We’ve finally finished with Munich but, before we go, here is a snap of a Namibian roadblock. The 50cc Piaggio engine was gunned, fruitlessly, outside the catering tent..
At 8am this morning, passing Giessen on Germany’s A45, I send Crazy Sandra a text. Ooh, I mean I stopped safely, sent the sms while parked and then resumed driving. ‘Give me twenty minutes,’ she replies, and turns up at a motorway services, en route to her second Metallica gig this week.
She wants to arrive in Oberhausen, you see – only 20km from AC/DC’s destination of Gelsenkirchen – for 12pm, to be first through the gates at 5pm. Being as close to the stage as possible, it appears, is a priority for nutters. Oh, consider your ears, I earnestly beseech. Although outwardly in control, she must be mere weeks away, now, from a comfortable stint in an asylum. Metallica, schmetallica.
After a bit of good-natured hugging and back-slapping, I photograph her leg, festooned as it is with tattoos, presumably idolising James Whatshisname, Metallica’s lead singer.
‘Oh, James,’ she gushes, eyes half-closed, weak at the knees. ‘He is different at every show.’ Well, after five shows last year, Namibian and I noticed very few musical nuances. Maybe we weren’t listening attentively enough?
Now, seeing as we’re all travelling in the same direction, we play a little ‘piggy-in-the-middle’ with Crazy Sandra. No, not a “spitroast”, thank you very much – I’m talking about driving her car between Namibian’s truck and mine. This is real ‘ten four on the back door’ sort of stuff, and I’m hoping for a small shoot-out with a sheriff or two.
Renowned for driving at speeds of at least 150km/h, it must be a new experience for her to follow me up hills – at around 37 tons, I’m almost at maximum weight and thus awfully slow.
Arriving at the Veltins Arena has Namibian all of a dither; faced with a choice of left or right at a roundabout – either of which would have been fine – he starts panicking. ‘I’ve fucked up,’ he squawks over the radio, before even reaching the first exit.
We have a clear, printed map of the arena, and so I ask whether he’s using that, or the spaznav navigational device. His reply has me looking skyward.
‘I’m using my head,’ he says, whilst completing a full revolution of the roundabout and re-entering the motorway network, disappearing off towards Hannover. He turns up ten minutes later, shaking his head and making plausible (ish) excuses.
Driving inside the venue, down to the football pitch, there is a sign warning of a height restriction. 3.9 metres ought to mean a collision between the trailer roof and the building, yet there is plenty of room above me.
Whereas in Leipzig’s stadium, capaciously marked ‘4.0m’, we had to muck about adjusting air suspension…and still hit the ceiling. Oh, you don’t get all this nonsense delivering potatoes to Tesco, you know..