The written thoughts of a traveller.
Touring with Rock ‘n’ Roll bands; exploring Europe and the world; flirting in bars… and some naughtiness.
Oh, and all with a trombone. Enjoy..
It’s the little things that make me laugh in life. Yesterday I witnessed a spherical chap order a Diet Coke with a large bag of chips. Well, it made me smile. And so did a telephone call from my pal, Eunuch. I’ll let you in to my private life – well, his – and introduce
‘Why don’t you do one thing at a time?’ asked my dear friend, Fat Paul, recently. You know, he’s got a point. Mind perpetually whirring, juggling multiple concepts, I’ve got myself in a muddle lately. So here’s what I shall do: The blogs from last year – they need to be imported at some point
(from May 2009) Four idle days in Munich: lovely. Well, the truck is idle, but I’ve sneaked off to Nuremberg – to meet “The Munich man-eater”. Bettina is a girl I met a couple of years ago in Canada’s remote Queen Charlotte Islands, just below the Alaskan border. She texts me before I arrive: ‘no
You wouldn’t believe how long it’s taking me to import blogs to this site from last year. And every now and again, I find a spot of text that deserves to blight the front page once more. This is from Christmas ’09 and celebrates the presence in my life of a certain South African: Who
I’m disheartened. The “Helsinki Experiment” – tarrying in bars, hoping to be approached by fruity, Finnish girls – failed miserably. Yep, that pitch to the editor of FHM, announcing Finland as a manifestly viable destination for sex tourists, might as well be scrapped. Still, onwards and upwards – I’m not beaten yet. It’s just that
The die is cast, the social experiment of the century firmly under way. Yet the words of a Helsinki stagehand begin to look decidedly shaky. Girls don’t seem to be approaching. ‘You take a beer and stand awhile,’ Kari had said earlier, as we loafed beneath an azure sky at the Olympic stadium. ‘Seem a
‘Is this true?’ asks Little Dick. He retrieves a soggy roll-up from between his tonsils, regains his composure, and gazes levelly at Namibian. ‘Do you really sit down to piss?’ Namibian rears up, an indignant human beach ball. Yet his tone is more astonishment than defensiveness at this imprecation. ‘What if I do?’ he retorts,
This was written last year. I’m in the process of transferring old blogs over to this site…so do scroll back through the archives occasionally: I don’t know what happens in the other trucks – well, Namibian, of course, will be uttering banalities nineteen to the dozen to his double-driver – but, on our drive up
Spielberg is playing Dad today. He’s trotted round to the local Europcar to hire a Lancia something or other, returning to take three of us on a little jaunt to the Alps. Little Dick eagerly hops in the back seat, and sits down next to a girl. A girl? Ah, I never got round to
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
