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,

‘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

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

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