AC/DC – Frankfurt to Munich..

I hate to dwell on a single episode. But the peeing incident is being blown out of proportion.

Entering Catering last night, I received knowing looks; it’s as though I’m the Peckham Pouncer, renowned for waving my willy at policewomen, and exposing myself at every opportunity.

And “Carrot”, a fellow event trucker, opens a telephone conversation this morning with, ‘If you had a bigger dick, she might have let you off.’ Hrrumph.

Yet, Providence shines. The speeding fine, though nothing short of extortion, has thankfully been regarded as a tour cost. Lumped in, too, and fortunately written up in Italian, is the willy fine (as I’m now calling it).

The tour accountant pays unflinchingly. A stack of used bills from the Production office is handed over as I polish off a salmon fillet. All is now roses. A sunny outlook, despite snow outside, is once again resumed. Or it would be, if we didn’t have to travel overnight to Munich, which I shall gloss over.

On arrival in the Bavarian capital, Little Dick and I adopt technique from the Ray Charles School of Driving. Parking at Olympiahalle, Munich, we take endless shunts yet still remain at rakishly jaunty angles. And we’re in a glorious patch of mud that lends itself so nicely to the cab’s interior. Lovely if you happen to be a hippopotamus but not so marvellous as a human adult.

‘Did you enjoy your day off?’ crew frequently ask after travel days. Hellooo? AC/DC’s equipment does not magically transport itself to the next city through the hours of darkness with no guidance technician – oh all right, truck driver – at the helm.

However, 400km was certainly better than 1000, and gives me an opportunity to pop into town, after a distinct lack of lunch, to arrange tomorrow’s adventure and a new bicycle.

Crazy Sandra has texted me the address of every bicycle shop in Munich, I think. So I’m off to pick up a bargain.

I do loathe this throw away culture that we live in; even if I could buy British racing wheels in Germany, it would still be cheaper just to purchase a whole new mount – second-hand, of course. Unfortunately, then, it’s a question of “out with the old and in with the new”.

Arriving at “Doctor Bike”, I swallow hard, baulking at the price tags. Two-wheelers start at around €500 – far more than I paid for my car, and that was with a full year’s MOT. Fortunately, there are a few bone-shakers round the back.

But, with current parity between the pound and the European “shitter”, €75 is still a hefty sum for what is fundamentally a girl’s bike.

It has only three gears, and has that annoying modification of pedalling backwards to apply the rear brake – a coaster brake, I believe it’s called.

On the plus side, though, the left hand is then free for making telephone calls or carrying an umbrella. It was the bell that sold me. Ding dong..