‘Steep?’ said Lewis, with ingenuous bemusement. ‘It’s fucking vertical. No wonder you can’t get any purchase, Barnaby – those shoes are suited to a dance floor, not mountain climbing.’ I ignored the snub, and we continued dandering impishly along the old Fiat test track in Turin.

Now this is a genuine scoop. Google “tourism Torino” and you’ll be fobbed off with a castle or two, the gourmand tram or “the streets of chocolate”. In fact, even were you to stumble upon the erstwhile Fiat plant in Lingotto, you’d find yourself browsing clothes shops and drinking cappuccini in what was once the factory assembly line area. It’s now a shopping mall, convention centre and up-scale hotel.

Biggest car factory in Europe

 

Test track on the roof? Hurtled round by minis loaded with gold bullion in the film The Italian Job? Banked turns, six storeys in the air, designed to check the five levels of manufacturing beneath were up to scratch? You’d never know; not a single indication. Well, that’s where I come in. Go round the back of the cinema, follow the sign for the Pinoteca Giovanni e Marella Agnelli Museum, and Bob’s your proverbial uncle.

Exit the lift, wave at the lady on the museum desk, and tell her you’re popping outside for a circuit or two. ‘Circuito,’ one probably says in Italian; ostentatiously add a vowel to an English word and, hey presto, the result is a flawless foreign tongue. Yes, I should be a translator, I know. ‘Idiota,’ she thought and nodded, glad to get back to her book again.

Now, what’s strange is that Lewis and I had the entire track to ourselves, whooping with oblivious felicity, soaring like condors. Well, without the wings, obviously. Or the beaks, come to think of it. In fact, nothing like condors, but we were happy. It really is bewitchingly good up there and yet, despite dripping with automotive history, nobody seems to know about it. 

Designed by engineer Giacomo Mattè-Trucco

There’s also a restaurant in the centre of the roof – La Pista del Lingotto – owned by the foxy, English-speaking Tiziana. It isn’t cheap but, wow, what a spot for lunch. The snow-mantled Alps to the northwest; sixteen million square feet of Lingotto plant beneath you; and a one-of-a-kind test track surrounding you. No condors, I’m afraid, but that’s only because Italy isn’t in the Americas.

Still, close your eyes and picture the Fiats, between 1923 and 1982, exiting the factory, thrashing it round the roof and disappearing down one of the spiral access ramps. Or think of the scene in The Italian Job when the red, white and blue Minis were flat out round the track, three abreast on the curve, with the police in hot pursuit. “We are the Self-Preservation Society…” 

Of course, if you’ve no intention to visit Turin, or have no interest in cars, reading this has been an utter waste of your time. Sorry about that..

San Marino – a tax haven. Some come here to shop duty-free, others to coo at this charming medieval jewel rising atop Mount Titano. The state is the oldest republic in the world.

Well, you can Google its history, dimensions and relative recent UNESCO status in 2008. But let me tell you that this city-state is stocked to the gunwales with knocked off Chanel No.5, swords the length of trombone slides, and not a smattering of guns and knives.

Faced with this shopfront array of weaponry, rather than linger too long over views of the snow-mantled Tuscan-Emilian Apennines – and the Adriatic Coast to the east – I felt myself subliminally lured to the Torture Museum. Goodness, what a disquieting collection of wickedness.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

 

The clue is in the title, I suppose. I mean, I wasn’t expecting polka dots, gaily painted cells and Bob Marley, but before you’ve even got through the door, there are iron instruments to make your hair stand on end. Man’s inhumanity really is staggering.

Enter and it only gets worse. On display are knee-splitters, thumb screws, the “heretic’s fork”, the breast ripper, the “Spanish tickler” and the rectal pear, to name but a few. Mind you, the last three sound like items Pervy Ray might warm up with on one of his Monday afternoon gangbangs.

I saw him last week, by the way. Yes, Norfolk’s very own Scarlet Pimpernel, as I like to think of him, popped down to see us in Milan, to collect one of the smaller dinosaurs for some TV promos back in the UK. And he lost no time in getting pervy, explaining his less than polished attire in the next paragraph.

Water Sports

 

‘I suppose you’ve never heard of the London Pissing Club?’ he asked, seated and barely seconds into his starter. ‘Pissing Sue was great – she used to lie on the pavement and do a whale impression. Almost six feet in the air, she could do. Floor used to get soaked. Trick was to wear old clothes, you see.’ Ah, the penny drops – I knew there’d be a reason why he looks like a homeless fisherman.

Pervy Ray broke a hunk of bread and spooned in some soup before continuing, po-faced as usual, bemoaning the advent of the internet. ‘Course it’s all changed nowadays,’ he rued. ‘Even dogging’s not what it was.’…

A week-long binge in England would have consequences. Fried to the tonsils, youths would without doubt overdo things; policemen would be biffed left, right and centre; ASBOs would be liberally dished out like toilet paper. Biffing policemen, I might add, should be done sparingly, if at all – viz. in emergencies, such as interfering with drinking.

In law-abiding Switzerland, however, amidst a non-stop, 160-hour party, I couldn’t see a single policeman. What do you mean, probably too pissed? Well, there might have been one, but he could have been an accountant in fancy dress – you can’t tell during Fasnacht. And even if he were an actual copper, he certainly wouldn’t have been the sort of chap to come over all heavy-handed with a truncheon, bend at the knees and say ‘Evening, All.’

Noise Pollution

 

Now, you remember the racket being made by trombone players in Part One? Well, the noise pollution was now ramping up nicely, threatening an avalanche. As Winnie-the-Pooh, Wonder Woman, four Muppets and a pirate filed into the bar, a Gugga band stepped off a bus.

Twelve trombonists, twelve trumpeters, a couple of hefty guys with sousaphones, and a handful of percussionists began assembling their instruments. Jeepers, what a wall of sound – and all at one dynamic: an edgy fortissimo, in a tone worthy of trombonist Gary Valente. Ein, zwei, drei, and “BLF”, as we used to say at The Royal College of Music. (That’s “Blow Like Fuck” to those unfamiliar with the intricacies of brass technique at prestigious musical academies.)

Indoors, outdoors, it doesn’t matter. Fifteen minutes of undiluted razzing the bollocks out of the brass, and then the Gugga players hop back on the bus for more of the same in another village. As Swiss Jules said in Part One, you either love or hate it.

Fancy Dress

 

Swiss Jules, incidentally, always an arbiter of style, was getting rather carried away by now. Apple schnapps foisted upon him, he was at this point underneath a girl dressed as a Moroccan henna woman, having a poppy drawn on his neck in what looked worryingly like permanent marker.

‘Barn, look at that guy,’ he said, pointing over my shoulder as the last smudges merged with his ear. ‘That’s a bit politically incorrect.’ I turned to see a shortish fellow in cut-off sleeves, with child-sized hands stuck directly onto each shoulder.

‘Great costume. Can you open my beer for me?’ called Jules, failing to realise until far too late that here was a genuine thalidomide victim, the only other person in the whole town that hadn’t actually come in fancy dress.

Digging Yourself A Hole

 

You know when you don’t so much put your foot in it as throw in all thirteen stone? Then you’re left, neck reddening, wishing the ground would envelop you and spirit you away before you can say anything to make matters worse? Well, Julian’s face was a picture. It’s at times like this when I think of our school trombone teacher, Peter Mitchell, who had sized him up even in his teens.

‘Julian,’ he said once in a trombone lesson, ‘You really are a festering wart on the arse of humanity.’..

 

 

 

 

Were you to have a bigoted view of the Swiss, what would you think of?

A timid throat-clearing at the Wednesday matinee? A pusillanimous boffin meticulously recording his watchmaker sales in triplicate? An apple-cheeked teetotaller still harrumphing that the 06.12 train to Lausanne ran four seconds behind schedule in 1993? Well, I’ll give you half a point for any of the above; generally, there is more chance of a daffodil biting you on the bottom than a hair falling out of place down here.

But then there is Fasnacht.

Fasnacht

 

It’s a party to end all parties, and it kicks off on what they call “Dirty Thursday”. For an entire week preceding the start of Lent, both night and day, Switzerland actually goes nuts.  ‘I have been on my legs since yesterday morning…and I am a grandmother,’ admitted one lady, fuelling her revelry with a glass of plum schnapps, hot water, sugar and coffee.

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ asked another girl with a zip stuck to her forehead. ‘You haven’t got any make-up on.’ Now, I’m not joking – everybody had applied it. And there’d been no stinting when it came to costumes; for months beforehand, locals in Altdorf had prepared original, vivid outfits that had to be seen to be believed. Before long, however, I barely noticed a Hell’s Angel on one side and a leprechaun on the other.

Trombonology

 

‘It’s a case of joining in or leaving the country for a week,’ explained Swiss Jules, polishing off an Eichhof beer before lunch. ‘You either love it or hate it.’ Well, what’s not to love? For me it was nirvana: I’d never seen so many trombones, for a start. Dozens lay careworn and unlacquered, hanging from coathooks in bars, propped up in umbrella stands and resting insouciantly atop prams. Brilliant!

But doesn’t anybody realise that a trombone slide is a precision tool, I cried, sounding like a Swissman on any of the other 358 days of the year. The slightest dent can hamper slide technique; there is lubrication to consider; the instrument’s weight should be supported; and… Ah, I see. Yes, the trombones are all knackered, but the fanfare procession is only in the key of B flat; arpeggios can be blasted tunelessly in first position without moving the slide. Clever old Swiss…

I say, this weather’s getting a bit serious. A good rule of thumb, I’ve always thought, is if you can’t physically get to  – or indeed see – your vehicle, it might as well stay where it is. Sound sensible? Yes, well let’s hope the beer truck can get through; surely this qualifies, even in snowy Switzerland, as hazardous driving conditions.

Having unloaded my ankylosaurus at Zurich’s Hallenstadion for the Walking With Dinosaurs show – yes, I know, you’d think she’d lumber in of her own accord after so many months – an adventure begins. Swiss Jules, my pal of 25 odd years, invites me to a place called Altdorf. (It’s about an hour south of Zurich, to save you fooling about on Google Earth.)

Pub quiz Bonus Round

 

And what is Altdorf famous for? The clue is an apple. Christ, it’s like pulling teeth with you lot. OK, what if I mentioned a bow and arrow and added that this chap had to shoot an apple from his son’s head to avoid execution? That’s right, the legend of William Tell. The trouble with legends, of course, is that they’re tricky to prove; William may really have been called Dave, for example.

Sure, he is still the national hero of Switzerland, prominent on the back of the five-franc piece. But that arrow may have been a wet sponge rather than a deadly weapon. And he may simply have been munching a Granny Smith at the time of launching the sponge. We’ll never know. Probably wasn’t even his son, come to think of it. Anyway, after 704 years, you’d think Switzerland might be due a new hero?

Switzerland’s National Hero

 

Enter Swiss Jules, a national treasure, braving the lion’s maw beneath a gibbous moon, parrying and crushing Barbary privateers in his wake. Well, more like making the tea and picking up actors, really, but let’s not split hairs.

He’s here working on a film called – predictably – National Hero. And there happens to be a day off from shooting and a spare hotel room for me. And a lift in a 4WD. Oh, and the beer truck has made it through, so all is tickety-boo.

But why dally in Altdorf when there is 50cm of fresh snow on the mountain. Ski-ing, I hear you ask? I consider it, of course, but discount it swiftly, weighing how a shattered tibia might affect the drive to Prague later this week. But there are snowshoes for rent from nearby Fluelen and a jolly cable car ride up to Eggbergen.

Snow Walking

 

Ooh, things have come on a bit since Scott of the Antarctic’s day. Here I am expecting a couple of tennis rackets to walk on, yet these modern things with clever buckles appear, scarcely weighing more than a sheet of A4. Remarkable. They’ll soon be able to put man on the moon at this rate.

Oh, and if anybody happens to go up to Eggbergen – it’s also lovely in summer – do pop into Bistro Romy for me. The lady in there gave me meat and potatoes instead of soup and then took a photo for her visitors’ book. I’d love to know whether she captured my best side – I look pretty dishy from the back…

In Secrets of Paris, Vernon Coleman writes, ‘London invented coffee houses but abandoned them. Today, only Vienna has cafes which match those of Paris.’ Well said, Vernon – I shall take a brandy immediately, to fortify myself for the day ahead.

First stop, Cafe Leopold Hawelka, a dimly lit cafe in central Vienna. It’s perfect for a brief, four-hour morning respite from sightseeing. Aah, the swirling curlicues of a mixed drink; the charms of elbow-worn sofas; a proper rest. By the way, I prefer to call it meditation, not sleep.

Aha! The bow-tied waiter returns, noting my nebulous figure in the gloom and turns on the overhead reading light. Bollocks, it’s more of a spotlight and rapidly puts paid to my furtively eyeing the heavily rouged woman at a nearby table. Still, there is a splendid selection of newspapers instead.

I rather fancy myself as a proper writer sitting here, you know.  A poetical doodle here, a contrarian scribble there. But such highbrow sentiments are quickly supplanted by a realised need to pay the mortgage. Back to the lorry, then, and c’est la vie. Oh, well.

Smoking Ban

 

Now, you’ll be pleased to know – if you puff like a coal power station – that smoking is allowed in most places in Austria. Restaurants, bars, you name it – it seems to rival Vegas. If you don’t – and hate washing jumpers each morning – then I’ve deliberately picked two establishments that are non-smoking: Cafe Hawelka and Jazzland, a little club on the Danube.

The latter is where I was lucky enough to catch Hans Theessink, a Dutch bluesman. Wow, what a voice that guy has. Regardless of who’s playing, though, the black and white photos of jazz legends adorning the walls is more than enough to warrant entrance…

Normally, a man needs an excuse to visit a zoo – perhaps in the form of a child needing a chaperone. Or maybe a simpering girl, treating you to a glimpse of her petticoats and whooping at the cute little penguins. Of course, it might simply be a judgement muddied by drink.

What’s my excuse? A small mulled wine and a quote from Crazy Sandra. My suggestion that she grow her hair and ditch contact lenses in favour of glasses – for seduction reasons  – occasioned a scowl that could have blistered the family portraits. ‘I’m not sexy, I’m not a secretary, I’m just a pig,’ she said, her voice as far from gentle and fluting as a voice can physiologically be.

Welcoming this rare insight into the female pysche, and still wrestling with this gnomic remark, I took her at her word and we oinked off to visit her brothers and sisters at Schonbrunn – “the world’s greatest zoo”. Opened in 1752, it is also allegedly the world’s oldest.

East Africa Adventure

 

Shall I tell you a little animal story? OK, then. Once upon a time, I rode in a jeep through Tanzania’s Serengeti, a vast savannah teeming with exotic wildlife. Well, I say exotic, but that depends largely on one’s point of view.

A Masai warrior, for example, up to his spear tip in the Big Five, might very well regard the common squirrel as the cat’s pyjamas. Similarly, a parched, desert-dwelling Berber might go equally gooey at the prospect of the much-vaunted English duck. See what I mean?

Tanzanian Safari

 

Back to the jeep. The first morning supplied a convoy of Thompson gazelles, zebras, gnus and suchlike. Pretty incredible? Certainly, yet man can take only so many wildebeest before incipient monotony rears its mottled tail. ‘Give me a shout when you see a lion,’ I said dismissively after a couple of hours, and hunkered down with a Clive Cussler for a while.

I’ve felt guilty about that ever since. But I experienced much the same at Vienna Zoo, even though accompanied by a jolly, porcine chum. So cold that even the penguins had headed inside for an hour by the radiator, we soon followed suit. And what did we find inside?

Slowly Does It

 

The sloth. What an extraordinary animal, blinking on what seems like a weekly basis. Hardly a world-beater when it comes to top ten animals in the polls, yet – oddly – I’m enthralled. For a start, there is no glass or safety cordon here; bizarrely, not even a security camera as far as I could see. How refreshing in a continent of Health and Safety.

There was nothing, in fact, short of razor-sharp teeth, to stop me reaching up twelve inches and challenging both lurking sloths to arm wrestles. Moreover – and this is the worrying bit – there is nothing to stop an imbecile, with less common sense than I, from experimenting in a sloth’s ear canal with a pencil.

Contemplatively, I watched these two marvels crossing a rope – at the speed of continental drift – until closing time. And then it was feeding time – Piggy needed her dinner..

A Strauss waltz plays unobtrusively in the background. Tourists drift onto the grand, stone-balustraded balconies; horses trot elegantly through the sawdust below, their riders sitting regally astride in brass-buttoned tunics.

‘Stallions, Barn, not horses,’ corrects Crazy Sandra. ‘The ones when they have a shot and it doesn’t work.’ She is pressing her hands together, colouring with girlish gaiety as she attempts to describe equine castration. Racking her German brain for English vocabulary, she tries again.

‘When the man goes on the girl, nothing happen. Come out nothing.’ Ah, gelded.  Think charades – without words, how would you portray a stallion failing to ejaculate? Tricky? Well done if you’re at least privately attempting it.

Four-legged ballet

 

This morning, should you be fogged to the core, we are at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, watching the Morning Exercise. Beneath magnificent chandeliers, Lipizzaner stallions practise circling and dancing to Schubert, Mozart and Strauss. None of your piebald ponies here, thanks very much. All frightfully twee – interrupted cadences and the occasional ritenuto in the woodwind maintain the adrenaline, but I’d argue that two hours is more than enough. 

How do they do it, though? I mean, I understand steering horses with reins, but there are funky dressage moves mixed in here. Assuming that these animals don’t speak English – or German, given we’re in Austria – how do they know when to faultlessly bend forelegs, simply prance, or point perpendicular hooves as if ballet dancers? Perhaps there is an ingenious system: a different coloured biscuit for each manoeuvre, stealthily stashed in the rider’s tailcoat.

Anyway, here we are, bourgeois patrons of the arts, touching our forelocks and enjoying the spectacle. The “Dung Man”, until now hovering in the doorway, shuffles into the arena with a shovel as a snow-white creature deposits a little something. The rider, in a funny, stiff-eared hat, continues without a backward glance.

Queen Sandra

 

Richly attired – in jeans and stout shoes, no less – Crazy Sandra presides over the entertainment below, like a modern day Eleanor of Aquitaine. Granted, Sandra has been neither Queen of England nor Queen of France, but she echoes some of that free-spirited lady’s traits.

Hampered by ecclesiastical canon? Hardly, no. Posh? Not even close. Forthright and indecorous, then? Yep, that’s more like it. Crazy Sandra whispers in my ear, bringing us neatly back to genitals. ‘I am disgusting,’ she declares, ‘But cum is very good for the skin. Also, I think these stallions would prefer Metallica to Strauss.’

At least she got the first bit right..