The Vincente Calderon Stadium, Madrid, is a squeeze for thirty trucks. Gentleman Steve confidently guns his engine, using blocks as a step-up to our additional parking area: the pavement. A little later, in Catering, he offers some advice when the wife of another driver approaches our table. ‘Don’t catch her eye,’ he warns. ‘She’ll fix

As George Carlin once observed, it’s perfectly all right to prick your finger, but very bad form to finger your prick. What has that to do with a monastery, you ask? Everything, I would have thought; the cloisters of Geronimos, jewel of the Manueline architectural style, must once have been full of cowled monks brandishing

OK, so I’m polishing the trailer. I know it’s the sort of thing I’d ridicule Namibian for – and still might, given half a chance – but it looks nicer now. And it’s a jolly sort of job in the sunshine, which is becoming harsher by the day. In fact, it’s boiling in Portugal, which

Double-drivers make a mess – it’s a fact. Wrecker Jon merrily boards a plane this morning, leaving me with the detritus of two men sharing a truck. Not only is the cab in a deplorable state – awash with discarded crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers – but also the cupboards and side lockers look

’A hundred,’ replies Namibian confidently, talking through his hat again. On our journey from Ancona to Lisbon, we’re playing a little game. As you head south and west, from Alessandria (Italy) to Ventimiglia (the border with France), there are some tunnels. Ah, when I say some, I mean dozens. So, as we pass the first

Jon looks summery this morning, no? His ticket on the Superfast Ferry to Italy, costing an extra fifteen euros, is marked ‘Cargo Co Driver’. He is the Jeeves to my Wooster. ‘I virtually am cargo,’ he weeps plaintively, and we take a stroll around the poop deck to improve morale. Namibian emerges bleary-eyed, far from

Finding a football stadium without a map is reasonably simple. A DAF garage on Thrakis Street, Patras, however, is quite another matter. Spaznavs and Autoroute 2007 are next to useless down here; one has to use “the force” instead. Or buy a map. Aha, but although a map is a sensible, well-founded notion in, say

A drop of champagne in the Da Vinci Restaurant is the way to start a day. Over an extravagant breakfast on the terrace, desperately trying to determine the age of a woman in a bikini, I consult my Lonely Planet Mediterranean Europe – it is one of the items I regard as essential when going

Remember we’ve just hit a bridge in Serbia? Well, not one to do things by halves, “Wrecker” Jon has punctured not one but two of my tyres, and startled a passenger (me). It is one of those moments where the inevitable looms, like a truck coming towards you full tilt. ‘Fuck,’ says Jon. I say