Advertisement
Published: December 19th 2009
Edit Blog Post
26th March '09:
I hate to dwell on a single episode but the peeing incident is being blown out of proportion. Entering catering last night, I got knowing looks; it’s as though I’m the Peckham Pouncer, renowned for waving my willy at policewomen, and exposing myself at every opportunity. “Carrot”, a fellow event trucker, opens a telephone conversation with: 'if you had a bigger xxxx, she might have let you off.'
Yet, through the medium of financial reimbursement, Providence shines. The speeding fine, though nothing short of extortion, is thankfully regarded as a tour cost. Lumped in, too, is the willy fine (as I'm now calling it) which is fortunately all written up in Italian. The tour accountant pays unflinchingly. A stack of used bills from the Production office is handed over as I polish off a salmon fillet - all is now roses. A sunny outlook, despite snow outside, is once again resumed. Or it would be - if we didn’t have to travel overnight to Munich, which I shall gloss over.
Little Dick and I adopt the Ray Charles school of driving technique when parking at Olympiahalle, Munich, taking endless shunts yet remaining at rakishly jaunty
angles. And we’re in a glorious patch of mud that lends itself so nicely to the cab’s carpet. Lovely if you happen to be a hippopotamus but not so marvellous as a human adult.
'Did you enjoy your day off?' crew frequently ask after travel days. Hellooo? AC/DC’s equipment does not magically transport itself to the next city through the hours of darkness with no guidance technician - oh all right, truck driver - at the helm. However, 400km was certainly better than 1000, and gives me an opportunity to pop into town, after a distinct lack of lunch, to arrange tomorrow’s adventure.
Crazy Sandra has texted me the address of every bicycle shop in Munich, I think, so I'm off to pick up a bargain. Oh, I do loathe this throw away culture that we live in; even if I could buy British racing wheels in Germany, it would still be cheaper just to purchase a whole new mount - second-hand, of course. Unfortunately, then, it’s a question of “out with the old and in with the new”.
Arriving at “Doctor Bike”, I swallow hard, baulking at the price tags. Two-wheelers start at around €500,
which is far more than I paid for my car, and that’s with a full year’s road-worthiness certificate. Fortunately, there are a few bone-shakers round the back. But, with current parity between the pound and the European “shitter”, €75 is still a hefty sum for what is fundamentally a girl’s bike. It has only three gears, and has that annoying modification of pedalling backwards to apply the rear brake. On the plus side, though, the left hand is then free for making telephone calls or carrying an umbrella. It was the bell that sold me. Ding dong..
27th March: (“a fairytale castle”)
Last night was a perfect opportunity to drink heavily and chase women. We’d unloaded at noon - a day early to comply with tachograph rules - which left a free evening and a lie-in today. However, instead of visiting Boob’s table-dance bar (complete with video cabins), I poured a nice glass of red, plumped the pillows and settled down to a romantic comedy. I know - sorry. Only after inserting the disc, however, did I remember that the laptop screen is cracked; watching a film, as though looking into a broken mirror, leaves something to be
desired.
Now, I’ve heard of gay pride, but a gay pride of lions? This odd statue, at Munich Central Station, is hardly a fitting image to portray the macho, beer-swilling Bavarians. Next to it, a diesel locomotive is warming up for the two-hour trip to Neuschwanstein Castle, nestling in the foothills of the Alps, near Fussen. Billed as Germany’s No.1 tourist attraction, this ethereal folly is featured in the film, “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”, and is the inspiration for Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty”.
Having missed out on last night’s pursuits, I join a tour in the hope of meeting some crumpet. Maxine, the tour guide, smiles as I approach, remembering me from last year. 'Ooh, hello again,' she says, 'you’re from Sweden aren’t you?' Umm. Also joining the tour are three Indians, two Mexicans, two Septics (Americans), and two Brazilians. Sadly, there are no single honeys with whom to flirt outrageously and ignore Maxine’s introductory blurb.
As we pull out of the station, she tells a tale of drama, intrigue and romance: It was the visionary Ludwig II (1845-86) that left such a wonderful legacy of castles in this region. He had some killer ideas envisaging flying machines,
but, like most men, had commitment issues and led the life of a recluse. Physicians pronounced him mad without physically examining him, instead relying on witnesses’ accounts of insanity. Not really cricket is it? His demise was a suspicious drowning in knee-high water despite measuring six feet tall - an unsolved mystery and not much romance after all. Maxine adds that he might have been a poof.
As snow thickens outside the carriage window, she tells of the castle’s swan motif, Bavarian beer purity laws, and Ludwig’s pal ,Wagner - all of which is fascinating. It then occurs to me that I’m choosing the history of kings and composers over loose women at night. It’s rather a rum thing, and worries me. The next step is surely wearing tracksuit bottoms and pausing outside shop windows to look at comfortable shoes. Am I turning into Namibian? Help!..
Advertisement
Tot: 0.197s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 13; qc: 23; dbt: 0.0275s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb