Namibian waltzed into Catering last night, looking trim and virile in his new Swedish cardigan. I complimented him. He’s “back in black”, you might say, an AC/DC reference that’ll be lost on most of you if you’re anything like me. Anyway, rather than just thank me for noticing how slimming the colour black is on

The trouble with tourist attractions is that they’re teeming with tourists. A bus full of English school children rolls up just as I arrive at Les Catacombes in Paris, considerably lengthening the queue. Standing in the cold, mostly in pairs of various nationalities, feels like waiting for a space on Noah’s Ark. We wait, and

We’re parked on the pavement – very rock n roll. The repercussion is men urinating against the truck half the night, both before and after the show. Little Dick, parked behind me, cordons off the trucks in a fruitless attempt to protect our rapidly yellowing tyres. I’ve always been in this industry for the glamour.

Have you ever stood at the side of a motorway, or on a bridge? Did you notice how painfully slowly trucks seem to be travelling? Supposedly in the name of safety, they are all fitted with speed limiters which fixes the speed at 90km/h. No matter how hard one presses the accelerator, the truck is

At one o’clock in the morning, Namibian is hanging off my mirrors. It reminds me that I should’ve been born into wealth. There is a rule in this industry: rock, don’t knock. It means, in order to wake a sleeping driver, rock the mirrors – gently. Too much and you risk spilling discarded wine glasses

As a truck driver, the job description entails driving…which is the bit I don’t like. Trucks, as far as I’m concerned, are simply vehicles for travelling to the next interesting place. Yes, there’s the occasional knickerless strumpet and, indeed, beautiful scenery en route…but international roads, like domestic motorways, are generally tediously dull. While Namibian fawns

Karl fell over last night. Almost sober, he slipped on an icy pedestrian crossing, hurting his back. And his pride. The deepest wound was being helped up by elderly ladies, fussing over this young man in his thirties. While Anna and I skidded off to Stampen Jazz Club, Karl was no doubt being invited to

A scorcher! Today is forecast to reach the dizzying heights of zero degrees Celsius – hardly sunbathing weather, yet naked men are out and about. I’ll come back to them. While Karl erects a coffee table barely higher than an ant, Anna serves home-made bread in an upturned, knotted handkerchief. They pad around their flat