It has occurred to me, though, that, now I’m writing so prodigiously, my trucker pals might disown me, regarding me as the lone ranger. I must compensate with virile displays of testosterone.
A thuggish nameplate for the front windscreen perhaps? Or maybe showering less and murdering the occasional prostitute would do the trick?
After a balmy eleven degrees yesterday, this morning is foul and depressing. Even the house-wife prostitutes, not fifty yards away on Felberstrasse under umbrellas, do little to lift one’s spirits.
The scene is marginally brightened by two luxurious carriages from The Orient Express but, among the squalor, I half expect them to be riddled with resident heroin-users.
(We each have our own puddle to park in, just so you know; my Vienna walking tour looks doomed.)
Pedestrians waiting patiently for the “green man” in this country are beginning to annoy me. I feel such a lawless brute venturing across an empty street in Austria or Germany, or indeed German-speaking parts of Switzerland, watched disapprovingly by other bipeds.
Today, they wait gormlessly for the light to change, in the rain. Yes, I know it’s the law, but it’s frustrating beyond belief when there is little traffic. I decide eventually to risk the astringent stares, darting demonically through the five-hundred-metre gap between vehicles.
With the weather inclement, there is little to do but read. So, in the absence of observations from the Austrian capital, I’ll relate a little dialogue that took place over the headphones during Tina Turner’s show last night.
To pass the time, “on cans” before the show, we’ve been exploring the derivation of words. Yes, rather an erudite idea, and right up my “strasse”.
Last night, however, we were treated to a crew member’s report from a hotel room, where access to the pornography channel was blocked. Ringing through to reception, he asked: ‘Is my porn disabled?’ The voice at the other end, suitably taken aback, replied: ‘Ugh, Sicko, it’s just regular porn.’
Hey, don’t shoot the messenger; this is unadulterated gossip from backstage and ought to be turned into a BBC documentary.
The other all-time favourite hotel room tale, of course, is telephoning the madam of a brothel and explaining the unspeakable acts you’d like to perform when the lithe young call-girl arrives, only to be met with the embarrassing response: ‘You need 9 for an outside line, sir.’
Backstage, tapping away at a ridiculously small laptop, my friend “Mystic” says nothing, yet everything. He is wearing earplugs permanently now, to tune out the oral twaddle:
‘I don’t want to hear it, Barnaby. They’re talking about peep shows and masturbation.’ Oh, only another few months to go..