Scribbling away with Big thoughts.

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.. 

What a Cock-Up!..

The intrigue will be finished. That delicate fulcrum on which fate balances will crumble around your sperm-filled sock. So why are so many of you doing it?

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Sexting: Cock-a-Doodle-Doo…

Guys, I know self-improvement for a man ends at toilet training…but what’s with this sexting business? Why do you feel compelled to send pictures of yourself in various states of arousal to women you haven’t slept with? It’s a particularly inexplicable quirk. There I was, having a meal with my friend Kate the other night

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Pepped up by Pussy..

Driving along the M25 the other day, I saw a huge billboard advertisement. ‘PUSSY,’ it read. ‘An energy drink that actually tastes good.’ Clever? Or clinching proof that society has degenerated even further? In fact, is it a bad thing, do you think, that few people would bat an eyelid nowadays when ordering a “screaming

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Bulgarian Diesel Mafia..

So, it was a toss-up: the possibility of a fateful assignation between a cosh and my head, or firing up the engine at 10pm, bending the rules and driving an hour to Greece.

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Da Da Doodah..

Romania fizzles out after Craiova. Faced with a choice of routes to reach Bulgaria – drive over the new Calafat bridge or take an open-decked ferry from Bechet to Oryahov – I chose the latter. It sounded jollier; in half a shake of a duck’s tail, I veered south rather than southwest. ‘DKV card?’ I

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Dirt Tracks and Dacias..

  Where did we get to on the Slayer Tour? Oh yes, Deva in Romania. In my road atlas – which excludes Romania in any detail, as if to say ‘Don’t bother unless essential’ – I’ve now written “Dreadful but no police” for that stretch we did down from Oradea last time. The reason for

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The Scourge of the Seven Seas..

‘I can’t sail the Pearl single-handed, you know,’ I continued sotto voce. ‘I’m commandeering you and that bodice till dawn.’ Crumbs, what a pervert – even more perverted, perhaps,

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Be a Trucker for Five Minutes…

Get your map out for a minute. Or open Google Maps if you haven’t got one. The latter might be preferable, actually, given that a) you’re already online and b) Tokaj, Hungary is minuscule, barely even a village. If you can face it, put some Slayer on the stereo, too. Well, my old wrinkled testicle,

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A road would be nice…

‘Problem?’ asked the Hungarian promoter. I’d rolled in to Hegyalja Festival in Tokaj – near the Ukrainian border – and things looked iffy. A hundred yards away lay the stage, but, coo, what a hundred yards. Muddy? There could have been a tour bus from last year buried in that bog. ‘Well, as a vague

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“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”

Father Pius Smith, Hastings.