Am I becoming a petrol head, I wonder? If I’m not astride a throbbing Fat Boy… Hang on that’s a bad start; it sounds a bit gay. The point is, having had a driving licence for twenty years, it’s only recently that I’ve taken any interest whatsoever in cars.

Take Belgrade Automobile Museum last month, for example. As the aged caretaker struggled to his feet and flicked an industrial-grade light switch, illuminating an eclectic fleet of gleaming antique cars, my heart soared. The automotive designs spanning several decades had me feeling like Dirk Pitt must have in the Clive Cussler novels when returning home to his lone aircraft hangar.

However, whereas Dirk tended to disassemble updraft carburetors whilst hatching rugged schemes to thwart megalomaniacs lusting for power and bloodshed, I took a few photos and wished I owned a garage.

Classic Cars

A two cylinder Czechoslovakian Aero from 1929 jockeyed with an English Alvis 50hp beauty from 1931. Here, a French 1908 Charron; there, a sleek, navy-blue 1958 Opel, its chrome radiator grille polished to perfection. What’s gone wrong in the last few decades? I mean, can we really compare a modern day Renault Clio to the chic finesse of a 1926 Lancia Lambda?

Well, there are cars and then there are cars. I mean James Bond wouldn’t have put up with a Seat Ibiza, would he? Armed to the sunroof with mine launchers, rear-mounted ink jets and front-firing torpedoes, in 1977 he chased Stromberg’s henchmen in an amphibious two-litre Lotus Esprit. Nice. Which reminds me, a bulletproof assembly periscope might just increase the value of my Ford Fiesta. They don’t call me 001-and-a-half for nothing..

National Motor Museum

Talking of Bond, that new bloke Daniel Craig looks a bit like me, doesn’t he? Bit narrower in the shoulders perhaps, and less vim and grit but… Seriously, if you’re into cars – and you didn’t already know this – the Bond in Motion exhibition at the National Motor Museum in Beaulieu has been extended until January 5th, 2014.

Most of the cars from BBC’s Top Gear are on show permanently, too. And I’ll just let you know that Truckmania is being staged there on May 26th and 27th over this May Bank Holiday, showcasing vehicles spanning over a hundred years of trucking.

Youngsters can ride mini trucks on Beaulieu’s Dipstick’s Driving Circuit,  and Bigfoot, the original monster truck, will be crushing everything in sight. Yeehah! Whoopee! Keep that hammer down…

Only yesterday I popped into Dublin town centre without an umbrella. Yes, I know – talk about living on the edge. As squalls ravaged the streets, a grim foreboding stole across me; I realised I was trapped in a pub with two bibulous Irish women. How could I leave, given the weather?

‘Ah, for feck’s sake, I’d offer it up to be sure,’ simpered Karen, thinly veiling a reference to sex. Adele smiled winsomely, mutely soft-soaping me, and ordered another round of Guinness. Gosh, if only I’d taken a brolly, I could’ve headed back to finishing my crossword instead of becoming steeped to the gills, drunker even than a bishop. Still, as Lord Byron said, ‘Man, being reasonable, must get drunk.’

Writers’ Quotes

As Barnaby Davies said, ‘Man, being a bit worse for wear, must go home and have a little lie-down.’ Possibly not as catchy as Byron, but equally as shrewd, I think. Now then, here’s a tip. Do not text, call or email after a skinful.

That ought to be obvious, yet alcohol does seem to engender the odd ripe-with-regret moment. Take Cockney Russ, Status Quo’s main driver, for example (pictured centre). Should he have texted the wife at 4.30 this morning, beset by a legion of confused thoughts? ‘Daddy thinks he’s still a teenager,’ she had to explain to their young daughter.

Lonely Hearts

Better still, how many replies do you think this world-beating advertisement in the Glasgow Lonely Hearts column received? “23 stone Gemini seeks nimble sexpot for tango sessions and humid nights of screaming passion.” I daresay our well-fed man was impelled by a superhuman quantity of lager at the time of writing.

Or how about this apocryphal blinder, also penned by optimism rising bravely from the boozy depths. “Ginger haired Paisley man seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing exists in this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches.” Yes, it’s always worth sitting on such mawkish gems until after the morning cuppa.

Harley Davidson’s 110th Anniversary

Anyway, here I am borne along with romantic notions again when really what I wanted to mention was motorcycling. Would you like to ride a Harley-Davidson for free?

Well, you may or may not know that this year Harley-Davidson celebrates its 110th year. And if you’ve got a bike licence and fancy any of the places listed below over the next few months then you’re in for a treat. There are two lots of 24 brand new UK motorbikes on tour waiting to be ridden – all on 13 plates.

Turn up to any of the below events, check out the Daisy Duke look-a-likes in hot pants and cowboy hats, and exchange your licence for a free ride of a Harley of your choice. Try not to dump the clutch and fall off, though – these bikes aren’t cheap. Hey, and go easy on the throttle..

[Dates: 25th/26th May St Petersburg, Russia or Thessaloniki, Greece; 1st/2nd June Moscow or Athens; 8th/9th June Krasnodar, Russia or Rome; 15th/16th June Kiev or Rome; 22nd/23rd June Minsk or Zagreb; 28th/29th June Warsaw or Budapest; 5th/6th July Lodz, Poland; 6th/7th July Bratislava, Slovakia; 12th/13th July Brno, Czech Republic; 20th/21st July Presov, Slovakia or Beroun, Czech Republic; 27th/28th Ostrava, Czech Republic; 3rd August Poznan, Poland; 9th/10th August Wroclaw, Poland.]

Guys, write this down. The following is a tried and tested method – devised by me in my heyday as a bachelor – for having fun with girls. And it can work in either conversation or text messaging. Ready?

OK, so you ask a few innocuous choice questions to get warmed up. For example, does she prefer red or white wine? Chicken or fish? Then, just when she’s thinking you’re a punctilious ass and is regretting that impulse buy of saucy underwear, you throw a curve ball. We can’t have the poor poppet forever bewailing her dissatisfaction in the boudoir, can we?

Make Your Move

No, we jolly well can’t. So, that’s when you look her in the eye and say ‘Chocolate or sex?’ Naturally, unless you’ve chosen a hooker on her lunch break, or your mottled temptress is in her eighties, her cheek will mantle with shame. She’ll demurely mumble ‘The second one’, or words to that effect.

Your pithy rejoinder? ‘Naughty girl! Well, there’s a Twix in the fridge just in case.’ Works every time. Well, it used to, but I daresay in modern day, binge-drinking England, your turtledove might very well turn the tables by sassily crushing her cigarette with a stiletto heel, and saying ‘Depends how big your cock is.’ Course, if she just says ‘chocolate’, you’re fucked as well.

Right, well how was that for an introduction to Turin’s chocolate industry? Yes, perhaps a little elaborate. But then so are the delicacies here. Even more so at Easter when the chocolatiers’ window displays are bulging with hand-crafted marvels.

Piemont’s Gianduia Cream

Girls, write this down. Forget Belgium and Switzerland; Turin’s Gianduiotto chocolate is yummy. To give you the bare history, during the Napoleonic wars, when England’s powerful fleet was hampering sea transport like the dickens, there was a scant supply of cocoa in these parts. Did the chocolate makers puff their cheeks, succumbing to despondent lachrymosity? No, they showed spunk and resourcefulness, adding toasted hazelnuts to make up the deficit. 

Anyway, now we’ve got the sex out of the way, let me take you to Cafe Mulassano for a chocolatey, post-coital treat. It’s the sort of olde-worlde haven where one’s croissants arrive on silver platters to marble-topped tables. Marble being sturdyish, you’d think, then, that a mere brush with my thigh wouldn’t have dislodged a top from its exquisite wrought-iron stand. Whoopsydaisies. Pesky things, tables.

Stockinged feet..

Comfortable in those heels, by the way, Honey? Kick ‘em off if you like – I’ll distract the waiter. And then I’ll order you a bicerino. God, not another Italian coffee, you groan? Ah, but this one is special. The French writer Alexandre Dumas, on a visit to Turin in 1852, wrote ‘…in Torino, I shall never fail to remember bicerin, an excellent beverage consisting of coffee, milk and chocolate that is available from all bars and cafes at a relatively modest cost.’

Cafe Mulassano, before I forget, is also responsible for importing the first toaster from the US in 1925. The significance being? The toasted sandwich duly arrived in Turin. Hooray! Actually, that’s not very interesting, is it? Let’s head back to the room instead – the Bollinger should’ve chilled nicely by now. Oh, you are insatiable, Darling – I see the Twix is still unopened..

It’s Not All Sunshine And Sand

‘Shall I plug your book, Paul?’ I asked him last summer on Madonna’s MDNA tour. ‘Who said that?’ he yelped, squinting myopically from ten feet away. Even with his glasses on, he’s as close to being blind as it’s legally permissible for a truck driver to be.

‘Oh, it’s you. Whatho,’ he finally mustered, realisation dawning after edging closer. ‘Jolly decent of you, old chap.’ Maintaining a respectful nineteen inches between us, given that I was naked in the shower block at the time, he continued. ‘Minus twelve, my eyes are. Only just qualify for my licence, but they’ve been like that for 25 years.’ One wonders how he can see the typewriter, never mind the road.

Now why, given that It’s Not All Sunshine and Sand has been on sale for a while, am I plugging it now? Because it’s out tomorrow in paperback version (published by Old Pond) at just £7.95 – less than half the price of the hardback.. No, it’s OK, you can relax – naturally I read the manuscript as a PDF rather than shell out any actual cash. But thank you for your momentary concern.

Astran – Leaders in long-haul overland transport

So what’s so special about some book on lorries and Middle East trucking, you ask? Well, it’s accessible for starters, drawing you in from the first line, when Paul Rowlands’ mum says ‘You’re doing what?’ One can’t help reading at least the second line, to see what it is he’s doing. Genius.

And it’s filled with commendable honestly – a tale of how a young, freckly boy rebelled against nine-to-five wage slavery and sought an adventure. Turning his back on a grammar school education and a “proper” job, he began driving “wheelbarrows” for a coal company. He writes of revelling in laddish, puckish pranks with the boys – resulting in the ingestion of a good deal of coal soot on his part – and how he yearned to travel in a long-distance, articulated truck.

Ah, the freedom of the open road – this is where the story gets ticklish. With undimmed vigour, Paul eventually joins the Big Wheel club, bootlegging beer across the Texas state line, a Transam out front distracting the police. Oops, I got carried away there – that was the Smokey and The Bandit film.

Bedford TK Lorries

Seriously, there are some singularly compelling stories in It’s Not All Sunshine And Sand: Paul’s sister towing his tractor unit out of a field when starting his first continental job; the real old days of machismo, when you weren’t taken seriously if you couldn’t remember the General Strike of 1926; and his wonderful description of “air conditioning”, meaning ill-fitting bodywork – the road was clearly visible through the gaps around the foot pedals forty years ago.

Slip into an almost forgotten world of ‘70s trucking, when ladies’ underwear and bicycle innertubes were still instrumental in fixing roadside repairs. Actually, I made that up too, but it sounds feasible. Definitely no heaters, though, no sound insulation, and nights were spent sleeping on a shelf behind the seat of a Volvo F86. Well, I’ll let Paul tell you the rest – his book should be in all good UK bookshops tomorrow.

And for trucking aficionados? Yep, don’t worry, there are hard-ons aplenty – a fiesta of nostalgic lorry tales. Crash gear boxes in British-built AECs, Atkinsons and ERFs? Tick. A brand new Guy Big J 4T with 205 bhp Cummins? Yeah, baby! Could things get any more exciting?…

Springsteen goes out at the end of the month; Bon Jovi’s trucks head down to Sofia (Bulgaria) in a couple of weeks; and I’ve ended up tottering about for superstar Beyonce. Yes, obviously I had to look her up on Youtube to see who she is. For those that also live in caves, she’s an American girl with a dazzling smile, soaring in popularity in the last ten years since leaving Destiny’s Child and going solo.

Last week, at East Midlands airport, UK, over 200 tons of gear arrived from America on two jumbo jets, and was trans-shipped onto Transam’s trucks. Before going airside, however, truck cabs had to be emptied. And when I say “emptied”, I mean stripped of all personal effects: clothes, gas stoves, testicle stretchers etc. The full monty. It’s amazing what one accumulates.

Naturally, given the inordinate amount of red wine, trombone music and tourist brochures I carry, this was potentially problematic for me. Solution? The fellows in

YU for Yugoslavia. It no longer exists as a country

the office very kindly instead sent me (and a colleague) to Sound Moves near London Heathrow – a specialist in freight forwarding solutions to the entertainment industry – to pick up the 22-ton overspill.

Irreplaceable

Heaven knows what a DB25 Analog Output Fan, a L5-15 Rack Box, or a Blazon-3 Intercom Beacon is, but we chucked these items in the back, tooted the lorry horns to signal our departure, and raced off to Beyonce rehearsals in Belgrade, Serbia.

Well, I say raced. All this nonsense of nine hours driving every day is such a bourgeois convention, much like using cutlery at mealtimes and getting out of the bath for a piss. What I say is if you’ve got a week to complete a journey, why not visit chums on the way – take Crazy Sandra in Germany, for example, who happened to have just bought a Harley Davidson Dyna Super Glide 1600.

Run The World (Girls)

‘The Harley’s custom made,’ she enthused, replete with excitement and looking as animated as a small child might do if handed both a lollipop and a ticket to a fairground ride. ‘It’s a bit lower, look, for a pig with short legs. I really am a pig, actually – sometimes, when my snoring’s too loud, I wake myself up. Ha ha. You need more tea?’

Anyway, we’ve arrived at Belgrade Arena now – all 25 or so trucks. So let’s dump these blasted Expanded Beam Fibre Optic Cables, Cat5 Snake 4-ways and suchlike, and set off on an adventure. Ooh, Sarajevo’s not far away if you look at the map…

‘Steep?’ said Lewis, with ingenuous bemusement. ‘It’s fucking vertical. No wonder you can’t get any purchase, Barnaby – those shoes are suited to a dance floor, not mountain climbing.’ I ignored the snub, and we continued dandering impishly along the old Fiat test track in Turin.

Now this is a genuine scoop. Google “tourism Torino” and you’ll be fobbed off with a castle or two, the gourmand tram or “the streets of chocolate”. In fact, even were you to stumble upon the erstwhile Fiat plant in Lingotto, you’d find yourself browsing clothes shops and drinking cappuccini in what was once the factory assembly line area. It’s now a shopping mall, convention centre and up-scale hotel.

Biggest car factory in Europe

Test track on the roof? Hurtled round by minis loaded with gold bullion in the film The Italian Job? Banked turns, six storeys in the air, designed to check the five levels of manufacturing beneath were up to scratch? You’d never know; not a single indication. Well, that’s where I come in. Go round the back of the cinema, follow the sign for the Pinoteca Giovanni e Marella Agnelli Museum, and Bob’s your proverbial uncle.

Exit the lift, wave at the lady on the museum desk, and tell her you’re popping outside for a circuit or two. ‘Circuito,’ one probably says in Italian; ostentatiously add a vowel to an English word and, hey presto, the result is a flawless foreign tongue. Yes, I should be a translator, I know. ‘Idiota,’ she thought and nodded, glad to get back to her book again.

Now, what’s strange is that Lewis and I had the entire track to ourselves, whooping with oblivious felicity, soaring like condors. Well, without the wings, obviously. Or the beaks, come to think of it. In fact, nothing like condors, but we were happy. It really is bewitchingly good up there and yet, despite dripping with automotive history, nobody seems to know about it. 

Designed by engineer Giacomo Mattè-Trucco

There’s also a restaurant in the centre of the roof – La Pista del Lingotto – owned by the foxy, English-speaking Tiziana. It isn’t cheap but, wow, what a spot for lunch. The snow-mantled Alps to the northwest; sixteen million square feet of Lingotto plant beneath you; and a one-of-a-kind test track surrounding you. No condors, I’m afraid, but that’s only because Italy isn’t in the Americas.

Still, close your eyes and picture the Fiats, between 1923 and 1982, exiting the factory, thrashing it round the roof and disappearing down one of the spiral access ramps. Or think of the scene in The Italian Job when the red, white and blue Minis were flat out round the track, three abreast on the curve, with the police in hot pursuit. “We are the Self-Preservation Society…” 

Of course, if you’ve no intention to visit Turin, or have no interest in cars, reading this has been an utter waste of your time. Sorry about that..

Eels seethed in wine are brought to the table by a curtsying maid, her skin the colour of bleached parchment. As she clasps her hands unctuously, his embittered mind is dreaming of overpowering this frail creature, swooping like a Valkyrie to defile her sanctuary.

And if she opposes the union? Simple. Off with her head! You see, beneath all this glittering authority lies a craven, insecure ballbag worthy only of despisement and scorn.

No More Mr Nice Guy

And what of the incorrigibly gossipy scullery maid? An intractable, quarrelsome woman that once had the temerity to voice an opinion on the running of the household hierachy. Tut tut. Yes, an iron mouthpiece for her, permanently mutilating the tongue with sharp spikes and blades. Obviously befilth her in her own excrement, too. 

Gruesome? You betcha. And do you know why this chain of events evolved? All because the royal, gout-ridden oaf had a tiny penis. My words, admittedly, not those of the San Marino Torture Museum, and not necessarily an argument you’ll find confirmed on Wikipedia – nor that his Eminence had the brain the size of a squirrel’s – but the reasoning is sound.

San Marino Cliffs

Anyway, then she’s branded “Slattern” across her forehead, given a good wheeling and chucked off Mount Titano – there are some perfect spots between the first and third towers – and all before the next flagon of mead. Ooh, but hang on, why selfishly hurl this maid into the abyss when the new trainee needs a few practise swings with the headsman’s sword.

‘A young aspirant’, reads the Museum blurb on beheading, ‘whom we must certainly forgive occasional errors of inexperience, is wont to slice off a few shoulders. But sooner or later he will earn his keep on the third try, and in good time on the first.’

Hmm, less mead at lunch, more heads first go, would be my advice here. Of course, one hopes that young aspirants are breathalysed before clocking on nowadays. Health and Safety, and all that.

Beheading Facts

Now, here’s something you probably didn’t know. A freshly severed head is, apparently, fully aware of its fate as it rolls along the ground. Granted, perception is extinguished in a matter of seconds, and it must be an appalling sensation, but I’d definitely favour a neat guillotine execution over a wally from the Job Centre hacking thrice to find the right spot.

Well, having uplifted your mood, I’ll sign off. We’ll talk about flowers or something next week..

Don’t get me wrong. Leaning marginally to the right, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over a vile murdering rapist – as opposed to the caring, magnanimous kind – going to the scaffold. Persona non grata; saves taxpayers’ money. But what I don’t understand is why a crowd would turn out, barbarously relishing the spectacle? And to take matters to the next logical step, why would anybody waste valuable energy thinking up ways to make death more painful?

Romanian Evil

‘Vlad the Impaler was your man,’ said my friend Simon, artfully dissecting an orange at my door this morning. ‘He was kidnapped by the Turks and taught as a child how to use a donkey to push a stick up one’s arse. Needs practising, that sort of thing. Nothing worse than a poor impaler.’

He scoffed another segment, discarded the peel beneath my trailer whilst murmuring something about it being biodegradable, and continued. ‘Course the other favourite is covering a fellow’s feet in goose fat and setting fire to him. Can’t be very pleasant, can it? Right, on that note, I’m going for a dump. Have a good day.’

Charming. Don’t mind Simon – he’s still a bit tetchy after England’s whitewash defeat in the Six Nations rugby thingy on Saturday. All gobbledygook to me, of course; I follow the croquet.

Medieval Torture Chamber

Anyway, back to the Torture Museum. Now what’s with these mendicant friars inserting red-hot pokers up the botty? It’s inhuman and there’s no need for it. Bottom line – ahem – so what if a “heretic” hadn’t converted to the “true faith”? A) it’s nonsense and B) did that really make him a follower of Satan? You can’t force people, by pulling out their fingernails, to believe something; gentle cajoling over a cuppa, surely, is far more efficacious.

Try offering your adversary a hot drink. Sure, throw in a muffin if you’re flush, and see whether the results are more forthcoming than the stint on a rectal pear proved to be. In a nutshell, let’s stop torture; instead, how about we spread a little love and forgiveness around the world. Having said that, of course, it’s always a good laugh to stick a colleague’s head down the loo and steal his dinner money. Middle ground, folks – it’s all about compromise..

San Marino – a tax haven. Some come here to shop duty-free, others to coo at this charming medieval jewel rising atop Mount Titano. The state is the oldest republic in the world.

Well, you can Google its history, dimensions and relative recent UNESCO status in 2008. But let me tell you that this city-state is stocked to the gunwales with knocked off Chanel No.5, swords the length of trombone slides, and not a smattering of guns and knives.

Faced with this shopfront array of weaponry, rather than linger too long over views of the snow-mantled Tuscan-Emilian Apennines – and the Adriatic Coast to the east – I felt myself subliminally lured to the Torture Museum. Goodness, what a disquieting collection of wickedness.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

The clue is in the title, I suppose. I mean, I wasn’t expecting polka dots, gaily painted cells and Bob Marley, but before you’ve even got through the door, there are iron instruments to make your hair stand on end. Man’s inhumanity really is staggering.

Enter and it only gets worse. On display are knee-splitters, thumb screws, the “heretic’s fork”, the breast ripper, the “Spanish tickler” and the rectal pear, to name but a few. Mind you, the last three sound like items Pervy Ray might warm up with on one of his Monday afternoon gangbangs.

I saw him last week, by the way. Yes, Norfolk’s very own Scarlet Pimpernel, as I like to think of him, popped down to see us in Milan, to collect one of the smaller dinosaurs for some TV promos back in the UK. And he lost no time in getting pervy, explaining his less than polished attire in the next paragraph.

Water Sports

‘I suppose you’ve never heard of the London Pissing Club?’ he asked, seated and barely seconds into his starter. ‘Pissing Sue was great – she used to lie on the pavement and do a whale impression. Almost six feet in the air, she could do. Floor used to get soaked. Trick was to wear old clothes, you see.’ Ah, the penny drops – I knew there’d be a reason why he looks like a homeless fisherman.

Pervy Ray broke a hunk of bread and spooned in some soup before continuing, po-faced as usual, bemoaning the advent of the internet. ‘Course it’s all changed nowadays,’ he rued. ‘Even dogging’s not what it was.’…

In law-abiding Switzerland, however, amidst a non-stop, 160-hour party, I couldn’t see a single policeman. What do you mean, probably too pissed? Well, there might have been one, but he could have been an accountant in fancy dress – you can’t tell during Fasnacht. And even if he were an actual copper, he certainly wouldn’t have been the sort of chap to come over all heavy-handed with a truncheon, bend at the knees and say ‘Evening, All.’

Noise Pollution

Now, you remember the racket being made by trombone players in Part One? Well, the noise pollution was now ramping up nicely, threatening an avalanche. As Winnie-the-Pooh, Wonder Woman, four Muppets and a pirate filed into the bar, a Gugga band stepped off a bus.

Twelve trombonists, twelve trumpeters, a couple of hefty guys with sousaphones, and a handful of percussionists began assembling their instruments. Jeepers, what a wall of sound – and all at one dynamic: an edgy fortissimo, in a tone worthy of trombonist Gary Valente. Ein, zwei, drei, and “BLF”, as we used to say at The Royal College of Music. (That’s “Blow Like Fuck” to those unfamiliar with the intricacies of brass technique at prestigious musical academies.)

Indoors, outdoors, it doesn’t matter. Fifteen minutes of undiluted razzing the bollocks out of the brass, and then the Gugga players hop back on the bus for more of the same in another village. As Swiss Jules said in Part One, you either love or hate it.

Fancy Dress

Swiss Jules, incidentally, always an arbiter of style, was getting rather carried away by now. Apple schnapps foisted upon him, he was at this point underneath a girl dressed as a Moroccan henna woman, having a poppy drawn on his neck in what looked worryingly like permanent marker.

‘Barn, look at that guy,’ he said, pointing over my shoulder as the last smudges merged with his ear. ‘That’s a bit politically incorrect.’ I turned to see a shortish fellow in cut-off sleeves, with child-sized hands stuck directly onto each shoulder.

‘Great costume. Can you open my beer for me?’ called Jules, failing to realise until far too late that here was a genuine thalidomide victim, the only other person in the whole town that hadn’t actually come in fancy dress.

Digging Yourself A Hole

You know when you don’t so much put your foot in it as throw in all thirteen stone? Then you’re left, neck reddening, wishing the ground would envelop you and spirit you away before you can say anything to make matters worse? Well, Julian’s face was a picture. It’s at times like this when I think of our school trombone teacher, Peter Mitchell, who had sized him up even in his teens.

‘Julian,’ he said once in a trombone lesson, ‘You really are a festering wart on the arse of humanity.’..