Where did we get to on the Slayer Tour? Oh yes, Deva in Romania. In my road atlas – which excludes Romania in any detail, as if to say ‘Don’t bother unless essential’ – I’ve now written “Dreadful but no police” for that stretch we did down from Oradea last time. The reason for the dearth of law-enforcers on it? Nobody in their right mind would take that road.

Shall I let you in on a little irony? After being launched out of my seat for a couple of hours over potholes, one hand on the wheel, the other defending soft parts of the body from dislodged umbrellas raining from the top bunk, the authorities had then put up a sign indicating uneven road ahead. Oh, they must have dined out on that one for a while, laughing themselves all the way to the gritting station. (That’s if they had any grit, of course. There’s barely tarmac.)

Having survived this road – a road sharing properties with one described in a 1910 road atlas as ‘Surface becomes a bit loose after Eastbourne’  – it was time for a refreshment stop. Comforting to know I suppose that, well on my way to neural impingement of the spinal column, it was only 1300km or so to Athens. Groan. And it was getting hot – hotter than Satan’s ballbag.

Romanian Restaurants

‘Omelette?’ suggested the stout attendant rather firmly, indicating with her fingers that it would be a man’s omelette made with at least four eggs. Cholesterol seemed to be the least of my concerns in these parts, however – even the grass looked ill.

While I waited, I watched a glassy-eyed, slack-jawed man at a table nearby, wearing an overcoat several sizes too large and incongruously thick for the season – the sort of fellow that collaborates with the end of the dole queue.

He had the air of a wastrel, frankly, ripping the filters off endless cigarettes and drumming his fingers rather than reaching for an improving book. Had he missed the bus and decided to wait three days for the next one? I pondered this as a crinkled-skinned shepherd churned through the entrance in a blunt gait, ordered nothing and then left. What a funny place.

Congested Roads

Pushing off again – into the seething mass of cattle and battered Dacia 1310s, one car crabbing so badly from being whacked up the arse that it drove forwards at an angle of 45 degrees – I began noticing roadside stalls manned by bandy-legged women.

‘Look, Darling, that woman’s selling plastic bottles of liquid that looks like wee,’ you might say if driving past. Moonshine? Unpasteurised fruit juice? Or actually wee? I wonder who actually stops to buy this refreshing nectar and whether selling three bottles in a day pays the bills.

More intriguingly, though, how do these women become so bow-legged? Surely they weren’t all high-profile cellists in their day. Perhaps the curvature resulted from gripping watermelons between their knees on long journeys over these bumpy roads. Ah, the mysteries of the Balkans…

School’s out, Baby – let’s steal a Ferrari. Yes, the dreaded “end of term” is upon us tomorrow; the provinces will be flooded with children. Help! But as the burlesque of summertime unfolds, there is plenty going on for them to do.

Take last weekend, for example. ‘Arrrgh,’ I roared, tapping my brother on the shoulder as he weaved his way through the ever-shifting crowds. ‘Arrrrgh,’ he growled in return, and turned to continue battling the procession. Shiver me timbers, he didn’t recognise me.

Well, he wouldn’t – I was dressed foppishly. Nothing wrong with wearing eyeliner and having a cock drawn on your bicep in permanent marker, of course, but I ought to explain. Last year Hastings attained a Guinness World Record by having 14,231 “pirates” in the same place – the biggest pirate day in the world. That’s an awful lot of pirates. And parrots.

Scurvy Dog

This year, managing by the skin of my teeth to be in the country, I walked down the West Hill to the festivities. Despite a broiling sun, I donned leather trousers – cough, GAY, cough – a bandanna and a wig. Absolute torture. ‘Couldn’t you have dressed as a Somalian?’ asked my father afterwards. ‘They probably wear shorts.’ Smart Alec.

To complement the ensemble, an ersatz telescope with a gold filigree handle poked from my pocket. ‘Wanna see my golden shaft, Poppet?’ I leered to myself in the bathroom mirror, practising before heading down to Blackbeard’s Bazaar. I squinted from behind a skull and crossbones eyepatch.

Keelhauling and Cat O’ Nine Tails

‘I can’t sail the Pearl single-handed, you know,’ I continued sotto voce. ‘I’m commandeering you and that bodice till dawn.’ Crumbs, what a pervert – even more perverted, perhaps, than a straight man going to yoga classes. Having made my own skin crawl, I stuck in public to ‘Call me Jack. That’s Captain Jack, if you please.’

But, hello, what’s this? After a couple of quarts of Nelson’s Folly, and posing menacingly for stangers’ cameras, there was something afoot in the beer garden of the Jenny Lind pub. Far away from the gauntlet of freebooting warlords in Hastings High Street, a bottom was being spanked.

Bring ‘er Alongside

In broad daylight, a “dom” had become a “sub”. Pressganged into lowering his pants, this scallywag corsair was being soundly thrashed by some brazen upper crust crumpet, each flog of the whip compounding the pain and jiggling her six-pounders.

Jolly Rogers’s bum steadily reddened…until the inevitable, expletive-laden signal was voiced, indicating that his threshold had been reached – the “code word”, I believe they say in the world of S&M. (That’s not Marks & Spencers, if you’re skim reading.)

Well, all jolly suitable stuff for the school holidays, I should say. And 3rd-11th August is Old Town Carnival Week. Goodness knows what’ll happen, but there’ll definitely be pram racing. Do get down to Hastings over the summer if you can..

Get your map out for a minute. Or open Google Maps if you haven’t got one. The latter might be preferable, actually, given that a) you’re already online and b) Tokaj, Hungary is minuscule, barely even a village. If you can face it, put some Slayer on the stereo, too.

Well, my old wrinkled testicle, you’re now in my shoes. The Hi-Voltage Festival has been cancelled in Istanbul; your next show – you’re driving, remember – is on the seafront in Athens. Which way are you going to go? It’s totally your decision; there is one truck on this Slayer tour and you’re now the driver.

The Balkan Route

Wrong! Macedonia was in your route, wasn’t it? Well, Macedonia entails a non-EU border – a ghastly one, at that – and the roads are scarcely fit for chickens. Try again. Yes, you have to pass Sofia (Bulgaria).

Now, given that Romanian roads are made of Playdough and consequently closed in extreme heat when they melt, you could certainly head through Serbia to reach Sofia. Many drivers would. But a) Serbia is also non-EU so you’ll be queuing and b) you can buy cordon bleu, chips and a pint for barely €3 in Romania. See how many factors you need to consider?

Oh, and it’s two in the morning so have a little nap until daylight if you like. And then let’s have an adventure.

Romanian Road Tax

Crumbs, what a good start – the sun is out and the delicious decolletage on the girl selling road vignettes is transfixing. Ooh, and she speaks English. Hooray! Sign her up on Facebook? Oh, don’t be ridiculous. A) When are you next coming through Romania? and B) you’ve got a 1700km drive to do. Focus! So that curio-seller demonstrating a naff pop-up chair at your window can piss off as well.

Right, road tax is paid and you’ve exchanged euros for Romanian lei. You’re off. At Oradea, though, you’ve got a decision to make: the main road to Arad or a “shortcut” down a goat track to Deva.

The Face of Adversity

Entirely up to you but, as Benjamin Disraeli said, ‘There is no education like adversity,’ so let’s plump for the latter route. I don’t suppose he was bouncing around like the dickens at the time, though, practising emergency stops and dodging goats.

Anyway, I expect you need the loo after the hammering you’ve just taken on the Deva road. Toilets? Well, they’re a concept, certainly, in Romania. But when you find one, don’t make the mistake, as I did, of luxuriating with a book, foolishly assuming that the toilet is actually bolted to the floor.

Put the kettle on and we’ll continue down to Bulgaria next week..

‘Problem?’ asked the Hungarian promoter. I’d rolled in to Hegyalja Festival in Tokaj – near the Ukrainian border – and things looked iffy. A hundred yards away lay the stage, but, coo, what a hundred yards. Muddy? There could have been a tour bus from last year buried in that bog.

‘Well, as a vague sort of rule,’ I replied equably, ‘I try to stay on roads wherever possible.’ The promoter rested his bottom lip on his forefinger, every nerve strained. Money rode on surmounting this trifle. Big money. No truck on the stage equals no equipment equals no Slayer show. The latter is where our Hungarian chum takes the heat.

Rough Terrain

‘We have Manitou forklifts to pull you across,’ he suggested, exhibiting an agitation. Things needed to start moving fairly swiftly now; the morning was almost over. I’d also noticed that the lunch gong ought to be sounded shortly but I daresay our priorities differed at this juncture. ‘Not a chance,’ I answered as gently as possible. ‘The truck rides low and would certainly be damaged.’

The bottom was rapidly dropping out of his day at this point, I felt. The sun, quite literally, had gone behind the clouds. And the poor fellow had that self-reproachful air of being extremely remiss, a little like inviting a busload of pals round for a barbecue in an isolated field and forgetting to order any charcoal. Surely it’s a reasonably simple concept to put down some trackway if expecting a 45ft trailer?

Old Time Rock and Roll

Well, take those records off the shelf, Baby – it’s time to rock and roll. Or whatever it was Bob Seger sang. One minute I’m a hapless toy of fate, drawing the short stick; the next, I’m in the chips, plates of goulash coming thick and fast. With the help of the bus drivers, I’d spotted another route. Hooray! Grass admittedly, but it looked doable.

Bollocks. Thirty seconds later, I was stuck. Still, as Winston Churchill said, ‘success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.’ Towing irons were taken out of lockers; forklifts were started; kettles were boiled. The stage grew ever nearer. But what about getting out again?

‘We’ll build you a road by tonight,’ he said with conviction. Needless to say, much like my hopes, it turned out to be built of sand. And not only did the sand run out mid-quagmire, but when have you ever seen articulated trucks driving on beaches? Can you see why I’m not a huge fan of festivals now?..

Phew! The Beyonce European leg is over. Ray of sunshine that it most certainly was, I did notice that very few men attended the concerts. Why, you ask?

Well, those that did, I’m surmising, were either dragged kicking and screaming by their girlfriends or were of a particularly sensitive and artistic persuasion. By which I of course mean more bent than a question mark. Or ‘gay’, to use the politically correct term.

Imagine, therefore, what alchemical transmutation was taking place within me after 25 shows on the trot. I found myself on more than one occasion, at any hour of day or night, breaking into song. ‘C’mon, Baby, it’s you-oo-oo-oo,’ I’d croon to nobody in particular. Worrying stuff; the Rubicon had all but been crossed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending how you look at it, a path has been clawed back from the brink. ‘I’ve got a lovely little band for you after Beyonce finishes,’ said my boss on the telephone recently, quite possibly covering the receiver to share a moment of hilarity with the rest of the office staff.

Now think for a moment. Which sort of band springs to mind as being least suitable for me to tour with? Bear in mind I say ‘Whatho’ a lot and think that wanging brazil nuts at fellows’ top hats with a catapult is splendid fun.

Heavy Metal

‘Slayer,’ he continued, stifling a chuckle. I groaned. What are the chances of scones at four on that tour? I mused mutely. ‘Fuck all,’ answered my friend Scott, who happened to be standing nearby. It seemed I’d spoken aloud. Lucky, I suppose, that I hadn’t been belting out another ‘C’mon, Baby’ and shaking my bootie.

‘You might get a fatted calf slain on stage at four,’ added Scott, ‘but there definitely won’t be scones.’ Well, the general tenor of this news was dampening; here I was about to share a month with heavily tattooed men rarely seen in coattails. Would they regard me as a breath of fresh air or simply a prick? I fretted.

Smokin’ Hot Girls

Worse still, what would the women be like on a Slayer Tour? ‘Terrifying,’ said one. ‘Dirty sluts,’ said another. ‘Seemingly midway through a sex change with the appeal of a PortaKabin,’ added yet another voice. Oh, that was mine, rhapsodising – or rather gloomily pondering – over the unlikely possibility of exchanging amiable civilities with a well-read stunner. Would I meet a poppet with hair the colour of ripe corn, who spends weekends growing cress on blotting paper and making daisy chains?

‘Yeah, take me to the next show,’ slurred an astonishingly bold girl shortly afterwards. Her tits were falling out and we were standing outside the Limelight Club in Belfast as I prepared to load up Kerry King’s guitars. ‘Can I bring my 6-month-old-baby as well?’

My gut instinct was right – a girl fantasising in a panelled library about a personable young man to bring her flowers wet with the morning dew each morning is unlikely to be a Slayer fan. Not impossible, I should say, but unlikely..

Am I becoming a petrol head, I wonder? If I’m not astride a throbbing Fat Boy… Hang on that’s a bad start; it sounds a bit gay. The point is, having had a driving licence for twenty years, it’s only recently that I’ve taken any interest whatsoever in cars.

Take Belgrade Automobile Museum last month, for example. As the aged caretaker struggled to his feet and flicked an industrial-grade light switch, illuminating an eclectic fleet of gleaming antique cars, my heart soared. The automotive designs spanning several decades had me feeling like Dirk Pitt must have in the Clive Cussler novels when returning home to his lone aircraft hangar.

However, whereas Dirk tended to disassemble updraft carburetors whilst hatching rugged schemes to thwart megalomaniacs lusting for power and bloodshed, I took a few photos and wished I owned a garage.

Classic Cars

A two cylinder Czechoslovakian Aero from 1929 jockeyed with an English Alvis 50hp beauty from 1931. Here, a French 1908 Charron; there, a sleek, navy-blue 1958 Opel, its chrome radiator grille polished to perfection. What’s gone wrong in the last few decades? I mean, can we really compare a modern day Renault Clio to the chic finesse of a 1926 Lancia Lambda?

Well, there are cars and then there are cars. I mean James Bond wouldn’t have put up with a Seat Ibiza, would he? Armed to the sunroof with mine launchers, rear-mounted ink jets and front-firing torpedoes, in 1977 he chased Stromberg’s henchmen in an amphibious two-litre Lotus Esprit. Nice. Which reminds me, a bulletproof assembly periscope might just increase the value of my Ford Fiesta. They don’t call me 001-and-a-half for nothing..

National Motor Museum

Talking of Bond, that new bloke Daniel Craig looks a bit like me, doesn’t he? Bit narrower in the shoulders perhaps, and less vim and grit but… Seriously, if you’re into cars – and you didn’t already know this – the Bond in Motion exhibition at the National Motor Museum in Beaulieu has been extended until January 5th, 2014.

Most of the cars from BBC’s Top Gear are on show permanently, too. And I’ll just let you know that Truckmania is being staged there on May 26th and 27th over this May Bank Holiday, showcasing vehicles spanning over a hundred years of trucking.

Youngsters can ride mini trucks on Beaulieu’s Dipstick’s Driving Circuit,  and Bigfoot, the original monster truck, will be crushing everything in sight. Yeehah! Whoopee! Keep that hammer down…

You’ve got to live life at open throttle.

Only yesterday I popped into Dublin town centre without an umbrella. Yes, I know – talk about living on the edge. As squalls ravaged the streets, a grim foreboding stole across me; I realised I was trapped in a pub with two bibulous Irish women. How could I leave, given the weather?

‘Ah, for feck’s sake, I’d offer it up to be sure,’ simpered Karen, thinly veiling a reference to sex. Adele smiled winsomely, mutely soft-soaping me, and ordered another round of Guinness. Gosh, if only I’d taken a brolly, I could’ve headed back to finishing my crossword instead of becoming steeped to the gills, drunker even than a bishop. Still, as Lord Byron said, ‘Man, being reasonable, must get drunk.’

Writers’ Quotes

As Barnaby Davies said, ‘Man, being a bit worse for wear, must go home and have a little lie-down.’ Possibly not as catchy as Byron, but equally as shrewd, I think. Now then, here’s a tip. Do not text, call or email after a skinful.

That ought to be obvious, yet alcohol does seem to engender the odd ripe-with-regret moment. Take Cockney Russ, Status Quo’s main driver, for example (pictured centre). Should he have texted the wife at 4.30 this morning, beset by a legion of confused thoughts? ‘Daddy thinks he’s still a teenager,’ she had to explain to their young daughter.

Lonely Hearts

Better still, how many replies do you think this world-beating advertisement in the Glasgow Lonely Hearts column received? “23 stone Gemini seeks nimble sexpot for tango sessions and humid nights of screaming passion.” I daresay our well-fed man was impelled by a superhuman quantity of lager at the time of writing.

Or how about this apocryphal blinder, also penned by optimism rising bravely from the boozy depths. “Ginger haired Paisley man seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing exists in this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches.” Yes, it’s always worth sitting on such mawkish gems until after the morning cuppa.

Harley Davidson’s 110th Anniversary

Anyway, here I am borne along with romantic notions again when really what I wanted to mention was motorcycling. Would you like to ride a Harley-Davidson for free?

Well, you may or may not know that this year Harley-Davidson celebrates its 110th year. And if you’ve got a bike licence and fancy any of the places listed below over the next few months then you’re in for a treat. There are two lots of 24 brand new UK motorbikes on tour waiting to be ridden – all on 13 plates.

Turn up to any of the below events, check out the Daisy Duke look-a-likes in hot pants and cowboy hats, and exchange your licence for a free ride of a Harley of your choice. Try not to dump the clutch and fall off, though – these bikes aren’t cheap. Hey, and go easy on the throttle..

[Dates: 25th/26th May St Petersburg, Russia or Thessaloniki, Greece; 1st/2nd June Moscow or Athens; 8th/9th June Krasnodar, Russia or Rome; 15th/16th June Kiev or Rome; 22nd/23rd June Minsk or Zagreb; 28th/29th June Warsaw or Budapest; 5th/6th July Lodz, Poland; 6th/7th July Bratislava, Slovakia; 12th/13th July Brno, Czech Republic; 20th/21st July Presov, Slovakia or Beroun, Czech Republic; 27th/28th Ostrava, Czech Republic; 3rd August Poznan, Poland; 9th/10th August Wroclaw, Poland.]

It’s Not All Sunshine And Sand – a trucker’s wet dream.

‘Shall I plug your book, Paul?’ I asked him last summer on Madonna’s MDNA tour. ‘Who said that?’ he yelped, squinting myopically from ten feet away. Even with his glasses on, he’s as close to being blind as it’s legally permissible for a truck driver to be.

‘Oh, it’s you. Whatho,’ he finally mustered, realisation dawning after edging closer. ‘Jolly decent of you, old chap.’ Maintaining a respectful nineteen inches between us, given that I was naked in the shower block at the time, he continued. ‘Minus twelve, my eyes are. Only just qualify for my licence, but they’ve been like that for 25 years.’ One wonders how he can see the typewriter, never mind the road.

Now why, given that It’s Not All Sunshine and Sand has been on sale for a while, am I plugging it now? Because it’s out tomorrow in paperback version (published by Old Pond) at just £7.95 – less than half the price of the hardback.. No, it’s OK, you can relax – naturally I read the manuscript as a PDF rather than shell out any actual cash. But thank you for your momentary concern.

Astran – Leaders in long-haul overland transport

So what’s so special about some book on lorries and Middle East trucking, you ask? Well, it’s accessible for starters, drawing you in from the first line, when Paul Rowlands’ mum says ‘You’re doing what?’ One can’t help reading at least the second line, to see what it is he’s doing. Genius.

And it’s filled with commendable honestly – a tale of how a young, freckly boy rebelled against nine-to-five wage slavery and sought an adventure. Turning his back on a grammar school education and a “proper” job, he began driving “wheelbarrows” for a coal company. He writes of revelling in laddish, puckish pranks with the boys – resulting in the ingestion of a good deal of coal soot on his part – and how he yearned to travel in a long-distance, articulated truck.

Ah, the freedom of the open road – this is where the story gets ticklish. With undimmed vigour, Paul eventually joins the Big Wheel club, bootlegging beer across the Texas state line, a Transam out front distracting the police. Oops, I got carried away there – that was the Smokey and The Bandit film.

Bedford TK Lorries

Seriously, there are some singularly compelling stories in It’s Not All Sunshine And Sand: Paul’s sister towing his tractor unit out of a field when starting his first continental job; the real old days of machismo, when you weren’t taken seriously if you couldn’t remember the General Strike of 1926; and his wonderful description of “air conditioning”, meaning ill-fitting bodywork – the road was clearly visible through the gaps around the foot pedals forty years ago.

Slip into an almost forgotten world of ‘70s trucking, when ladies’ underwear and bicycle innertubes were still instrumental in fixing roadside repairs. Actually, I made that up too, but it sounds feasible. Definitely no heaters, though, no sound insulation, and nights were spent sleeping on a shelf behind the seat of a Volvo F86. Well, I’ll let Paul tell you the rest – his book should be in all good UK bookshops tomorrow.

And for trucking aficionados? Yep, don’t worry, there are hard-ons aplenty – a fiesta of nostalgic lorry tales. Crash gear boxes in British-built AECs, Atkinsons and ERFs? Tick. A brand new Guy Big J 4T with 205 bhp Cummins? Yeah, baby! Could things get any more exciting?…