NOT YOUR FATHER’S TOUR BUS STORY
A tour bus is something every groupie wants to see the roof of and every male rock fan wants to see the inside of. They are amazing vehicles; the Americans make the best ones, and they’re called Prevost and are fabulously rock ’n’ roll. The British and European ones are crrrap! The English build the coachwork, so it’s, “Let’s make really small seats and make everyone feel as uncomfortable as possible.” The chassis are usually made by Volvo, Swedish by name, Swedish by nature. Dull. One big safety bollocks after another, with tremendous discomfort on top. It’s one of the few times in life you wanna drive American.
The adventures on American buses are legend. Take, for instance, the time when one of our drivers was a devout born-again Christian, and we got ten gorgeous groupies to get down on all fours eating and sucking each other’s thingies all the way down the bus to the driving seat, and when the front girl unzipped his pants and gave him his first blow job, his first words were “Oh, my Lord!” Other truckers passing were honking horns and calling him on his CB. All ten girls gave oral communion to our Christian friend. He never called on the Lord again, but he did maintain a steady 70 mph. What a driver!