AC/DC

You didn’t want a blog on Prague, did you? Hasn’t everybody been to Prague?

Well, if you haven’t, you ought to go – the City of 1000 Spires is captivating. It is possibly worth avoiding at weekends, though; English men displaying their penises on stag weekends can be a little off-putting.

So rather than exploring Prague, I’m more concerned with 92 local crew  pushing AC/DC flight-cases up my trailer ramp, sweating and smelling rather ripe.

You see, rather than loafing about in the Czech capital, we are in a bit of a hurry to leave – so much so, in fact, that an evil has arisen: the dreaded “double driver”.

More and more frequently, scheduled drives between concerts are becoming legally unmanageable for just one trucker to complete in the allotted time. Ergo, a second driver must enter the arena (pun intended) – the O2 Arena in this case.

Today’s drive  – starting at an unearthly 1am – is about thirteen hours, three hours too long for me alone. So my pal Rooster arrives, and this is the plan: one drives while the other, in theory, sleeps.

The whole thing is laughable – nobody but the deepest of slumberers could possibly fall asleep, never mind stay asleep, on Czech roads, particularly if I keep one wheel deliberately on the rumble strip.

Rooster, however, washing down a gout tablet with a chicken sandwich, makes rather a good attempt. As we pass through the South Tyrol Dolomites, I hear light snoring.

Unfortunately, all this rushing about has left the much-maligned Namibian rather on the sidelines – his “load of crap in the back” is less important than my rigging equipment, and he has to drive alone. With rheumy eyes and a quivering bottom lip, he hands over my pink thermos flask and waves me off, worried about finding the Milan gig on his own.

This necessary evil of double driving occasionally has its advantages, though: our tight-for-time plan to unload at the Milan Forum – which, incidentally, is hellishly-designed for trucks – gives me quite a lot of time in Milan.

So much time, in fact, that I shall take a small vacation  – to Spoleto, Central Italy, for three nights with my grandfather. Rooster is last seen charitably guarding my ignition key while I dash to Central Station to catch the 17.45.

The arrangement to be on this train was made a week ago, and was to be regarded as in place unless I telephone. Grandpa, at a spry 83, must still be in possession of a marble or two because, as agreed, there he is on the platform at 00.09. ‘Now, where have I left the car,’ he asks rhetorically, squinting in the darkness.

Now, why is it that grandparents inspect their grandchildren in such depth? He doesn’t say: ‘My, haven’t you grown,’ but he certainly isn’t content with simple eye contact and a handshake; he peers suspiciously and tugs my cheeks as though perhaps I’ve had a spot of jaw surgery or a face-lift.

Satisfied my bone structure is indeed still intact, we drive into the shadowy Umbrian night and discuss AC/DC. Refreshingly, he’s no idea who they are. ‘Barnaby, I haven’t heard of anybody since the Beatles.’..

 

Yesterday should have been uninteresting – simply a travel day across Germany and into the Czech Republic. But the police got us.

No shoot-outs or roadblocks I’m afraid, just a gentle slap on the wrist and a manageable fine. No, I didn’t get caught making tea while driving. Nor was I caught red-handed at the wheel with a trombone, yet no hands-free kit. (Worth clicking that link, by the way.)

Would you believe that the offence was speeding? – in a truck on a motorway? It’s ridiculous.

As you should all know by now, trucks are governed at 90km/h. The speed limit in the United Kingdom – if we could ever reach it – is a rapid 100km/h. That at least gives us something to aim for down hills. But in Germany… Absurdly, the speed limit here for trucks is still 80km/h.

A little west of Leipzig, a chubby, moustached policeman stands at the exit slip peering into binoculars. One can almost see the glint in his eyes – that mental rubbing together of hands as he envisages levering a fine from a foreign trucker.

I groan inwardly – while braking hard and radioing Namibian – correctly gauging that, given this policeman’s age, weight and sallow skin, we are in for a relic of communism and corruption.

Sure enough, he draws numbers in the dust on our trailers – the first indicating the speed limit, the second figure the cost.

As these negotiations take place, just think how many cigarettes are being smuggled past their noses – from cheap Eastern countries – in the back of other trucks.

What’s really irksome is that sports cars are hurtling past at 200km/h, immune from prosecution. Trucks, on the other hand, chuntering along at 90km/h in the slow lane, are just so much easier to catch.

Bereft now of cash, have we learnt our lesson? No, we pull out and immediately resume our normal speed. Well, it’s a counter-productive law – just look at the accident statistics for a start. And consequently one begins to question other laws, rather defeating the object of, well, having laws in the first place.

And don’t get me started on the even more preposterous German law of travelling down steep hills at 40km/h – yes, that’s right, I said 40km/h – whether laden or empty.

For those of you tutting at my flouting, and blatant disapproval, of certain laws, ask yourself honestly – no matter if you are blue- or white-collar – whether you’d baulk at the odd tax dodge. No, I didn’t think you would. You’re as bad as me.

Returning seamlessly to the story, the hill southeast of Dresden has been upgraded. It is now all motorway, which rather puts an end to those ladies of the night – or day for that matter – that once lined this international route.

I suppose they still loiter on the old road but, as usual, we’ve no time for dawdling.

However, I did once spend a cringing half-hour ascending this hill – more of a mountain, actually – out of the Czech republic, behind a particularly obnoxious colleague on a Paul McCartney tour.

He blew his airhorn almost incessantly at the poor girls. I had to wave and apologise, rolling my eyes and pretending I didn’t know this other English driver in a matching-livery truck.

All this EU harmonisation has rather put an end to the difficulties – nay, fun – of the job. It used to be peak-capped officials, Marlboro bribes and paperwork, and, when heading for Prague, we used to put trucks on the freight train at the Czech border.

As the carriages began to lurch, women would bang on the cabin door, asking: ‘saxophone mister?’ These girls are now merely memories in the annals of international trucking – we don’t even stop at the border any more.

But the disadvantage of not stopping at borders nowadays is the money aspect; we arrive today in Prague with no Czech “shitters”.   Yet we need beer and food, obviously.

Namibian directs me to a metro ticket machine, spectacularly mistaking it for an ATM. Obtaining Czech crowns by other means –  a little black-market transaction with another driver  – we head to the nearest dilapidated restaurant.

A single, sticky menu page offers unappetising choices, with little chance of vegetables. Our lead driver kindly translates: ‘chicken with cheese, piggy, piggy, or something with cheese.’ What a job this is..

After the caves – and a friendly altercation with the “spaznav” – Sandra drives north. Fast.

Speed always sounds swifter in kilometres than miles, but, even so, we really are hoofing it up the A45. But why not? – German motorways are renowned for allowing unlimited top speeds.

Nowadays, though, these unrestricted roads are few and far between. I wonder how my four-geared Citroen  – it was new in 1989 – would fare if I really opened her up here. I’m talking downhill, obviously – to minimise the shaking of the steering wheel at more than 100km/h. German police may object to it being in an overtaking lane at all.

So, engine roaring, and trash metal on the stereo – oh sorry, I believe it is called thrash metal – we’re off to The Old Henrichenburg Shiplift in Waltrop. ‘Are you sure it’s open on Sundays, Sandra?’ I ask early on in the journey.

She assures me that, come rain or shine, this marvel of nineteenth-century engineering operates daily. There is no doubt, whatsoever, that vessels are being hydraulically lifted, at this very minute, between sections of the Dortmund-Ems canal.

We arrive, enthusiastic, to be told that the lift closed in 1970. And, on top of this news, all this gallivanting has meant that I’ve missed the erotic show next to AC/DC’s gig back at the Westfalenhalle, Dortmund.

Miraculously, as we leave, there is a passably attractive staff member on the steps outside. She tells us that an ordinary lock system would require too much water – 30,000 tons of it, to be specific. So that’s the reason..

I’m afraid there’s a brief moan about tachographs again today; Namibian and I have been forced, through safety regulations, to struggle unsafely through the night.

You see, in order to comply with a weekly rest period of 24 hours – as though we need it – we have to reach Dortmund by six o’clock in the morning.

Tomorrow, at a similar hour, we’ll barely have to do an hour’s worth of manoeuvring – but that,  in the eyes of the fools that dream up these rules, is neither here nor there. So, if we use a little common sense – maybe pull in at 4am for a couple of hours in bed – we break the law. Oh yes, what a splendid rule: risk falling asleep at the wheel to meet a stringent safety regulation.

On a brighter note, not only have I discovered a third umbrella under the bunk, but my diphtheria self-diagnosis was entirely erroneous. It was indeed a sore throat.

The sun is briefly out, and a city reconnaissance by bicycle is just the thing. Well, it would be if my front wheel wasn’t buckled beyond recognition – an ailment that can only have stemmed from erratic driving or poor loading procedures.

Isn’t it awful when you just know that the fault lies with yourself? Vengeance against another soul seems so unfair…but I look for Namibian anyway. That sweet-toothed creature is beginning his evening meal with dessert this evening.

This front wheel setback is not as serious as misfiring stoves or running out of teabags, admittedly, but it’s not far off. The bike shop in Dortmund is useless. They can have a new wheel for Wednesday…by which time the AC/DC tour trucks will have toddled through the Czech Republic and Austria, and be rolling into Italy. Great.

Meanwhile, as I’m dealing with these pressing matters, Little Dick appears to be in training for a sleeping competition; at 5pm – yes, 11 hours after arrival – his curtains are just beginning to twitch.

And that’s only because I’m playing trombone outside his window.

What is it with the Japanese?

It’s a standing joke that their necks support umpteen cameras, but one would hope that the actual pictures might be rather good? Nope. I’d plump for them being dire.

I base my obnoxious generalisation on today’s events: Seven Japanese men are standing around the famous statue of Bremen’s town musicians and, one after another, posing next to it.

When I say posing, I simply mean standing woodenly, unsmiling. Can you imagine going round to a slideshow in a Tokyo home? I’d rather just see the hotel receipt as proof of a city visit.

Nearby, cabbies stand with thermos flasks beside their Audi and Mercedes taxis, wolfing down the ubiquitous bratwurst. Namibian and Little Dick make preparations to visit the U-boat museum, inviting me along. But I have cousins to visit today – in Oldenburg, half an hour away by train.

I’m sold a stupid ticket, showing a price but no destination, with a stub that needs detaching and validating in a stupid platform machine. The remainder of the ticket has a slogan in German – presumably stupid – which probably urges me to ride by train.

Well, I’m already on it. Indeed, anybody in possession of a ticket has already chosen rail over road, so what a waste of printer ink. Stupid.

Aunts ought inherently to be wicked, or is that stepmothers? Well, Heike isn’t. But then she’s not really an aunt. And I’m not entirely sure that her offspring are actually my cousins. Oh hang on, that sounds ridiculous.

Bear with me: if my scoundrel of a grandfather produced a son, who fathered children with Heike, then are they half-removed cousins or something? Or perhaps “foreign cousins”? – they are German, after all.

“Auntie” parks the car underground to avoid ‘bits of paper on the window which cost a lot of money’ – parking tickets, we say in English –  and gives a thoroughly efficient tour of her physiotherapy rooms.

Then we’re off to meet my “cousins”. We find it easier just to say that we share a grandfather…but if anybody could help, please comment. This is serious.

 

PINK. No, of course I don’t know who she is, but is that just so uncool that it’s almost cool? No, I didn’t think so.

Namibian hasn’t a clue either, but we both recognise songs from airtime on the radio. Well, we’ll go and have a little look at her concert – to see what all the fuss is about.

Once upon a time, reciprocal laminates abounded; drivers from one tour would organise free passes for colleagues within the industry, and vice versa.

However, in today’s financially crippled economy – does Pink get the bus to her shows? – this seems to have ceased. Nowadays, most big tours are “no comp tours” – that is, no complimentary tickets.

Oh well, neither of us are particularly concerned: Namibian has a film to watch, and I’m mid-way through a riveting account of Ibn Battuta’s 14th century pilgrimage to Mecca.

There is, of course, always time for a pint first. And who should we run into? Little Dick, that’s who, and he is cannily waving three passes to the Pink concert. Namibian accordingly changes out of his tracksuit bottoms; I deftly locate some earplugs.

Ooh, it turns out that PINK – or is it just Pink? – is rather good. She ought to be famous. She is already? Rightyho.

Opening with “Highway to Hell” on the video screen is unexpected – the Pink crew beam at us AC/DC drivers in the VIP enclosure. Our necks crane upwards.

And what an incredible gymnast she is: she spins rapidly while dangling on ropes, and performs a death-defying trapeze routine from the rafters. And she can sing, something of a rarity among pop stars these days.

She belts out some Led Zeppelin and a great version of Queen’s Bohemian rhapsody, all in glittery, figure-hugging costumes. But she’s got no chance with me – her hair’s too short. What is it with these modern girls?

Back at the trucks, the windows have to be wound right up to keep the hailstones out. And Namibian gleefully draws my attention to a giant shopping centre next door. And an Irish bar, and a Sealife Centre. Yet I still maintain…that Oberhausen has nothing of interest.

 

Drat! A cooked breakfast is up and running but I can’t get to it.

With twenty trucks to move, there’s a very well-organised system but it requires a bit of patience. I’m in limbo, waiting to park sensibly. I’m hungry. ‘Well, eat your own cereal,’ I hear you cry. Ah,I’d thought of that.

But, on reaching down for the pint of milk kept on the step inside the door, I find it’s frozen solid. So is the tantalising carton of refreshing apple juice.

Namibian, grinning in tracksuit bottoms, is indicating the depth of snow on his back doors by pushing in his forefinger to the hilt. Little Dick, marshalling his thoughts, has had five cups of tea by now. And he’s finally tidied his cab…after three days of talking about it.

To distinguish ourselves from the general public, we have what is called a laminate – self-explanatory because it is laminated.

The size of a playing card and worth the equivalent of gold dust, the laminate enables us to walk past security into the AC/DC gig…or at least into Catering before the show, and then out again before things get loud. Word from the upper echelons today is that we can have an extra laminate for a wife or girlfriend, but not both.

It’s generally polite in a foreign country to ask if somebody speaks English before bombarding them with stupid questions, but here it’s almost an insult.

Scandinavians look at you condescendingly, narrowing the eyes, and saying: ‘of course I do.’ I blush; golly, she’s beautiful. Well, of course I ask a woman for directions.

Suitably chastised, I find the bookshop I’m looking for. And an internet café, where – Hooray! – the keyboard is in English again. You wouldn’t believe how annoying it is when the rest of the Europeans produce keyboards with full stop, y, w, a, z, @ etc. all in the wrong place. I can touch-type, don’t you know.

Now, how fortuitous that I have an ex-girlfriend, Anna, offering shelter and marvellous conversation in central Stockholm. But how unlucky that she’s taken the inadvisable option of getting married.

Earl Grey tea is in stock here, which fortifies her husband Karl and me in the task of erecting a new sofa that is enormous – so big that it fills the whole evening.

It arrived in umpteen cardboard boxes with instructions that, as men, we ignore, resulting in a lot of unscrewing nuts that we’d just screwed. I fall asleep in a room where golf clubs wear socks…

The cleaner looks puzzled. As she mops the Catering floor, she exposes brick. The grey metallic paint is water-based.

Already, on Day one of opening, the newly-painted floor resembles an ugly patchwork quilt. Traipsing through in snow-covered boots rids the floor of any remaining paint, most of it now embedded in the carpets of trucks.

Honestly, fancy using water-based paint in a country blanketed with snow for half the year.

Brave AC/DC crew members are still taking the stoic option of wearing shorts – this is one of those quirks of the industry – which is fine if you’re not planning to leave the Arena. Even Angus, the guitarist, was wearing trousers last night for a sound check.

Heavens, this band is noisy, though it seemed all right from behind several heavy, closed fire doors. Now, all this shorts-wearing in frightful temperatures is reminding me of a certain young trucker on the Tina Turner tour.

I won’t mention any names – James – but when discussing deformation of character on the blog with him, he did actually say: ‘I don’t mind having my character defecated.’ So, I’d like to digress for just a second.

A couple of weeks ago, a despondent James bemoaned the poor response he’d received from women on an internet dating site. Selectively aiming at a demographic of 18-99, very few – well, none; we might as well be honest, James –  bothered to reply.

I pointed out that it was the weekend, and so any decent girl would be out enjoying herself. ‘I don’t want a girl worth her salt,’ he said, slightly stooped and wearing short trousers.’ I want one sitting at home, desperate.’

Returning nimbly to the AC/DC tour, Namibian is now backing out of building a snowman. He’s probably exhausted from our two-mile trek yesterday, and is talking of cleaning his mirrors instead, as an afternoon’s work.

So I totter off alone, in knee-deep snow, until spotting a passenger ferry going to somewhere called Nesoddtangen. Having decided I could spend my company float of Norwegian shitters, ostensibly for road tolls, I board the vessel for fifteen minutes of smashing through frozen sea. This is the sort of experience that deserves a resounding whoop and a grin from ear to ear.

Another ferry, returning to Oslo via a different route, pulls in alongside, and the captain encourages me to leap aboard – my ticket is valid anywhere for an hour. I do actually have to get back to the Arena at some point – for dinner, if nothing else – yet…why not.

The captain of the second vessel kindly looks up my bus number (and timetable) on the internet as we plough noisily through shards of ice.  Can you imagine this happening on a ferry in the UK?

It’s not getting any warmer, by the way –  it is minus twelve degrees Celsius and there are icicles hanging off my truck – yet very few Norwegians even wear hats. And I definitely haven’t seen one in shorts…

Things are going from bad to worse: we’ve run out of gas for the stove. I blame Namibian; he blames me. A stalemate.

Would you believe we have a third back-up plan? One simply cannot tour without cups of tea so we are – and I hate to say this – rather over-prepared for any kettle eventuality. Yet, this is an inauspicious start to the AC/DC tour.

I must stress, by the way, that Antwerp shouldn’t be regarded as a pitstop between Brussels and Amsterdam. The local beer, ‘Koninck’, is alone worth stopping for. It’s an old man’s beer though. Excellent! The Grote Markt is not as impressive as its counterpart in Brussels, but Antwerp has a beach…of sorts.

And the city, much closer to the UK than Amsterdam, hosts the Villa Tinto, “a mega-brothel with 51 sex suites where more than 100 prostitutes alternately work around the clock.” I whizz past on the bicycle. Slowly.

Prowling men in puffer jackets, normal-looking outside a shoe shop, here take on a sinister edge. It’s all very well-organised, with a police station in the middle and signs requesting “do not pee” in the alley.

The quarters for seafaring men, presumably an appreciable percentage of the clientele, are next door.

Elderly and chubby harlots vie for attention with the younger prostitutes; there must be bargains to be had here. I’m glad Namibian is safely ensconced elsewhere; the excitement could have finished him off. Ever the stickler, however, I’m distracted by  another blatant misuse of the apostrophe in a video shop across the road: the store advertises “DVD’S”.

Back at the warehouse, there’s a frenzy of revving diesel engines. Trailer doors are opened ready for the onslaught. The AC/DC containers are here; flightcases are unloaded. Reloading into cavernous, black trailers – “Black Death” trailers – begins.

Ah, the camaraderie at the start of another rock n roll tour. Oslo, here we come. Well, an acceptable stab into Germany, here we come, would be more accurate. Norway is miles from here..

What a start to an AC/DC tour.  We’re parked on loading bays of a warehouse on Middelmolenlaan, a street in Antwerp utterly devoid of character.

The warehouse is empty; the containers of equipment  are not due to arrive until tomorrow. This is the type of place that proper lorry drivers go – not even a hint of rock and roll.

It’s drizzly and cold, the sort of weather that makes you tuck jumper into jeans without caring a jot about looking foolish.

Incidentally, is it worth describing places any more? I recently read an article on the future of travel writing that debated this topic. In Eric Newby’s day, for example, we couldn’t just Google Map the Hindu Kush; we needed  evocative phrases to bring the mountains alive in our minds.

Now, with the advent of the internet, is it more important to concentrate on the people instead? I’m just throwing it out there, mainly because I don’t bother describing places. You can get that from a guidebook.

Did I mention the cold? Travelling by bicycle, by the time I reach my first near-collision with a tram, any feeling in the extremities is a thing of the past. Rock n roll tours are not all glitz and razzamatazz, you know; today is an opportunity to catch up with laundry.

Old women sit in the laundrette, bookless, staring at their circling washing. A nearby chip shop might be a welcome respite from the gloom, I think naively, but the Indian owner seems indifferent to the winter, telling me, while I try and eat fast food with gloves on, that his father has “expired.” Oh, that’s cheered me up no end.

Alice  – who, as you will remember, is really called Mark – and Namibian, very sensibly, are watching war films in their trucks, the former sipping a beer with plans to write off the afternoon entirely.

Retrieving my map of Oslo – the Norwegian capital is the first gig on the tour – Alice suggests, through a roar of Second World War gunfire, not to worry where we’re going. ‘They’re about to blow up Germany in a minute anyway,’  he clarifies.

Yes, but just in case the country is still there in the morning, perhaps I’d better look at the route?

Despite the foul conditions, I’m unable to shun an interesting city in favour of sitting in a warm truck. Even with the attraction of Tetley teabags and an episode of Jeeves and Wooster under the duvet, I venture out again – a fashion martyr on two wheels.

It’s a fairly unspectacular cycle into Antwerp, through mini-Istanbul, merging seamlessly into Chinatown until, as you pass Sung Wah Supermarkt, the imposing Central Station hoves into view. Known as the Railway Cathedral, it looks like a basilica, but today is clothed decoratively in scaffolding.

De Muze Jazz Café is great. The pianist chats to me at the bar, peering over my shoulder at my gig list – to see if he’s playing here again next week. Meanwhile Gottfried, my cheery bar companion discovers my name is Barny.

‘Ha! Barny, like the Flinstones?’ he asks. An ageing, zealous fan of vocal jazz,  he buys me a beer and leaves before turning into a pumpkin.

Now, it’s ludicrous that all these health and safety regulations emanate from Belgium, yet the first bar I walk into here has me unable to breathe for thick cigarette smoke.