There is a certain protocol to be observed when a man is taking a piss.

Yes, a conversation can be held – e.g. ‘Have you found it yet?’ or ‘Hurry up; more than three shakes is playing with yourself,’ – but one must conduct this discourse in a certain fashion. That is to say, eye contact is permissible but it is reprehensible to let one’s gaze fall.

Now, three days ago – in a Swedish lay-by – I was stretching my legs, shirtless and with hardly a care in the world. Nearby, a nondescript gentleman in khaki shorts, spectacles and a baseball cap was loafing idly, but I assumed he was simply another truck driver taking a breather from changing gears and murdering prostitutes. I took little notice…but he certainly noticed me.

Queer as a nine bob note

After a couple of lay-by lengths, I paused on a nettle-strewn bank to enjoy a soothing wee-wee. Yet no sooner had I commenced than the nondescript gentleman – now known to be of base and despicable origins – was upon me. Well, not upon exactly, but he encircled me, stopping six feet in front. And his eyes, far from betraying uneasiness, shone. In fact, one could say they were addled with excitement.

Strong emotions engulfed me as his mouth formed an O. In fact, it rather put me off my grapefruit, a treat I’d been looking forward to since leaving Oslo.

Now, as you’ve probably discerned over the years, I’m not homophobic – I’ve even bought my own home – but I felt this behaviour needed a stern dressing down. So I shot him one of my fiercest glances, but he blinked calmly and continued looking at my willy. Not even a smile or an apologetic gesture or, indeed, a suggestion of shouting me a Crème de Menthe with an umbrella in it.

Here, Kitty Kitty

Rather reviling the nondescript gentleman by now – but moderately mollified by my ice-cold grapefruit from the fridge — I continued my pacing in the sunshine. Yet I was to be persecuted further. Scarcely had I begun again when the nondescript gentleman, now lolling on a railing next to a weighbridge, pursed his lips and sucked air as I passed. It was the sort of noise one makes when summoning or bestowing affection upon a pussycat.

Well, I got cross at this. Words flew unbidden into my mouth and I balled my fists. ‘Fuck off, knob jockey,’ I cried, frightfully out of character – after all, I couldn’t care less if fellows over the age of 21 fancy a cuddle in the back of a van. I smashed my right fist menacingly into my left, cupped hand. Ouch! Still, he finally got the message that my penis, much like great aunts, wasn’t to be trifled with. He skulked off in his Volvo, no doubt to the next parking area.

Such is the tenor of life on the road this week. Funny though, the Swedes. Fancy being named after a vegetable…