
Tales of sex, booze & bowel complaints on the 18 – 35s Grand European Tour
By John Cooke

Chapter 1 – Arrival…

When the raffish young hotel porter insisted that I smell his proffered index finger, I knew it wasn’t a good start to the jolly 18 – 35s adventure that I’d been promised.

It was a warm and (dare I say it) ‘sticky’ day in London and I’d just bussed in from Heathrow Airport to begin my very first overseas adventure. I felt like shit warmed up and the combination of a jetlag hangover and the porter’s stinky finger wasn’t making things any better.
Indeed, a swift kick in the nuts would have been a preferable option right at that moment.
“Go on, ‘ave a sniff,” he offered. “She was a right corker you know…”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I responded, weaving to avoid the offending digit as it sailed past my left ear.
“I’ve got a room booked in the name of Cooke. It’s been made through Contiki?”
“Ah, yeah, ‘ere we go – John Cooke, Aussie lad – room 193, ninth floor,” he answered, handing over a key attached to a wooden block the size of a brick.
“Hey, before you disappear,” he whispered with a conspiratorial leer, “tell me is that dirty bugger ‘Arold still giving it to old Marge then?”

Ten minutes later and free of the finger I was in my dreary shared room, wondering which unmade bed was mine. I settled on the one with the least amount of pubic hair under the sheets, dumped my stuff and pondered what sort of axe murderer I was rooming with. As it turned out, my hirsuite roomy failed to materialise – no doubt shedding away in some other far flung corner of the hotel.

After a futile attempt to wash away the jet lag, I headed down to the Contiki Club Bar to meet the people I was about to spend the next 56 days with. The thought of my first pint in Blighty had lifted my mood somewhat… then I found myself sharing the lift with Mr Stinky Finger. Of course we stopped at every floor.

The Contiki bar was chockers when I arrived, with more thick Aussie accents bouncing off the walls than you could poke a stick at. I grabbed a pint of Carlsberg and wandered over to the designated meeting area, taking a seat and scanning my fellow tourists. Nothing immediately registered on the “possible shag” radar, but then again, I probably sailed in well under their radar too.

No, my arrival had hardly proven a conversation stopper for the assembled antipodeans, but it was still early days and I was only halfway through my first pint. Little did I know that there was a shrimp vindaloo with my name on it bubbling away in a Tottenham Court Road eatery at that very moment...

Image: Four Riders of the Apocalypse, Daniel Truscott, 2005