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..
Phew! The Beyonce European leg is over. Ray of sunshine that it most certainly was, I did notice that very few men attended the concerts. Why, you ask? Well, those that did, I’m surmising, were either dragged kicking and screaming by their girlfriends or were of a particularly sensitive and artistic persuasion. By which I
Behind the scenes on Beyonce’s Mrs Carter World Tour? Well, as you know, the gear is moved nightly between shows in trucks. I’ll introduce you to a couple of the drivers.. Eddie (pictured), last seen dousing haddock goujons in saffron mayo as though it was the Last Supper, is an anomalous driver. Well, freak might
Am I becoming a petrol head, I wonder? If I’m not astride a throbbing Fat Boy… Hang on that’s a bad start; it sounds a bit gay. The point is, having had a driving licence for twenty years, it’s only recently that I’ve taken any interest whatsoever in cars. Take Belgrade Automobile Museum last month,
You’ve got to live life at open throttle. Only yesterday I popped into Dublin town centre without an umbrella. Yes, I know – talk about living on the edge. As squalls ravaged the streets, a grim foreboding stole across me; I realised I was trapped in a pub with two bibulous Irish women. How could
There is a science to luck. I mean, take those so impoverished that they have to share a helicopter with another family. Tragic, eh? They could be deemed unlucky in life. But odds can be coaxed and cajoled. Guys, write this down. The following is a tried and tested method – devised by me in
It’s Not All Sunshine And Sand – a trucker’s wet dream. ‘Shall I plug your book, Paul?’ I asked him last summer on Madonna’s MDNA tour. ‘Who said that?’ he yelped, squinting myopically from ten feet away. Even with his glasses on, he’s as close to being blind as it’s legally permissible for a truck
The touring season has begun again in earnest; a pantheon of feted legends are soon to be gracing stages Europe-wide. Springsteen goes out at the end of the month; Bon Jovi’s trucks head down to Sofia (Bulgaria) in a couple of weeks; and I’ve ended up tottering about for superstar Beyonce. Yes, obviously I had
‘Steep?’ said Lewis, with ingenuous bemusement. ‘It’s fucking vertical. No wonder you can’t get any purchase, Barnaby – those shoes are suited to a dance floor, not mountain climbing.’ I ignored the snub, and we continued dandering impishly along the old Fiat test track in Turin. Now this is a genuine scoop. Google “tourism
‘More roasted songbirds,’ an Elizabethan dignitary might once have bellowed. Mauve of cheek, with honey-glazed venison protruding from his pendulous jowls, he cuts quite the powerful figurehead. But this is only the hem of the garment, so to speak. Eels seethed in wine are brought to the table by a curtsying maid, her skin the
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
