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..
We have a cowboy on this tour. No, not somebody who operates shoddily at the boundaries of legality, but a real cowboy who can perform rope tricks and ride bulls. His name is Pete, but his nickname -used by everybody – is unsurprisingly “Cowboy”. When not driving rock ‘n’ roll trucks, or entering rodeos, he
Oh, what a bore. You know that AC/DC cancelled show in Zurich? Well, it’s back on. So, instead of frolicking in the sunshine in Bilbao for a non-driving Sunday, permits have been organised and we’re now in a mad rush. In fact, the amount of time allotted to reach Switzerland again means that the dreaded
We’re now in Barakaldo, a little west of Bilbao, Spain, where Cookie suggests a rock ‘n’ roll night out. ‘Hang on then, let’s get our AC/DC cardigans,’ we chorus. So, donning our matching crew “swag” – looking summery dressed in black – we set off via Bilbao Exhibition Centre’s tourist office. Cookie lingers longer than
Namibian has conjured up a little jewel recently – literary flair is simply thriving on tour. Between extended periods of gnawing on his knuckles, polishing his curved horns and fangs.. Oh sorry, I got carried away there – his tail doesn’t, in fact, thrash like a wild scorpion. Namibian doesn’t even have a tail. Anyway,
Namibian has an unparalleled knack for misquoting. Place names, statistics, you name it – he gets it wrong: ‘Milan is confusing,’ he opens. I point out that this is, in fact, Madrid. ‘Well, Milan, or Madrid, or whatever you want to call it,’ he replies irritably. Hang on a minute, they’re completely different cities in
Justin is my dinner companion in Barcelona, a chap I met on a polar expedition. Well, it was billed as an expedition, requiring high levels of fitness, but really it was a small cruise for duffers. Let’s just say that we were fit before we started. It was a circumnavigation of a Norwegian archipelago in
I ought to clear up a little misunderstanding, I think. There is, unfortunately, very little sex on tour. The legend of women throwing themselves at rock stars may or may not be true, but we truckers see little of it. Our schedule, as I hope you’ve gathered, dictates sobriety and appalling hours – hardly conducive
AC/DC’s gig was cancelled in Zurich last night. I realise the inconvenience to the fans, but from our end it spelled absolute catastrophe: no catering. Namibian, at the loss of both a cooked breakfast and yet more weight, chomped furiously at the bit. You see, he hadn’t planned to go anywhere (obviously), happily surviving without
Julian, a pal from school days, lives in Zurich. I hastily abandon the truck this morning, and board a tram to go and see him. The tram is travelling in the wrong direction. With every intention to purchase a travelcard once in town, but with no Swiss money immediately to hand, I have to sit
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
