Bloody Germans

6. German Entertainment

  The German and His Car

Germany is the third largest producer of automobiles behind Japan and the United States, and can boast some of the best cars in the world; the ‘B.M.W., Mercedes Benz, Porsche, Opal and Volkswagen’ to name but a few. It is not at one bit surprising to me that German cars excel most others, because the Affaire for Das Auto is extraordinarily renowned out here.

 In my home town of Bournemouth, should the latest car ever hit the showrooms, it could be months before I’d ever catch sight of the first shiny model passing by. Everybody would have long heard and seen the many glossy images of this brand new delight, but now for the first time it unexpectedly appears coming down the road full in the flesh. The manifestation would bring about an immediate street exhibition that would result in numerous heads half-rotating around --

“Oh look.., there’s the new -- (whatever)!”

In Hamburg however, I live high on the sixth floor that overlooks a fairly busy main route, and I only have to peer out my window for a few minutes and I’ll see dozens of the latest models drive by; and in all available colours, long before I knew they had even been blueprinted. I’ve no need to go to the ‘Motor Show’ out here -- I got it all from my front window!

In Germany, it is very rare to see an old ‘banger’ making its way up the street -- just as rare as it is to see a car that needs washing. They all seem to pass by in bran-new pristine condition. It is as if the Germans spend far more time looking after their cars than actually driving them. But then, I know that’s not true because the roads are always so choc-a-bloc with cars no matter what time of day it is. Even over a weekend or Bank Holiday, when everything is shut, the Germans always find somewhere to drive; probably out besuche'ing each other again!

A couple of years ago, when I was returning to Hamburg after a three-month break back in England, Rolf picked me up at the Airport in an old rusty yellow Volkswagen Beetle he had  mystifyingly procured whilst I was away. He cared little for this car -- it was just ‘wheels’ to get him from A to B. And when he did so, he also cared little about how many objects he hit on the way, how many dents it received or even how many valid parts fell off it and were left behind!

Within a short space of about three months, this little V.W., was reshaped into history.

Between the time he took the thing on and up to the time it was still on all fours -- I’d swear blind that little car never got to see a damp-wet soapy sponge, let alone have a refuse collector call around to empty the ashtray.  I’m no snob, but when I was out and about as a passenger in that vehicle, it always proved handy to be able to put up my large anorak hood and hide behind the wide open pages of a large German newspaper. Even if I could only tell if it was right-side-up by looking at the pictures.

One time, I remember it was a nice sunny day and we were en-route in our old beat up wreck of a car. As usual, the traffic was quite heavy and in Germany, as I previously expressed.., when the Germans are mobile; either on foot or in their car, they have just got to get there -- wherever there is, first. 

The German roads, within and all around the city, are littered with many traffic lights and pedestrian crossings; they are put in situ almost every 500 metres. For many German motorists, this exasperating barricade always incites a harebrained ‘on-amber’ traffic-light  start; reminiscent perhaps, to the start line at ‘Brands Hatch’.

It is here that once again, every German driver on the line commences to embrace the ‘Nicki Lauder’ persona; they all strive oppressively to race ahead of each other -- and stay there. Then as they; at breakneck speed, approach the next set of traffic lights, it intensifies into a frenzied dash to cross those blasted lights before they have even considered changing into any other colour. And I’ve yet to discover what colour the German drivers are all looking for, because for most times -- it surely isn’t red! And if one just happens to be extemporaneously and serendipitously driving along at the head of a mad dash, and is reckless enough to step on the brakes when they come to behold that the traffic lights have turned to amber; as one surely should -- then the first movements of ‘Beethoven's Fifth Symphony’; that is majestically spewing out from their CD quality in-car entertainment, will be quickly interrupted with a far less improved version of ---

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! --

Except.., in Germany, it usually totals up to five beats in one of their car prangs -- so one more please; skidding up from the rear --

Boom!!

Well, there we were; Rolf and I.., chugging up the inside lane of this busy two lane main road in our old insignificant beat up rusty yellow V.W., Beetle; homeward bound from our day out the city centre. All around us and darting this way and that, were all the crazy German drivers in their bran new shiny flash B.M.W.,’s and Mercs. But we just plodded on ignoring them like there was no tomorrow -- well for our car, there probably wasn’t!

 

Suddenly, due to the ill-timed sequence of the traffic lights ahead, we found ourselves having to abruptly come to a halt in a ‘like it or not’ status of being right in the centre of a now three lane traffic-light terrain. The truth is, because our car was so pathetically sluggish, if we had dared to parent a gallant attempt and lunge ahead whilst the lights were still at amber, by the time we reached the other side, they probably would have gone through six or seven other coloured sequences.

So there we sat, waiting patiently while the engine screamed out with so much clamour and vibration, people around would have imagined we’d super-glued the accelerator pedal to the floor. To the left, right and rear of us, rested all the big fat German cars optimistically revving up their engines while they desperately ached for the lights to change from red. I looked to the car that was roaring ferociously to the left of us, and I noticed an elderly woman passenger giving our little car such a disbelieving snooty up n’ down inspection.

She then turned to her similarly aged male driver; possibly her husband, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and pointed her finger in our direction in a bid to gain his immediate attention. Now he too became betrothed to the excitable traumas of our little car.

I turned my head and looked to the right-hand side of us -- same thing; but those people looked more astounded that we were actually mobile.

At the time, I felt quite embarrassed -- and those traffic lights seemed to be purposely hanging around on red as if they too were capturing some pleasure out of the whole spectacle. If I had any strong tablets aboard, now was the time to overdose on them!

Then all of a sudden, the traffic-lights thankfully changed to green. Rolf thumped his little car into first gear and we plodded off leisurely into the sunset.

 

As we did, I became instantaneously surprised that we were not hurtled off the road by a mammoth pack of oncoming and overtaking Germans. I looked back in anguish; to see where they all were, and I observed that they were all still standing motionless back at the traffic lights. They had been so gainfully occupied in scrutinising our little wreck and talking to each other about it, that they didn’t notice the traffic lights had shifted over to green. Or maybe, they had completely forgotten that they were out driving in their car.

We left them behind in a cloud of.., black smoke and debris.

Just to ‘tale-off’ this little saga of Rolf’s battered old V.W., in case any of you are intrigued about what in the end happened to it -- a few months later, he gave it away to two young Polish lads who came to Germany to seek employment. Many foreigners arrive here for that same reason, due to high unemployment or low wages back home that often pressures them -- and that includes many British.

After finding and completing their short work contract, it seemed that these two young lads had spent most of their well-earned money having a good time during their stay. They were now desperate to find an easy and inexpensive way to get back home to Poland.

Rolf’s V.W., now looking sadder than ever before, was looming towards the expiry of its vehicle testing document. Apart from his fears concerning the sheer ridicule he would have to endure from the people down at the testing station, it was also very obvious to him that the car would cost far more to put right than it was worth.

This was not so difficult for Rolf to fathom out because quite simply -- the car was worth nothing.

In the end, Rolf decided to place and advertisement in the local paper offering the car as ‘Free’ to any takers who might want it for spare parts (if there was  still  any hanging on).

Two young Poles turned up and within a very brief viewing time, they gladly (more on  Rolf’s side) took it away. Not a five minutes later, Rolf and I went out and caught sight of them and the V.W., again, at a garage not far from where we live. We watched them as they fitted on a dodgy set of number plates -- then drive off into the sunset; bon voyage nach Poland.

And do you know what?  

I bet that little car made it --  and on the Polish money market, they probably sold it for a fortune!

Sexual Entertainment

So where do the Germans drive, or go for their regular entertainment?

Like most places, the city centre spawns most of the recreation, but much of that is for the tourists and their sight-seeing, the youth and their discos, or the wayward with their peep shows and sex clubs. There is a vast array of nightlife locations within the city of Hamburg, but myself, I don’t frequent any of them. I am far too busy recovering from most of my daytime!

Within Hamburg, and at a locality called ‘St Pauli’, there is a long wide street named the ‘Reeperbahn’. This whole area is renowned world-wide for its infamous ‘sin-city’ reputation of multiple strip clubs, peep shows and sex theatres -- as well as being relentlessly haunted by an assortment of pimps, prostitutes, dope pushes, drugees and derelicts. Added to that, the whole shebang is further cluttered with intermingling large numbers of sightseers and locals, who are just generally mooching around in search of their individual preference of ‘pleasure’.

But also, and for a far more distinguished justification -- the Reeperbahn is also notably famed for being the location where the Beatles performed at several night clubs prior to attaining world-wide recognition. The Merseyside pop group first came over to Hamburg in August 1960, and began playing at a club called the ‘Indra’. They then played up until December 62, at various other venues in and around the Reeperbahn. From the ‘Indra’, they moved to the ‘Kaiserkeller Club’, then the ‘Top Ten Club’ and finally, to the more celebrated ‘Star Club’.

The Reeperbahn, is also a vicinity; so I have been told, where most visiting women would fear to tread on their own. Especially in and around the back-streets -- and that counts for during the day as well as the night!  The main fear is not from being beleaguered by the sexually starved men who have just recently docked in at the harbour after twenty years or so at sea, but from the unfriendly responses that could quite easily arise from the neighbourhood women.

And by that.., I mean the ‘street women’.

Should I ever be in that locality and if whilst taking a short cut through the side-streets, I dared enter into their designated area, I will be looked upon as if I am about to steal their trade.

 

If that should ever occur -- they say it can get pretty nasty.

 

I mean, if I take a good look at myself, with my elongated heavy thick woollen overcoat, hood up and laden with bags of heavy shopping. Then I look at them, with their extended evocative fluttering eyelids, elicit torsos that ravishingly half-donned seductive sheer black silk ‘teddy’s’ that are erotically laced with enticing pretty red frills. Attached to this, are their lengthy spellbinding legs that go up to their tonsils and bewitchingly flash alluring slinky-black fishnet stockings; even though it is in the middle of winter and its snowing. Yeah -- sure the punters are gonna go for me way before they look at them -- maybe that’ll be because they think I’ve been out buying sausages!

 Sex Shops

Around the Reeperbahn and St Pauli, aside from the many peep shows and strip clubs that I previously mentioned, they also have an abundance of ‘sex shops’.

These premises really amaze me. 

Back home in my sleepy holiday town of Bournemouth, one person attempted to open up a sex shop. I must have gone passed the place a thousand times but I was never ever aware that it was a sex shop. The store did not have a name or even a sign outside that in anyway suggested; let alone confessed a slight hint, that ‘This is a Sex Shop!’  The glass on the large front windows and entrance door, were both blanked out with thick black paint, acknowledging not a whisker of a clue of what went on inside there -- or even if they did anything at all.

The first time I got to hear about it; along with probably many others, was when the town’s notorious ‘Watchdog Committee’ got wind of them and began throwing their arms up in a rage. The whole ‘sordid’ story then made front page headlines in the local newspaper and all at once, the place lost all its obscurity and everybody wanted to know just exactly where it was.

The shop owners couldn’t have paid for a more first-rate piece of marketing!

However, the committee did in the end triumph with their protest and the shop was hastily closed down. All the same, everytime I saunter past one of those ‘innovative’ establishments out here in the Reeperbahn, I am frequently aroused and embrace a big smile on my face -- not by the curious jumble of items that are for sale; or maybe even for hire, in the shop window, but when I am humorously reminded of that group of people back home in Bournemouth.  I’d would just love to see how those old biddies might react should one of these St Pauli’s sex shops ever hit the streets of ‘their’ town!

The first time I walked past one, I just couldn’t believe my eyes. There they were, all these d***o’s standing up tall and in neat rows -- lined up and stood to attention like soldiers. Only, unlike the soldiers I’ve seen a good few times outside Buckingham Palace, these guys just couldn’t stand still. Similar to television sets in an overnight shop display window -- they were well plugged in and fully operating; it was like watching a naked puppet show!

Once I did dare go in and take a petite look around. Other people just seemed to be popping in and out -- and as cool as you like without a smidgen of embarrassment; it was as if they just nipped in for a packet of sugar. And the ‘stuff’ that was on display, let alone the magazines and books that lay pulsating in their rack beds for all to pick up, read or mostly look at the pictures. Most items, that unproductively poised, dangled, hovered or hung around the overcrowded shelves, counters, displays and racks -- looked horrifying enough to warrant being under lock and key, or at least have a good firm leash put around them!

Get turned on? 

Apart from first having to redeem myself and recuperate from my initial shock and horror, I finished up by falling out the shop doorway with my incessant bouts of laughter!

 Transvestite Shows

From what I gather from the time I have been out here, the Germans seem to love drag shows; they call it a Transvestiten Show.  I suppose it derives from Cabaret, which the Germans also seem to delight in. ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ is a big sell-out here in Germany and the fun part is for the guys to turn up in their full ‘Girlie’ kit. I don’t know anybody personally out here who is well into that, but it seems to be the ‘norm’ for those who are just out for a bit of fun and not just for the serious cross-dressers alone.

I try to imagine a big guy, who perhaps by day works hard on a gigantic container crane down at the city dockyard. But at night-time, he likes to put on his full ‘Girlie’ outfit and hit the city Transvestit night club scene.

How does he get kitted up?

Does he borrow from his wife or does he get her to buy it new for him? 

 

I can picture him now down at the large city store..,

Willy and his Frau-wife are searching through a big display box of bargain undies. Although Willy enjoys to wear these as part of his weekend entertainment, his wife does not really like it and feels ashamed of him. So as they are both going through this big pile of bargain-box knickers and bra’s, with Willy trying to choose something that he needs to complete his ‘Girlie’ wardrobe.

However, Willy doesn't dare touch any of the garments. Maybe he thinks his work colleagues are about; shopping at the same store. His neighbours or anybody else, they too may be around, and if any of them should spot Willy rifling like mad through a box of cheap undies, then they  might instantly figure out his dark weekend secret.  So with this trepidation in mind, he gets his Frau-wife to pick them up for him, after he has secretly selected a few choice items from the box.

The conversation may go something like this:-

Willy Whispers..,

“Nein, not zem....., zose next to zem -- Nein.., nicht za pink vuns! Zose big frilly vuns zere mit just zer corner stickin...,!”

“Vas -- you mean zeese?”

“Nein! You dozy Dummkopf -- nicht zose horrible zings -- zer vuns furzer down, next to zose yellow vuns -- mit da big pink spots!”

“Ahhh so! You mean zeese!”

“Nein, you silly Kuh!!!”

Now Willy gets a bit louder and people start to look -- so he sort of scrunches up his jaw a bit and whispers --

“You know I don't like’s zer blue -- blue is too much a man’s colour -- and zose vhite vuns look too much like my Vy-fronts -- (whispers louder) -- I don't vanna vear f*****g Vy-fronts unter Mein evening gown!”

“Vell, I don't know vhat you mean Villy -- show me -- pick zem up -- nobody is caring!"

Willy is getting really hot n' bothered now..,

“Look, you trying to make me look like some kind of veirdo?  I'm not picking zem up -- look.., zose zere -- now you have moved zem and making them all lost under zat polka dot bra!”

“Vas zeese? (laughing out aloud) Now you must be making zer joke Villy -- you'd never be getting your fat Arsch into zose!”

“Ssshhhhhhhhhhh -- Scheiße Mensch! -- Now you have got everybody looking at me -- not zem.., I don't mean zose!”

“Vell, I don't know vhich vuns you mean Villy -- ve have looked at about every pair -- vhy don't you buy zer pink hat instead?”

“’Cause I don't vant zer f****n' pink hat -- I've too many f****n' hats -- it's f****n' unter-K’nickers I don’t got. Vhy da f**k do you haf to make every-zing so f****n' hard?  All I asked you to do vas to come out shopping mit me und helfen mich to buy a pair of f****n' unter-K’nickers! Das is nicht zer f****n' rocket science, ist es das?”

“Vell, I'm fed up mit you always asking me to do your dirty vork -- zay are only bits of cloth you know -- just pick up vhat you vant -- nobody is caring or bothers mit vhat you are doing!”

“Look -- let's just try having zer vun more go -- you see zem zare in zat corner -- zer vhite pair mit zer blue lacy ribbon?”

“Vas, zose next to zer yellow pair?"

“Ja.., vell if you look left of zem a little .., und zen down a bit to zer right -- Oh, I am liking zem very much.., but zey vill never go mit my lemon'y green..., but just left of zose purple'y vuns, you vill see a bright orange'y pair -- right, you see zem?”

“Ja! I see zer orange pair -- you vant zem?”

“Nein!!! -- I don't f*****g vant zem you stupid dorf Kuh -- zay are hardly zer f****n' ladylike are zey?  You vant me to be looking  like some cheap f****n' tart?”

The poor wife would then pick up the biggest pair of frilly knickers that she can find and stick them right over the top of her Willy’s head -- and at the top of her voice she’d shout out..,

“I've had enough of you -- buy your own f*****g k’nickers!!!”

Then she’d storm out of the store alone -- with everybody looking on at poor Villy!

 Pubs

In Britain, many people like to go to their local pub. It’s an anytime occasion that occurs either during a working lunchtime, popping in on the way home after a hard day at the office, factory or building site, socialising with family or friends at the weekends, or for a far more prestigious occasion -- going out on.,

 ‘The Great British Friday Night!’

Here in Germany, they don’t have such a gratifying culture. Though I’ll admit, the city centres are full of drinking havens, but that’s all they are to me and compare nothing to the ‘Great British Pub’ that we have all come to know and adore dearly in Great Britain. The city centres are littered with German bars and a few others that are fashioned more towards American bars or Irish pubs, but there is no real place to measure up to a characteristically styled ‘British Pub’.

Many of the German drinking houses in the city centre do provide a good atmosphere with plenty of live music or other floor show entertainment, but this is geared more towards the tourist or the young than it is for the locals inhabitants. Sometimes, many of these establishments will even charge an entrance fee and treble the price-tag on the drinks, which again, is not really appropriate or practical for those who just need to find some quiet cosy refuge to enjoy a peaceful drink.

Once, when I was out shopping with Rolf, we came upon a water-hole that I considered resembled rather close to a typical English pub. The place looked so inviting so I turned to Rolf and said --

“Let’s pop in for a drink!” 

As we were making our way towards the main entrance, we passed through a neat arrangement of white garden-style tables and chairs, that were haphazardly overshadowed by large green and red umbrellas. It was such a glorifying sunny spring day, so I added --

“Let’s sit out in the sun!”

I singled out a table where the sun radiated greatest, then went through a lengthy rigmarole of dumping my copious amount of shopping bags onto the surplus seating and down at the ground around them. I removed my coat and placed it over the back of my chosen chair and then at long last, plonked myself down within its interior.

All at once, I immediately coasted into a comfort zone, and as if following up some memorised Yoga exercise, I rested my elbows onto the armrests, slothfully slithered my backside forward, slightly raised and stretched out my tired old legs, lifted my chin up until my head tilted far backwards -- and then finally, took one very gigantic intake of breadth.

I was now well entrenched into my new-found home-from-home ‘British Pub’ environment, as I began to lazily soak up the warmth from the glow of the midday sun.

Rolf broke my subdued tranquillity by cheerily asking me, “What would you like to drink?”

“Oh, I’ll have a nice cold Shandy please -- I could murder one of those right now. Make it a large one!”

So up Rolf gets to embark on a short journey to bring back some cold delicious refreshment, but before he had moved two dwarf-size paces, a waiter in the distance stopped him dead in his tracks by shouting out..,

“Take a seat Sir -- we will come to you!”

“Brilliant!” I thought. “Table service -- why can’t England be more like this?”

Within two shakes of a cocktail, a waiter soon waltzed over to our table and handed us a busy glossy menu.

“Oh no.,” Rolf immediately declared, “We don’t want anything to eat -- we just want a drink!

Two large cold Alsterwasser’s please!”

“I’m sorry Sir, but zis is a restaurant!”

“But you sell beer here don’t you?”

“Ja, ve do.., but ve only sell it mit der food!”

I had just spent all my time and effort in making myself nice and comfortable, got all worked up and ready to down that lovely ice-cold beverage and now -- I have to get up, put my coat back on again, pick up my shopping, -- and move on out like an evicted refugee.

For some strange reason, I just wasn’t in the mood for a heavy plateful of Bauernfrühstück mit Gewürzgurke (Farmer’s Breakfast with Gherkin). I only popped in for one measly cold drink!

And that’s how it is many times in Germany. Places that may look like a pub, are really restaurants where I cannot have an alcoholic drink unless I first order a meal. So now when I’m out and feel a thirst coming on, should I happen to bump into a place that might resemble a pub -- I  just have to keep telling myself..,

“It’s not a pub..., it’s a restaurant..., it’s not a pub..., it’s a restaura..,”

Then pop in some corner shop for a cold fizzy can of Coke!

The closest the Germans come to paralleling an English Pub; or somewhere to just pop in for a drink with no messing, is called a Kneipe. These places are no more than pure and simple ‘drinking houses’, and that’s it. No frills, such as darts in one corner, shove-halfpenny or dominoes in another. No Sky Satellite TV in the back-room, with everybody sitting around in cinema-styled seating arrangements waiting for the ‘Big Fight’ to begin. No Pin-tables, Fruit-machines, Jukeboxes or even games of Pool to be found. Sometimes, not even any people!

Die Kneipen, are just about the gloomiest, dispiriting and most godforsaken places one could happen across within the entire planet. Even when a few locals do skulk in -- they just sit sadly isolated at the bar; each one minding their own business, whilst downing quick sips of Korn followed by large gulps of bier -- and then they skulk out again, looking even more depressed than when they came in.

Not one German Prost to be heard from anybody!

The majority of these German Kneipen bars are extremely small places; not one quarter of the bulk of a typical ‘British Friday Night’ crowd would ever fit inside there. The bar-rooms are often old, dimly lit and the bar itself; with accompanying stools, are the main highlight of the whole decor. The people serving behind the bar hardly ever transfer a smile or make anybody feel at all welcome.  It’s as if they are saying --

“Come in, sit down, drink your beer and then piss off!”

To me, a Kneipe is just a sad retreat for worn-out drunks to pop into for one last drink before they go home and jump off the balcony. In fact, the ambience at a Kneipe would surely help to ascertain that this time, they will definitely do it!

 Pub Service

Even the German Kneipe opening times cause me so much confusion.

In Britain, customers will become enraged if the publicans are just a few seconds late in opening the pub doors. A zestful demand for absolute punctuality also emerges when the bell rings at closing time and the landlord shouts out --

“Time Gentlemen Please!”

This seemingly unexpected gesture will instantaneously force every patron to go through a sudden time-check comparison with each other and their watches. And because it is rare that everybody’s timepiece holds the same or exact time, this further creates heavy debate and prolongs the efforts of the poor licensee to vacate the premises. Which explains why most public houses in UK have their clocks set at least five minutes ahead of the correct time.

It’s really a vicious circle!

However, here in Germany, the Kneipe owners don’t have such problems because they will open and close when they feel like it. Which leaves everybody in the dark over what time they should begin or stop serving their drinks, and thus allows them nothing to really argue about.

I remember, once I had a regular weekly trip to the city and back in which I travelled on the German Underground; known here as the U-Bahn. My return journey often brought me home quite early in the afternoon. On several trips back, I noticed that almost next door to the U-Bahn station, there was this fairly decent looking Kneipe; it had a few flower-boxes outside and the place appeared as if it was really well cared for. Many times I had previously considered popping in for a quick drink as a nice way to end my day and long journey home.

So one sunny afternoon, I did just that. I went inside and everything seemed fine to me. Nothing like an English pub mind you, but it was fair to middling. At the L-shaped bar, there were about three German middle-aged guys sitting, swigging their Korn and gulping back their bier, as usual. Close-by, I noticed some alcove seating right next to the window -- so I thought I’d purchase a drink and then sit inside there.

I immediately went up to the bar and ordered, “Ein kleines bier bitter!”

But that was a big mistake!

You see, in Britain I can do that and it’s so easy. I just walk up to the bar, request my drink and the bartender pours it out. I then pay, collect my change; if any -- and find a comfy seat to sit down and drink it in.

So simple and takes mere seconds.

In Germany however, they don’t do this. A customer will step into a Kneipe bar, sit down at the nearest table and wait for someone to come to them.

I know what you’re thinking and I agree with you. You wouldn’t want to be messing around with all that malarkey. It’s by far quicker to simply go to the bar yourself, especially if the place is less than half empty; as indeed it was for me here, order and pay, then pick up your drink and find a seat to comfortably get pie-eyed in.

But no, you would be wrong as I was if you did that. And there is a perfectly good explanation for it...,

Somewhat dissimilar to England, in Germany -- when one orders a drink at the bar, it does not arrive immediately at the glass. It can take up to five minutes or more, before the whole task has been exhaustively completed. The chore will go through several processes and not once during the whole pour, does any German barperson ever tilt the glass to the source in order to help break down the build up of froth. The empty glass is first placed onto a tray and high above is the beer pump spout. The tap is then turned on and is allowed to slowly pour down. At varying intervals, due to the height of the drop that the beer has to fall -- froth will soon begin to build up and rise over the edge of the glass, long before it is even quarter full. So the taps are turned off again and the bier is left to stand. After a few minutes; when the froth has died down, the whole process continues. The taps are turned on and the bier will once again start to plunge the long drop. But as one would expect, within no time at all, the froth will rapidly recommence to build up  -- and so once more, the pump is immediately wrenched off. This goes on and on until; if the place hasn’t by now closed or I haven’t long died of thirst -- I will finally be awarded my once-upon-a-time ordered half glass of bier.

Nevertheless, in spite of everything, I have long since figured it all out..,

Hard experience has now engendered me to develop a sure-fire system for when I feel the desire to call into a German bar or Kneipe; either alone or with a group of people, and even moreso if I fancy more than just one drink. I first order my bier way before doing anything else; like take off my coat, find a seat or even make an crying dash for the loo. I can do all those sundry things while my drink is slowly being dispensed at the bar. By the time as I have, my bier should be just about arriving, but before the bartender or waiter has time to go away -- I quickly reorder the same again. I repeat this same reordering procedure for as long as I yearn to have yet another. That way, I’ll ensure that instead of each time waiting and waiting a long time for my bier to be made fully primed, I can enjoy one following the other, simply because my next bier is always slowly but surely being poured out.

If any of you are planning to holiday in Germany, and at sometime you intend to go out for a good drink -- then be warned, if you don’t take heed of my excellent above advice -- then there will not be enough hours in the evening; between drinking and pouring, for you to get anywhere as near as even ‘half’ sloshed!

However, back then in my novice days, my mistake of ordering and waiting at the bar; as I would normally do back in England, meant I would have to embarrassingly spend at least five minutes hanging around -- and with all those old sods standing and sitting around just staring at me.

It Germany, believe me -- that just aint done.., and for another good reason in which I will explain much later.

When my bier did finally hail, I asked, “Was kostet das?”

Again wrong!

In Germany, one drinks to their hearts content but does not pay for it all until they have completely finished.

Can you honestly see that working in Britain?

Friday Night, five minutes before closing time and about thirty to a hundred and thirty by now, well oiled and singing patrons spluttering..,

“Ow mooch.., hic.., do I owe you.., hic.., love -- s**t, where’s me wallet.., hic!”

It just wouldn’t work in UK!

How on earth do all these German barmaids keep tab?

And what happens if a group of lads get really going and, as they do.., drink far more than they can afford. What happens then?  I’ve asked this simple question and I am told --

 “They’d call the Police!”

Again, imagine that scene in Britain..,

“Oh., I’m so glad you came officer. Only.., all these drunks in here have been swigging hard n’ happy all day and night, and now none of them have enough money to pay for it all!”

You know what the policeman is going to say next, don’t you?

“Not much I can do about it Miss -- why didn’t you take their money before serving them anymore drink?”

“Of course officer, why didn’t I think of that.., lads, in future -- nobody is allowed to have anymore drinks at this bar until they have paid for their last one!”

“Ahhhhhh! That’s a bit harsh loove!”

I just couldn’t make this stuff up but this is what they do in Germany. We can drink all day and night; get as tight as a kite -- then pay for it just before we make our way home on all fours.

When a British guy has been out drinking until late in the evening and then finally staggers home to his wife, she will howl out to him --

 “How much had you had to drink then?’”

His reply will be, “Not many, but a few.., maybe even a few too many!”

The truth is, he will have no idea of how many he has had to drink because after about the fifth or sixth pint; or gin and tonic --  he would have completely lost all count.

A non-too dissimilar memory loss will also occur in his German counterpart, but at the end of his session the bar person will say to him..,

“Let’s see...., that’s five hundred and fifty Deutschmarks, ninety nine Pfennige!”

Well, they might as well say that to him, because whatever they say, by that time he is so sloshed and out of his head -- how’s he going to know if they’re cheating him or not because he has also completely lost all count?

If they did the same thing in Britain it would be..,

“Hang on loove..., hic..., I came in about half past six.., had two pints of lager and two shots of whiskey.., hic..., then I had a piss..., came back and had another lager and a double of whiskey.., hic..., Bert came in and I bought him a Guinness.., hic.., oh.., and I got Charlie a double vodka.., and then I went for another piss.., came back.., no I tell I lie.., hic.., it wasn’t a piss.., hic.., I threw up instead.., and then I came back and had my lager...”

It just wouldn’t work in Britain -- but somehow, it does in Germany and has been since the year dot. And what’s more, they see no reason to change it either.

British alcoholics, in a good pair of running shoes, would just love it here!

After I had drank my bier at this Kneipe, I thought maybe Rolf and I could call in here again -- we could make it a kind of ‘Friday Night Special’.

So when I got home, I mentioned it to Rolf and together we planned it for that coming Friday.

However, come that time and around eight o’ clock in the evening, we both got dressed up and walked down to this Kneipe. When we got there, it was closed. I just couldn’t believe it! It was just shut tight on a Friday night and not one angry customer banging on the doors or even in sight.

 

A few days later, I went by and noticed the place open again. I went in, ordered my drink and casually asked..,

“What times and days are you open?”

The answer was simple..,

“When we feel like it.  If it’s busy  -- we’ll stay open, if its not -- then we’ll close!”

No times of opening hours or days whatsoever. What I would call,  ‘A German Friday Night Bier Drinking Lottery!’

A German might think..,

“Oh, I fancy a pint!”

So he would walk two miles to the nearest Kneipe, and when he arrived, he’d say..,

“Oh, it’s closed.., I zink I’ll go home again. That vas fun!”

But when he gets home again, after the long and fruitless four mile journey, he’d open his front door, step inside -- and his Frau-wife would hit him over the head with a rolling pin and shout --

“You’ve been out kniepe-ing again haven’t you?”

Drinking Habits

If you were to walk around your city suburb and you came upon a person who was casually taking large gulps from a can of beer, you would immediately assume that this person was either a no-good layabout, or perhaps had a drinking problem.

Not in Germany you wouldn’t.

Over here, anybody strolling along with heavy shopping bags gripped in one hand and swigging from a can of cold beer from the other, that would be considered just as normal as them eating an ice-cream; taking light refreshment to ease the stress of the day.

Once on a midmorning city bus, I saw a seemingly respectful middle-aged man, laden with shopping bags and having to stand because there were no vacant seats. He casually removed a previously opened can of beer from his jacket pocket, took a hefty quick swig -- then put it back again. Nobody, except me, even noticed it. It was a perfectly normal thing for him to do!

Again, I once saw a likewise respectfully looking man, who after making his exit from a busy food store, parked himself into a corner near a shopping trolley bay, took out a six-pack and drank them one after the other. When done, he picked up his shopping, and left. Other shoppers moved in and around him as he did and not one of them looked at him with any disdain. He was just stopping off for drink, just like we all like to do at the end of a busy day.

Except, for the Germans -- they seem to do it without a need of a pub!

This easy, carefree laid-back habit is not just a privilege for men, I have seen women enjoying the same. My home town in England is a popular seaside holiday resort where mobile drinkers, usually the young and in groups, are frowned upon and such practices are strictly forbidden; street signs are displayed in almost every town street area. In Germany, it is not just a ‘fun’ thing for the rebellious young to do; to shout and holler whilst moving from venue to venue -- in Germany, it is a  perfectly normal act, no matter what your age, sex or venture. It doesn’t matter whether somebody is on their own or out with dear old Granny and just simply out to pursue their normal daily tasks -- before they leave home, they ask themselves..,

“Is the gas turned off..., have I got my keys..., have I got my shoes on, and have I remembered to bring my crate-full of beer?”

 Pub Availability

I consider that this habit has arisen because Germany lacks the British Style Pubs.

 

The reason why Germany does not have so many British style pubs, is because a majority of Germans prefer to drink at home. Or come to think of it, that could be the other way around; the Germans drink at home because they cannot find any decent pubs about, like we fortunately can in Great Britain!

The area in Hamburg that I reside, is well within the city limits and surrounded by many large and small towns. From my window, I can see the city centre. I also live in a fairly well built up area that is very close to one of the city’s largest parks, called the Stadtpark.  Rivers, canals, lakes, flow by near and around us. The road outside is a busy main road that leads in and out of the main city Zentrum. One route even goes direct to Hamburg Airport.

What I am trying to say is, I live where it is considerably central. My brother-in-law from England came to visit me during the Summer of last year and one lazy evening he suggested..,

“Let’s all go for a walk and find a pub!”

We trudged for miles and miles, up each road -- turning left then right, around the next corner, until we finally arrived back home again --

Sober!

Not one pub or poky little Kneipe to be found anywhere within all the vast area around us.

That is why the Germans either drink at home, or as I said before, that is why they drink in the streets, outside food stores or even on the bus taking them home.

 Imbiss

Some Germans may argue, “But you can have an alcoholic drink at any Imbiss!”

An Imbiss is a place where one can pop in and have a quick meal, like ‘sausage and chips’ -- not to be confused with ‘English Sausage n’ Chips’ ‘Mmmh, I can smell them right now -- I’m talking here about Bratwurst und Pomme-frites, but don’t forget, smothered in ‘Curry Ketchup’, as mentioned in an earlier chapter.

A fair way to describe an Imbiss is, a ‘quick snack bar’. So quick, that the majority of them do not even provide any seating. They don’t want us to feel comfortable; just get our food, go to one of the large one-legged tables, stand there and eat our snack, then trudge our way back out the door through the spilt excess food filling, and quickly make room for the next person.

 

Oh, they sell beer at an Imbiss all right, but hardly a place of comfort and is nothing to compete with even a downtrodden Kneipe. At least at a Kneipe, you can sit down and become heavily depressed in comfort.

 

And going back to my lone drinking experience I had at that Kneipe. I mentioned back there that I would explain later of another reason in where I went wrong, well this little bit of advice came from a German woman; Rolf’s cousin in fact.

Unlike in Britain, where it is generally acceptable for a woman to go unaccompanied into a pub -- in Germany it is still very heavily frowned upon. That’s why all those old guys kept staring at me. Rolf’s cousin Maren, was quick to inform me that only rough or street women would dare enter alone into any one of those premises.

Again, I just couldn’t believe it --

“Where then”, I asked, “Does a woman go, if while out on her own she suddenly fancies an alcoholic ‘bevy’?”

“She would go into a restaurant or at a push, to a respectable Imbiss!” Maren replied.

So it now seems that if a man is extremely limited with his outside social drinking, a lone woman has little to no chance at all. And at the same time, many people back in Britain keep telling us that its about time we caught up with Continental Europe when it comes to our drinking.

I think not. They should instead catch up with us!