Have yourself a very Therapy? Christmas!

Folks, I'd like to share a piece of writing that has recently been published. A few weeks ago, as a member of the Therapy? fan-club, I was approached to contribute to a book that was being put together to celebrate the band's 20th anniversary.

Only too happy to write stories (although you wouldn't think it if you were a frequent visitor to this website) and being a huge fan of the band, I sat down and attempted to write again. It felt good to be chasing the cursor across the screen once more.

So, in its entirety, please find below my contribution to the book "We're Here To The End Too", a book written by Therapy? fans and available from the following website:

http://www.blurb.com/books/1660152

I hope you enjoy my trip down memory lane, even if the photos are a little grainy....

Have yourselves a very Therapy? Christmas!

My first exposure to Therapy? was back in 1992.

I was 20 at the time and in my second year at Coleraine University. One of my class-mates, Joe, who hailed from Dublin came into class one day wearing a black T-Shirt, with the word “Therapy?” emblazoned across it with a rather strange looking grinning face below it.

I remember looking at it as he walked into class wondering what the hell it was all about. Was he making a statement? Was he asking a question? I surmised it had something to do with a band but seeing as the guy was a lot more ‘emo’ than myself, as I was someone who just liked his music loud and heavy, it was all a wee bit strange and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by showing my ignorance on the matter, so I let it slide.

Strangely enough my next experience of Therapy? came from my uncle JB just a few weeks later. My father and I went to pick him up from the airport just before Christmas of 1992 and on the drive back to our home town of Ballyclare, in county Antrim, Northern Ireland, he asked me had I heard any of the music “that the young Cairns fella from Ballyclare and his band-mates from Larne” were playing. Not for the first, nor the last time, uncle JB had displayed a far superior knowledge of the goings on in our home town than we were ever privy to – in spite of the fact that he spent the last third of his life living in London. As it turned out, uncle JB was close friends with Andy’s parents and he had found out about the band from them.

I guess Ballyclare’s that kind of town....

My interest was piqued - what with the band’s lead singer hailing from my home town making inroads into the music scene. Like most of us as kids growing up, I’d spent many a private moment singing and playing air-guitar in front of the bedroom mirror but here was someone from Ballyclare, of all places, actually living the dream. I knew who Andy Cairns was – he was only a few years older than me and Ballyclare is not that big a place. I had memories of him and his mates hanging out in the river park at the foot of the town. As we played football, they sat nearby consuming their alcohol carry-outs. It’s strange to think of now, but by the time I was old enough to indulge in that particular recreational past-time myself, Andy and the rest of the band were well on their way to becoming the Therapy? that we all know and love today.

That day, I headed down to Bert McCormick’s Record Store in Ballyclare Main Street and purchased the album “Nurse” on cassette (remember those?) and rushed home to give it a play. Not having a clue what kind of music I was letting myself in for, I was actually a little surprised to find out that it was something I really enjoyed. The noise was different to anything I had in my collection - the unique style of drumming, heavy bass, the scorching lead guitar all accompanying the dark lyrics, the album had a very industrial sound with “Teethgrinder” being a stand-out track for me. My love of all things Therapy? had been born.

A few evenings later, I ended up doing a pub quiz in the Square Bar in Ballyclare with my father and uncle JB. The other members of our team? None other than Andy Cairn’s mother and father. They told me that Andy was back in town and in the Ballyboe - another pub in our home town - if I wanted to pop in and say hello but I declined not knowing what I would have said to the guy without sounding too much of an eejit. Ballyclare’s that kind of a town as well.

Along the journey with Therapy? I am proud to say that I bought every album, a few EPs and several T-Shirts. I loved listening to their music and it was with great excitement that I greeted the release of a new Therapy? album. Some albums were of course better than others and line-ups changed, fall-outs with record labels ensued, but deep down, you knew that these guys were in it for the long-haul. I was also very proud of the fact that they were “local lads made good.” After graduating, my career and life took me away from Northern Ireland but I have always been proud to hail from our wee misunderstood corner of the world and would get great enjoyment from people back home being successful and telling anyone who cared to listen – or didn’t for that matter – about the fact that Therapy? and I were from the same neck of the woods. Even if Michael and Fyfe were “harbour rats” from up the road in Larne(!)

With Therapy?, I had a band whose music I loved and I could proudly say that they were from my home country. A country that for far too long stared into the abyss, could perhaps rise again and with the likes of Therapy? and later, Ash, we had bands that were spreading some joy from our war-torn country throughout the world. I’m not making any grand political statement here – I’m just saying as a native of Northern Ireland, it was great to have a band that played great balls to the wall music delivered with an infectious enthusiasm that has never waned - even after 20 years in the most hard-nosed of businesses.

In the early years, I saw Therapy? a couple of times in Belfast but after graduating, I ended up leaving Northern Ireland to live and work in Belgium. It wasn’t planned – it just kind of happened. I got the occasional trip home and it was during a trip from Northern Ireland back to Belgium that I bumped into Therapy? whilst waiting at the gate for a flight from Heathrow to Brussels.

Travelling with a female colleague at the time, I excitedly pointed out the band to her but she had no idea who I was talking about. I explained to her but she seemed a little non-plussed about it all. She suggested that we went over to say hello but, well, we’re not really like that back home are we? So I decided to leave it (we were after all, on the same flight – where could they go?) and if there was an opportunity to say hello to the band in the arrivals hall while we were all waiting on our luggage, then I would do so.

In Brussels Arrivals, I saw the band waiting at the luggage carousel, so I took my opportunity to say hello to the band. Somewhat surprised to hear my accent in Brussels airport, Andy asked “where the fuck is that accent from?” and when I told him I was from a certain part of Ballyclare, he replied with “Seriously?! I used to deliver newspapers round that way. So what are you doing here in Belgium?” So, we got chatting and passed a few minutes as we waited on the arrival of our luggage.

During the conversation it transpired that the band were playing in a small town about 40 minutes from where I was living and he invited us along to the gig. Andy then called the tour manager, Rog, asking that my colleague and I be put on the VIP guest list, saying that we could also meet them after the gig and have a few “Lucozades” back stage. The Lucozades turned out to be bottles of Grolsch in a tin bath full of ice. Rock and Roll decadence or what?!

I have to say we had a great time at the gig and the Belgian crowd loved Therapy? (something that I was to witness a few more times during my stay in Belgium over those years). My colleague was a convert and she had an absolute ball of a night, including her rather less than subtle attempts to woo Michael. (I hope he’s gotten over that one!) My memories of the night are a little hazy, but I do recall trying to convince Andy to invest a little bit of money into our local football team, Ballyclare Comrades, much to the derision of Michael. With him being from nearby Larne and therefore a ‘Harbour Rat’, he was more than ready to take the piss out of Andy and I for being “Sheep Shaggers”.

As the rock and roll lifestyle was coming to an end for my colleague and me, I mentioned to Andy that I was planning to take my wee brother, Darren, himself a recent addition to the Therapy? fan club to their Christmas gig at the Ulster Hall in Belfast in a few months time. Once again Andy got Rog to ensure that we would get on the VIP list and also back stage for their Christmas Party. As Rog was typing up “Jonny Black plus guest” on his laptop under Ulster Hall, Belfast, Dec 27^th Andy said goodbye to us, adding “If you enjoyed yourself tonight, Jonny, you’ll have great craic back in Belfast at Christmas time!”

I couldn’t wait.

Having told all and sundry about my exploits with the lads from Therapy?, I was finding it difficult to keep it a secret from my wee brother that he had it all to look forward to in a couple of months time. Only 14, he was finding his way in the world of music and with two older brothers, some of our musical tastes was starting to rub off on the youngest with Therapy? being one of his favourites. To say he envied the “Hanging out with Rock Stars, Therapy?” story would be understating it. Perhaps even going as far as to think his IT geek brother was a little bit cool after all...

Somehow, I managed to keep the secret until Christmas Day itself. Opening his present, which was a rather fine looking Therapy? T-Shirt I explained to him that he would need it in a couple of day’s time because he too would get to hang out back stage with Therapy? The look of unbridled joy on his face is something that I will remember forever.

Two days later and we headed off to the Ulster Hall early, with my wee brother beside himself with excitement. It was a cold, wet and windy evening and there were plenty of people already standing outside the venue huddling against the elements waiting for the doors to open.

Not such a wait for us, of course, because we were on the guest list.

So, grinning like Wayne and Garth out of Wayne’s World, we walked past the crowd to the front door of the Ulster Hall, where, when told by security to join the back of the queue, I proudly informed them that we were, in fact, down in the VIP guest list. Checking his clip board of names, we soon discovered that we weren’t, in fact, on the guest list at all.

My brother’s face crumpled in despair and anguish whilst a few at the front of the queue who had heard what had just happened, started to snigger. “Looks like you’re going to have to queue just like the rest of us” somebody wisecracked behind us.

I was dying.

“There must be some mistake – I was hanging out with the band back stage in Belgium a couple of months ago and Andy Cairns invited us to the gig tonight. I even saw their tour manager, Rog typing it into his laptop!” I pleaded with security. I knew I was name-dropping but I had to get my brother into the gig at all costs.

“Come on through to the lobby and we’ll see if we can get Rog to come out and verify this”

I’m not sure if it was festive spirit, my pleading, or my brother’s face of despair that swung it, but at least we were in out of the cold, all be it not knowing what was going to happen next.

Soon after, the rest of the punters started filing into the gig, with a few of the ones at the front taking great enjoyment in the two “VIPs” that were standing there looking like a couple of guys who have had the air deflated out of them. After what seemed like an eternity, I suddenly noticed Andy’s parents walking into the venue. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought, so I shamelessly approached them and explained the situation to them. Andy’s father, sympathising with our predicament, promised to go and find Rog to see if he could sort it all out for us. And off he went into the venue along with the streams of people going to the sold-out Christmas gig. With local acts Joyrider and Ash also set to play, this was going to be a big show, and after having been waiting here for over an hour, it was looking increasingly likely that the best present I had ever given my brother was being cruelly taken away from him by events out of my control.

As I was contemplating this, a rather flustered Rog came out into the lobby with Andy’s father in tow. Much to our delight, he recognised me and apologising profusely, he explained that his laptop had crashed and that he had lost a lot of information on it as a result. Of course we were allowed into the gig and of course we were welcome to party back stage with the band. The party with Therapy? was back on and I got a relieved hug from my brother.

The concert itself was a cracker. Joyrider opened the proceedings well and Ash – who were already starting to make inroads into the music world themselves – started firing up the crowd in time for the main act to take centre stage.

Obviously enjoying performing in front of their home crowd, the lads from Therapy? performed a great show that night with everyone in the audience adding to the atmosphere. There was even an impromptu performance from Skin (of Skunk Anansie fame) who appeared on stage for one song and then stage dived into the crowd afterwards.

Merry Christmas Northern Ireland!

Afterwards, we went back stage where there was a great atmosphere with all the performers mingling with friends, family and fans alike and when Andy noticed me, he was nice enough to come up to ask me how Belgium was treating me. My brother, obviously impressed with my rock ‘n’ roll circle of friends, took the opportunity to have his photo taken with Andy.

After chatting briefly with the rest of the band and enjoying a couple of complimentary cans of Harp, we left the party to continue on into the night. After all – Darren was too young to drink and I had enjoyed a late night one on one session with the band in Belgium a couple of months previously.

As we headed out into the cold, Belfast night a very excited wee brother, told me it was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. And I believed him.

Thanks Andy, Michael and Fyfe, as well as Andy’s father and Rog the tour manager for a very special Christmas party that will live long in my brother’s and my memory for the rest of our lives.

I could talk about the time I went to see you support the Rolling Stones, or even the several times I saw you at the Rock Werchter festival in Belgium (indeed at one stage only some band called REM(!) had played that festival more times than yourselves).

Or even the time that I saw you in Antwerp at the club known as Petrol, where, upon noticing my Northern Ireland flag and discovering I was the guy from Ballyclare you announced to the crowd that, in the same way some towns are twinned with others, “Ballyclare was in a suicide pact with Amsterdam”

Then there was the time that I brought my girlfriend, an Australian girl who had never heard of Therapy? to go watch you on our first date. Needless to say we are still together and I am now living in Brisbane with her. (BTW – any tours of Australia planned?!)

But they’re all stories for another time. Perhaps I’ll dust them out for the 40^th Anniversary!

Thanks Therapy? for all the good times and looking forward to many more.

A Nightmare On Fraser Island - Part 3

During the night, at God knows what time and more than a little disoriented, I was ripped from the safe haven of sleep by some weird noises that seemed to come from all around the campsite.

Originating from our left, then moving towards the rear and then on to the right, I held my breath and listened wide-eyed at the sound of branches breaking and the noise of several, muffled footfalls around us. Intermittently, a bloodthirsty howl would be released into the darkness of night.

It took a while for me to realise that I was experiencing my first up close and personal meeting with Fraser Island’s most infamous of inhabitants, the dingoes. I listened intently as they sniffed around looking for scraps but thankfully, we had been extra vigilant in locking all our supplies away from the prying, inquisitive scavengers that seemed to surround us. I hoped that there would be no baby-eating going on at our campsite that night either.

After an indeterminable time, they moved on but I have to admit, it took me quite a while to get back to sleep. As I tossed and turned, nervously listening out for more noises, I cursed myself and wondered just how the hell I was ever going to make it through the rest of the night, never mind a whole three-day excursion out in the middle of nowhere, Australian-style?

Another reason for being angry with myself was because I had watched a movie called Wolf Creek a few nights prior to the trip, which was playing havoc with my mind.

Based on the true story of English backpackers killed in the outback it was not exactly the sort of ideal viewing material in preparation for a camping trip in Australia. Before getting back to sleep, my over-enthusiastic imagination provided me with all sorts of scenarios in my head, most of which usually ended up with our long, slow tortuous death at the hands of a mad, Aussie redneck laughing manically in our ears.

Next morning, and with the tent already becoming quite the sauna, I was the first to waken up, this time to the sound of the manic laugh of a mad, Aussie, redneck.

At least that is what I thought at first until I realised it was the weird laughing call of the kookaburra bird serving as my wake up call. Thankfully, having heard it the day before, I was already familiar with the noise, and before my imagination got the better of me, I was able to nip the onset of fear because I have to say that it is an eerily similar sound to the laugh of the mad, Aussie redneck in the movie.

Looking at the time, I was dismayed to see that it was only 07:30 but at least with the advent of daylight, the fears of the previous night seemed childish and embarrassing. I told myself off for being such a big wuss and demanded of myself to catch myself on.

Over a hearty breakfast of tea and pancakes, I told my travelling companions about the dingoes, both of them saying that they had not heard them and looking at me as if I was mad. I questioned my own judgement and wondered if it was the result of my over-active imagination again. To this day, I am quite sure it was not.

We decided that we would move our campsite back down to the beach before going to explore some more of the island, including a return visit to Lake McKenzie, this time hoping to get beyond the car park. The campsite that we had stayed in was nice enough, but as I mentioned before, it was more of a family-oriented place and we were keen to meet up with the groups of backpackers who would no doubt be dotted along the beach.

According to the map that we had, there were camping facilities all along the east coast of the island just off the beach that we had travelled along the previous day and it was there that we headed off to.

Having somewhat familiarised myself to the driving requirements of the island during the more stressful moments of the previous afternoon, I am happy to report that our journey from inland to the coast was quite an uneventful one. My initial fear and nervousness having been replaced with something that could not exactly be described as enjoyment but rather more of an acceptance as to what was required and a confidence that I was able to cope with whatever the island threw at us.

This feeling of confidence was certainly exacerbated by the fact that my passengers seemed to have relaxed somewhat as well, even going so far as to compliment me on my driving; something at the time that I felt just may be a little too presumptuous.

Unfortunately, I was to be proved right.

Things went well enough as we made our way back to the small village of Eurong. I avoided the worst of the conditions with some clever driving and after about 40 minutes, we were back in Eurong where we stopped off at the overpriced general store for some more supplies. Just under 5 AUD for a tin of beans seemed too much to pay for such an item but I supposed it was a sellers’ dream having such a captive market. I wasn’t to be so understanding when I ran out of cigarettes a few days later and found out that they were charging 15 dollars a packet. But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

All set and ready to find our next campsite, we drove onto the beach at Eurong, once again having to negotiate the soft sand on the exit road. Steeling ourselves as we did so, I accelerated towards the beach and with no little effort, I had our car back on the hard sand of the beach and we headed north to find our campsite for the next two nights.

Having established from the girl in the shop that the campsites were located all the way along the east coast along a small road that ran parallel to the beach, we drove for a few kilometres until we came to a spot that we could call home at least for that night.

Safe in the knowledge that we had our campsite decided upon and set up, we would then go and do some exploring of the island, keen to see the many lakes, the ship-wreck of the Maheno located further up the coast and – if I’m honest – to do some more 4WD all be it, in an ALL WHEEL DRIVE vehicle.

We spied an exit road that did not look too bad in terms of the amount of soft sand about. No more than a car’s width and dissecting through the sand dunes, one of our group got out to have a look at what lay on the other side of the small hill.

On his return, he informed us that it was only a short drive through the dunes before we reached the parallel road and that in fact there were a couple of tents already pitched up in the vicinity.

If it is good enough for them, then it would certainly do for us, was the general consensus of opinion, so it was decided that we would leave the beach at this stage.

Lining up the car for a straight run-up to the exit road, I set the car in motion, bouncing through the soft sand, we headed off the beach once again.

What happened next took only a matter of a few short seconds but as I type these words now, I can remember each detail with total clarity. Driving over the summit of the exit road, I saw what my friend had meant. No more than 10 metres ahead was a T-Junction where I would have to choose either left or right. Quickly surveying the soft sand and the ruts that previous vehicles had made I opted for left, because it looked slightly easier to negotiate.

Not wanting to overshoot the exit road, which would have meant hitting the steep edge of the large dune on the other side of the junction; I eased off the accelerator, steering the car to the left as I did so.

And promptly got us stuck.

Panicking, I gunned the accelerator some more but despite the protests of the engine, we could not go any further. My passengers got out and pushing from the front, I switched the car into reverse, and with a lot of effort, and a lot of revving, the car moved back up the exit road a few metres onto some harder hand.

I could feel the beads of nervous sweat forming on my forehead and some trickling down my back as well. Through the windscreen of the car, I could see that my passengers were no more confident of the situation than I was.

A terrible burning smell had filled the car and as I reversed, I had noticed an ominous cloud of black smoke coming from the front of the car, drifting off in the sea breeze. Putting the car back into first gear, I gunned the accelerator and made a second attempt to get off the exit road, figuring that this time I would drive at whatever speed it would take to carry me through the softer parts of the sand.

And the car went nowhere.

I don’t mean “because it was stuck in the sand” type of going nowhere but rather a more worrying “because the car wouldn’t engage into gear” kind of going nowhere.

This was not good.

I put the car back into neutral and then tried again. I re-engaged the clutch, put the car into first and as I released the clutch again, I accelerated.

Still nothing.

The gear-stick went into first ok, it was just that the engine didn’t. Far from being fully au fait with the mechanics of the average battery toothbrush, never mind an ALL WHEEL DRIVE vehicle, even I surmised that we were in big trouble. And yes – I am using the royal ‘we’ here again.

My fellow travellers looked nervously on as I shook my head and got out of the car. The smell of smoke lingered heavily in the air.

“I think I’ve burnt the clutch out” I said despondently. “We’re stuck here.”

Looking at the car, I could see that it was not stuck in sand and placed where it was, it was blocking the exit road, preventing other vehicles from getting past. Although, at this point, this did not seem to be a problem, considering there was, rather worringly, no traffic in either direction as far as the eye could see.

Surveying the scene, we pondered our next move.

Not for the first time on the trip, I cursed my stupidity and wished we had not embarked on this reckless escapade. Especially not in this car – a car who’s owner was not keen at all in the first place to let us take it to Fraser Island.

Expecting a backlash from my passengers at my stupidity, I got quite the opposite. I think they realised that I was feeling terrible enough as it was for what had happened and perhaps even in some way they felt a little guilty themselves.

In the middle of nowhere, on a beach in Fraser Island and with no sign of life in the two tents nearby, we were most definitely stranded, which meant that our campsite had more or less been decided for by our circumstances rather than for its convenience.

With the scorching, midday sun beating down on us and the very, VERY irritating marsh flies biting lumps out of us, there were very little options for us, so two of us set up base camp, with the third member of this unfortunate party setting off down the beach back towards Eurong in search of help.

We tied a bright orange plastic bag to the aerial of the car so that it would be easier to spot from the beach. After a period of about an hour and a half, he returned in a jeep with a young couple from Ireland who had given him a lift back from the tourist information centre located between Eurong and us.

Thanking them for their help, we waved them goodbye and worked upon our strategy to get out of the situation. Having acquired the number of a tow truck guy on the island, it was decided that we would call him to come and see what he could do for us.

However, we had another problem.

Located where we were, none of us had a signal on our phones to make the call.

Resigned to more hitch hiking back in the direction from which he would come, our friend reluctantly volunteered to go see if he could get to a phone to make the call. We would remain at base and look out for people to help us, as well as protect all our belongings that were of course stranded along with us. Perhaps the inhabitants of the tents nearby would be able to help us once they had returned.

That afternoon was a long one for all concerned.

Sitting at our camp and with no means of communication, we sat helplessly waiting for help to arrive. Occasionally cars would pass by on the nearby beach – all of them big, strong, 4WD monsters but none of them passing along the road parallel to the beach that we had camped along.

The minutes passed slowly by, with most of the time spent swatting the bastard marsh flies that by now had become the most hated thing in my world, apart from ALL WHEEL DRIVE cars with their incessant buzzing and their sometimes quite painful bites (the flies, not ALL WHEEL DRIVES).

The marsh flies were everywhere we went. Even going over the dune and onto the beach, they still seemed to follow, all be it in pairs – as if they were doing reconnaissance missions to report to the others.

Apart from these wonderful distractions, the afternoon was intermittently livened up by me trying the car again, to see if it had miraculously repaired itself in the interim. Unsurprisingly it had not – although it did not stop me trying again every half hour or so.

After an eternity of seeking solace from the burning sun and the biting marsh flies, our friend returned in a battered 4WD vehicle along with who we hoped would be our saviours of the day – our knights in shining armour - or at the very least a couple of sensible, helpful, kind-hearted gentlemen. All be it in a battered Mitsubishi 4WD.

Any hopes that we had of a safe and fast rescue, immediately dissipated when we saw the two guys roll out of their vehicle, clutching onto their ‘stubbies’ (bottles of beer), thoughtfully placed in ‘stubby coolers’ (small polystyrene cups to keep the bottles cool).

It was obvious that both of them were utterly and completely wasted.

The driver and the least drunk of the two - but not by much, it has to be said – introduced himself as Peter. He was small, covered in grease with burn marks covering most of his upper torso. He looked like he had not eaten a solid, square meal in years. His unkempt hair hung greasy and lifeless around his face barely hiding a shifty, bloodshot gaze and a rather disconcerting smirk.

His mate was chubby, sunburnt and sported a manic, imbecilic grin and was very obviously only there for the drive and to have a gawk at the stupid, stuck tourists.

Neither of them looked like they would have been able to tie their own shoelaces, never mind help us out of our current predicament.

I exchanged nervous, worried glances with my travelling companions. My mate who had spent all afternoon trying to get to civilisation and then to try and summon some help, shrugged his shoulders as if to say “What? This was the best I could do!”

Chatting later with him, he had a point, as it transpired that he had quite the nightmare since leaving us to go get help but unaware of these facts, I have to admit to being quite unimpressed by his choice of rescue team.

“So – what the fuck has happened here then?” Peter asked, barely containing his amusement.

“I think I’ve burnt the clutch out” I sheepishly replied.

“You think you’ve burnt the clutch out? Let’s have a look” With an exaggerated sigh, he took the keys and proceeded to stagger across the sand to the car. Getting in, he repeated what I had tried only about a dozen times since our vehicle had stopped and unfortunately, once again, the car engine refused to engage into gear.

Getting out of the car, he offered his professional advice on the situation: “Yep – the fucking clutch has had it. It’s completely fucked. This car ain’t going nowhere.”

“Is there anything you can do to help us?” asked our friend, obviously worried about her father’s car and wanting to know how we could get it fixed.

“Well – there’s fuck all I can do out here. Where’s your camp?”

“Over there,” pointing to our tent hidden in the shade.

“You’ve camped here? OK then, best thing I can do is tow the car back and order the parts. It will take a while for the part to arrive and even when it does, it will take a while to fix. It’s an all day job, that.

“How much do you think it will cost?”

“Hard to say – parts are expensive, plus getting it to the island, it’s a big job.” He answered avoiding the question.

“Yeah – so how much do you think?”

“Hard to say but I reckon somewhere between six and seven hundred dollars.”

For the first time, I think we fully appreciated just how bad our situation was.

• We had borrowed and subsequently broken my friend’s father’s car
• We were kilometres away from civilisation, stranded on the world’s largest sand-based island
• We were relying on the assistance of the two most drunken people on the island, if not the planet, for assistance

To say we were dismayed would be an understatement.

Although - even though we were seriously worried and depressed at how bad things had become, little did we know just how much things would go worse….

A Nightmare on Fraser Island - Part 2

…and promptly got us stuck.

Again.

Unsurprisingly, this was not doing anything wonderful to the nerves of either my passengers (or co-drivers as I like to think of them) or I. However, with the words of the wise sage ringing in my head, and with a little pushing from my co-drivers, I got moving again and reversed gratefully onto the harder sand of the beach once more.

At this point, a rental 4WD vehicle containing a family on their holidays from England stopped to have a chat. They had been on the island for three days and had found the going tough, even managing to get their beast of a jeep stuck on a couple of occasions. My recently acquired confidence was shot to pieces.

“Are the roads inland any better?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh no – they’re much worse – it’s really tough going inland.” The father of the family somewhat apologetically informed me. “I think you’re going to struggle in that – for you see Honda CRV’s are…”

“All wheel drive,” I finished for him. “Yes we’ve just found that out the hard way” and I proceeded to give him a brief run down of the recent events.

The look of disappointment on my face obviously affecting him, he quickly suggested, “It looks a bit better going inland at the next town, Eurong.”

“Yes it did - perhaps you could try there?” his wife offered enthusiastically.

Saying our goodbyes and receiving good luck messages from the family, we headed a bit further north until the exit road for Eurong.

True to the English family’s advice, the exit road did look a little better than that at Dilli Village but I think this was more because of the state of the previous exit road rather than anything that was good about the one that we were about to attempt passing through.

Making an elaborate approach from the edge of the sea, I turned the car and lined it up for a direct approach onto the exit road. With the inhabitants of the car taking a deep breath, I gunned the engine into gear and we approached the exit road at speed, bouncing and skipping through the soft sand.

Despite being thrown about the cabin of the car with quite some force, I grimly held the steering wheel and kept my foot on the accelerator, determined to keep a straight line as well as our momentum.

Just as it seemed that we might actually become stuck again, we saw that there was a sprinkler system wetting the sand at the top of the short rise into the town and there were some wooden tracks laid down to assist with grip.

A combination of all this ensured that, not without duress, we made it into the sleepy backwater of Eurong and even better than that, we drove onto some tarmac. All inhabitants of the car felt the relief and as a celebration of feeling the strong, solid surface beneath our tyres; I promptly jumped out of the car and kissed the ground, like some excitable, hairy, Billabong shorts-wearing version of the Pope.

It seemed we had arrived into the centre of Eurong, for what it was. There were a few holiday homes, a convenience store, a bakery, a holiday resort and even other people. After the experiences of the previous hour, it was a good feeling to see some semblance of life about the place.

With the time approaching three thirty in the afternoon, we spied a signpost informing us that we were 17km away from Lake McKenzie, the biggest and most popular lake in the island and with spirits suitably raised by this minor achievement, we took the decision to drive to there, and to set up camp for the night.

After a couple of minutes, this already seemed a rather rash decision.

Our time spent on the glorious security of the bitumen road was very short lived – about 400 metres to be exact, before we were experiencing for the first time, the network of inland “roads” that Fraser Island offers the intrepid traveller.

Little more than a car wide, and with sand as soft as that which had troubled us before, if perhaps a little less deep, we gingerly made our way out of Eurong. Almost immediately as we were going uphill out of town, we met two huge 4WD Jeeps coming in the opposite direction. There was barely room enough for two vehicles to pass, without either driver taking evasive action and as I was not keen to lose momentum, I continued to drive uphill, as the other two drivers moved out of the way, climbing up the side of the track.

It certainly was not the most courteous piece of driving that I have ever displayed (my years of driving in Belgium probably helping me) but thankfully, we got past them without incident and continued our bumpy way inland.

I can quite honestly say that those 17km was the most exhausting drive of my life – and this remember, after a two and a half hour drive to get to the barge, promptly getting it stuck, getting it towed, nervously driving on the beach of Fraser Island, getting it stuck at Dilli Village, getting it unstuck again, making it into Eurong, feeling the elation of tarmac roads only to have it ripped from me almost immediately and then the close call with the two 4WD vehicles.

It was really the most difficult driving I have ever experienced and all this in my friend’s father’s car – his little baby. I was a nervous wreck and an emotional basket case, so Lord knows what it was like for my passengers.

Actually, I do know what it was like for them as their gasps of horror, exclamations of fear and pearls of wisdom all provided me with unwelcome insights into their heads and, it has to be said, not serving to encourage me too much into the bargain.

We teeth-rattlingly jolted, juddered, bounced, lurched, crawled and limped, our way deeper into Fraser Island at little more than a snail’s pace. Up and down hill, round tight corner after another and thankfully without meeting too many other cars along the way, the drive to Lake McKenzie took us about an hour and it was some time just after four thirty when we rolled into the car park with another audible, collective sigh of relief.

I was, however, dismayed at the collection of cars that I enviously surveyed around us, each one immeasurably more suited to the conditions to our own mode of transport.

On the approach to Lake McKenzie we had noticed a couple of signs informing us that there were no camping facilities, even though the information that we had gleaned from the internet had told us otherwise. This was a most unwelcome turn of events but with the tracks so narrow and not wanting to try and negotiate a 3-point turn in these most difficult of conditions, we had reluctantly continued on our way. At least the beauty of Lake McKenzie would prove a welcome respite from the stress of the afternoon.

Asking another English family of tourists how far it was to the lake, we found out it was less than 10 minutes walk. However, with spirits understandably crushed and with daylight probably lasting no more than two hours, thanks to the dense tropical rainforest that makes up most of the inland part of the island; it was decided that we would leave the spectacular views at Lake McKenzie until the following day.

Fraser Island has over 100 dune lakes, as well as the second highest concentration of lakes in Australia after Tasmania. The freshwater lakes on Fraser Island are some of the cleanest lakes in the world. It is a "perched" lake sitting on top of compact sand and vegetable matter 100 metres above sea level. Lake McKenzie has an area of 150 hectares and is just over five metres in depth. The beach sand of Lake McKenzie is nearly pure silica and it is possible to wash hair, teeth, jewellery, and exfoliate one's skin.

Obviously, this was something that we had to come back to.

None too keen to be driving again so soon after having stopped but certainly a lot less keen to be stuck in the middle of a tropical rainforest in the dead of night with no campsite set-up, I reluctantly agreed and off we set again.

Having chatted with another English couple (was there any other nationality on Fraser Island?) we heard that the drive out of Lake McKenzie was better in the direction we were heading – a campsite known as Central Station, located 11 km from Lake McKenzie.

Gradually getting to grips with the driving, I was becoming more comfortable with the poisoned chalice of designated driver and although I was certainly nowhere near being able to convince myself that I was actually enjoying the experience, I nonetheless managed to get somewhat used to the driving and 35 minutes later, we were rolling into Central Station.

According to the information we had, Central Station is the largest campsite on the island boasting such facilities as water, showers and toilets – the kind of facilities that you would expect any campsite to have but this being Fraser Island is not the case, as we were to find out – but once again, I’m getting way ahead of myself.

Central Station was once the centre of the forestry industry when there was logging on Fraser Island, these days this amazing rainforest area houses a display explaining the development of Fraser Island and its various flora and fauna, information centre and picnic area.

Central Station provides a scenic boardwalk through the rain forest along the banks of the Wanggoolba Creek, as well as the aforementioned camping facilities.

Located around Central Station is superb open rain forest and the home to the massive Angiopteris ferns, this species has the largest fern fronds in the world.

Central Station has plantations of a variety of pine tress to which give the camping ground much of its appeal and makes the ideal camping site during the holiday season.

The trees are regarded as one of Fraser Island's biological marvels as the sand they grow in has almost no natural mineral fertility.

The campsite was pretty well laid out, each individual campsite offering a parking space for the car and a raised platform for the tent to be pitched on – and all this in the middle of a tropical rainforest. A large wooden picnic table completed the scene.

Without too much hassle, we had our camp set up and started to prepare dinner. Because the most of Fraser Island is a Nature Reserve, it is prohibited to make campfires. Considering all the dry wood around as well, it certainly wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do either. Thankfully, we were prepared for this, having brought along a rather splendid twin hob gas stove and it wasn’t long before we were dining on a feast of beans, tinned spaghetti and bread, followed up by a tasty Australian biscuit known as Tim Tams.

During dinner and with light fading fast, we were treated to a cacophony of noise, the like of which I have never experienced before, the birds in the trees above us joining together to make their roosting noises before calling it a night. Lasting about 20 minutes, this noise was quite deafening and made conversation practically impossible, such was the volume.

Dinner completed, and the birds finally, quite literally, giving it a rest, we attached the next wondrous piece of kit to our gas bottle, a powerful gas filament lamp that gave us enough light to continue our night – which basically revolved around a deck of cards and a drinking game known as “King of Beers.” Well, when you are in pitch black darkness on the world’s largest sand based island surrounded by all manner of beasties you’ve gotta get your rocks off somehow.

Ah yes, the beasties.

Apart from the noisy birds in the trees, we were treated to the bizarre laughing call of the kookaburra, saw various lizards, spiders, beetles, a couple of rats, and I for one, was woken up during the night by dingoes prowling around our campsite searching for scraps of food.

Fraser Island is known as a haven for these native Australian wild dogs and the local authorities are quite understandably a little nervous about them co-habiting with tourists on the island, thanks to the horrifying incident of a few years ago when a dingo actually attacked and ate the baby of a family holidaying on the island.

All tourists are advised before setting off to Fraser Island on how to treat dingoes. This advice includes not feeding them and indeed locking all food away, not to go to the toilet individually, as well as what to do if confronted by one or more of them.

Scavengers, the dogs will eat anything and as we were there at a time when their pups were being born, we were told to be especially vigilant, as the mothers would be bringing her pups out on feeding missions. Not the sort of thing you have to worry about when snogging a kebab on the way home after a night out back in Northern Ireland…

Having made a large dent in the drinks supply, we called it a night because, well, there’s not much else to do in the dead of night in the middle of a rainforest. Signs in the campsite informed people that no noise would be tolerated after 21:00 and the campsite seemed to be full of families, along with our elderly German neighbours who didn’t speak much English and who had a fully professional set up of 4WD camper van with all the required amenities at their disposal.

However, with darkness falling around seven in the evening, we were quite happily (although quietly) drunk and ready for bed by about 22:30. Sitting there around the picnic table, with our sense of humours returned having a few drinks and smokes, we happily relived the moments of the day and talked excitedly about the events planned for the next couple of days on Fraser Island.

Little did we know, however, as we talked animatedly of our upcoming adventures, just how eventful the next few days would become, because at that stage, our Nightmare on Fraser Island was only just beginning…