It’s easy to spot tourists in Italy. We’re the ones ordering lasagne and cappuccino at lunchtime. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but you might notice a slight snicker suffuse the waiter’s features. And it’s no good saying jingoistically, ‘Look here, Luigi, didn’t we own Italy once?’ We didn’t; I’ve already tried that line.

The English think they know a few things about coffee nowadays, it seems. Yes, we’ve got Costa, Starbucks and Caffe Nero, but look at the prodigious dimensions of the cups. It’s absurd. Even the smallest size would drown a meerkat and the largest… Well, who actually needs a bucket of coffee?

What’s my point? That the Italians do coffee. But you may find yourself intimidated by the confusing array of choice on arrival in Italy. Which is why I’m going to help. Next time, you needn’t point to a cup upon the coffee machine and mumble, ‘cafe per favore’, eyes glued to the floor because your Italian vocabulary is unjustifiably nonexistent or shit. No, not any more.

Jot down some of the following and you can brazenly approach Italian baristas, head held high. Of course you’ll still be wildly misunderstood: a blistering barrage of staccato questioning will undoubtedly scorch your fringe, heavily underscored by slammed saucers indenting the enamel. If this happens, nod sagely, shrug a little and say, ‘Si. Molte Caldo.’ It’s all part of the fun. Up for it? Course you are.

 Starbucks, Pay Attention!

 

Café Corretto = Espresso in a cup with a shot of sambucca. You can also ask for Baileys instead.

Cappuccino = A big cup of espresso, milk and froth. Add chocolate sprinkles to taste.

Café Latte =  (A flat white) A cappuccino in a glass (without the froth).

“Macchiato” means ‘stained’ so Macchiato (cold or hot) = Espresso stained with milk.

Latte Macchiato = Hot milk stained with coffee (served in a tall glass.)

Marocchino = “A small cappuccino”. Espresso, milk foam (froth) and chocolate powder.

Americano = (A long black). An espresso plus hot water in a large cappuccino cup. What we in the West might deem “normal” coffee.

Schiumato = Espresso with froth on top in a small cup (“schiuma” means froth). This is a marocchino without the cocoa powder.

Need a coffee yet?

 

Double Espresso = Bloody Obvious.

Café Lungo = A small cup of espresso but the machine is left running. If it takes say, eight seconds for an espresso, then a café lungo takes about fifteen seconds. The hot water continues through the coffee, as opposed to just adding hot water (as in an Americano). It’s really a diluted espresso.

Moka = a cafetiere. This is generally home-made and not found in cafes.

Café Freddo = Cold Coffee. I’m not dealing with cold/iced coffees, though, otherwise we’ll be here all night dealing with Ginseng Cream, or White Chocolate Cream and Nougat Pieces. Then there is granita di caffe (ice cream coffee) and shakerato (cold coffee and ice). You see what I mean?

So, has that made matters clearer? No, stick to the wine then. That’s another area they’ve got the hang of down there. One last thing, however:

Cappuccino isn’t ordered by Italians after about 11a.m. for some reason. But don’t let that stop you making even more of a fool of yourself. Yummmy, frothy coffee freckled with chocolate.. If you want one after your evening meal, then convention be blowed; the machine is still operable and the customer is always right. Risk the derision.

For an in-depth look at the cappuccino, check out James Hoffman’s blog post here..

Keeping up a blog is a damnable business. Periodically, I wonder if it’s worth it, but then I peruse my diary and see things like this:

‘Oh yeah, I’d shag anything,’ said Paul. ‘I’d fuck a snake if I could get hold of it.’ And I decide perhaps it is, after all.

Paul, standing outside the O2 Arena in Dublin and seemingly incapable of ennobling thoughts, soon moved on to a splendidly vocal harangue regarding a fat bird in the Production Office. ‘Cor, imagine tackling that,’ he spluttered. ‘You’d need a wheel brace.’ As he spoke, he’d used my flip-flop as an ashtray; flicking a burning butt between my toes must’ve been a shot in a million.

Ought these anecdotes to be recorded online before the diary ink fades, do you think? Of course there’s always the tale of the Masturbating Midget on the Madonna Tour if things ever got dull..

Breakfast Time?

Now, changing tack rather, if you boarded a ferry at 2.45 a.m., and it docked in Ireland at 6ish, when would you expect to wolf down a few kippers?

Would you hop into bed initially, prostrate and insensible for a couple of hours, looking forward upon waking to a cornucopian buffet of kedgerie, double bacon and lashings of Guatemalan coffee handpicked by virgins? No, this is Stena Line Freight we’re talking about.

If one would like to dine, it’s at 02.45 or not at all, apparently. Hearts of marble, these  accursed staff – not even talk of a doggie bag for the big three-kilometre drive after disembarkation.

And to compound matters, proper mugs were in short supply; a phalanx of oppressed, tyrannised truckers was making do with Styrofoam cups.

If this, dear reader, were not singular crackpottery enough, there was also Eminem rapping on the television, and the only reading material available was Truckstop News. Whoopee, I couldn’t wait to discover how the Volvo FH16 750Bhp was faring against the redoubtable new Scania. Christ, things were grim.

Unguarded, Smutty Talk

Mouth drooping dolorously, I headed down to the freighter’s overheated bunkroom – to escape the madness as much as needing forty winks. ‘Hurry up and lie down, Number One,’ said Number Two, immediately blighting the tranquility. ‘I want to get up top.’

He planted a foot on my lower bunk, grappled a little and sighed wistfully. Noticing Number Two’s foundering, my colleague Colin expounded helpfully: ‘I put my wallet on the floor and used it as a trampoline.’

So there we all were – eventually – tucked up like servicemen. Naturally, conversation became a little blokey, scabrous and unguarded. Would you like a smattering? Very well:

‘I can’t get a smile out of that fat bird in the office, you know.’

‘You mean the dump truck with the hair?’

‘That’s cos she wants it straight up the mud ‘ole,’ interjected Colin.

‘Colin, I fail to see the correlation,’ I said, wondering if Eminem’s rap-off in 8 Mile might actually have been the safer bet after all. At least there had been Kim Basinger to look at. Goodness, she’s lovely.

‘She’s an accident waiting to happen,’ continued a disembodied voice in the darkness, bringing me markedly back to reality. ‘You’d have to do a risk assessment before getting in her drawers.’

‘Do her trucker style..’

‘What, cover her in fifth wheel grease and jack her up a bit?’

And you wonder why commercial drivers sometimes remain in their trucks on the ferry’s car deck whilst sailing? It’s naughty (and dangerous) but probably worth it for the peace and quiet..

 

If you happen to be passing Lyme Regis in Dorset, pop into The Fossil Shop for a journey back in time. From behind a replica shark jaw – replete with real, 250-million-year-old Florida shark teeth – emerges a shopkeeper. ‘All right?’ he asks cordially, and proceeds to explain how the fossils are created.

‘The word ammonite comes from the Greek for ram’s horn,’ he begins, as I warm to the theme. ‘The shell is like a diver’s buoyancy jacket, but when the animals die, they lie on their side.’ He demonstrates with a plastic sea creature, its tail curled into a spiral.

As the layers of sediment gradually cover it, the weight crushes the soft shell, leaving a perfect specimen. He briefly digresses into stupid tourists being rescued from the coast, up to their necks in mudslides. ‘Idiots,’ I nod knowledgably, glad that I’d washed off the mud and changed my jeans.

 

Fearsome Predator

On the wall, a newspaper clipping tells of a recent find here: a 60ft long pliosaur, with a bite four times more powerful than a T-Rex. It is the biggest-ever sea killer found on a UK beach.

‘They reckon there’s a hole in the seabed down at Portland Bill,’ continues my newfound friend in The Fossil Shop. ‘It’s probably full of ammonites, but it’s too dangerous to get them out.’ Well, I think I’ll head down there then, for a look. ‘Have a crab sandwich for me,’ he chirrups.

En-route I have cause for an emergency stop. Sarah, a 22-year-old photographer, is sitting on the road at a bus stop, looking a little forlorn. Her feet hurt, which is hardly surprising as she walked 29 miles of the South West Coast Path yesterday. I don’t really like to mention the paltry seven I managed, but then I seriously doubt whether she almost vanished into quicksand. Anyway, without applying the handbrake, I open the passenger door and leer with wanton perversion. ‘Need a lift?’

Another Fearsome Predator

Cor, her feet must really be sore, because she tosses her rucksack into the rear seat and climbs in next to me. Are girls supposed to accept rides from strangers nowadays? Well, as it turns out, Sarah is the perfect girl to buy lunch – she doesn’t want any. (No doubt my father would say she needs slapping as a result.) Nibbling on a meagre flapjack, she gazes out to sea while I cram in a rather good crab sandwich, savouring each delectable morsel.

Exploring the rocks by the lighthouse, it feels like the end of the earth here – the calm before the storm, if you like. Well, the storm soon comes. Half an hour later, the car runs out of water and grinds to a halt in Asda, Weymouth.

 

‘It’s the only Asda in Dorset,’ says a supermarket shelf-stacker when I ask for an address to give the AA. Well, let’s hope those directions are enough, then. Oh, and I never did find that swirling vortex at Portland Bill. I shall have to come back to this gorgeous part of Britain another time..

[Photos courtesy of Lawrie Cate and myDefinition]

Coo, this clay is heavy. After a good deal of waggling – or is it wiggling? – my leg is once again mobile. But simply lifting the mud-caked foot requires the strength of a superhuman; the weight of the boot – needing both arms to lift it – is like constantly dragging a medium-sized child around with you. I’m sure you all know how that feels.

Yet at least we had sea views while languishing in the clay bog; the next stage of the “walk” is beset with inviolable Dorset jungle. As Dad thrashes a passage through a particularly dense thicket – a route that perhaps no man has ever trodden before – the rest of us begin to climb trees. It’s our only hope. But upon reaching higher ground, I think I can safely say that we’re doomed. There is still no path in sight.

Amazonian Dorset

A full twenty yards of Dad battling with vines and cougars at ground level ensues. And we all breathe a sigh of relief at eventually reaching fresh air and sunshine. ‘Whoopee! Civilisation!’ cries my sister, on spotting a man-made stile. We have mobile phone reception again – did we ever not? – and feel safe once more. There is seldom a more appropriate time for the thermos flask to emerge. And quite frankly, I think the ordeal warrants an accompanying Hot Cross Bun.

‘It was a bit of a risk,’ admits Dad airily, as though his offspring have been subjected to nothing more taxing than a game of Monopoly. His words trigger childhood memories of amphibious treks at high tide. He unfolds the map again as each of us examines our wounds.

Wounded and Bleeding

 

Dad is scratched; Robbie and I have jeans frayed beyond recognition; and querulous Josephine is worrying about sunburn. We plod up Golden Cap for cheese-and-pickle sandwiches before it begins to rain.

Could it be a mirage? Nestling between soaring peaks lancing into the sky, is it really the Anchor Inn? Hooray, it is indeed a tangible entity, serving rewarding pints of real ale. We skip down the hill at speed and make a toast. This calls for a group photograph, I think. A passing gull celebrates, too: he launches excrement straight into my lap, just as the last of the clay falls off my boots. Talk about kicking a man while he’s down.

 

Eccentric English

 

‘Want a hand?’ offers a friendly rambler, as Dad fiddles stoically with the self-timer function. ‘No, that would be far too easy, thank you,’ replies Dad. The camera wobbles on the makeshift platform – he’s used the camera case and a flowerpot – and the shutter clicks. Three out of four of us are captured in the picture.

‘Now why have I done that?’ asks Dad rhetorically. Thawing comfortably at home, we’re poring over a map of New Zealand’s Milford Sound, and he’s just pulled out a red-and-white neckerchief with a huge knot tied in the middle. This is a generational, if curious and eccentric English affectation – supposedly the knot signifies a reminder to do something.

‘Blowed if I can remember what I have to remember to do, though’ he says, puzzled. He rubs his screwed-up eyes in thought and notices his scratched arms. ‘Oh, and do you think they’ll have brambles in New Zealand?’..

[For real adventurous travel, check out polosbastards.com – “going where we ain’t supposed to”.]

‘Is there a path, Dad?’ I holler. Ahead of me, an intrepid figure – beneath a cap with “Sports” marked on the back – flails among impenetrable brambles. ‘Yes, if you’re a badger,’ he yells back. Blood is leaking from his left forearm.

We are trying to walk the South West Coast Path in Dorset: the stretch from Charmouth to Eype. But part of the path is closed – the first part, as it turns out. So we are forced to head east along the beach instead, marvelling at the Jurassic coastline. As we crunch along the shingle from Charmouth car park, signs advertise hourly rates for hiring fossil hammers and deckchairs. Other signs warn: “No digging in the cliffs without permission”. Hmm.

Hammerless, we find a fossil within seconds. But my sister Josephine grasps the flawless ammonite – perfectly preserved for, oh, about 180 million years – rather ham-fistedly. The clay crumbles; the specimen is ruined. Still, this is the best place in the whole of the UK for fossils, and we are quietly confident of finding another.

A Short Cut..

‘I can’t see Gabriel’s Mouth,’ announces Dad, unfolding an Ordnance Survey map in the wind. That was supposed to be the point at which we rejoined the Coastal Path. ‘Make your own way up that clay bank,’ he decides instead, hedging his bets. ‘The path can’t be too far inland.’ Golden Cap, the highest sea cliff in southern England at 191 metres, looms omnisciently above.

The bank proves a little soft. All four of us – Dad, Josephine, and her partner Robbie – seek different routes across this formidable tract of land, some faring better than others. Take me, for example: never one to shirk a challenge, I am faced with considerably softer ground than the other three have negotiated. Dashing across a short stretch of quicksand, however, has never fazed me in the past. Nor, incidentally, has climbing icebergs, but that episode didn’t end too rosily either.

Coastguard Required?

‘You should have put your feet down more lightly,’ says Robbie helpfully, ‘as though you’re dancing.’ As though I’m dancing?  With one Wellington boot submerged to the hilt, I fail to see the humour. But then my thoughts turn to Namibian and the predicament we could potentially have found ourselves in. My mood instantly lightens.

OK, so he wouldn’t have set off on a seven-mile walk in the first place, but stick with the hypothesis for just a second. Can you picture the Coast Guard rescue helicopter, the custom-built stretcher and the industrial winch? Ha ha.

My boot is buried entirely, a salutary reminder of nature’s triumph over man. I need assistance, and I need it immediately. With unyielding rectitude, my family members lunge for their cameras, capturing the inelegant pose on digital film for posterity. Almost as an afterthought, a steadying hand is proffered. Oh, what bourgeois horseplay. See Part Two on October 31st to see if I escaped..

 

[For a news report on another stuck boy in this area, click here.]

 ‘This is where my route falls down,’ admits my father. ‘I don’t know how to get back.’ Taking a sanguine view, he pours our well-deserved tonic – a flask of tea – and consults the map again. His finger traces the disused railway line we’re cycling along, and he absent-mindedly eats my last apple and raisin biscuit. Oh brilliant, now it’s too late to consider rationing provisions; deep on the Cuckoo Trail, almost 500 metres from the nearest bakery, this is rash behaviour indeed.

‘We can go diddly, diddly, diddly,’ continues Dad, munching merrily, his index finger carving a slalom through Sussex lanes depicted on the Ordnance Survey. ‘Then there’s only an inch of pants.’ Do you need an interpreter, readers? By “pants”, he means “main road”. ‘Oh hang on,’ he exclaims, realising there’s a fly in the proverbial ointment. ‘How old’s this map? 1987? Ooh, that dual carriageway might not be on here.’ Great, we’re stranded, delirious without so much as a Garibaldi to see us through.

From the Sublime..

It had been a topping morning thus far, peddling through the sublime beauty of the Pevensey Levels. We’d soared through somnolent hamlets with the equilibrium of eagles, the world our oyster. There was even a Morris Minor in a pub car park – a sure sign, if ever there was one, that all was right with the world. (Dad’s equilibrium, however, was rather being assisted by a snazzy Air Comfort saddle from Lidl.) In short, here were two heroes of a different stripe entirely, picking up any derring-do gauntlet you’d care to throw down. Unstoppable, you might say. Well, until we stopped – for a wee wee and a cuppa.

‘Banana or an apple?’ Dad had asked, graciously offering his only son first dibs. Our steeds rolled to a halt and a coffee flask was uncorked. ‘Ooh, banana please,’ I enthused. Well, he did a curious thing. He wrinkled his nose, tutted and applied a caveat the size of a dashed orchard. To be truthful, he withdrew any choice at all and tucked straight into the sole, delicious-looking, perfectly formed banana.

The apple was twirled expertly between his fingers and proffered alluringly, the bruising kept hidden. Well, as alluringly as a man can offer a starving boy a piece of fruit whilst simultaneously stuffing a banana down his face. ‘This apple’s brilliant,’ he cooed, as the Serpent may have done in the Garden of Eden. ‘Grew it myself, you know. Bought a tree from Lidl for about £1.49.’ Well, if it’s so good, why doesn’t he eat it himself instead of cramming that banana down his blasted, bloated throat, I thought. ‘Thanks Dad,’ I gushed, crestfallen.

..To The Ridiculous

A little later, freewheeling beside a meandering river, Dad pointed out a little spot where he’d erected a tent 41 years ago. ‘For a bit of privacy with your mother,’ he explained. ‘Of course, you’d think “Hallo” if you saw a tent just here at the side of the road now, but back then it was more common.’ The short version is that a busybody policeman turned up shortly afterwards, rapping on the tent zip and demanding to see whether my mother (no doubt in a state of undress) was all right. ‘You do realise your tax disc expires at the end of October,’ the copper had persisted to Dad after Mum had squeaked that she was OK and would he please buzz off. It was the middle of June.

 

Rubbish

 

Other than a brief run-in with the son of a lowborn innkeeper in Hailsham – ‘ooh, hallo,’ said Dad, ‘I saw you the other day emptying our bin,’ – little else of interest happened on our ride. But we did get onto the topic of false addresses. You know, just in case you have your collar felt by the constabulary.

Alas, with the advent of  internet, you couldn’t get away with it now, but quick as a flash, Dad can still rattle his off. ‘Peter Jones, 23 Manor Park Road, Sevenoaks,’ he intoned guiltily, not that he’d ever have been brave or dishonest enough to actually lie to a policeman, busybody or not. Postcodes, just in case you were wondering, weren’t fully introduced to the UK until 1974.

 

Remember our impending peril of dehydration and possibility of missing lunch? Well, with a little doubling back, we arrived safely back in Pevensey for a pint and a sandwich. ‘People who don’t eat lunch want slapping,’ concluded Dad rather sensibly. And he asked the barmaid to fetch some ketchup..

‘I’m still looking for a bit of rope,’ said Princess, interrupting my chapter. He picked his nose for a moment, stood at my truck door and waited for a response.

Frankly, I wasn’t really in the mood for bothersome interlopers – Jules Verne’s Journey To The Centre Of The Earth was just hotting up. ‘Yes, what for?’ I asked at last, dutifully, though with a stolid indifference.

‘Hang myself,’ he explained. Well, let me assist you, old pal, I thought mutely. ‘Don’t you ever read?’ I questioned aloud, more in admonishment than polite curiosity. ‘Nope,’ he said, ‘don’t like it.’ It’s true – not a single book in his lorry.

And there we were with nine days to reach Zurich from Copenhagen – yes, still on the Prince Tour. It’s a journey manageable in two days…which meant a great deal of loafing in German truckstops amusing oneself.

Now, an ascetic way of life per se is nothing to frown upon, but eschewing books and music altogether? Is Princess some modern day eunuch monk, his ancestry stretching back to Katharoi monastery? Or a castrati magician of Arthurian legend?

More to the point, what he hell does he do when driving long distances? ‘Nothing,’ he said candidly. ‘Look out the window, I suppose.’ What, on night drives?! There’s sod all to see.

Train Takes The Strain

‘Come on, let’s go for a walk to see the trains,’ he implored, obviously bored out of his skull.

‘My mate Malcolm drives a Class 66, you know. Does the overnight from London to Birmingham. Ooh, imagine that: being in the cab and letting the train take the strain.’ Shall we pretend he didn’t just say that?

This was to be the third walk of the day together and, as I say, Mr. Verne, father of the science fiction genre, had me firmly in his grip. ‘Dicky tummy, I’m afraid,’ I said dismissively, picking up my book once more. ‘Think that ice cream after lunch might’ve pushed me over the edge.’

He looked up with tender solicitude…and began prattling total and utter codswallop, reminding me somewhat of A.A. Milne’s Winnie The Pooh.

Food poisoning?

‘Won’t be anything you ate today,’ he quipped. ‘Things take at least twenty-four hours to get into your system.’ That can’t be right, can it? By that reasoning, I could have four scoops of dog poo for dessert and be fine to run a marathon the following morning.

‘OK, Clever Clogs,’ I retorted, ‘talking of poo, which day’s luncheon was this morning’s disgorged turd from?’ See, I had him on the hop now..

‘Oh, that’ll be from two months ago,’ he said unswervingly, as Pooh Bear might have done. ‘Look how long your intestines are; they go on for miles. Takes ages for poo to get down them.’

I shook my head in stupefaction, wondering how some people make it to adulthood, then unlimbered my frame resignedly and agreed to stroll into Achern. It is a little German town not a million miles from the Swiss border.

Pizza Toast

‘If it makes you feel better,’ he began again, as wasps inspected our ankles by the stream, ‘I ordered toast for lunch and they brought me a massive great pizza. So what am I supposed to do about dinner now?’

He scratched his penis indiscreetly – it’s probably just a side effect of having one’s testicles removed – and continued soliloquising. ‘I could have a light meal at 8.30, I suppose. But I’m still fat and ugly, even after all this walking I do. Course, it all started when I passed my driving test. Did I ever tell you the story about…’

Suffering Jeepers, he’s exhausting, isn’t he? A smashing chum and all that, but I do wish he’d pick up a book occasionally..

(NB. For anybody as daft as my esteemed colleague, most foodstuffs pass through the digestive system within seventy-two hours. Two months! Honestly..)

‘Yo, where’s all the nasty girls at!’ It’s a rhetorical question in American English, I’m told. Grammatical hokum, of course, but this is me integrating with a broader class of reader. Esoteric prose is all very well but…

What do you mean, you aren’t familiar with the words rhetorical, hokum and esoteric? Oh, it’s hopeless; I’ll just get on with recounting the Prince Tour. I’m continuing where I left off – at the Amhager Festival in Copenhagen last month. Hey, and touch the roof if u live 4 da funk..

‘You’ve had quite enough sausage already this morning,’ I said cryptically to a random girl in Catering. I smacked her hand playfully as she reached out for a second helping and I joined her for breakfast.

‘My name’s Baby,’ she said with a wonderfully warm, expansive smile…and she passed the ketchup. Crikey, it sounds terribly familiar calling a woman “baby” after the barest of introductions, doesn’t it? Even after exchanging condiments over a fried egg?

 

Faith

 

‘But it’s my name,’ she protested gently. ‘I’m one of Paloma Faith’s backing singers.’ Aha! You never know whom you might meet in Catering. I’m a big fan of Ms. Faith, actually – it’s that sexy, gravelly voice coupled with a self-deprecating manner.

In high spirits, I poured a second cup of foul tea and took a look at Baby’s schedule for the day’s line-up. Ooh, splendid, there were some corking acts that afternoon: the legendary Chaka Khan, Hypnotic Brass, Nikka Costa and a guest appearance by Maceo Parker. ‘See you later, Baby,’ I chirped, soldiering on under duress and rather warming to the occasion.

First up, that glorious Saturday afternoon, was Hypnotic Brass, the epitome of cool; no talk of thermos flasks with these guys. ‘We’re from the South Side of Chicago,’ said one of the trumpeters backstage before their set. I’d interrupted him mopping his brow with a towel and had offered myself up as a spare trombonist in the event of me accidentally kicking one of the regular players in the goolies.

 

Homey handshakes

 

He shook my hand in one of those groovy “homey” fashions, popular amongst chaps wearing hoods on their jumpers. ‘Yeah man, you’d really fit in,’ he laughed. What, so I couldn’t stand in as the decidedly lighter brother from another mother? This is discrimination! Couldn’t I swap my monogrammed napkin for a spot of rapping? I’m quite the beatboxing MC at weekends, you know. Oh yes, a wicked Master of Ceremonies – a grandiloquent title indeed.

OK, so I’d stick out like a sore thumb in Hypnotic Brass. Apart from being white, I’ve never quite got the hang of showing swathes of branded underwear. Isn’t it uncomfortable waddling with trousers clinging precariously to the top of one’s thighs like the garden ivy? I’m sure Gentleman Steve, speaking from his baronial hall, would have a word or two to say on the matter of standards.

Da Funk

‘Bang bang, skeet skeet,’ yelled one of the players on stage ten minutes later, encouraging the audience to dance. As a front man, this might be another area I’d fail to excel in. Close your eyes and picture me at the front of a stage, instrument in hand, crowning my labours with a half hour set at a major festival. How do you think the following asinine compering would go down with the melee?

‘I say, would you mind clapping? This is a dirty cute rendition of the Mozart Requiem trombone solo.’ Bugger,  maybe that’s not quite right..

We’ve had some monstrous drives on this Prince Tour, you know. One of them – Dublin to Oslo – required five drivers to get the truck there without stopping. Now, I never know whether this sort of information is as dull as dishwater and you’d rather I shut up. Or mildly fascinating because I’m taking you behind the scenes on a pop tour? I’ll risk it..

Briefly then, my man, Number Two  – also known as Rasputin, Catweasel or Frankenstein due to an unfathomably large forehead – drove with me from Dublin to Ashford (near Dover). Number Two then dived into a hotel and took a train home the next morning; I took a cab over to a hotel at Gatwick, then flew to Oslo.

 Long Distance Trucking

Meanwhile, a couple of chappies had hopped in the lorry and hoofed it up to Copenhagen non-stop. They jumped ship there and flew home – no doubt after a rowdy afternoon in the hotel bar – while another man drove the remaining eight hours to Oslo. Interesting? No, I shan’t bother going through all that again. But it’s good to be aware that it’s not all glamour. That said, I had a very jolly time in Oslo, thank you very much..

Well, let’s forward wind to the next show: the 10-Æren Festival in Copenhagen. Now, generally, nobody in the industry likes working at festivals – flip flops caked in mud, a foul stench from the slop buckets, trucks enveloped in dust etc. – but this one was reasonably groovy.

Danish Delights

For a start, it was at Amager Beach. OK, yes, there was the odd female naturist on the four-kilometre island, but the big draw really was swimming in the protected lagoon. Oh, and mini-golf, kite surfing and ice-creams. And all within view of the Copenhagen – Malmo Bridge, an engineering marvel.

(Actually, the bridge, while awfully impressive, is the bane of my life; my blasted office has done some deal so I have to use it instead of the jolly little 15-minute Helsingor – Helsingborg ferry. Extra driving, coupled with fewer cups of tea aboard ships, can only be a bad thing in my book. Still, I shan’t harp on..)

Music? No thanks..

Back at the Festival stage there was a great line-up of performers for the afternoon, a veritable feast of great music. ‘No, I won’t come and watch,’ said Princess stoutly. ‘I don’t like music.’ Eh? What a thing to say! How can somebody not like music?

‘I’ve had too much of it in my life,’ he explained. ‘It’s all just the same thing over and over again. “Wooo, I miss you baby”. Then a little solo [here he mimicked a guitarist] and then “Wooo, baby, I miss you.” See what I mean? They just change it round a bit.’ I did try to get a definitive answer on Mahler’s Third Symphony but some chips arrived and we ran out of time.

Anyway, ghastly louse that he is, he mooched off, socks pulled up to his knees, in search of more Kitkats. Oh, and here he is impersonating a mutual friend’s girlfriend – I think it’s supposed to be a rubber doll. Honestly, the sooner I get home the better…

 

As you’ve no doubt discerned, the rock and roll industry attracts some oddballs. Well, let me introduce an effeminate young fish to rival even the most peculiar. Meet “Princess” Rob. Cripes, he’s strange – maybe even cuckoo – and I do wish he’d stop scratching his willy in public.

‘Must be the soap I use,’ he explained in Helsinki the other morning, his right hand idly fingering his groin. Now, picture a man watching sport in his front room, absent-mindedly toying with his testicles, and then transfer the image to say, a supermarket aisle, a committee meeting, or indeed (as was the case) the load-in area of the Hartwall Arena on the Prince Tour.

 

Sulking Princess

 

As rigging cases sailed down the truck ramps, he put out his bottom lip, duly rebuked, looking as fragile as a porcelain doll. In fact he could scarcely have looked more vulnerable had he donned a flimsy cambric nightgown with lace ruffles at the wrists. Or, if one were to give him the swashbuckling benefit of the doubt, in pale cream pantaloons, an embroidered jerkin and sporting a tortoise shell lorgnette. I think that gives you more than an adequate mental picture; suffice to say he’s a trifle camp.

Despite his earlier gentle scolding, as we began discussing our imminent drive to Oslo, I noticed his hand had remained down his shorts. Perhaps it was a reassuring hand. Perhaps it was nothing more sinister than a comforter, akin to a toddler’s blanket or an infant’s dummy. But can we let societal norms of restraint simply evaporate in the face of an itchy knob?

 

Le Touquet?

 

‘I need to go tinkle now,’ he wailed with a   woebegone expression, bottom lip aquiver. It leads one, unfortunately, to form the unwavering first impression that here lies a buffoon. Yet, you’d be wrong; Princess is not nearly as guileless as he looks.

Yes, he’s certainly a queer fish, but not only is he a dab hand logistically, he has a pilot’s licence too. Ooh, and an aeroplane at his disposal. So, Le Touquet anybody? Apparently we have space for one medium-sized girl. Bikini auditions will commence from Aug 23rd. Hooray!

Oh, and bring some Kitkats. He’ll do anything for a chocolate finger..