I swear that at least half my life has been spent waiting at border check-points. Unaware of any impending trouble, I steered our motor home to the German frontier while Frank Bond followed behind in the equipment truck. Pulling up at the inspection point, we were asked to exit the vehicles and walk individually through the customs check, showing our passports and answering innocent-sounding questions like what our business was and how long we were staying in the country.

The whole border inspection process was going extraordinarily well and I figured we’d be out of there inside a half-hour. But then one of the guards circling us spotted a paperback sticking out of David Gray’s pocket. It was a comedy book by Spike Milligan of The Goon Show, an English humor act from the ’50s that also included Peter Sellers. What caught the man’s attention was a giant swastika visible on the front cover of the book, entitled Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall.

“Was ist das?” the guard yelled after pulling the offending object from David’s pocket and waving it in his face. My special effects man tried to explain that it was a funny book, laughing and saying “ha-ha,” then pointing to its cover, but this seemed to enrage the officer even more. “You make fun of us?” he cried. Frank Bond intervened before it got ugly, explaining in fluent German that David was merely reading the comedy book and meant no disrespect. The guard nodded, but nevertheless, signaled the other members of his customs team to check out our motor home and all our personal belongings for more insulting literature and contraband.

“Listen, everyone,” Frank said to the whole group of us. “These guys are really upset about the book. Since Dinky and I were driving, they want us to go into the office.”

“What do they want?” I complained. This was getting ridiculous.

“To question us? Check our oral cavities? Find out who won the war? I don’t know, Dinky, but we had better get our asses moving.” A mean-looking guard with a machine gun had moved up menacingly to herd us toward an old brick building. Inside, there was just one long room with a huge table in it. Several customs officials sat at different points with stamps and inkpads arrayed in front of them. Some of these guys work for immigration, others for agriculture, that guy works for transportation,” Frank said, pointing to a bored-looking bureaucrat.

“I’ll take the transportation stamp, to get us the hell out of here!” I moaned. Large wooden chests sat at four points on the huge table. We were directed toward one of these and told to sit down. Gazing up at the ancient ceiling, I noticed it was yellowed and stained with brown nicotine spots from decades of rising cigarette and cigar smoke. Man, did I feel like a statistic at that point, just another detained traveler, as distinguishable as one of the millions of smokes that had been crushed out in the room’s many overflowing ashtrays. Surprisingly, we were made to wait only a short while before a man walked up behind the desk opposite us, smiled, and pulled a large decanter from the chest. Producing a couple of glasses, he poured some clear liquid from the bottle into them without saying a word. Frank caught a whiff of the contents. “I think we’re talking schnapps here.” The man handed us the glasses and told us to make a toast and drink. At least that’s what Frank said.

“You’re kidding,” I replied.

“No, just drink, and no matter what, look like you’re enjoying it.”

“Prost!” we both announced, before tossing the drinks back in our throats.

“Not bad,” I reflected. The drink had a smoother, different taste than the schnapps I’d sampled years before at the Star Palest in Kiel. I quite enjoyed it and held my glass out alongside Frank’s for more. In another unexpected move, the customs official poured out more for us, then pulled out some fresh glasses and filled them for himself and three of his colleagues. Raising his drink, he toasted the Fatherland and we all sent another round down the gullet.

Now this seemed quite odd to me, especially since just a few minutes before I’d been staring at the business end of a machine gun. But the schnapps had me feeling good, so I stuck out my glass once more and discovered that Frank was right there with me again. We celebrated with another round of toasts and shots, after which the customs men started talking amongst themselves. Frank leaned over and whispered, “Basically, we’ve just toasted to the health of Germany and the memory of Hitler.”

“What?” I gulped, almost choking on a few leftover drips of alcohol as they dribbled down my throat.

Frank interrupted the men and gestured for another round. “Jawoh!” the men agreed, and then the one with the bottle measured out some more schnapps for everyone. Frank kicked my shins under the table and motioned for me to get up with him. Then he toasted the Queen of England, a move that sailed right over the heads of the no-English-speaking Germans, who enthusiastically raised their glasses. Down went the fourth round as we drank to Her Majesty’s health.

Apparently we were now acceptable to the customs officials, who grabbed our passports and visas and stamped them with all the correct stamps and signed the correct signatures. We drank one more toast to our health, I believe, but to be honest with you, things had begun to get a bit hazy. The one who had been pouring drinks spoke politely to Frank, who shook hands with the fellow. I followed suit as my companion offered a hearty “Auf weidersehen!” and we turned to go. I noticed we were not invited to take the book that had started the whole problem along with us. “They told me to leave it,” Frank elaborated as we wobbled out of the musty old building. “I didn’t think David would mind.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Frank urged. “We are free to go.”

“Really?” David asked with relief.

“Yes. Dinky and I have deliberately intoxicated ourselves with the local authorities so that we may all be on our way!” Of course, everyone stared at Frank and me like we were crazy, but they knew something unusual had happened since half the group now stood downwind from our powerful schnapps breath.

“C’mon,” I shouted, “we’ll tell you about it on the road.”

As we prepared to get underway, Frank insisted that others drive the vehicles. “How come?” I asked. “I mean, besides the fact that we’re shit-faced and it wouldn’t be safe,” I joked.

“Don’t get too comfortable with all the charity in that building, Dinky,” he whispered to me. “Those Germans were setting us up. They got us drunk and are planning to notify the police in the next town to pull us over and check to see if we are driving.” My mouth dropped open as I realized the obviousness of the move. I felt stupid that I’d been so naïve. Frank noticed my expression and said, “Don’t even worry about it, Dinky; you wouldn’t have known unless you could speak German.”

The rest of the crew offered no resistance to our suggestion for two replacement drivers; they didn’t want us to get behind the wheel in our condition anyway. Lou’s stage manager, Gary, slipped in the driver’s seat of the truck and David Gray took over the motorhome while Frank and I jumped in two of the bunks to make it look good. Sure enough, a few miles down the road a police roadblock awaited us. Within minutes, the dour-faced officers had checked Gary’s breath, then his license and passport, before letting the truck drive on. The policeman walked over to the driver’s window in the motorhome and followed the same procedure for David Gray. When he checked out he seemed
mildly surprised, but waved us on without checking the interior of our vehicle. “Why should they?” I theorized. “Their buddies went through all our stuff at the border.” That was the last thing I remember for a few hours as I dropped into a deep alcohol-fueled snooze.

Read more from My Life Is the Road:

Andy Topeka: The Rolling Stones Technician

Dinky Dawson and the Legendary Gig Wagon Races

The Kinks: Demon Alcohol