1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge by Tony Hawks, Prefers to remain anonymous

it.’
    ‘Are you sure, Tone? It’s just that if it isn’t four, then it’s definitely six. If you take it in here Cait and Rolf will have to listen on headphones.’
    As far as I could work out Cait and Rolf could listen with their ears, after all they were in the same room as me. But Andy’s warped priority was feat they should hear this radio interview exactly as the rest of the courtry would, even at the expense of the interview actually taking place.
    The phone rang and I picked it up quickly, before Andy could pack me off into another room to press four, six or any other random number which might activate the ‘new system’. In the receiver I heard an anxious voice.
    ‘Tony?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m putting you through to Gerry now.’
    And so my third interview on national radio was conducted against a backdrop of complete mayhem, as Andy, Cait and Rolf attempted to share one set of headphones. As I endeavoured to chat naturally to Gerry, I could see six hands desperately unravelling one very tangled wire, and ears being thrust and manoeuvred into positions within range of the tiny headphone speakers. The scene resembled that of three spoilt children fighting over a present which they all badly wanted and, do you know, I found it a tad disconcerting. However I got the necessary information across, remembering to mention all the helicopter business, and Gerry made the relevant appeal over the airwaves: ‘So the challenge has been laid down before us, we have to get Tony and his fridge out to Tory Island. So come on, if you have access to a helicopter, a submarine, a hot air balloon, a hovercraft, a flying boat, a yacht or indeed even a humble fishing vessel—phone us now, 1850852222, the Ryan Line is open.’
    From a delighted table in the dining room, at the end of three intertwined arms, three thumbs went up from my devoted listeners, the general consensus being that the interview should have done enough to secure the helicopter. The phone would ring any minute with the Ministry of Defence offering a ‘return ticket to Tory Island’ with the Air Corps. And why not? It was only five minutes by helicopter and they just sit on their arses all day waiting to rescue people.
    Cait and Rolf delayed their departure by fifteen minutes so they could hear the good news when it came through, but when it wasn’t forthcoming they wished me luck and headed off canoeing for the day. Three pots of tea later, the phone still hadn’t rung and Andy and I were beginning to pace anxiously in the dining room. Andy, for whom this mission had taken precedent over caring for a pregnant wife, was convinced that we needed to call in to Gerry Ryan’s office to see if any offers of help had been received. I was less sure, not wishing to appear pushy, but I was swayed by Andy’s convincing argument.
    ‘If they’ve drawn a blank, we can start following up the contacts we made last night—but if we start doing that now, and Gerry’s people are already talking to them, we’re treading on their toes—so we need to know, Tone.’
    Sometimes the outbreak of war can release a heroic side to a person’s nature. It was Andy’s personal tragedy that his had been released by the arrival of a man and a fridge. For when the bad news was received that The Gerry Ryan Show had taken no calls with regard to the Tory Island appeal, Andy defied his deathly white complexion and sprang to life, making phonecall after phonecall and declaring, ‘Don’t worry, Tone, well get you out there.’
    The name we had been given last night meant nothing to anyone in the Ministry of Defence, so he called the Air Corps direct, rang local press, contacted the local TD (MP) for the area, and after forty-five minutes of almost continuous bullshit he eventually acquired the telephone number of the top nob in the Ministry of Defence in Dublin. We just needed him to give clearance for the Air Corps to fly me out. Andy’s ‘moment’ had arrived. He had already