Saturday, September 05, 2015


The Fuckparade took place in Berlin today!
“It started as a counter-demonstration to the Love Parade,” said a friendly Polizist(!) that I(!) spoke to. He was a motorcycle cop, I suppose they’re different.
“It’s against consumerism and commercialism and all that,” he continued.
“But they’re selling t-shirts down there!” I told him.
He shook his head before driving off.
“So much for that.”
In fairness to them, I only saw one crowd selling t-shirts, the official Fuckparade t-shirt, and I don’t know how much they were. Maybe they were donating the proceeds to refugees, half-starved techno DJs or antifa squadrons.
One of the revelers certainly seemed to be gearing up for battle, holding his fists defiantly in the air while he surveyed the dancers before him with his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, all the while as an increasingly frantic voice in German urged them to lay down their bottles, pick up their weapons and join the fight – or something like that. The voice sounded eerily like Hitler’s.
All around were weird and wonderful people. The star, in my opinion, was a guy dressed from top to toe in blue, an array of spikes across the top of his leather blue jacket, his head crowned with his hair standing out proudly in impressive blue spikes. He was like a blue hedgehog, only dangerous looking. Certainly no fox would ever attempt to bite him.
The music was shite, unless you’re into that type of thing, or on a mad cocktail of drugs. Many were. But most seemed to be enjoying it – thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, waow, waow, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, waow, waow, and so on. You get the idea. Maybe it’s not so bad.
The first Fuckparade took place in 1997, primarily in response to the Love Parade, as our friendly Polizist mentioned earlier. Eighteen years later the fuckparaders are still calling for a society based on diversity, freedom and tolerance. They do this by blasting the fuck out of everywhere they pass through with ear-splitting techno.
“We’re going to annoy you today because YOU will hear us today!” said organizers as they promise to test the limits of tolerance.
They describe themselves as part of a subculture open to everyone who supports the same values. Fuck anyone else.
“We are still fighting in a country which is preventing active people with positive attitudes from carrying out a self-determined form of pacifist protest,” they say, whatever that means. But what they call for seems reasonable enough.
They’re standing up for artists, people living in “alternative” spaces, squatters and so on who are being threatened and forced out of their abodes through commercialism and general city development. They blast the city for letting empty buildings fall to the ground without allowing for temporary use.
“We ask ourselves, where is it supposed to go?”
They also want the legalization of cannabis, the use of public land “without too much red tape” and for politicians to create a tolerant environment in which minorities are also supported. They want more talking and less evictions.
Last but not least, they’re for refugees and against Nazis, calling for “more action and intolerance against the brown shit.”
The fuckparaders I saw were very much calling for more drugs and alcohol. They’re still partying as I type. If you hurry you can still join them.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Mad month

“After a few drinks I forget to pronounce my nouns.”
The Germans looked at him incredulously. If they didn’t think we were mad before, they certainly did now.
“My vowels! My vowels!” Noddy protested.
But it was too late. The damage was done.

It’s a month and a day since we departed for Ireland, the young fella and I, and a lot of mad shit has happened between now and then. This is the first chance I’ve had to even think about it.
Eoghan and Mary got married the first weekend. I met Mary at the wedding, and a load of other people, some familiar, others not, but all a pleasure to meet.
The priest told a story of when he was a kid, his sister had a cat that she was dearly fond of. She loved that cat. But one day the cat stopped moving, not a budge. Of course she was distraught, in bits, and she went inside to tell their father. He told her they’d go up to the village, get a load of chocolate, crisps, sweets and ice-cream, “and then we’ll come home, have a party and bury the cat.”
But then they looked outside and saw the cat get up again. “Kill it!” she said.
I don’t know what that story had to do with marriage, the church, love or anything, but it’s a good one and the wedding party appreciated it. Definitely better than the usual banging on about Jesus and all that.
Eoghan’s mother gave out to me for “corrupting him” but I heard she holds a lot of people responsible for that. It was great to see him, and his brother Geoff after all they’ve been through. Humbling stuff, puts life in perspective. Lots of drink was consumed, merriment had, friendships made, and promptly forgotten over hangovers the next morning as we awaited breakfasts.
The young fella and I hightailed it to Inishbofin with the help of Helen, my cousin, on the Monday. She only had a couple of days there but they were good ones. He loved the boat over, it was flying up and down like a yo-yo, battered and thrown around by Atlantic waves.
“Weeeeee!” he shouted as bodies flew around. Nobody else could stand. Neither could he. It didn’t matter.
Inishbofin itself is simply great. I’ve decided it’s my island. I might retire there some day if it hasn’t been washed away by the sea already by then. The wind would blow you off if you’re not careful and the sudden rain showers would freeze you to the bone, but the shades of green and blue are beautiful, and any island with as many donkeys is magical.
We rented bicycles and stayed on a couple of days after Helen left. We’d forgotten the young fella’s cough juice in Helen’s car back on the mainland so she sent it over with the next ferry back. Everything comes over on that ferry, the island’s lifeline.
We cycled to the cliffs, went looking for seals and rabbits, said hello to every donkey or sheep we met. We went to the pub every night for dinner. The young fella loved their chips and ketchup. I loved their stout, the best stout I’ve drunk anywhere.
We found the nicest beach in the world and the young fella scurried around collecting bits of smashed crabs. He threw them all into the sea, back where they came from.
“That’s Ireland over there!” I told him, pointing out the majestic mountains that could be seen across the sea in the distance.
“I know!” he said after I’d told him the umpteenth time.
He didn’t want to leave, so I promised him we’d be back. There’s another island beside Inishbofin, Inishark, which was abandoned in 1960 and is now uninhabited and full of ruins. I want to get over to that. We have to go back, we’ll be back.
From there we made it down to Whitechurch, about as far away from Inishbofin as you can get. Home. Niamh and Síobhra picked us up on their way down from Sligo. So it was a real family reunion with the parents there as well.
We went out to Duncannon, were nearly blown away again, paid a visit to the pub, walked down to the river, called up to Noddy’s mother, and visited the aunt and uncle in Kilkenny.
“Shite Kilkenny,” as the young fella called it. I don’t know where he picked that up. He evidently didn’t think it was that shite as he didn’t want to leave there either. We went for a walk by the river in Inistioge and he was treated to ice-cream. No matter how cold it is you can always eat ice-cream.
A brief trip through Dublin was too long for my liking. Overpriced bars catering for stag and hen nights, guarded by bouncers wearing ill-fitting suits doing their best to look even shiftier than the people they’re letting in. Only the earpieces set the bouncers apart.
A woman working in the Spar on George’s Quay told a beggar outside to “move on” away from the shop. He wasn’t even near the door.
The same Spar didn’t have any beer. There are no Spätis in Ireland. But there are in Berlin! We escaped “summer” in Ireland before it killed us – it was 13C in Dublin as it was 36C in Berlin – and made it back to the warm embrace of Spätiland.
Noddy and Tahnee beat us to it after flying over from Australia. They were asleep or trying to sleep when I got in the door. Noddy woke up fairly promptly after I got in and the drinking and general madness began.
It might have been that night that he told the Germans in the Späti across the road he forgot to pronounce his nouns – that night or another one, I can’t remember – but he ended up staying up all night to collect Paul from Cincinnati at Tegel airport the next morning. I gave him directions but have no idea how he made it. Neither has he. He brought Paul straight to the Späti upon arrival so he was well oiled when he woke me up in the afternoon.
They did their own thing while I had to work at the weekend but there was still time for dinners, more drinking, talking shite and drunken philosophy before I took them to the “Zombie Hospital” of Weißensee. Then a bit of relaxing at the lake before we enjoyed starlit pizzas at I Due Forni.
We got the train to Prague the next day. That was fun. Of course there was lots more drinking involved. Noddy used anything and everything to open his bottles, including chairs, the door from the kitchen press, and the front door to the apartment we were staying in. The latter looked spectacular but proved problematic to get back on the hinges. But we persevered and it turned out all right in the end.
We nearly didn’t make it back to Berlin. Our train broke down as soon as we got on it and we had to wait two hours for the next one. As soon as the next train arrived, everyone ran off in different directions, as if they were allergic to it. Tahnee had disappeared so Noddy ran one way, Paul another, while the young lad and I ran over to the other platform. Nobody’s phones were working. Pandemonium. But we somehow found each other again and got on the damn train before it took off.
We went to Wannsee the next day. It was fantastic, frolicking, swimming and splashing in the water, throwing a football around, and sipping beer in the sun’s warm glow. I could have stayed there forever.
But there was work the next day, and more drinking to be done – we didn’t get to bed before dawn any morning – before it was time to say goodbyes with a heavy heart. Cincinnati and Australia are fucking far away.
Last week was a recovery week – I haven’t touched a drop of beer since they left – and one catching up on all the commitments I’d deferred while they were here. Documentaries, newspaper interviews, excursions, and more work. I really need another holiday.