The Further Adventures of an Idiot Abroad (24 page)

I was yelling at the dogs to slow down, as the ground was getting bumpy, but they were taking no notice. They just ran and ran. I’d say they’re good pets for lazy people, as you
don’t have to walk them, they take you for a drag. Bill told me they retire the dogs once they get to a certain age. I can just imagine someone picking one up from a dogs’ home, having
no idea of the dog’s history, chucking a ball for it and then never seeing it again. I tried the ‘whoa’ command Bill told me to use with no joy, so moved onto the ‘slow
down, you twats’ command, which had no effect either. Bill told me he has raced using sixteen dogs so God knows how fast he went with them. The dogs didn’t even stop to poo. They just
opted for the Paula Radcliffe skill of doing it while running, which I suppose is a good thing if you’re in a Husky race, as you wouldn’t want them to keep stopping whenever they see a
lamppost.

After about an hour and a half my arms and legs were really aching from holding on tight, but Bill said he was impressed with my skills. He said he had once taught the actor Steven Seagal to
mush for the film
Dangerous Grounds
and Steven had come off loads of times, so that made me feel pretty good. I put it down to the fact that it was quite similar to riding a supermarket
trolley. I often push myself off in Morrisons while holding on tight and using the weight of my body when cornering, but then I guess Steven Seagal doesn’t do his own shopping, so he
won’t have these skills.

We flew the rest of the way to Barrow, as that is the only way to get to the place. I remember looking out of the plane window thinking we were flying above cloud until I saw a
big dark crack. We were actually above frozen sea. There was literally nothing until we came over the airport where there was a couple of thousand homes all bunched together in the nothingness. We
got off the plane. It was freezing. Colder than I’ve ever been. It was now around minus 25. It hurt if you took in a deep breath, as the cold air seems to burn your lungs.

We stayed at a university camp where they study the Arctic ecosystem amongst other things. It looked similar to the base that was in the film
The Thing
. We had a type of small
hangar/shelter close to the sea front. It was basic, but it had everything you might need, including heating.

There were seven of us in total, so we had to share bedrooms, which wasn’t a bad thing, as more body heat per room would warm the place up. I was given some long johns and quilted trousers
to go over my normal trousers. I was now wearing three pairs of trousers, two pairs of socks and a thin pair of gloves to fit under my gloves. Washing baskets must be massive here to deal with the
amount of clothes being worn on a daily basis.

We went for a walk by the sea, and then had a walk on the sea itself, as it was totally frozen. There were big walls of ice, as if the cold had frozen a wave mid-break. I was reminded of the
reason of this trip when I saw whalebones lying about everywhere, as popular as scaffolding poles are in London. The locals obviously still hunt whales for food in these parts. They strip them and
then leave the carcasses for the seagulls to feed on. I suppose that is the problem with eating whales, the leftovers are such a pain to get shut of. I couldn’t be doing with it. It annoys me
when Suzanne makes gravy so lumpy I can’t pour it down the sink and I end up going outside to pour it down the grid, so having whalebones to get rid of would really do me head in. They
disposed of them quite creatively by stacking them up like pork chops on a Gordon Ramsay dish. Some bones were on roundabouts. I’m not sure if the council had put them there as a feature or
if someone had fly-tipped them. Maybe people go out in the darkness of night and dump them. I tend to do that with the Christmas tree every year.

I had a feeling that this wasn’t a place I’d be seeing a living whale. I didn’t see many living people out and about either, apart from a man who was shifting the snow off the
road, which is a job for life if you live here. Another job that needs to be done in the area is the emptying of honey buckets. Honey buckets are used in some homes of the elders who can’t
afford a septic tank. A honey bucket is a five-gallon plastic bucket with a toilet seat on top. I met up with a fella called Rob whose job it was to empty them. I was asked to help. He suggested I
popped on some of their overalls, as there was a chance of splash back occurring during the emptying of the buckets. Nice, innit? Rob was given a list of addresses that needed their buckets
emptying.

We got in his truck, which was similar to a UK dustbin lorry, except it had a hopper on the side where you poured the contents of the honey buckets into. You then pulled a lever, which sucked
the waste into the tanker. There was a massive crack across the windscreen, which seemed to be the case on four out of five vehicles here, either caused by bumping into things on black ice or the
cold temperature on the outside as the car’s heater is pumping out warm air on the inside. We got to the first address where my first bucket was sat waiting on the step. I picked it up and
carried it over to the truck. It was heavy. I asked if the contents were a week’s or a month’s worth, but Rob wasn’t sure when this bucket was last emptied. He and his team are
out emptying six days a week.

The plastic bag in the bucket had been fastened and was full to the brim with pee and poo. It was like a balloon full of water where the slightest pressure could burst it. Gillian McKeith, that
woman off the TV show
You Are What You Eat
would love it here. She’s always looking at people’s stools. I’m no doctor, but I’d say whoever this bucket belonged to
was not well. It was similar to the lumpy gravy I was talking about earlier. I took my time carrying it, as the paths were slippy. As I poured it into the hopper, the bag split and the smell hit
me. Rob said that was normal and he’s now used to the stench. He seemed quite happy that this was his job and just said, ‘That smell is my money.’ I put the bucket back onto the
porch, and away we went to the next house where there were two full buckets next to some legs that Rob said looked like caribou legs. I don’t think they worry about the kerb appeal of their
homes in Barrow. One of the bags was split. I asked Rob what the rules are on split bags, and he just said, ‘Be more careful.’ It’s funny to think at home my binman doesn’t
take a bag if it’s not in a proper bin bag, never mind a split bag full of shite. Rob’s walkie-talkie went off. It was the base passing on four more addresses of people who need their
buckets emptying. They don’t recommend leaving the buckets out too long, as they attract polar bears. If this stench attracts bears I really don’t see how the pepper spray Marty gave me
is supposed to scare them off.

We carried on with the honey bucket collections. It’s an odd name, isn’t it? I think they give jobs nice names to try and make the people who have to do them feel better. A mate who
worked at Subway said he was given the title of Sandwich Artist when he worked there. Mind you, if Rob’s job title was Buckets of Shit Removal maybe not as many would apply.

Rob noticed the next address on his run was his cousin’s place. I asked if it was odd picking up buckets of poo from people you know. He just laughed and said not really. I asked
’cos I know my mam wouldn’t like it if she knew the person picking up her honey bucket. In all the time I’ve known her I’ve never heard her announce that she is going to the
loo. I normally know she needs to go if she tries to get me and me dad to go out for a walk.

The more I emptied, the more I came round to the idea of the honey buckets. It means you can use the toilet in any room of the house. I hate it when I’m expecting a delivery, and they say
they could come any time between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. They always turn up just as you’re sat on the toilet. With a honey bucket you could sit by the door.

After emptying the buckets I went to meet Roz at her house. She was a local elderly woman. She had a fairly decent-sized bungalow, not much of a garden, but then what would be the point of
having a garden, anyway? Animal skins hung on her washing line looked frozen solid. I don’t know what a good weather day is for hanging out washing here. She invited me into their home where
I also met her sister Janey. The heating was blazing. It was similar to walking into a department store when you’ve been out in the cold on Oxford Street, so I took off a few of my layers and
sat on their sofa. I explained that I was in Alaska to see a whale. At this point Roz went off and came back with a bag similar to the size of a bag of Oven Chips.