Bloody Germans

1. Introduction (cont.,)

My reasons for this are numerous -- enough to drive me to write this book.

I have nothing personal against the Germans themselves. In all of Continental Europe, I  favour them and their language the most. I would probably be just as unhappy living elsewhere in Continental Europe, because I am what the Germans would call a typical Insel Affen -- or Island Monkey, who would find it difficult to live anywhere else but upon my beloved English soil.

But then, even when it comes to Great Britain, I am from sunny Bournemouth, which is a holiday seaside resort that lies right on the south-west coast of England and is hedged by a beautiful coastland. So for all intents and purposes, I would also be far from happy if I had to live north of my hometown, in the cold, wet, miserable middle or northern part of England.  Just like it is for me here in Hamburg -- I  would feel no more than a stranger; a fish out of water, a foreigner who is miles away from my own beloved hometown and family.

Hamburg’s large city comes across to me as a place that is full of many faceless people who dominantly possess an ungracious city mentality. I find this the same with most cities, including London, and although I was born in London -- a city is most definitely not a place I would desire to live.

My own personal accounts and feelings throughout this book, refer to my recent experiences living out here in northern Germany, or for that matter, relate mostly to my observations whilst residing in Hamburg. However, I also make many comparisons between Britain and Germany; for reasons good or bad, as well as (in my so often high state of feeling very homesick), combine many of my fond memories back to my days in sunny Bournemouth.

I first met Rolf in Bournemouth during early February 1982, and we lived together there for the fifteen years that followed. Then, after a recession hit Britain; in which we both lost our jobs and finally our home, Rolf  persuaded me that we would be far better off if we came to live out here in his hometown of Hamburg --

“Standards..,”  he said, “Are much higher all round in Germany!” 

And he was right -- they are by far higher out here than they are in England. If I give the Germans nothing else in my tale, I do at least begin by commending them highly for that alone.

But alas, now I find I am faced with being turned into an ‘Economical Prisoner’. I have to so often ask myself --

“Which is better for me -- a higher standard of living or a social standard of living?”

All of my family and friends are in England and I have missed that very important atmosphere and contact for almost ten years now. In Germany, my social world has veered into next to nothing, and though I now speak with enough German to find my way around, answer the phone, shop or even ask for simple directions, I am faraway from being fluent in German -- and just like a typical Brit, there seems to be even more distance between me and ever being fully capable of mastering it. It’s not my fault, I am just bloody hopeless at learning languages!

If I could, I would return to the shores of my England tomorrow. I am proud enough of my country to never want to leave it entirely -- least of all, relinquish my passport for another.

Nothing but nothing is keeping me here, other than to be with my guy Rolf.

This morning, as I write -- I look out of my top floor window and see the sun is shining brightly with a promise of a real nice day. Across the way, and high above the noisy city traffic in the morning rush-hour -- I can see the airport and many aeroplanes that are taking off; many of which must be en-route for dear ol’ Blighty. At this very moment, I can think of nothing better than to have a good English Breakfast at one of my favourite home seaside town cafes -- followed by a nice long walk along the beach. I can almost hear the sweet sounds of the surf and the intrusive overbearing squawk from seagulls, as they flap over the top of me and scurry off towards the cliff tops. I can sense the fresh salty sea-air that blows hard upon my face and messes up my hair. I think I can even taste the strong smell of seaweed as it wisps high above the stench of last night’s Bratwurst sausages.

These are just a few of the sensations I cannot get out here in Hamburg and miss so very much indeed.

This book; ‘Bloody Germans’, is a humorous and I’ll admit, often grossly exaggerated tale about me, an English person living out here in Germany, who just cannot easily integrate, nor accept all the strange German ways; which indeed there are very many.

Although it may first appear as untrue to you as you start to read the first pages of this book -- but my intentions were not to simply annoy or make fun of the Germans, but instead to hope that my tale will remove the eternal myth that the Germans have no sense of humour.

 They most certainly make me laugh at lot!

So I have written this book for the Germans to read and enjoy as well -- to have a good laugh and perhaps say..,

“Ja! Sometimes ve can be a bit like that!”

For others who read it, despite some of my own obvious dislikes, I can quite easily believe that many of you might say that I am the one who’s quirky and not the Germans.

I know for sure that should anybody, let alone a German, come to live in my country, they too could write just as many oddities, quirks and foibles about us, as I am about to tell you about them.

I fittingly begin my tale with Germany’s National flag -- not the one that flies high and flutters in black, red and gold -- but the one that they recognise and salute with even more vigour; a national symbol that the Germans cannot live one day without.

I begin with the German Bratwurst Sausage..,