HOW TO PASS TIME ON THE ROAD
Touring in a band can get a little boring, with only two hours of intense excitement every other night. To help relieve this, I have my favorite mags with me at all times, Classic Sports Car, Motor Sport, and Thoroughbred and Classic Cars. I’ve bought every one of them, every month, since 1980, and have built up a collection at home, housed in its own huge sideboard in my office. I love the ads in ’em, I love the wording. Stanley Mann’s Bentley ads are just lovely. For example:
1931 BLOWER BENTLEY LE MANS.
SUPERB ORIGINAL.
FULLY REBUILT TO THE DOG’S DANGLY BITS SPECIFICATIONS.
I love that stuff. I feel I know most of the guys in there, I’ve seen their names so many times. The ads themselves are more like motor-car menus, lists of luscious Lagondas, fistfuls of Ferraris, masses of Mercedes, boatloads of Bentleys, racks of Rollers. It takes your breath away how many beautiful old and new cars are out there. The prices tend to loosen your fillings a little, too! I’ve just seen a Bugatti for sale at 2,750,000 euro. Holy shit! You couldn’t even have sex in it, never mind park it. Who are the people who own these cars, where do they live? I guess I should say good luck to ’em, but I can’t, because most of them hide these beauties away and only pull them out for some Concourse of Elegance now and again. Then there are the real dudes who race their cars at the Donnington Festival of Speed and other similar events. Those guys are my heroes, because when they race, they are still bangin’ doors and takin’ numbers. The guys who drive across continents in rallies—I salute you, I salute you all!
The truth is, all these magazines are written and researched so well you can actually read them from cover to cover. I usually have a napkin tucked into the top of my T-shirt to stop me salivating onto the pages. To car nuts, these are horn mags, stick mags, something to get a boner over. Whenever I’m stuck at an airport, on a long bus ride, or sitting next to a shower-curtain salesman from Ohio on a plane, I whip out my trusty mag and put a serious, concerned look on my face.
“Oh, hey, is that an Austin Martin?”
“No! It’s pronounced Aston. ASTON!”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Austin Martin.”
“Die, you bastard. Just fuck off and die!”
If the car magazine doesn’t shut them up, I pull out my secret weapon: Viz. This usually has most Americans shaking their heads: Sid the Sexist, Eight Ace, Biffa Bacon, Raffles, the Gentleman Thug, Slappa Tasha, Fat Slags, Cockney Wanker.
Them: “I don’t get it.”
Me: “And you never will, bonny lad. You never will.”