A Danish Close Shave…

Different ferry entirely just to fool you

My brain wouldn’t work. Why was this lady kneeling in the corridor, flapping her hands? Was she having an epileptic fit?

‘Dunno,’ answered my brain, still sulking at being disturbed from a jolly dream about boats. ‘It’s 1am, I’ve been awake only half an hour and you haven’t made me a cup of tea yet.’ Thanks, Brain – you’ve just wasted valuable seconds…and now we’re up Shit Creek. Never mind without a paddle; the dinghy’s sunk, too.

Denmark Danger

Still rooted to the spot – the spot being Rodbyhavn docks – my eyes registered a man. My brain, which I’m seriously considering exchanging for a dual core processor, or maybe just a kettle, said, ‘He’s dressed funny.’ And then, as the masked gunman walked purposefully towards me, it finally woke up. ‘Poo,’ it said. ‘With a capital P.’

Rodby to Puttgarden ferry. Trucks and a train share the deck

‘On the floor. Now,’ said the malefactor, his voice like a pistol shot. His command brooked little argument. Although, now that my brain and I were once more a formidable team, we briefly considered fending him off.

A DAF door key slashing wildly against bullets? It seemed an asymmetrical battle, so we complied – germane to survival and all that. Course if I’d had my catapult with me, it would’ve been a different story.

Now, for all his talking big and wearing blue boiler suits and masks, he was actually quite a gentle robber. A proper baddy, yes, but no histrionics; no trigger-happy nonsense or calling people unspeakable words. He very lightly pushed my back, indicating that I should have a lie-down. And then he disappeared, leaving me clutching my DKV card and wondering if the police are going to mind that I’d left my engine running.

Balaclava-ed Burglar

Sleepy, low-lying Denmark. Its highest hill is 170 metres

As I lay there, cloaked beneath the icy scythe of death, my brain went into overdrive. What if the getaway driver returns to “tie up loose ends”? Why hadn’t I written a will and left my flip-flops to medical science?

‘If my time is up,’ said my brain, ‘ what on earth is CID going to make of Namibian’s Gentleman’s Folder on my hard drive?’ Oh, what a mess.

Seconds later, there was a screech of tyres. The baddies had gone. ‘I say,’ I croaked from the floor, feeling a bit sheepish, ‘All OK?’

When officers arrived, it became apparent how unobservant I’d been. ‘Can you describe the attacker?’ asked the uniformed woman. ‘Could have been seven foot three or a dwarf,’ I replied honestly. ‘And there was a car, but I couldn’t tell you the make, model, colour or registration.’

Funny things, brains..

Dutch Royal Saan Looking for Assistant Lead Driver NOW


Position Title: Assistant Lead Driver Arena Show 

Location: European continent

Date Posted: October 18th, 2012


Employer: Koninklijke Saan. 

Koninklijke Saan (Royal Saan) is a Dutch logistics service provider with the head-office near Amsterdam. With their business unit Event Logistics, Royal Saan build a strong partnership with several clients over the last decade. Royal Saan is very well experienced in the lager scaled touring shows around Europe, including the outer boundaries like Russia, Ukraine, Turkey, Israel and Morocco. Due to the development of our business we are looking for qualified personnel with experience in this business.


Role description: Job opening to become an Assistant Lead Driver on a currently running European production. Together with the current Lead Driver, the assistant Lead Driver is responsible for the daily to daily operation of the trucking side of the touring show. Opportunities to become a the first/ Lead Driver.


Requirements: – Verifiable work experience for at least 3 years

  • Verifiable managerial experience
  • Experience with MS Excel and Word
  • Customer focused, result-oriented, flexible and a team player
  • Good communicator
  • Willing to travel abroad for a longer period of time.


Job Type: Permanent

Salary & Package: Attractive

Start Date: ASAP

Apply: Please forward your application with CV to sollicitatie@saan.nl. Please feel free to leave a note for further questions.

Tattoos: What do you Think?

Behind a squat, ugly dog – all muscle and jowls – strode its owner. This was to be Rambo’s tattooist, recommended by a Copenhagen barman the night before. A key was


turned, we entered a dingy affair near Parken stadium and Rambo rolled up his trouser legs.


Thigh-high Skull Tattoos


Besmirching of the skin? Sexy as hell? An arty contrivance, or the preserve of sluts and sailors? ‘The preserve of queers, more like,’ quipped legendary trucker Blomeley before we left. ‘What’s he going to have done? “Mild” and “Bitter” on each tit? Ha ha.’


Well, whatever one’s opinion on tattoos, it seemed plain as a pikestaff – to me, at least – that an adroit manoeuvre would now be to retreat. Swiftly. The tattooist, you see, had a deficiency in what I’d regard as a crucial facial department. He was short-changed to the tune of one eye. Now, neither of us had anything against his left eye; the trouble is, neither did he.

Rambo’s colours are fading after 20 years


Odysseus, God of Tattoos?


Rambo looked confident, however, as this man I’d hesitate to let loose with a pencil, busied himself with a nine-needle tattoo gun and a cigarette. I didn’t catch his name, but let’s call our myopic chum “Polyphemus, Cyclops son of Poseidon.” Or perhaps Poly for short would be easier?


Meanwhile, fellow trucker Simon was puzzling over an A4 sheet. ‘How do you spell Jacqueline?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been with her 15 years, but imagine if I made a mistake with the letters. I’d better just double-check.’ Crumbs, what a debacle this was turning into. But Simon had noticed Poly, too, and was already having second thoughts.


Five minutes later, Simon was pondering fonts, sizes and designs in a nearby internet cafe – in preparation for another tattooist. As he left, Poly rolled the gigantic stone over the front of his cave, I mean shop, and prepared to devour Rambo for elevenses. Well, what he actually did was got out some Vaseline.


Fifty Shades

‘Anybody who says it doesn’t hurt is lying,’ said Rambo. ‘It’s like a little bee sting.’ What, a little bee? Or a little sting? (The last time I got stung by a bee it bloody well hurt.) ‘Or like the scratch of a bramble. Yes, that’s how it feels – it’s a mixture of pleasure and pain.’ Ooh, how Fifty Shades.


As we spoke, Rolf “Poly” Harris, our human, one-eyed kaleidoscope of reds, greens and blacks, was painting his dot to dot picture, occasionally looking up at me to answer questions. (When I say at me, obviously I mean looking at the wall six feet or so away.) The gun whirred, colouring in blue sky above an eagle on Rambo’s shin; the first droplets of blood appeared; and Blomeley’s incisive rhetoric flitted through my mind: ‘He doesn’t want a little prick in his leg, he wants it in his arse.’


There have been huge advances in tattoo technology: fading is not nearly so much of a problem as it was 20 years ago. But the issue of getting started remains. As a novice, a mannequin isn’t any good to practise on; a real person is needed. ‘And there is no tattoo school as such,’ said Poly. ‘You need to be good at drawing and then find a master.’

Wax on, wax off, Grasshopper…