Der Irische Berliner

Der Frust

2012-01-27T00:57:00.000+01:00

Every night I cycle home from work I need to look at the numbers of the houses to see which one is mine. Before I even reach that stage I need to look at the street signs to see which goddamn street I live on.
Sometimes, when lost in thoughts or exhaustion, I pass my door without realising, and then have to turn back cursing the unimaginative fuckers who built it. I still curse them as I carry my bicycle on my shoulder up the grotty grey stairway, looking at the names on each door to see which door is mine...
For a people who have the wherewithal to give every single thing dead or alive or neither one of three genders – der, die or das – and then remember which one it is was forevermore, you’d think they could grasp the concept of building two consecutive buildings that don’t look exactly the same.

Birthday boy!

2012-01-14T14:55:00.000+01:00

Birthdaaaaaaaaaaaay! The Nipster is one! How quickly a year goes, though each night felt like a year in itself. But in the cold light of day, it doesn’t seem so long ago since that mad night and the days following when he and the world made their first impressions on each other.
I’m not sure he feels much like celebrating though. He’s sick. Bronchitis. Sounds like an old man and it hurts just to hear him coughing. ‘Twould break your heart. No point crying about it though – it only makes it worse, but it doesn’t stop him. To cap it all, another two gnashers are forcing their way out from below and he’s undergoing the cold turkey of weaning.
At least he managed to get through Year Zero relatively unscathed. I say “relatively” due to his ailments and the fact he’s covered in cuts and grazes from various misadventures over the last week. The poor fella has really been in the wars.
So he’s a year old today. We’ve aged ten in the same time. You know when people tell you to “enjoy the time” that there’s a reason they feel they have to tell you. It wasn’t easy. Jenny said it was “wonderful” but she’s the mother and I presume nature has her inundated with hormones to think that.
He is great – that goes without saying – but damnit he’s a lot of work. He’s not a goldfish. The sheer amount of attention he needs is just incredible. You can’t leave him alone with a knife for five minutes. I’m sure there are other, inferior, babies out there who are even more work, so bringing a child into the world is not something one should do willy nilly. Of course it all starts with a willy going nilly but the less said about that the better.
When I said he was great I wasn’t being facetious. Maybe I’m inundated with hormones too. I still don’t have much time for babies, but it’s almost as if he was never a baby, that he was born a personality with his own thoughts, ideas, sense of humour...
It’s mad, though he hasn’t done anything yet, we’re so proud of him. I guess if you think about it, he’s done a helluva lot, he’s had to, stuff I can’t imagine having to face – learning to open his eyes, to breathe normally, to eat, to grab, to think, to smile, to communicate, to sail a boat, to crawl. to stand, to walk, to flirt. The latter is his forté – he hasn’t yet learned any shame. Nor should he.
He already displays dastardly cunning. When I turned the bin around this morning to stop him rummaging in the rubbish, he simply reached behind and opened it from the other side. I was outraged and impressed in equal measure. Makes me feel better about rubbish being everywhere except in the bin.
I look at him from time to time and wonder what he’ll be. What will he do with his life? All his options are open, while even more will have opened by the time he starts choosing them. The world awaits and you can see already he’s dying to get started on it. Everything and anything is possible. Then I stop and wonder, what will I be?!
For now though we’ll focus on the present, the here and now. Here’s here now and we’re grateful for his presence. Though he mightn’t feel like celebrating, we will. We’ll celebrate his lifetime over a year. From arrival on Earth to taking his first steps on it. It was a hell of a year – without doubt the maddest of his eventful life so far. Happy birthday little man.

The pics below feature His Nipperness over his first year, while the rest are from the last month, including some from the trip “home” to Ireland, where he very much made himself at home, causing almost as much destruction and consternation as he does in Berlin. The folks were happy to see him. He can do no wrong.

This is the last monthly nipper update. He’s one so he needs his privacy, and I need my sanity. Snapshots/snotshots of madities may appear when they’re snapped/snotted, depending on the quantities of snot involved. ’Snot the end, ’tis only the beginning.

Seeing is believing

2012-01-13T21:59:00.001+01:00

Six months later I can see again! Less is more, more or less. We’ll see how long it lasts...

Nostrildamus

2012-01-09T20:00:00.000+01:00

Some of you have noticed that I need a haircut. Jaysus I need a haircut. It’s come to the stage where I have to break my self imposed hair-talk Verbot.
I’ve been needing a haircut for a long time now, the last cropping coming in July, but I’d been so discouraged by coming out of hairdressers as ridiculous-looking as when I went in, that I’d just given up. If I’m going to look ridiculous no matter what I do, then I may as well save the money and look ridiculous for free.
But now I can’t see where I’m going anymore. Nor can I even see how ridiculous I look. I can hear people sniggering as I walk by, and passersby have taken to throwing of coins at my feet. They obviously think I’m a freak!
Maybe I am. One unforeseen consequence of having my hair come over my eyes is the startling discovery that my nostrils are different shapes. In order to see anything at all when I look in the mirror I have to tilt my head back and look forward down my nose, thus revealing their shocking asymmetry. I’m like your man, Nostrildamus.
Why would anyone have nostrils of different shapes?! For different smells? One or the other would be fine – they’re both perfectly acceptable nostril shapes in their own right – but two different shaped nostrils is simply wrong. Everyone nose that.
So the time has come. Only one man can save me now, if even he can. I’m going back to the hairdresser on Friday, exactly six months to the day since I had a last cut. That’s Friday the 13th. What could possibly go wrong?

Little family Christmas

2012-01-06T22:45:00.000+01:00

There are many advantages to having Christmas on a day other than Christmas. The shops are still open so you can pop out if you forgot to get, say, coffee or dessert. They’re still open when you come home with said coffee and dessert only to discover there’s no milk.
Christmas paraphernalia is reduced if you’re so inclined, there’s no Mass to be dragged to (maybe there is but there are no draggers) and there’s no need to worry about battling hordes of frantic shoppers to purchase a present the recipient will take one look at before determining it was bought in the blind panic of Christmas frenzy.
We decided to have our own little Christmas celebration today, because it is, of course, little Christmas, the day when three kings allegedly showed up to give the baby Jaysus presents he neither wanted nor needed, thus setting the tone for the giving of Christmas presents forever more.
Not that I give a rats ass for the three kings, fine fellows though I’m sure they were. A little Christmas sounds just right for a little family, and we are our own little family now, so we should do our own little family stuff, with rules we break as soon as they’re made. More importantly, a little Christmas sounds a helluva lot less stressful than a real one.
Well, it wasn’t without stress. Someone (not me) decided to have a shite of Chernobyl proportions in the middle of Christmas dinner, forcing a mass evacuation from the table. I reckon it was a cunning ploy to get straight to the presents after he’d been cleaned up. Not that he gave a shite about them, ironically enough, but at least wrapping paper provides fun. (Jenny got him a sleigh. Cue the third warmest winter in the last 100 years with not even a hint of snow.) My own presents are still in the post (I’ve heard that before) so I’ve been given presents of mind. But then again it’s not about the presents. Nor is it about the past. The future? Who knows? When it’s not Christmas, it can be anything you want it to be.

Write off

2012-01-05T23:08:00.000+01:00

It’s my first day off of the year. “Day off,” I say, as if such a thing exists anymore. I mean my first day off work, my first day off writing. So I ain’t gonna spend it writing.
Instead here’s a nice picture of home, in Ireland, where there’s no work at all.

First steps

2012-01-04T01:21:00.000+01:00

Small steps for man, giant leaps of faith for an intrepid nipper. Crawling is so last year, this fella’s walkin’ into 2012!
He’s been practicing all year so far, leaving the sanctuary of whatever he’s clinging onto, boldly striking out for freedom. Further and further, from one and a half or two tentative little steps over the New Year, to a veritable gallop of five – maybe even six! – in the days since.
You could see he was thinking out it over Christmas, weighing up the pros and cons, but those dallying days are over. Approaching his penultimate days as a zero year old, nothing can stop him now.

Parting shot

2011-12-31T21:48:00.000+01:00

“Have a good flight and all that shite.” With such warm parting words ringing in my head I boarded the plane in Dublin this morning to land in the madness that is Berlin on New Year's Eve. It’s like a warzone out there, building inexorably towards the crescendo that will see in the New Year. It must have been like that for the mad fella in his bunker albeit without the champagne ending.
The fireworks mark the end of the most exhausting year of my life. There won’t be much tonight but maybe 2012 will provide more sleep.
Have a good year and all that shite.

Nollaig briste

2011-12-28T17:30:00.001+01:00

Ireland's all doom and gloom. It's been a Christmas of stabbings, murders and other, accidental, deaths. The forecast ain't good either, with everyone bracing themselves for more pay cuts and increased taxes if not actual job losses. A blind fool can't help but notice all the closed shops, boarded up businesses. The country's fucked and no amount of Christmas cheer can hide it.
Not that it stops people trying. The Irish are a resilient bunch. Pubs remain sanctuaries, albeit quieter sanctuaries than before.
"What have you got that a man could drink with just a minimum risk of blindness and death?"
As if Christmas wasn't bad enough. The best thing about Christmas is that it's a year to the next one. You can't have it any further away without moving to one of the outer planets.
Just don't expect Ireland's public transport to bring you there.
It comes to a standstill over Christmas, not just the 25th but St. Stephen's Day too. There's nothin' runnin'. Their overpriced, infrequent trains become priceless and very unfrequent indeed.
Maybe it explains why Santa didn't turn up at Mass in Ballykelly this year. He'd been there all the previous years I was, so I was full sure he'd be there again. Sure it's the only reason to go to the damned church - to help him celebrate his birthday.
The nip still got a ton of nice stuff. Jumpers, jackets, things I'd wear if only they were a little bigger. Or I a little smaller.
He enjoyed it but every day is Christmas for him. Once he gets his grub, his sleep, his arse wiped - everything else is just turkey.
Less turkey, more puddin' I say.
"That's a weird horse."
"The one that looks like a cow?"
They're gone now, back to Berlin, leaving me to wallow in Ireland's pity for a couple more days. Time to meet pals who thought they'd forgotten me and partake in the national pastime, as we shake our heads and wonder how it all went so wrong.

Eleventy

2011-12-19T03:32:00.000+01:00

Progress is unmistakable now. No longer content to cling on for dear life, now he’s taking risks! He stood for a whole five seconds without holding onto anything last Monday, two days before his 11th monthivarsary. Five seconds! Swaying, arms outstretched like he was surfing, a giddy grin on his face as he contemplated boundaries breached. For those five seconds he owned the world – and then he landed on it. But landings are much more coordinated affairs these days, and it wasn’t long before he was up again. Jenny reported a seven second surf yesterday.
He still holds onto things as he walks around, but nonchalantly, almost disdainfully, as if it were somehow beneath him, and he still falls, and hard, but not as often as before and he keeps getting up.
The little man’s already making declarations of independence. He won’t be fed with a spoon anymore unless he’s doing the feeding. Never mind that he doesn’t get any of the food – apart from a few lucky strikes – in his mouth, he’s happy to persevere until it’s all on the table/floor/wall/his face. He’s not so independent that he cleans up his own mess. He pretends he is, picks up the brush and so on, but he doesn’t do much sweepin’.
But he’s an entertainer. He laughs away to himself from time to time, no doubt recalling funny incidents though he hasn’t yet learned to share a joke. Instead he puts on show after show, whether funny faces or the latest noises he’s invented. Sometimes it’s both – anything for a reaction.
When he’s not entertaining, exploring or bidding for independence, he’s rummaging. He simply loves pulling rubbish out of the bin, soil out of the flower pots, clothes out of the washing machine, books off the bookshelf. He hasn’t yet learned to put anything back, though he does take particular pleasure in throwing toilet paper into the bath.
The sooner he learns what he should do with that toilet paper the better. His shites are nuclear, and there are daily meltdowns. Sorry to put it so bluntly, but it’s the way it is.
It might be the grub he’s eating. He’s been turning his nose up at the mush of late, preferring to eat what we do. Olives, potatoes with lobster sauce, garlic soup; all gulped down with gusto. I gave him some spicy chorizo today but he didn’t seem too mad on that.
There’s no messing with him though, as the poor ol’ wooden dog found to the cost of his tail. (Pictured right, before the tragic loss of his tail.) The two of them must have had a disagreement. Suffice to say Nippity has a scratch on his face and the dog’s sense of balance is gone. Neither of them are talking now.
But whatever happened, I think it’s safe to assume the little fella’s already making his mark on the world. We’re going to Ireland tomorrow (actually it’s today – I really should get to bed). Consider yourselves warned.

Lost hope: The abandoned children's hospital

2011-12-13T00:58:00.000+01:00

The fence bends easily like they want you to come in. Some trees sportingly hinder progress briefly so you don’t feel cheated, but the invitation is clear from the open door – they’re willing you, begging you to enter.
No children cry here anymore, no longer do they suffer. No brave little soldiers, sad eyes wide above glistening cheeks, nor any laughter from those over the worst, happy now to be the centre of attention, the cause of so much worry and pain. No birthday parties, Christmas parties, balloons or cake.
Visitors gave up waiting a long time ago. It's too late to save any of them now. They're all gone, the last drama played out before the wards were left creaking and empty, rooms bare and lonely. The Kinderkrankenhaus is krank and no one’s there to provide the cure. No wonder the little souls of those left behind are desperate for visitors to come through its doors once again.
The children’s hospital and women’s clinic in Neukölln was discarded like an old nappy in 2005, when it and two other local hospitals were closed down and shunted together to a new super-duper complex up the road.
Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Prussian king, must be spinning in his mausoleum at the thought. Germany’s last monarch decided in 1913 that Brandenburg needed a midwife school for Brandenburg. Germans not being people to do things by halves, not even for midwives, it was opened on July 1st, 1917, during the war.
Under the leadership of Prof. Sigfrid Hammerschlag, it developed quickly and became very important, 20,000 nippers being brought into the world here by 1928. Unfortunately, another crowd came into the world too and Prof. Hammerschlag was forced into retirement on November 1st, 1933 – because he was Jewish. Fucking Nazis.
In his inauguration speech the next day, Prof. Benno Ottow promised to fight for the “reorganisation and inclusion of this clinic in the whole of the state structure under National Socialism without compromise.” I presume all babies gave Nazi salutes as soon as they came out of the womb.
Prof. Ottow, who even had the Hitler moustache favoured at the time, stayed in charge until 1945, when he managed to escape to Stockholm. There he worked with baby animals and wrote stuff about dinosaurs. He lived to the not insignificant age of 91 before dying in 1975.
Of course, the hospital had been severely damaged in the second war, but was rebuilt and progressively expanded over the decades. A new children’s hospital building was built in 1969 and another new building with surgery and facilities to care for newborns and premature babies was built in 1978.
By this time 3,000 babies a year were seeing their first light of day here, making the Frauenklinik Neukölln the biggest such hospital in Germany for many years.
Now, before it’s converted to apartments, it’s occupied by bums and crawling with Polizei. At least it was when we were there, when one guy was being led away in handcuffs.
“The police are here again! What do they want this time?” an old lady wheeling an even older one around asked us. “The place is full of homeless people, they need somewhere to sleep. One of them was killed in there a couple of weeks ago.”
“Au weia,” groaned the older one.
“That’s shockin’,” I agreed, though I was itching to get in for a look. A murder! How exciting! Maybe the police were leading away the culprit...
Jenny and Nippity weren’t too keen on going in after that, so I skipped around the back of the complex (the police were at the front), turned off my phone (someone always rings at the worst moments) and went in.
No bodies, but long empty crumbling corridors, open doors, smashed glass and concrete crunching underfoot. Cheery paintings on walls somehow having the opposite effect. Everything’s smashed. Most of the buildings are the same.
The older one, from 1917, is magnificent however, with statues on the outside walls, a wonderful stairway, great doorways and fantastic bay windows.
Some idiot tried burning it down though, so be careful if you go to the roof!
Someone else was roaming around too; voices drifted over every so often as I explored and admired the ubiquitous street art. I did stumble across a few hidden lairs, decrepit, dank and lonely, albeit luxurious when compared to what else must be available.
There’s not a huge amount else to see unless you get a kick out of meeting homeless people. Just don’t kick them back or you might end up in another hospital.

What
Abandoned children’s hospital and previously Germany’s biggest women’s gynaecology hospital for births, the care of newborns, premature nippers etc. By that, I mean the clinic was the biggest of its type in Germany, not that it was only for Germany’s biggest women. Ditto the hospital, it was abandoned. It wasn’t a hospital for abandoned children.

Where
Mariendorfer Weg 28 (older buildings) and Mariendorfer Weg 41, 48 (you guessed it, newer ones), Berlin 12051, Deutschland.

How to get there
Hermannstraße‎ U+S-Bahnhof (Or is it S+U Bahnhof?) is quite close, on the U8, which links up with Alexanderplatz, and the Ring Bahn which is handy for everywhere else. A map you say? Why, of course.

Getting in
Pretty damn easy, which is why the place is infested with homeless as that chatty old woman told us. “There are holes all over the place. There’s no way they can keep them out.” I guess that goes for explorers too. I walked around the block and pulled back the fence at the corner on Eschersheimer Straße.
We’ve an old mattress going if anyone wants to move in. You’ll have to pick it up yourselves though. I’m not bringing a fucking mattress down to Neukölln on me bike...

When to go
Any time really. I went during the day so I could see things, but it’s probably a lot scarier at night, creeping around with the hospital creeps....

Difficulty rating
2/10. Easy to get in, easy to get out, accessible by public transport; what more can you ask for?

Who to bring
This isn’t really a place for romance, but you might want to bring a companion as back-up in case there are any unpleasant encounters with the inhabitants.

What to bring
Camera, beer, a large stick.

Dangers
The aforementioned inhabitants are bound not to be happy by hordes of wide-eyed camera-toting explorers tramping through their living quarters, so I wouldn’t expect a warm welcome from them if I did run into them. It’s understandable really; you wouldn’t like them nosing around your bedroom.
Having said that, I didn’t meet actually meet any when I was there. It’s possible they were all off boozing in Berlin for the day, or out looking for jobs, or volunteering at the zoo, or perhaps they had all just been cleared out by the Polizei. The Polizei. I’d forgotten about them, you’ll need to watch out for them too. If it’s not one crowd it’s another...

Christmas treety

2011-12-09T15:55:00.001+01:00

Our tree is up. Literally. It’s so small we had to put it on a crate so it wouldn’t feel so inadequate. If it were human its raging insecurities would drive it on an insatiable quest for power, like Hitler, Napoleon or Sarkozy. But thankfully it’s just a tree, a little tree, yes, and misshapen too, but a tree all the same. And it doesn’t smell of cat piss like last year’s.
The reason it’s so small and misshapen is because they were going cheap at Kaisers. It was wrapped in netting so we couldn’t check its shape until I released it at home, but we gave it a good sniff to make sure it didn’t smell of piss before buying it.
It’s cheap which is the main thing. We won't be in Berlin for Christmas so there’s little point in lashing out on a fancy tree-shaped tree. Instead we have a little point. It also the reason we put it up so early. (Dec. 7!) It may be cheap but damnit we want to get our €12 worth.
Despite living in constant fear of being stepped on, it’s the biggest Christmas tree Nippity’s ever seen. He’s going mad to pull it down, forcing us on tree-patrol duty. I’m not sure it’s worth all the hassle. But it's up now. We may as well try and summon some pride in it. At least it’s not plastic.
I’m still against the annual slaughter of trees for a pagan festival hijacked by Jaysus’ fans, so we went with a potted one again. No trees need be murdered on our behalf unless we decide to murder it – to put it out of its misery.
Germans throw up decorations pretty early it seems. Advent gets the ball rolling. Advent itself is so called as it’s when the ads vent their fury on the world until everyone is sick of Christmas and everything associated with it, but the Germans seem to like it, probably because they’ve an excuse to lash into the Glühwein, before they throw that up too.
They mean well, the Germans, but even presents come with the obligation of work. I was given a very pretty advent calendar which I was happy to admire despite its geographical inaccuracies (penguins and polar bears frolicking together without a care in the world), but then I found out I had to open a little “window” each day until all the damn things are open. Never mind that it would ruin the perfectly nice scene depicted. I wasn’t allowed not open them, nor open all on the same day, or calculate when the last one would be opened if all went according to plan and open them all together then. Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed that it didn’t open any windows on the calendar I was given last year either.
Ah yes, Christmas. And then they wonder why people drink so much.

Kölschy Kölschies' Köln

2011-12-02T00:45:00.000+01:00

Once you sit at a table in Köln, someone will come over and ask you to sit somewhere else. Based on my experience in the city, I can categorically state that this happens every time without fail. Twice I sat at a table, and twice I was asked to move. Evidently the locals don’t like blow-ins to get too comfortable in their sacred city.
For Cologne is a sacred city apparently, founded by the Romans before it was taken over in the middle ages by religious nuts. Religion often strikes in middle age for some reason. ‘Twas them that began construction of the cathedral in 1248 but they must have had more breaks for Kaffee und Kuchen than they do at the Bürgeramt as it took another 632 years before they finished it. In fact, I’m not sure they did, judging from the ongoing work at the Kölner Dom when I was there last week.
The cathedral is impressive though, albeit at the cost of casting the rest of the “Domstadt” in its significant shadow. Nothing else really stands out...
The railway bridge carrying poor unfortunates in the direction of Leverkusen is adorned with thousands of locks engraved with lovers’ names, many of whom, no doubt, now wish they hadn’t thrown away the keys. The only locks you’re likely to find lying around in Berlin are at crime scenes, having proved woefully inept at their jobs, so at least the Kölschies are getting some use out of theirs.
Walking on the square outside the philharmonic is verboten, for fear the sound of footsteps might disturb the delicate geniuses at work inside. Evidently those listening to them have delicate ears too. Why in the name of Jaysus they don’t have sound-proofing is beyond me. Instead they have eager wardens guarding the perimeter with their lives, preventing any passers by from daring to step a toe inside. It was a Thursday morning when I was told to walk the long way around, so I presume this is a permanent state of affairs. None of the wardens were wearing slippers either. Next time I’ll bring a drum kit, set it up on the path beside them and give them something to get Kölschy about.
Das ist Köln, or my very short impression of it anyway. My time was as limited as the size of their beers. The Kölschies are proud of their city, but if I had to pick sides I’d go for their great rivals downriver (up north) in Düsseldorf. Their Schweinshaxe was much better for a start. In Small Beer Country, a little means a lot.

German rules and Berliner Schnauze

2011-11-30T00:21:00.001+01:00

Oftentimes an anecdote tells you all you need to know about a country and its people. Forget spending years living in a place, studying its history, learning its language. One little story tells all. Thanks to Derek Scally* for this one.
It seems a morally outraged citizen is taking the Pope to task for not sticking to the rules during his visit home last September. His Popeness brazenly drove or was driven around at a snail’s pace without wearing the mandatory seatbelt. Das ist verboten! So now Herr Ratzinger is being taken to court and may have to pay a fine up to €2,500.
You’d think he’d have known. He is from Germany after all, where rules are rules with no exceptions. Not even for the Pope.
Of course, Berlin isn’t Germany, as I’ve pointed out many times before. Popey would have been able to drive his Popemobile around like a lunatic, cavort with prostitutes, drink beer on the streets and no one would give a damn. There are rules here too of course, and plenty of them, but the local populace scares them away.
So grumpy are the locals, known for their “Berliner Schnauze” (Berliner snout), that they have ads in the paper (see right, not my pic), informing them that actually their bark is louder than their bite, that inside that gruff exterior, deep down inside, they’re really warm and cuddly. “Berlin (where) it’s said more harshly than it’s meant.”
The bargirl’s wearing a t-shirt saying “Tips, or snout.” Of course she doesn’t mean it, but you’ll still get the snout if you don’t leave her a tip.
So the next time someone is rude as fuck to you – (Some guy actually hit me with an umbrella yesterday. I went back and asked him, “Bist du Bescheuert?!” He replied, “Jaaaa-aaaa-aaa...”) – just remember that inside they’re all fluffy and polite. Das ist Berlin.

*Mr. Scally also wrote an excellent piece on German fears in the current economic crisis, while another Berlin-based Irish journalist, Siobhán Dowling, brings home the unpleasant reality of Ireland’s loss of sovereignty to our new financial overlords.

Twilightenment

2011-11-23T15:00:00.001+01:00

Sightseeing is difficult when it gets dark in the middle of the friggin' day. So I saw very little of Hamburg last week. I had a spare hour after twilight and was drawn like a moth to the bright lights of the Reeperbahn. It wasn't grim, but that's all I can tell you of that. I'll have to go back, again.
This week's bringing me back to Small Beer Country. Back to Leverkusen, but I'm staying in nearby Köln this time. (Or Cologne, depending on what species you are.) I learned to spend as little time as humanly possible in Leverkusen and will be getting the hell out as soon as the match is over. The inhabitants of any place that survives on aspirin should consider the source of the headaches and just leave. Mein Gott, Leverkusen's crap. Maybe even worse than Bonn.
Hannover seems to be infested by cello players today. The train station's swarming with people with oversized violin cases on their backs, like rocket packs ready to blast off if the train doesn't arrive on time. I like cellos.
Now the train's in Hamm, evidently a town founded by butchers, and it's almost dark already. It's not even 3 o'clock! I guess I won't see much of Köln either...

Dancing verboten!

2011-11-20T16:53:00.001+01:00

Dancing is forbidden in Germany today as a nationwide Tanzverbot takes hold. I tell ya, this country is just a bundle of laughs. If something can be verboten, it will be.
Today’s ban on dancing coincides with Totensonntag, Dead people’s Sunday, when such flathúlach carry on is frowned upon by the powers-that-be. Evidently they feel their subjects should display a bit of decorum for a change, on such a solemn and reserved occasion.
Mein Gott, imagine the horror of disrespecting the dead, with shameless dancing! It must be verboten at once!
Of course, especially in Berlin, there’ll be places where you can raise your arms gleefully, swing your hips provocatively and shake your arse defiantly despite the ban. Perhaps the Verboteners fail to see the irony of driving dancing underground, where the dead can also join in. Usually they ain’t got no body to dance with. Shake them bones baby! Dance till you drop.

Upstanding citizen

2011-11-14T23:58:00.000+01:00

Outstanding progress has been made in the last month. Upstanding, I should say, because floor level simply isn’t good enough anymore. Yes folks, he’s standing, standing at every available opportunity. As long as there’s something to hold onto, for much like many European economies right now, he’s unable to stand unaided on his own two feet. At least with the nipper we know he will one day.
Probably soon – there’s no stoppin’ him. As soon as he sees something which could be used for leverage, he crawls over at the speed of light and hauls himself up, emitting a squeal of triumph each time he’s conquered such lofty heights.
For they are lofty heights – he can reach up to grab stuff off the edge of the kitchen table for example (something we hadn’t banked on for another few months [I confess years]) – but giddy highs are often followed by howling lows, after yet another crash to the ground. He always seems to land on his head for some reason. We’re thinking of getting him a helmet. We’ve become safety nets, following him ready to catch him anytime his acrobatics take a turn for the marble kitchen floor. But he is getting better, and even in the last couple of days I’ve already noticed fewer traumatic tumbles.
Teeth are coming at a frightening pace. At least I think it’s frightening judging from his reaction. He’s almost got six now. Two upper Dracula fangs started developing after the first two in time for Hallowe’en (the pumpkin’s teeth layout was based on the nipper’s), and now he’s getting the Bugs Bunny gnashers from above. So we’re getting loads of sleep.
But at least he can almost eat real food and not only mush. He likes anything he can gnash on and then fling on the floor. Our mice are getting fat from all the food he throws on the floor. He only eats the good stuff, cheese from sandwiches before discarding the bread, all washed down with great slurps of water from a glass. His favourite meal remains his very first, though, and he often wakes his mother to let her know. As I said, loads of sleep.
He still talks a lot, but we’ve no idea what he’s saying (much like my time in Germany thus far). At least he’s not afraid of speaking his mind. He feels strongly about whatever it is he’s banging on about. Could be any number of things...
We abandoned him last night for the first time, to go to a concert (to see the aptly named Other Lives, flippin’ brilliant) but found ourselves thinking of him more often than not, especially with the crowd clapping – his new favourite pastime. (He responds to clapping with clapping of his own, until he gets bored and goes off exploring or standing.)
I’m sure he would have enjoyed it and was sorry he wasn’t there. And despite not being gone for long we hurried home to the little fella. We won’t be able to call him that for long at the rate he’s going. Now he’s ten!

Frozen out - the abandoned ice factory

2011-11-13T13:12:00.001+01:00

An abandoned ice factory sounds cool but I’m sorry to say it’s not. It’s not, because no factory making ice should ever be frozen out, especially if the damned thing is of historical importance, under Denkmalschutz as a protected or listed building. Now they want to destroy it altogether!
The Eisfabrik on Köpenicker Straße had been churning out ice for the inhabitants of this morally-challenged city since 1896 but its chilling activities were halted 99 years later, and it’s been simply chilling since then.
One of the oldest in Germany, it began under the stewardship of Carl Bolle – known affectionately as “Bimmel-Bolle“ (Bell-Bolle) because of the little bells on his dairy trucks – who founded the Norddeutsche Eiswerke (North German Ice-works) in September 1872. He acquired Köpenicker Straße 40-41 in 1893 and began producing ice here three years later.
The Norddeutsche Eiswerke became Germany’s biggest natural ice producers, and Herr Bolle had a larger factory and residential housing built here in 1909/10. More works between 1913 and 1922 saw the building of the boiler house, engine room and three cooling houses, which were insulated with 15cm of cork between the walls.
A great big ice machine from Linde AG was installed in 1914 to make blocks of ice 1.5 metres long. In times without fridges, these were delivered all over Berlin to breweries, pubs, households, fishmongers etc.,apparently until the late 1970s at least.
After “The Emergency” (as we Irish like to trivialise the war) and subsequent partitioning of Germany (which should never to be trivialised), the factory continued in GDR times as the VEB Kühlbetrieb before being heartlessly abandoned by the Berliner Kühlhaus GmbH in 1995. I guess most people had fridges then.

One of the residential buildings had been destroyed by bombs at the end of the war, but the rest somehow survived the various bombs and several fires – until last year that is, when the old cooling houses were ripped down by, and under the “protection” of, the Treuhand Liegenschaftsgesellschaft.
The original Treuhand was the state company responsible for the privatisation of East German enterprises once the Wall came down, generally responsible for the closing of factories, loss of jobs and selling of assets.
The Eisfabrik is now caught in the web of the huge Mediaspree project which wants to allow corporate greed corrupt Berlin’s riversides with apartments, office spaces and gold mines for investors. I guess this is how they can demolish a listed building...
According to those who want to save Berlin’s Eisfabrik and Wikipedia, the cool houses torn down last year were Europe’s oldest. The rest of the factory is also to be destroyed, except for the apartments currently undergoing modernisation (no doubt before the inhabitants are paid to leave so they can be sold at wildly inflated prices). The ice factory will be replaced by a building made of glass. Berlin is going to the dogs. Not cool.

What
Berliner Eisfabrik. Abandoned ice factory, one of Germany’s oldest, which managed to survive two world wars, several fires and countless parties but is about to meet its fate at the hands of developers to make way for luxury apartments despite being a protected building. There's a nice view of the river and my beloved Fernsehturm from the roof, and it’s also home to some fine street art.

Where
Köpenicker Straße 40/41, 10179 Berlin, Germany.

How to get there
It’s very central so shouldn’t be a problem. Berlin Ostbahnhof is a two minute walk away. Here’s a map to make it even easier.

Getting in
Not as difficult as I thought it would be. Apparently there used to be security but they don’t seem to bother anymore, probably since they destroyed the cool houses. Simply stroll in past the offices to the left of the factory, ignoring any busybodies on the way, past the loose fence at the back and you’re in!

When to go
As soon as you can. Winter’s coming, light’s failing, and this baby’s days are numbered. It’s already too late to see the cool houses, but the rest should be savoured before it’s replaced by some overpaid architect’s hideous creation.

Difficulty rating
2/10. Central, easy to get in – not difficult at all.

Who to bring
All your friends. Have a party! Or your boyfriend/girlfriend/hermaphrodite-friend for the view from the roof.

What to bring
Camera, torch, beer, warm clothes if you’re planning on visiting anytime soon.

Dangers
No obvious ones beyond the usual that come with wandrin’ around a deserted, decaying, crumbling building. Best not to be too averse to the smell of piss. There was some lunatic at the site shouting loudly when we were there but he may have been just a passer-through. Street artists are generally friendly as long as you’re not the Polizei.

Teasaster

2011-11-10T14:13:00.000+01:00

The pot’s run dry. Stocks have run out. I knew this teasaster was coming but did nothing, ignored the warning signs of stocks dwindling to alarming levels and continued my insatiable drinking without thought for tomorrow’s cup. Tomorrow arrived today and the cup’s gone to pot. The pot’s looking at me expectantly but there ain’t nothing for the cup. There ain’t nothing for the pot. There ain’t nothing for no one.
I could write teason on a piece of paper and attempt to blame others for my selfish ways, but really de fault’s all mine. I should have placed an order for fresh supplies weeks ago but kept stalling, letting the situation brew. I can have no grounds for complaint.
This tragedy leaves me strained to say the leaf. No options left, only to turn to the Germans for a cup out. Their Echter Ostfriesen-Tee from Bünting is the only thing I can get. Bad medicine. It’s shite compared to real tea but will have to tide us over while I wait for the real stuff to arrive.

I’ve placed the last (emergency) tea order for the year. Enough to get us through to Dec. 19 when we’ll be going back to Ireland personally to get more supplies. We’ll take advantage of the miserable yet bearable (by comparison) climate there to thaw out from the Berlin winter for a brief period before returning for more punishment, albeit made more bearable with fresh supplies of tea. Jenny and Nippity will be returning on Dec. 27, while I’ll stay a few more days to catch up with long lost comrades and some shorter ones too, before returning on Dec. 31 in time for the debauchery and fireworks of Silvester, when Berlin goes even madder than normal. Long or short comrades are welcome to join me while party invitations need not be shy either.

Hallowe’en for halloweejits

2011-10-31T21:29:00.002+01:00

The poor oul Germans know nothing of Hallowe’en. No bonfires, no bracks, no bob the apples, no lanterns, no decorations, no terrifying stories. Nothing. There were bunches of kids going around earlier in half-arsed costumes begging for shit from shops and businesses. Typical Berliners – never mind the houses, hit the capitalists for a piece of their ill-gotten gain. We’ll give out about them, but we don’t mind enjoying their shit.
Germans think Hallowe’en is a fancy dress party. They were going around in costumes on Friday and Saturday for fuck’s sake! The Kulturbrauerei (and others too I’m sure) had a “Hallowe’en party” on Saturday. Two days before the night itself! Halloweejits.
I‘ve been so discouraged I didn’t even bake a brack this year, didn’t hang up any decorations, didn’t bother with a lantern. They’ve managed to turn a night about the souls of the departed into a totally soulless affair.
There were times Hallowe’en was the best celebration of the year. We spent weeks preparing for it, with practice bonfires in the run up to the big night, while we rampaged through farmers’ fields looking for the best turnips. (No pumpkins grew in Wexford at the time and we sure as hell weren’t going to buy them, but we made fine lanterns from turnips instead. Of course, you’d have to rip up about 20 of them to find one with the best suitable “pumpkin” shape.)
Then on the night itself we’d terrorise the village in our frightful (in both senses of the word) costumes, play games and eat brack, before heading up to a bonfire so big it could be seen from space. Jaysus there was everything and anything on that fire – beds, mattresses, planks, tractor tyres, car tyres, truck tyres, (we were eco warriors, fighting the environment), household waste – anything that would burn and plenty more besides. All the shit people had been wanting to get rid all year was dumped onto that bonfire. If your old pet needed cremating, on it went. Everything was doused in petrol to send great clouds of illuminated smoke blocking out the stars, our faces glowing orange from the blaze, the trees faraway on the field’s perimeter all a terrified orange too.
For extra laughs we’d run around the graveyard and jump up and down on the graves. They were protestant graves, it was OK. There were stories that if you ran around the church nine times and said the Hail Mary backwards that the devil himself would appear. But it’s hard to know the Hail Mary forwards, never mind backwards. Plus we were probably wary of going too far. It’s Hallowe’en – the one night of the year the souls of the dead roam free – and anything can happen.

After writing that, I feel inspired. I’m going to run to Kaisers to get me a pumpkin. If they don’t have any pumpkins, I’ll buy a fucking turnip. Damnit, something needs to be done.

Update: As you may have guessed from the pictures, they had pumpkins. Reduced! So I came home with Pumpki, who already had an unHallowe’eny face and hair, but we scrubbed him up appropriately for the night that was in it. He’s on the balcony now. Anyone who looks up will know what night it is.

Seize the moments

2011-10-24T22:57:00.000+02:00

Madness struck – I splashed out half a month’s wages on a camera. My little family will starve, they’ll wear cardboard for the winter, but fuck it we’ll have good photographs.
In a way it’s more important. For the last while – especially watching Nippity growing up – I’ve been cursing the shitness of what should be great photos. In 10 year’s time, 40 year’s time, 60 years from now, I won’t remember the month we starved or froze to death because I bought a camera. I suppose if we freeze to death I won’t remember it next week either. Na ja. At least the pictures of unrepeatable, never-again-to-be-captured moments will be there.
Something had to be done. If you’re going to take those photos at all, they should be fantastic. Hopefully ye’ll notice a marked improvement in picture quality from now on. My only worry is that the camera still isn’t good enough, but that’s another matter. Some food and clothes etc. are a necessity or I won’t be able to take any photos at all

Holy Moley!

2011-10-20T23:44:00.000+02:00

Prague’s most popular resident is a mole, Krteček. The little Mole is everywhere, doing his best to brighten the overall mood with his sunny disposition. Moles generally have sunny dispositions to make up for their lack of natural sunlight. It has to come from somewhere.
Krteček invariably wears a broad smile, with arms thrown open in welcome embrace, and one look at his big friendly eyes and three tufts of hair are enough to infect others with a sunny disposition too.
His charms have worked their way across the border – Der kleine Maulwurf has tunnelled his way into German hearts too, since he first got his pants in 1957.
I wasn’t aware of him before I came here though, moles being creatures non grata in Ireland. I presume St. Patrick got rid of them along with the snakes. The poor auld moles were always going to be on burrowed time once he came over, ranting about God and religion and all that jazz. They dug deep, but not even their conversion to Christianity – leading to popular use of the expression “Holy Moley” – could save them.
We brought our own Krteček back to Berlin with us. Sure how could we not? Those big eyes, those outstretched arms...
He’s bound to find loads of mole buddies here. Berlin’s underground scene is thriving and if there’s one place a mole’s disposition is at its sunniest, it’s underground. Moles just dig the underground. I’m sure Krteček’ll be no different.

The bottom pictures are photos I took of a calendar lovingly illustrated by Krteček’s creator Zdeněk Miler. I’m not sure if that impinges on copyright laws. (Perhaps any legal experts’d let me know.) Top is our very own Krteček, renamed Moley for pronunciation reasons. He’s not holy, at least I don’t think he is. He’ll be burrowing down the wrong tunnel if he is.

Pretty piggy Prague

2011-10-19T16:46:00.000+02:00

Prague’s buildings are so pretty and delicate they have to dust them like ornaments. Seriously. Two guys were abseiling down the side of one building with feather-dusters while we were there. I don’t think they were checking for fingerprints.
It is pretty. The buildings are irrefutably impressive and trams of all shapes, sizes and ages trundle by on its streets. Some of the older ones are simply fantastic but the snazzy new ones, although they may be faster, are crap.
This phenomenon is not just restricted to trams, but many things great and small, as if the price for unimaginative progress is predictable decline. So I salute Prague’s abseiling feather-dusters as they lovingly brush their precious buildings above calm cobbled streets.
That would be the streets without the tourists, for the streets with the tourists are anything but calm. Hordes of camera-clutching visitors scurry across the Charles Bridge and up to Wenceslas Square, ooohing and aaahing and getting in each others’ way. It’s like the shops before Christmas or off-licences before Good Friday (when the pubs are shut in Ireland, leading to mass panic as people stock up on liquor to get them through the 24 hours) only worse.
Perhaps the tourist invasion explains why the Pragueshans are so damned grumpy, downtrodden and miserable looking. Even lovers sitting together on park benches looked like they were forced together at gunpoint.
Maybe boredom is to blame. There’s only so long you can look at and admire pretty buildings. There ain’t a lot to do in Prague, except drink. Thankfully there’s plenty of good beer available to chase away depression, although evidently not enough for the natives. Some of the beers were simply delicious, but not that Staropramen shite, which is the local brew. Budvar, whose German name was unashamedly stolen by American piss-producers, is deceptively tasty. I had to try it several times just to be sure.
The grub too is good, not as bad as I expected it to be. I was expecting weird sausages, soggy bread, fat dumplings and sauerkraut – such is Czech cuisine – but I ordered a shoulder of pork the first night we were there and it was so good I had the same every day thereafter. A big lump of pig served on a wooden board with chillies, horseradish, mustard, brown bread and nothing else – none of these so-called vegetables getting in the way – tastefully prepared and tastefully eaten. Yum! I’m getting hungry again now just writing about it.
Yes, Prague may be pretty, but more importantly, it’s piggy too.

Gumbreaker

2011-10-14T20:25:00.001+02:00

Gumbreaking news! We have TEETH! They appeared this morning, to my eyes at least. Apparently they were there before, but seeing is believing, as any god-fearing bible-basher won’t tell you, and now that I’ve seen the two timid tusks peeping from the lower gum, I can safely say the nipper has teeth. It’s fangtastic.
I would have thought it’d make more sense for the upper teeth to grow first, so he doesn’t look like an upturned rabbit and so gravity could play its part in helping them grow, but this little fella seems to maximise the potential hilarity of a situation wherever possible.
The gumbreakthrough coincides nicely with his ninth monthiversary and perhaps it’s no coincidence it coincides also with a slightly whingier disposition than before.
It wasn’t so long ago since the last update on account of its lateness so I’ll make this is short as his developing gnashers are.
In the last month we brought him to Prague on the train (it bored him, more on the Czech capital here), he had his first meal served to him in restaurant (he won’t eat at home anymore), he held a gun, helped his mother mind a house in the countryside (once he learned how to use it, a blazing success) and we got him a new set of wheels, a Noddymobile, courtesy of his godfather. Less squeaky and a better viewing position so he can take in all around him. There’s no end to the crazy shit to see as we cart him around.
He had his first go on a swing, when he almost exploded with happiness, and cackled like a madman when we slid him down a slide the other day.
He can sit now (without a ‘H’) and kneel whenever the notion takes him, usually to take the toys out of the toy box and throw them around the room, or the books off the bookshelf to throw them around the room, or the shoes off the shoerack to throw them around the room... We won’t be bringing him to any museums in the near future.
His hands are simply brilliant. He’s got little dimples where you’d expect knuckles to be. The hands might be busy but they remain chubby, inflated by enthusiasm. To think there was once a time when they were too big for him...
He still likes grabbing leaves, flowers, electrical cables, the chain of my bicycle and buttons. Buttons are a source of wonder, and he’ll happily spend yonks sizing them up in his little chubby dimple-knuckled hand, gazing intently with his tongue protruded in concentration.
His tongue, in fact, is almost always out, whether in serious contemplation or in friendly greetings to another passenger in the U-Bahn. He’s constantly making friends on the U-Bahn. It’s not a problem yet, but could become an issue when he starts inviting everyone back for parties. He flirts outrageously anytime he gets on a train, man or woman it doesn’t matter. Yesterday he was sticking his tongue out and winking at a girl sitting across from us on the way back from Alexanderplatz.
He’s still growing like a baby elephant. In fact, he may very well be a baby elephant. I’ve lost count of how many chins he has and can no longer be sure he isn’t growing a trunk. Well, he is ¾. Maybe he’s ¾ of the way to becoming a fully-grown elephant. Now that he’s growing tusks...

The night the fish drank like the locals

2011-10-13T01:02:00.000+02:00

Ninety four years ago tonight – possibly at this very moment – a German submarine torpedoed a boat full of Guinness killing four men on board.
If ever the tragedy of war was illustrated it was with this ultimately pointless sacrifice of all that lovely stout off Dublin Bay. Of course the loss of four innocent lives is nothing to be sniffed at either, but that stout!
Only the fishes had reason to cheer. Indeed the night of October 12, 1917 was remembered in fishlore for a long time afterward as the night the fishes drank like the natives, instead of the other way around.

Einundzwanzig verdammt!

2011-10-03T21:08:00.000+02:00

Germany – as we know it – is 21 today. I remember my 21st. Upstairs in The Pickled Pig. It had a bad rep before; stabbings, rows, brawls and that kind of carry on, but I never saw any trouble there and it’s better to have a bit of life about the place than none at all. Although if the stabbings got out of hand one could lead to the other.
Anyway, ‘twas a grand pub at the time. It’s since been burned down, they say for the insurance money, though I wouldn’t know anything about that. There are apartments there now and no pub so ye can come to your own conclusions.
I hired the function room upstairs and a bar extension – to 1.30AM! Such were the licensing laws in Ireland at the time (and possibly still) that you couldn’t get a drink anywhere after 1.30am for love nor money. Then they wonder why the Irish drink so much, after years of drinking against the clock.
Much to my surprise, people turned up, loads of them, although I didn’t bother with the 21 kisses or any of that crap. Or maybe I did, I can’t remember.
To get around the chastity of the bar closing, I ordered a keg of beer complete with gas and equipment for the real party at home afterward. I’m sure the neighbours were thrilled. The place was jammed with friends and strangers we picked up during the relocation. I didn’t know half the people there. I remember two pretty Italian girls though they were untouchable at the time, not that it stopped my flatmate, for whom they were untouchable too, from trying.
The keg was finished, and in the morning, when there were bodies all over the apartment (I woke up behind the couch. I’ve no idea who or how many slept in my bed), the dregs were finished. Then over to the pub across the road. A damn good party if I say so myself.

What the hell is Germany doing? Feck all as far as I can see. For a country whose natives have an unhealthy obsession with birthdays, it sure is sheepish about its 21st. Baaaaaaaaaaaah.

Achtopus

2011-09-26T23:45:00.000+02:00

Due to inexcusable excuses the nipper’s monthly update was delayed for excuses inexcusable whose inexcusabilty being inexcusably repeated negates the inexcusable making the excuse of whatever it was I was excusing (I can no longer remember) very much excusable indeed.

Most parents wait for their kids’ teeth to show at this stage. We’re waiting for his extra arms. The ones he has never stop. Two ain’t enough. He’s a flippin’ octopus. An arm for each month.
When he lies on his back, he’s a conductor leading a beautiful symphony somewhere in the heavens; when he’s vertical he’s grabbing, ripping, slamming, slapping, scraping, clutching or shaking the shit out of whatever he can. Jenny’s poor hibiscus is fucked. I told him she’d be mad but he wouldn’t listen – he still pretends not to understand us.
This was the month he learned to slither around. He’s pretty good at it, can gather quite a speed. He moves like a lizard, the resemblance all the more striking as he sticks his tongue out from time to time, while a lack of any hair worth talking of makes the resemblance uncanny. I presume hair would just slow him down. He doesn’t blink either. For some reason blinking is beneath him, like his belly. I don’t know why.
No sign of any teeth yet. Jenny got all excited and rang me in work to tell me of one emerging but it was a false alarm. “A crumb,” as Dáire suggested. He slobbers like a jawless alcoholic so there must be something stirring – the nipper that is, Dáire only slobbers a little bit.
But the nip remains in great form, despite his snacking pleasures being curtailed at night so his mother can get some sleep.The racket he makes in protest means none of the neighbours can sleep either. His hunger knows no rest.
He’s prone to little growling grunts of feigned rage when he doesn’t get what he wants but at least he’s easily reasoned with. “Go on outta that,” does the trick for now. Except at night.
It’s obviously easier to give him what he wants, but we’re both careful not to spoil him. Having said that, he’s got enough toys to open his own shop and more clothes than I’ve ever had in a lifetime. If he keeps growing at the pace he’s set, I’ll soon be able to look forward to a few hand-me-downs.
Of course we feed him too – he’s still eating the mush with a face as mushed as the mush – and we bring him for walks and try to keep him happy at all times. You can tell he wants to eat our grub though and drink my beer. “Not till you’re five,” I tell him as he makes another lunge for the bottle. Perhaps I should clarify that’s five years. He’s been lunging for the last three months.

Athletic break

2011-09-20T23:30:00.000+02:00

Time for a break. Since August 5th I’ve worked every day bar three – from 46. Now I’ve a week off! Happy days.
Don’t get me wrong, I remember looking for work and am eternally grateful to have this job, but Jaysus I need a break. I staggered over the finish line last night, exhausted, not fit in mind, spirit or body – if any of the three exist anymore or ever did.
Last week was Vitali Klitschko knocking the crap out of someone, athletics at Berlin’s Olympiastadion, Champions League, Bundesliga, and then even more athletics in Zagreb, where I was invited to the athletes’ party afterward but couldn’t go on account of my labours. In fact, I didn’t have one beer in Croatia!
For Real Madrid vs. Dinamo, there was no wireless and none of my USB sticks worked, leaving me to ring London with my the match report before the phone died at the thought of the exorbitant roaming costs. This, for a Champions League game.
An absolute nightmare. The Bad Blue Boys (Dinamo’s notorious ultras, not mischievous smurfs) were well-behaved, their worst being to needle Cristiano Ronaldo with chants of “Messi, Messi, Messi!” He seemed to see the funny side.
So tomorrow we’re off on a little holiday! Jenny booked it and it’s supposed to be a surprise but she let it slip so many times, I’m starting to think it may be a cunning ploy to get me thinking I’m going somewhere when, in fact, we’re going somewhere else. Who knows? I won’t spoil it by telling. You’ll just have to Czech back!

Zagreb

2011-09-19T23:59:00.000+02:00

Rushing to conclusions after limited exposure is the only way to offend people and get away with it. In keeping with the man who brought me to Zagreb, my impressions of the city were forged in a bolt from the airport to the hotel to the venues and back. Damned quickly. I liked it.
It’s crumbling but fine with magnificent façades worn down and weary, somehow purveying greater dignity in their ornate decay than they ever could in their pomp, the supposition of a former grandeur far greater than mere bricks and mortar can ever be.
There’s beauty in its chipped, marked, used, flaking and eroding buildings, a reminder of what Berlin must have been like before they ruined it with refurbishments.
Soviet-style boxes of unimaginative decrepit flats can be found further from Zagreb’s centre, cut off by ring fencing to prevent the occupants’ escape. Long corridors stretch out under strip lighting throwing its blinding glare on the monotony of battered door after battered door after battered door, blaring TVs jostling for dominance among the pigeon-holed neighbours. Sometimes refurbishment is good.
But the centre’s pretty, populated by blue trams, hardly any traffic and squillions of studentskis. The place is crawling with studentskis and café bars, everyone sitting outside basking in the sunshine. The sunshine! Jaysus, I had to ask a local what that was.
They read a lot and don’t talk to each other much. Out of a group of four auld ones sitting outside on the steps, three would have heads buried in books or newspapers, with the other content to watch the world go by.
There were noticeably few fat people anywhere. Either they eat very well or they don’t eat at all. Maybe they’re cannibals and the juiciest and most succulent just get eaten. As I said, impressions were formed quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
Being relaxed and well-fed (or not), the people are very friendly and pleasant, possibly to the detriment of everything else. They tell you what you want to hear, rather than any truths which might be found unpleasant.
They’re worse even than the Irish, who will (understandably) flower unpleasantness to make it more pleasant, soften the blow of bad news in consideration for the recipient. Of course a German will do neither, delivering bad news with sledgehammer accuracy and the wherewithal to omit consideration but not any painful detail.
Croatians are the other extreme. On the way in from the airport, normal radio service was interrupted by a traffic report in English assuring us there were no delays anywhere in the country, that traffic was moving along just swimmingly everywhere. Of course, we were stuck in a traffic jam at the time. With the tourists duly mollycoddled, the service resumed in Croatian – presumably the real traffic report.

Bolting from AP to Z

2011-09-12T23:50:00.000+02:00

All these dealings with the world’s fastest has me going to places I didn’t know I’d be going to until now. Well, until this morning, when I found out Usain Bolt – really the fastest man in the world – is bringing me to Zagreb tomorrow!
“Who’s Usain Bolt?” I was asked today. “I'm not really into horse racing. With a name like that he must be a flier!”
It’s my foreignest and glamourest assignment yet. All that expense, time and effort for a race that will last less than 10 seconds. It will be over by the time I finish typing this sentence.
Usain himself isn’t bringing me of course, but the head honchos at the AP decided that “the Muhammad Ali of athletics” is worth a correspondent in case he breaks another world record. He probably will. He was kicked out of the last 100 meters he was in for a false start, so he’ll be gunning to make amends tomorrow.
Christ, I don’t know what I’ll do if he does. Explode. It’ll be my job to let the world know as soon as he’s done it. I’ll need a reaction time quicker than his.
So I’m off in the morning. Flight’s booked, hotel booked, accreditation sorted. My contact in Zagreb, Darko, seems to be a wizard at arranging things. Despite the short notice, I’ve also been approved for Dinamo Zagreb vs. Real Madrid on Wednesday night! Then back to the Bundesliga on Thursday. A Bolt back to normality.

Faster than the fastest

2011-09-09T20:58:00.001+02:00

I just raced the fastest man in the world. And won! The 100m world champion Yohan Blake may not have known he was in a race, but no matter.
We were in a lift at the Hotel Ellington. Alone. Not a word was spoken. Eyeball to eyeball. Tension building. Floors counting up: 1-2-3...
As soon as those doors opened at the fourth floor, BAM! I was gone.

C'été

2011-09-06T00:46:00.000+02:00

Seasons are like buses – they never arrive when you want them to, if they arrive at all.
Summer never bothered showing up, and now we’re hurtling inescapably into the deep, dark winter. I still haven’t recovered from the last one, and the thoughts of it clasping us in its cruel icy grip sends a chill to my heart even before its icy grip does.
Autumn you say? Autumn me arse. I can’t enjoy it, not knowing the impending hell about to follow. I’m genuinely dreading it, don’t know how I’ll cope, have a knot in my stomach, am shivering at the thoughts of it alone.
I had to buy my jacket for the second time today. The nipper casually lost the one I bought the first time. I was waiting for him to buy me a replacement but panic got the better of me in our battle of wills.
All the sensible animals will hibernate or fly away of course, but I fear neither are options. Not anymore. Suffering is the best we can hope for now.

Vorsprung durch Sprache

2011-08-29T23:50:00.000+02:00

My German’s gone to the dogs. Zur Hunde gegangen as the Germans would say if they weren’t allergic to metaphors*. So I’m starting another course tomorrow.
In truth, it’s probably not that bad, and might even be getting better, but my German’s nowhere near as good as I want it to be. I won’t be happy until I speak it better than the natives, until people stop showing me how bad it is by telling me how good it is.
I still curse at motorists in English when we cross paths. Once I’ve vented my fury at another gobshite, fuckbag, ass-wit, toerag or bollocks, I’m left with a disconcerting feeling of inadequacy for not expressing myself in their tongue. Sure, they get the message, but the feeling remains. And there are enough of them around to ensure I feel like that every day.
So enough. Tomorrow I start and I won’t let up until my first reaction is to curse at the motorists in their language. The next Schweinehund, Arschloch, blöde Kuh, alte Sau or Hurensohn will get the message in double quick time.
No longer will I feel like a donkey after taking part in another cross cultural exchange.

*Jenny has reliably informed me that Germans do, in fact, have “thousands of metaphors” such as: “Schweine gehabt, kalte Kaffee, Schnee von Gestern, spitz wie Nachbars Lumpi and millions of others.” I’m not sure if millions is a metaphor for thousands, or vice versa, but let it not be said that Germans are allergic to metaphors. Allergic to slagging perhaps, but not metaphors.

Que peña madridista

2011-08-23T14:30:00.000+02:00

I’ve been a Real Madrid fan since Hugo Sánchez used to somersault after scoring. I do not remember any of his goals, nor did they matter. Somersaults were the thing. That was a long time ago.
Heroes came and went, trophies and leagues were won and lost, but my faith never wavered. Madrid were simply el mejor, aristocrats of futbol, showing others how it should be played and striking fear into opposing teams’ hearts. For the most part anyway.
Recently Barcelona have assumed that mantle, and life as a Real Madrid fan has been a little more challenging of late. Nobody likes to be beaten 5-0 away or 6-2 at home. Times have been hard. Barcelona are enjoying a golden age. I’m not a fan of tiki taka but they like it and others too so leave them off.
In the latest Clásico between them, I was happy to see Madrid hold their own with skill, guts, determination and incredible stamina over two legs, albeit in vain as Messi made it 5-4 with three minutes to go.
That’s when the shit hit the fans.
A kerfuffle broke out and the Madrid coach took advantage by stooping to a level unfathomable, inexcusable for a coach of any team, let alone Madrid. Whatever his excuses, the moral outrage of wrongs perceived or otherwise, there is no excuse.
With one cowardly act, he has brought shame on the club he represents – my club.
Florentino Perez (Real Madrid president) looked like a shattered man as he surveyed the damage. Old and sad. Barcelona might have inflicted defeat, but the greatest harm is self made. Despite doing all he can to make Madrid great again, the club is instead scorned and vilified, past glories sullied by the actions of one man.
That coach should go. He might be the best bet to beat Barcelona, but without dignity and respect, he’ll always be a loser.

Smells like mean spirit

2011-08-21T00:10:00.000+02:00

Whatever about the French, I can hereby confirm that the Germans do not believe in showering or deodorant. My conclusions are based on the unwelcome company of two of them and so are categorical.
On the train to Stuttgart, a young fella sat beside me reeking of sweat and piss, while on the train back, a hairy galoot with a kid stunk to high heaven of acrid sweat. To make matters worse, his kid insisted on eating – for fucking ages – with his mouth open. Perhaps he was afraid of breathing in through his nose.
There are other examples too. On Thursday I contemplated leaving a tram contaminated by a human skunk before he mercifully left, only for some other piss-encrusted waif to embark on the way back.
I am cursed with an exceptionally good sense of smell, as sensitive as my sense of fairness in insulting all nationalities in equal measure, but the former has trumped the latter at the expense of diplomacy – I've sniffed out Germany’s stench stinks more than all others.
Either the natives have no sense of smell and/or are somehow proud of their efforts. Gestankfreude?
Sweat and piss are only the most common stenches one has to put up with, but other putrid pungents also lurk, sneaky stinks just waiting for an opportunity to assault an unsuspecting nose.
The foulnesses can be astounding: I've actually had to leave S-Bahn carriages on occasion, the ghastliness simply too much to bear. Not that a bear could put up with it either. They might be the symbol of the city, but you'll notice they no longer roam its smelly streets. Jaysus only nose why the natives don’t get the hint.

Buster

2011-08-17T00:48:00.002+02:00

Not sure about Germany, but getting hit by bird shit is considered good luck in Ireland. Don’t ask me why.
The poor fella was minding his own business in a friend’s garden when a feathered fucker flew over and landed a direct hit. I don’t know what Nippity did to offend him – he doesn’t even know what a bird is, never mind have an argument to pick with one.
‘Twas a hell of a month for the increasingly unlittle fella. It started in the land of the ancestors and he took to it like a duck to water, not that he had any choice with the water. Thankfully he seems to have a fondness for rain, drizzle, storms and wind.
I honestly haven’t seen the nipper as happy as when we were in Ireland – squealing with delight meeting horses in Connemara, blinking in sea spray thrown up by the enthusiastic wind, contemplating the wide expanse of the Atlantic from the Cliffs of Moher, savouring views from Sliabh na mBan, running fingers through sand for the first time at Duncannon beach, marvelling at the swaying boughs of trees at Kennedy Park, ogling the weird sheep-shaped creatures there, or fixated in wide-eyed wonder at the stampeding cattle across the road from the ancestral home.
Jesus he loved it! I think he enjoyed it more than we did. He must have felt like a rock star with all the attention at every port of call. He didn’t like the travelling per se, kicking up an almighty fuss any time he’d to suffer the indignity of the baby seat, but once we arrived, all was forgotten – happy as a pig in shit, tongue out and sheer bliss gurgles.
I thought he’d be downcast to be back in Berlin at first, but there was enough excitement and attention with the visit of his godfather and posse to distract him, while he always has his hurl to swing and his first musical instrument. He’s been regaling all and sundry with his renditions of “Some Say the Devil is Dead” on his bódhran.
We also introduced him to real grub, if you can call it that. Jaysus it’s awful slop, but apparently the babies like that sort of stuff, their taste buds not yet corrupted by the pleasures of roast chicken and spuds. He’s been lapping up mushed pumpkin with a face as mushed as the pumpkin, but he’s been lapping it up all the same. Next on the menu of discovery are spuds. He’ll like them, even if it’s only mushed spuds.
So he’s seven now, but he’d pass for more. My aunt called him “Buster” and it fits. He’s certainly rowdier in the last month. Nothing to do with Ireland of course, his manners were always atrocious. He’s busted his way through nipperdom already though. Definitely a snapper now. How quickly they grow!

Fifty years ago today...

2011-08-13T00:00:00.015+02:00

So it was 50 years ago today – to this minute – that the fuckers closed the border to imprison their own brethren. People talk about Ostalgia now, but if the country was so flippin’ great, then why did they need to build a goddamned wall to keep people in it? Gah.
For those who know nothing of the Berlin Wall, basically it was a 155km barrier around West Berlin, made first of barbed wire, fencing, guards and guns, before being fortified with concrete and a 100 metre death strip so those attempting “Republikflucht” could easily be gunned down. They blew up houses and even churches in its route, just to make sure they could have a clear shot at people.
Despite the obvious risks in attempting to get over this indication of man’s stupidity, thousands tried, their risking of life and limb a damning indictment of the country they were trying to leave behind.
While in effect the wall encircled West Berlin, it was really to keep the East Germans out of it – the GDR head honchos had evidently suffered enough embarrassment already from seeing their best and brightest leave for better opportunity elsewhere.
Goddamnit, that wall would have boiled my blood. And those fuckwits guarding it deserve nothing but contempt. Fifty years ago tonight they lined up with their guns “just following orders” as they stopped anyone crossing an invisible line. They made sure it became visible over time.

Stuttgart samba

2011-08-10T12:06:00.006+02:00

The furthest assignment yet! I’m enroute to Stuttgart to see Schweini, Poldi, Jogi, Götzi et al as they take on the lads from Brazil tonight. I’ve responsibility for bringing news of this momentous occasion to the rest of the world.
It’s six hours on a flippin’ train to Stuttgart. I could be back in Ireland stocking up on tea and back by the time it takes to get there. But there you go. I take solace from the fact it’s even further from Brazil.
For them Neymar is the main star, supported by a Ganso-load of other Brazilians nobody has heard of since Kaká started living up to his name and the original Ronaldo went into retirement. But I look forward to meeting them all the same and showing them a trick or two. Apparently the feeling is mutual.
My expectations of Stuttgart are mixed, however. On one hand it’s the city where Ray Houghton scored a goal no Irishman, woman, child or animal will ever forget. On the other, there’s my experiences in other German cities. Jaysus only knows how small their beers are.
At least there’ll be the futebol! Sambando com a bola no pé.

*Post post addendum. I wasn't in Stuttgart long enough to make any observations on the place. Nor was I even in the place long enough to come up with a general feeling based on my whims at the time. All I saw was the train station really. However, I was impressed by the Stuttgart 21 protests outside the beloved Bahnhof, and must salute the Stuttgarters for standing up for what they believe in. Macht's jut.

Liquid weekend in Barlin

2011-08-03T15:31:00.009+02:00

Both Noddy and weather followed us back to Berlin for a few days, making the visitors’ stay a very wet one. He was accompanied by wife, brother, three sisters and brother in law, and it pissed rain with a vengeance for the duration of their visit. They left yesterday morning and the sun’s been shining since.
I’m sure none of them will ever come back. For four days and four nights we sheltered under umbrellas and in bars as I tried to tell them what a great city Berlin is, each claim dampened with each depressingly predicable raindrop. Poor Tahnee saw nothing of all the exciting things she’d heard of.
Their whole trip was a disaster. They only seemed to meet rude Germans who gave out to them at every opportunity for heinous crimes like not putting the divider between groceries on the conveyer belt, or other unforgivable offences still to be deciphered. Even an unplanned party had to be cancelled due to the overall inclemence. I’d be rightly pissed off if I’d put any further effort into not planning it.
We had no option but to console ourselves with beer, copious quantities called for to counteract the amount of liquid falling from the sky. It was a heroic effort and I’ve lost track of all the bars I can no longer step foot in.
Captain Ahab will no longer miss us after Johnny nonchalantly dumped his tobacco discards over his pristine counter, his indignation already roused by the affront of my toe infringing on his precious bar space, while Entweder Oder is definitely out after Noddy balanced a chair on Johnny’s head. I suppose they should be grateful he didn’t try sitting on it too.
Tuba the waitress will not forget us either, where Johnny uttered the immortal words: “Life’s a garden, just dig it.” In fact, none of Berlin’s waitresses or bargirls will forget Johnny in a hurry.
I’m sure the guy in Dolores is still scratching his head after Noddy bought every type of beer they had in the place within a ten minute spell while he and his brother tried finding one they liked; the two of them pulling faces of disgust in front of a growing mountain of bottles.
“I thought Germany was the home of good beer?!” Johnny asking incredulously.
“Yeah, but this is a foreign place – they only have foreign beers,” I replied.
“They’re all foreign beers if you ask me.”
We sought refuge from the rain under a giant umbrella outside Schnelle Quelle – with German Biers – the flow of conversation like the entertainment level uninterrupted by thought, sense or pause for breath.
Noddy told us of his horse named Connor, while we recounted Captain Ahab’s annoyance the night before (or was it the night before that?) and laughed at memories of Johnny fighting a dog for a chicken carcass that had twice been in a fire. Unfortunately I wasn’t there at the time but it still brings a smile to hear Sully’s reaction: “Your brother’s not right in the head.”
They’re gone now, allowing Berlin a sigh of relief, back to Ireland before catching planes back to the US or Australia. To be honest – although my liver might disagree – I’d be happy if they had stuck around a lot longer as it be years rather than months before we meet again. All tomorrow’s parties. Where or when exactly is anyone’s guess. Fare ye well my friends. I miss you already.

Nippity with the bodhrán

2011-08-02T22:48:00.000+02:00

We brought a bodhrán back for the little fella. He promptly tried eating the cipín but soon got the hang of it. He's happy. I'm sure the neighbours are delighted.

Noddy’s nuptials

2011-07-29T19:42:00.003+02:00

Noddy’s nuptials went off without a hitch. No, it’s true - they were actually married a year before.
Because they were hitched in Australia, there had to be another celebration this side of the planet exactly one year later so family and friends could join in. Proper order! Speeches were mercifully short and scarce, grub plentiful and we weren’t able to finish off the beer despite giving it our best shot by taking all night. There was no dancing, but it sure was barn to be wild.

Long way from Tippity home

2011-07-24T01:47:00.003+02:00

The ATM in Clonmel asked me to kindly withdraw my card “fully” upon completion of the transaction. Evidently locals are very flathúlach with their bank cards and only ever half remove them, leaving bits of cards stuck in Geldautomats all over Tipperary.
Nevertheless, we were treated royally during our brief stay, my aunt and uncle – like my cousin before – rolling out the five star roast spud and cinnamon cake treatment to ensure their grand nephew/cousin will visit again. I’ll be tolerated as his mode of transport but am happy to oblige with such hospitality.
“Jaaaaysus,” my uncle said when he opened the door to be confronted by the nipper brandishing a Waterford hurley.The preemptive strike failed to allay the unfortunate hurling references and predictable gloating, but the little fella’s impressive stickwork and poise off the ball reassure me that a star to quash Tipp taunts is in the making.
We brought him to Sliabh na mBan, where his namesake was once either enchanted by women or women raced to the top to marry him. These legends’ details are somewhat sketchy given the passage of time. Either way, the nipper fell asleep, evidently not impressed by the view nor stories of heroes’ exploits.
On Thursday I’d my first pint since landing on these shores. It was probably the longest I’ve gone without a pint on these shores since I myself was a babe in arms. It coincided with the long overdue (two years!) reunion with Noddy, who passed through Nagle’s in Kilsheelan to regale us with stories of standing on poisonous snakes and being eaten by fire ants. And we finally met his wife! A fine addition to the family. They’re getting married again tomorrow.
I’m home now at last, introducing the nipper to his roots and the cows next door. One little sneeze was enough to send them all running for the far corner of the field. Cow-ards. He had no thought of fear when he dived straight into the sand at Duncannon as the Sunny South East lived up to its name.
Tonight Noddy accepted responsibility for the little fella’s religious and mafia upbringing. As godfather, I'm sure he'll teach him plenty of valuable lessons in life. How to avoid poisonous snakes and fire ants will be among the early lessons no doubt.
Now though the village is abuzz with the excitement of his nuptials – Noddy’s nuptials, the nipper is still a bit young for that kind of carry on (at least until a substantial dowry is offered) – with people from far, wide and narrow here for the festivities. Rumours of fire-chickens are flying. (Unlike the unfortunate chickens.) It promises to be quite a hooley.

Doolin dealin'

2011-07-20T00:33:00.007+02:00

Perhaps the lack of an ATM In Doolin explains why the locals screw money out of visitors any which way they can. €42 we're paying for the hostel. Without breakfast. Jenny said it was €29 to stay in a dorm but that's simply too outrageous to be true.
There's only one regular shop in the village (thousands selling woolly jumpers and trinkets adorned with shamrocks) but the groceries are so overpriced only gold bars covered in platinum adorned with the rare egg of a six-legged sabre-toothed mouse are accepted.
None of that compares, however, to the news they now charge people €6 to see the renowned Cliffs of Moher nearby. Cliffs! With an entrance fee! Not to buy them, or eat them, but to see the fucking things. They can keep them.

Of course we're in Clare, so I shouldn't be surprised. If ever a county should fall into the Atlantic let it be Clare. I'd like to see them charge for the cliffs then. It's no coincidence the Burren is Clare's highlight as well as its least populated area.
To make matters worse, the hostel is full of weird Austrians. I know Austrians are weird anyway, but these ones are even weirder that normal Austrians, worse even than Bavarians. If ever there was a time for Clare to fall into sea...
The nipper's coping admirably. I don't know where he gets the strength.

Omey Island

2011-07-19T01:29:00.004+02:00

The tide was out so we walked out along the sand to Omey Island and hoped to bejaysus we'd have time to make it back before it came back in again.
The nipper seemed unperturbed. He'd just had a nap while a strange star cast the countryside in an otherworldly golden glow. When he woke up the clouds were back in charge again. Normal service resumed. Good timing Nippity. He still hasn't seen the sun shine in Ireland. Many haven't. I might have seen it once myself, but can no longer be so sure.
We proceeded despite the gloom and ominous threats from above, wind bending our backs but not our will as we picked our way around pools and ridges, leaving footprints wiped clean as soon as they were printed. Finally we struck dry land - if you can call it that. We were Ome!
The island frivolously opposes the Atlantic while maintaining a fingertip connection to the mainland. A few foolhardy bushes are the only things taller than military-length grass foolish or hardy enough to grow here.
In the middle is Lough Fahy. An 'E' may be missing but still I consider it a family lake, even if the link is as tenuous as that of the island to the mainland. Swans swanned around on the lake as if they owned it, with nowhere a human in sight.
Our guidebook says 20 people live on Omey, but we met a woman on the way over and she said one fella lives here. Apparently he's "fond of the drink" and has had to swim home from the pub at three in the morning when the tide is in. I believe the woman over the guidebook. There are no pubs on Omey Island.
Rabbits abound and bound about in numbers that defy numbers. There are rabbillions of them, darting off with white tails in the air as soon as one of them notices anything suspicious - anything that isn't another rabbit. I'd say they're not disturbed too often. There ain't a whole lot goin' on on the island.
For the nipper it was just one wonder - a oneder - after another. He met a couple of horses on the way over and squealed with delight, then looked on in amazement as a couple of dogs - a big brown fella and a little white one - hysterically ran into fields and over stone walls, panting in excitement as they rushed about savouring the wonders of the wind. By the time he got to the donkey and the cows, he'd had too much excitement - another nipper nap.
He slept through the downpour whipped into our faces by the unforgiving wind, and missed the excitement of climbing over jagged rocks and under barbed wire fences as we sought a shortcut back. Neither of us fancied swimming back.

Thankfully we made it before the tide did, back to Derval waiting patiently on the mainland. We set off in the car for home, twisting and turning down narrow overgrown bumpy roads with the landscape becoming increasingly familiar. Before we knew it we were back at Claddaghduff again, back to Omey Island! Now at least we know how it got its name.

Galey gael

2011-07-17T11:26:00.005+02:00

Gale force winds and driving rain from the Atlantic scuppered our plans to go camping last night. The nipper was up for it, but there was a chance we’d all be blown away in the middle of the night so we sought refuge in a B&B. Draughts howl around the house to show us what we’re missing outside.

Now it’s merely raining, a steady heavy drizzle for the last 17 hours, and there’s only a warning of gales. Everything’s wet. The nipper’s sleeping – there’s nothing else to do.
He stayed in a hostel last night, and loved it. Plenty to see – a cat, a couple of sheep, weird tourists – and he slept like a baby. Now he needs more wonders to marvel at.

Connemara is hauntingly beautiful through the rain. Shades of green brushed by low clouds and sombre mist, it’s a wonderful wilderness punctuated by scattered rocks, lonely trees, shimmering lakes, rocking sheep n’ rolling bog. Bollocks to the rain, ‘tis time to go exploring.

Terminal illness

2011-07-16T13:33:00.005+02:00

Approaching the glut of orange non-twinkling twinkles below, we pass over the black shiny sea still – despite Fukushima’s best efforts – among the world’s most radioactive. The city looks nice from this safe distance.
Landing in Dublin, we’re greeted by a huge shiny new terminal, sparkling, clean, soulless. Built at stupendous cost in times of delusion, it’s an unwitting acknowledgement of Ireland’s madness. Visitors learn all they need to know without leaving the building.

First flight

2011-07-15T01:11:00.002+02:00

One way of making use of a seatbelt is by eating it. He tried. It was his first flight so who can blame him? At least he tried.
Otherwise he chatted away to himself, smiled while looking all around and fought sleep like a warrior. Happy in his nappy. It was six hours past his bedtime before he finally hit the hay, exhausted from all the excitement of being higher than he's ever been. I'm still not sure he's come down yet.

Half nipaversary!

2011-07-14T15:54:00.002+02:00

Half a year old today! Six months ago he landed on the planet – or would have but for the quick reactions of the midwife – today he wakes up in Ireland for the first time, no doubt wondering why it took a lifetime to come back to the land of his ancestors.

Half a flippin’ year! Mad. There was so much confusion and excitement at the time I don’t even remember half-marrying the midwife, but thankfully the cause of it all has been taking everything in his stride as he continues his undaunted progression.

I thought he couldn’t get any bigger. I was wrong. He’s HUGE. If he carries on like that it’s only a matter of time before he devours us. Of course, he still pretends he can’t sit or walk and so we’ve to carry him all the time, despite his bulgingness. Tell-tale creases are the only way we can discern where his joints are. He won’t be able to pretend he can’t walk for much longer.

He did learn to rollover in the last month. Not on command like a dog – he’s got his dignity – but when it suits him to flip from his back to his belly to better see what’s going on. And he always wants to see what’s going on, to the detriment of sleep and even – would you believe – eating. Wide eyes like vacuums taking everything in.

Teeth have taken a break from progression, but lurk ominously behind the gums, while hair is beginning to sprout on his head. It’s very fine hair, almost fur. Perhaps he’s a nip off the old block.

He’s a happy nip – that’s for sure. He laughs a lot, and flirts outrageously with his smiles. He has all the women of Berlin (and some of the men) wrapped around his little little finger.

He likes nothing more than the wind in his face – he literally drools with happiness, blinking, licking his lips and squeaking with joy – while there was a broad smile when he felt rain for the first time a couple of weeks ago. I guess he’s going like Ireland so.

Flowers are like magnets for his grabbing hands. They might regret their alluring properties when he rips off their blossoms, but he’s definitely a fan of nature and the outdoors. He sighs with contentment as a breeze ruffles the fur on his head. I feel he might be an Arctic explorer one day.

If not that, then perhaps an astronaut – he loves being a rocket flying to the sky – although in light of recent developments I suppose he’ll more likely be a cosmonaut.

Naut one way or the other, he’s halfway to being one. It’s the six month nipaversary!

Hair we go!

2011-07-13T18:40:00.002+02:00

We’re all set! I just finished packing (almost) and we’re about to head to the airport. The nipper’s so excited he’s been puking and farting all day. The homecoming!

For the next two weeks, blog activity will be intermittent as we bask in the bliss of a land without Deutsche Post’s returned letters, the GEZ’s neverending bills or shopkeepers who “aren’t allowed” break €5 for change.

There’ll be a special post tomorrow, but apart from that they’ll either be few and far between, or short and frequent if I decide to make use of my handheld device which is most certainly not a fruit of any type. I tried using an orange once but the results were so messy and sticky it put me off typing on any sort of fruit.

Tschüß for now Berlin, Hallo Irland!

Vive la différence

2011-07-13T17:54:00.000+02:00

England were out, my job was done.
I take my leave of the World Cup with the main prize still to be decided. Germany are out, Brazil are out, Australia are out, Canada out, Mexico out... But women's football is definitely in.
It was a helter-skelter couple of weeks, punctuated by trains, increasingly underwhelming catering (Berlin won – not a carrot cake anywhere else), small beers, mundane cities, and the pressure of not erring without the time to think. Once the copy was filed, there was no time for anything else.
The football far exceeded my admittedly low expectations, with skills, pace, guts and nail varnish a plenty. France in particular impressed, especially Gaetane Thiney and Louisa Necib, who can do stuff with the ball the begrudgers can’t even aspire to. There has been excitement and scripts befitting Hollywood – the hosts shocked at the last, Hope Solo defeating the evil Marta against all odds – while there was a distinct lack of diving bullshit, hissy fits, theatrics, negative tactics and tiki taka, making this women's World Cup far more entertaining than the men's borefest last year. Vive la différence!

Small beer country

2011-07-08T23:05:00.001+02:00

This is small beer country. It’s impossible to get a normal-sized one.

I asked for a “großes Bier” today and she came back with a 0.2l glass. A fucking thimble. It was gone before I even knew I drank it.

“Do you not have any bigger beers?” I asked.

“They’re the biggest we have,” she replied. “You can always order more of them.”

I guess that’s the idea. The locals like to brag about how many beers they were able to consume the night before. “Ja, Ich hatte 20 Biers letzte Nacht! Man, bin ich ein Trinkschwein!”

Twenty beers being about the equivalent of a pint.

I first discovered the small beer phenomenon when I arrived in Leverkusen. If ever there was a place where you need large beers it’s Leverkusen. Jaaaaysus, it’s shit. Beyond shit. Shit is a compliment.

I strolled its streets at night and wondered why its inhabitants were all hiding. Not a sinner to found anywhere, not a stray cat, not even a rat.

Trains don’t even stop in Leverkusen, whizzing by to leave you feeling unwanted on the platform. I swear they speed up as they approach the town. The driver probably closes his eyes and holds his breath as he zooms through.

The locals (perhaps they’re vampires, I only met them during the day) speak an incomprehensible language among themselves. They could understand me, and reply in German, but I couldn’t decipher a word they said to each other. Probably just as well.

Bochum, like Leverkusen, also had the feeling of being a giant mall. Again, the beers were tiny. An utterly uninteresting town. Even a Fernsehturm worse than Hamburg’s can’t save it.

I didn’t sample any beers, big or small, in Hannover, but still woke up with a hangover when my alarm failed to sound for an early train out of there. Even without drink, mornings are bad here. There’s a guy on a horse outside the Bahnhof and it has cute little green trams, but that’s all I can tell you about Hannover.

I ended up in Köln at 2.30am, (where I had to wait an hour for a connection back to fucking Leverkusen) and its cathedral is impressive. The centre looked nice enough through my exhaustion and until my little tour was interrupted by an over-friendly transvestite who kept following me until I decided to head back to the Bahnhof.

I’m in Düsseldorf now, where there seems a strange fascination with coloured statues in various poses on top of pillars. It also has a Fernsehturm! But it’s crap, albeit not as crap as Hamburg’s.

The old/rebuilt part of the city’s nice, crammed with bars and restaurants frequented by hen and stag nights. I guess they come here so they can brag about all the beers they drank. The beer is nice, golden coloured and brewed locally, and the locals seem to like nothing more than standing around narrow tables outside the brewpubs, sipping.

It’s certainly better than the other cities I’ve passed through to date, although it wouldn’t be hard. Düsseldorf’s bigger, there are people, and trains stop here – my main reason for making it my new World Cup base – but as mentioned before, the beers are tiny.

Mönchengladbach

2011-07-05T23:46:00.001+02:00

Mönchengladbach is a city remarkable for its utter unremarkableness. When I came here last week, my only view was blocked by an incurable steamy bus window. I know now, it was doing me a favour.
Its inhabitants, however, are a different story. In my limited dealings with the Mönchkins I have encountered nothing but rude, surly, unhelpful turds. From the bus driver today who wouldn’t let me off when I couldn’t disembark quickly enough (I made the mistake of allowing others on), or the security guy who insisted on seeing my accreditation when I was leaving the venue, to the fucker who nearly ran me over outside the stadium tonight. In a word – gobshites.
I realise I haven’t met all the natives, but if the sample I did meet is in any way a general reflection of the local populace, then maybe they should change the city’s name to Mönchkinsgladtoseethebackofyou. I’m sure I heard cheering as the train left for Düsseldorf...

Slaptop

2011-07-03T16:31:00.003+02:00

Always screw bottle caps on tightly after filing a match report before running at breakneck speed downstairs to the post-game news conference. Opening the bag for the laptop to find your bottle of water everywhere but in the bottle does little to help when your laptop is effectively drowned and you’re expected to update that match report with quotes. Immediately. Drowned laptops with injured keyboards and unconscious mousepads are quite unresponsive to the input of quotes – no matter how hard you pound them in, no matter how interesting those quotes may be.

Wolfsburg

2011-06-29T13:42:00.000+02:00

Wolfsburg is a city built by cars for cars. Wide open streets without people criss cross among buildings of glass and concrete, shiny like showrooms. The city is overshadowed in every way by the Volkswagen factory looming over it, four tall impressive chimneys a landmark for miles around.
Rabbits who bound around outside the stadium are the only ones – it seems – not touched by cars. And when they are, they don’t care either.

And women to boot

2011-06-26T23:59:00.004+02:00

Five years after the great Zidane exited with a bow, I finally made it to the Olympiastadion for the World Cup, as the women take a bow.
The opening match took place after the first one (women’s logic?) but I was there to capture the excitement for the AP with the most comprehensive, stunningly incisive match report ever written!
FIFA have been looking after me very well, giving me a media goodie bag complete with pen, folders, calendar, magazine, snazzy bag and a lame cup, before I had to go back out to the stadium yesterday to hear Sepp's blattering on anything except corruption.
The catering’s been pretty good. The carrot cake was quite possibly the best carrot cake I have ever eaten. It even had little carrots on it! (Although Jenny told me carrot cakes are like that in this country. They must have tiny little greenhouses to grow them in.)
We’re in Germany so there was an ample supply of Wurst (flavourless sausages), Kuchen (to go with the Kaffee), Brötchens and a fridge full of Coca Cola and other evil drinks from the sponsor.

No beer though! I was very surprised (and disappointed). Evidently only German journalists can do a good job after consuming buckets of beer before a match. The international brigade cannot be trusted.
Beyond the inevitable and somewhat unfortunate comparisons with the men’s game – complete with compliments that can’t help sounding condescending from my brethren – I did notice differences among the fans, with far more women present. Queues for toilets were much, much longer than usual (nature at play I guess), and there were far fewer drunken bowsies singing: “DEUtschlAAAAnd, DEUtschlAAAAnd, DEUtschlAAAAnd...” and so on. You know how it goes.
In fact the fans were altogether more pleasant, calm and mannerly (no pun intended) compared to the usual idiots at these things.
There was also a distinct lack of broken glass around the Olympiastadion when I started making my way home. Either women are far more careful with their bottles, or the bottle collectors have become so efficient they snatch them before they hit the ground. I suspect the latter.
Tomorrow I’m off to Wolfsburg, then Leverkusen and then a load of other cities – hopefully none as shit as Bonn – as I sample FIFA’s catering all over West Germany, and women’s football to boot. Yes, they can.

Paulette la bicyclette

2011-06-26T23:08:00.002+02:00

It may seem heartless to have replaced Derval already with another, but I wanted to ensure at least some of the proceeds from our bitter parting were not simply frittered away on things whose fritteration I would not remember frittering.
“I’ll buy a bicycle, a red one, and call her Derval too,” I told Jenny.
But then I met Paulette. Paulette la bicyclette! She’s silver, French, and she’s a beaut! Un vélo vintage, Peugeot, possibly a PR10 from 1976, maybe a PX10LE from 1977, or a 1979 PR10LE, or maybe even something else.
I wanted a racer to get around Berlin more quickly – to race around it if you will. Public transport is good in this city but it’s not good enough. A bike is the only way travel. My old bike is fine for cycling through bushes and crashing through trees, but it’s too chunky and bulky to always force along at top speeds without banjaxing the oul’ knees.
So I brought Paulette for a test spin along Luisenstraße and up Kastanienallee when my speed was helped by a torrential downpour that soaked me to the skin. She isn’t so fast she can dodge torrential rain and I looked like a drowned rat by the time I brought her back. Still, an impression had been made. The next day, last Sunday, I took her home.
She’s great! She’s been bringing me out to the Olympiastadion and back for the last week – three times already (more on that later) – and she’s fast as bejaysus (but not as rain), light and nimble too. You feel every bump in the road though, and she appears invisible (if anything can actually appear invisible) to pedestrians and some other cyclists who only manage to jump out of the way at the last – there’ve been several near misses already.
The only worry now is that one of the city’s many beady-eyed bike banditos will abscond with her as soon as I leave her unaccompanied. She hasn’t yet learned how to handle a gun, you see. It’s never too late to start.

Nipeye the Sailor

2011-06-24T00:19:00.001+02:00

Won’t be long before he’s wearing my shirts. He was driving a boat on Tuesday. Seriously. I drove a boat for the first time in my life on Tuesday, the nipper only needed a little over five months. He couldn’t keep it in a straight line but wasn’t quite tall enough to see where he was going. (Nothing to do with all the beers he drank.) Sure what the hell, it’s more exciting that way anyway.

Macht's jut liebe Derval

2011-06-22T23:23:00.010+02:00

After a long period of separation, I finally decided it was time to face the inevitable. Myself and Derval have parted ways. Permanently. We’ll have a final fling when I go back to Ireland in a few weeks, but after that she’ll be in someone else’s hands.
It was the only fair thing to do. I had to set her free. For too long she’d been sitting neglected in a carpark, gathering cobwebs, left to idle thoughts of fantastic journeys and racing down motorways, wondering when she would once again feel the thrill of the ride, her misery compounded by the sound of other cars whizzing gleefully past on the road outside.
I thought of rescuing her from her distress, bringing her back to Germany again, but the thoughts of all the inevitable forms, hoops and bureaucracy put paid to any noble notions.
Far better to leave her in the hands of someone I know will treat her right – Delphine has promised to give her the love and attention she deserves – than subject her to battles at the Bürgeramt.
I’m distraught to let her go, but I know it’s for the best. We’ve shared some wonderful times together – she even accompanied me all the way when I first moved to Berlin, then there was the weekend in Paris, camping trips and music festivals – but she deserves to have more wonderful times. Even if it’s with someone else. Sniff.

Boar!

2011-06-18T23:59:00.001+02:00

I hereby confirm the existence of wild boar! Three years of no sightings had me convinced boardom was just a myth, a false prophet for real profit (tourists’ dollars), or a piglet of someone’s imagination.
Cycling through the forest (again!), I came across a whole family of them. BOARS, fuck!
Thankfully they ran before it even occurred to me to. Four adults (Auntie and Uncle Boar must have been there too) charged off through the trees and undergrowth leaving me in shock before four little ones scurried after them. BOARS! I grabbed the camera before it was too late but it was already too late even before it was too late.
I’d seen boars in captivity, behind fences, but they could just as well have been hairy pigs or deformed sheep. The pictures show some of them, fat and stupefied from easy living and cheap booze, but shadows of the majestic beasts I now know roam the forests.
The mother boar made an almighty racket before the little ones (little stripey fellows, brilliant!) followed through the undergrowth. Lucky for me that they did or she may have come back. They charge apparently. You have to pay for everything these days – even boars want a slice of the action following Mauerfall. Magnificent animals, I suppose it’s only fair they get their due.

Fat fünf

2011-06-15T23:22:00.011+02:00

He’s reached the same age I was when I was five months old. Coincidentally, he’s also the same age now as Jenny when she was five months old. Yesterday, the nipper turned five!
He won’t be a nipper for long at the rate he’s going. He seems to think he’s in a race, or one in a litter of nippers, horsing grub into himself as often and quickly as possible before anyone else does. Between naps. He’s taken to guarding his precious milk by sleeping with one eye open at the source, before it’s time to resume gulping again.
Perhaps he’s planning for the winter, or he fancies a career in sumo. He’s got the belly for it – it protrudes even when lying down – and his legs are like tree trunks, arms like wrenches and he’s got a grip like a vice. I reckon he could tackle the honbasho now.
He has a neck now too. We noticed it one day – it must have grown in the night – but apart from that he’s subtle with his changes. He can almost crawl on his belly but bellyaches once his belly aches.
He doesn’t bellyache much though, except when he’s hungry or tired, but impending teeth have been troublesome. The poor little fella’s face crumbles with gnasher pangs, yowls of pain only soothed by Dentinox and time. He’ll be happy to have them once they’re there.
Socks seem to fly off his feet – evidently he likes them even less than he likes hats or putting on jumpers – and he can now grab his feet to ensure their speedy removal, usually in the middle of a busy road with impatient motorists in no mood to wait for sock recuperation.
His favourite pastime seems to be rocket horseriding – puke notwithstanding – while fart noises are the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Angela Merkel has him in stitches. He can actually laugh now, and I’m happy to report he does it quite often, in between gurgling, squeaking and yabbering away in his own fantastic little language to himself and whoever else may be listening. We never interrupt. He talks with his tongue out – the best way of talking of all.
Today was a momentous day. He picked up his passport from the embassy – the same woman was happy to see him again – and promptly tried eating it. (The nipper tried eating it, not her.) “You’ll need that, Nippity!” I warned him, to little avail.
He also started his baby massage course. I thought he’d come home and massage me, but apparently it works the other way around here. It must be an East German thing to have a room full of nippers in the nip having their stresses and strains eased away. It worked. His arse muscles relaxed to the extent of release. Good shit man, good shit.

Bunkers for Russian nukes, lost city of Vogelsang

2011-06-11T14:13:00.027+02:00

Shadowed by fear, consumed by guilt, somewhere in the contradiction of nowhere lies a forgotten city so secret only darkness and light know it’s there. A whole city without a soul. Curtains flutter nonchalantly through broken windows, backs turned on hollow rooms and impotent corridors, while outside stand giant empty hangers shellshocked and still, doors creaking forlornly, their stash of deadly nuclear missiles long gone and with it their raison d’être.
Welcome to Vogelsang, where the Russians once had atomic weapons earmarked for Western Europe’s consumption, ready to launch at a moment’s folly in retaliation for a pre-emptive strike or pre-emption of an imminent retaliation.
Construction at this 7,000 hectare site began in 1951 (one of the few complexes purpose-built by the Russians, most likely off plans seized from the Germans after the war) before the garrison became home to around 18,000 soldiers and civilians, a shit load of tanks, anti-aircraft missiles, tactical missiles and the most fiendish missiles of all – nuclear missiles.
Soldiers carried out manoeuvres at night to avoid American surveillance, and locals had no idea what kind of shenanigans were going on behind those guarded walls.
R5-M (SS-3 Shyster) missiles were brought here by the elite 72nd RVGK Engineer Brigade in January 1959, and allegedly aimed at London, Paris, Brussels, the Ruhrgebiet and Bonn (where an atomic bomb would actually be an improvement). These things were HUGE, weighing 29.1 tonnes and reaching 20.74 meters, and much more powerful than those dropped on Nagasaki or Hiroshima.
The East Germans were not informed, and the missiles were delivered under cover of darkness using back roads so they wouldn’t find out.
The Russians withdrew the weapons in September, as part of a disarmament pact Nikita Khrushchev agreed with the Americans in return for the removal of US missiles in Turkey.

However, another sneaky deployment – this time with R-12 (SS-4 Sandal) nuclear missiles – was sent here in 1961 during the top secret Operation Tuman.
It was so damned secret even the soldiers did not know where they were being deployed.
“Officers and career servicemen for a long time had no clue that the road ahead of them crosses the western border of the USSR and transited to the GDR,” reported the commander in charge, Colonel Vladimir Aleksandrov from Smolensk.
Col. Aleksandrov’s forces waited for the order to fire. “Everyone agonized from the suspense. But the command to load up never came,” he said. “On several occasions I reported to division command ... but each time I got the same answer: ‘Wait. Increase the regiment’s training and combat readiness.’”
In the end, the Soviet Union’s production of the R-14 Chusovaya missile (SS-5 Skean) with its much greater range eliminated the need for armed nuclear missiles in Germany, and Col. Aleksandrov was given the order to disband on July 12th, 1962.
Of course, there was still enough going on through the Cold War and beyond to keep Vogelsang busy. The Russians didn’t leave until 1993.
Now the Germans want to wipe it from the face of the earth. It’s not so secret that they can leave it alone. Mechanical rubble makers are slowly making their way from the north, gobbling and grinding their way through history, while the forest does its best to reclaim the 4,000 hectares of woodland cut down before construction began.
I entered through the south and promptly found a corpse. In the middle of a dark shed. A ram ravaged by wild dogs or a forgotten soldier. Teeth bared by lack of flesh in a permanent grimace, bones poking awkwardly toward the ceiling reaching for the spirit which left it behind.
Hordes of mosquitoes attacked to keep me from venturing further – must have been under Khrushchev’s orders – but there was no way I could turn back now. Bunkers, bombs, battalions – all were discoverable in my head as I and searched for clues to secrets nobody wants me to know, hiding from time to time as I heard voices, other people perhaps, perhaps not. Lenin was definitely there and more besides (electric fuses boxes made by J.W. Stalin in Treptow, Berlin!) but despite a day picking my way through scattered roof tiles and scurrying from one building to the next, peering, poring, pontificating, I only made a scratch. Interrupted by darkness and wolves, I didn’t see it all. I have to go back, I’ll go back.

What
Kaserne Vogelsang. Soviet military barracks and top secret nuclear missile launching site. This image gives you an overview of the site and run down of what happened where.

Where
Vogelsang, 16792 Zehdenick, Oberhavel, Brandenburg, Germany.

How to get there
Get the S1 S-Bahn to Oranienburg and then the RB12 (a weird little regional train that comes along every half hour or so) in the direction of Templin. You might need to push the button to request a stop at Vogelsang train station. Bring your bike – Vogelsang itself is tiny, but the abandoned site you’ve come to explore is huge. One day is not enough, so if you’re brave or crazy enough you could always sleep in one of the buildings to continue exploring the next day. The site of interest is to the northwest of the train station. Map here.

Getting in
Either hop the fence (quite easy) or cycle on until there’s no fence (even easier).

When to go
Now. As I wrote, they’re intent on destroying anything remotely interesting around here. I mean, what harm is an abandoned Russian nuclear missile launching site in the middle of a forest? Nope, they just can’t leave anything alone.

Difficulty rating
$/10. The main problem is getting here and the expense that incurs. Train tickets for human and bike (necessary because they do check) come to a whopping €18 or so return! The train ride from Oranienburg is about 30 mins.

Who to bring
Like-minded explorers. A Russian would be useful for translation purposes.

What to bring
Camera, torch, anti-mosquito spray, snack, bicycle, sleeping bag and more snacks if you’re overnighting. Phones don’t work here so maybe let someone know where you’re going so if you don’t return after a week they’ll know to send help, somewhere. Ah yes, a map!

Dangers
Some – scrap that – all of the buildings are in a bad way. Be careful etc. etc. and don’t trip over any atomic bombs or anything like that. Also watch out for the mozzies. In fact, you won’t need to – they’ll find you. Just make sure to bring a good mozzie spray to keep the hungry buggers at bay.

Many thanks to Danish nuclear missile expert Martin Trolle Mikkelsen for much of the background info on the Russians' covert activities. It seems he misses the Russian nuclear missiles as much as I do!

Weiß

2011-06-06T23:45:00.001+02:00

I painted myself white today. A nice shade of white. White only has one shade which is why it’s nice.
I painted myself white because I painted the ceiling of our balcony from which I cannot see the Fernsehturm. I still cannot see it, my beloved Turm. Not that I expected to when I painted the balcony ceiling but I thought I should point it out all the same. Its elusiveness.
Balconies don’t have ceilings of course. Really I painted the bottom underside of our upstairs neighbours’ balcony, something they should have done, and gravity ensured I painted everything below it – including myself – too. I fucking hate DIY.

Revenge of the killer tomatoes

2011-06-03T19:52:00.006+02:00

I don’t know how long I can write. I shouldn’t be writing now but have to get a message out somehow! For the last week we’ve been hiding in the basement. Licking the walls for sustenance. At least they’re safe. Since the killer tomatoes started prowling outside, we don’t know what to do, where to go, who to trust. We’re fucked!!!
Those dastardly tomatoes. No doubt they’d been planning this for years, but finally they swung their plan into action with the help of those treacherous cucumbers and lecherous lettuces – lecheruces. It’s revenge for all those years of grilling, chopping, slicing, dicing and shredding – the veggies strike back!!!
Man they’re angry. The tomatoes were getting redder and redder, bigger and bigger, until finally they just had enough and took matters into their own hands. “We’re not veggies! We’re fruit!” Now they’re the ones doing the grilling – bullying and pushing people about for information, stomping and splattering – now they’re ketching-up.

Nobody knows how to stop them. They’ve killed, infected, sickened, spread terror and will kill again. It’s terrifying. I just went upstairs and found a bunch of tomatoes lurking in the fridge. I slammed the door shut and am now typing under the duvet. I hope they don’t find me. Just in case, I wish to proclaim my allegiance to our new vegetable (and fruit) overlords. (They might actually be better than our current, human, overlords.) All hail o mighty tomatoes, cucumber and lettu—shit! What’s that?!
I think I heard a rustle. Soft padded footsteps. Heavy breathing. Oh shit shit shit. The duvet’s twitching. No no noooooooo!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!

Wolf

2011-05-29T15:33:00.004+02:00

Cycling through the trees of the forest looking for Russian nuclear missiles I startled a couple of wolves. At least I think they were wolves. If not, they were wolf-shaped deer or wolf-shaped boars. They scattered before I could get a proper look. Gone.
I cycled on, more slowly, uncertain what I should do next. I didn’t know wolves roamed the forests north of Berlin and I wasn’t sure of their eating habits either. Enlightenment might be hard to digest. The bicycle especially.
I stopped, figured I wouldn’t find them again unless they wanted me to, and if they did, then I probably didn’t want to find them again. Be careful what you look for or you may just find wolves.

Dralowid no more, Pankow Fabrikation

2011-05-27T00:59:00.029+02:00

This city can’t help destroying itself – wars, walls and now... apartments. Wherever you look they appear like rashes; shiny, new, twinkling at foreign investors lured by developers fuelled by greed and pushed by banks to spend their borrowed money before it’s too late. Buy! Buy!
Yes, many a fine building is damned as an investment, sentenced to apartment conversion, the dignity of quiet crumblement denied, proud histories forgotten, stories buried in plaster, echoes of the past drowned out by cement mixers, cranes and drills. Bah!
Some ignorant builder yelled at me and the nipper as we made our way into the former ceramics factory first opened by Ernst Hildebrandt almost 120 years ago.
“You can’t go in there! Verboten!” Jaysus, you’d swear we were going to rob the damn thing.
So I went back, on a Sunday, when all Germans – builders included – are gorging on Kaffee und Kuchen for the day. I cared not a damn for detection and easily made it in. Stepping over the scars of construction, past diggers and machinery I felt an impulsion to switch on, I passed a great lake of water and soon found myself inside the one remaining building from what was once a bustling factory complex.
A long long hall, all windows broken, all paint flaking, all sockets ripped from the wall, lamps ripped from the ceilings, the place was fucked. Jesus, it really was in a sorry state. Graffiti or street art (depending on your opinion of its quality) adorned walls not interrupted by smashed windows. There were offices on the next floor, also fucked, rubbish on the next, and yet I went up floor after floor, crunching glass underfoot, driven by the hope there might be something still to see.
I don’t know what pleasure pigeons take from scaring the shite out of me, but another waited here before announcing himself with an almighty flutter of feathers as I inched forward. Then I saw a ladder leading to a black hole in a wall. Of course I had to look! Nothing. I don’t know what I expected but it was disappointing. Disappointing in particular to see how the mighty had fallen.

Herr Hildebrandt founded his factory here in 1894 making ceramic gas lights. In 1910, it became the United Magnesia Co. & Ernst Hildebrandt AG, a leading light (ha!) in the manufacture of high-quality insulators for electric heating technology, before it became the Steatit Magnesia AG (Stemag) in 1921.
Alexander Kremener had used part of the site as an iron foundry from 1902 and in 1932 Stemag bought this part and merged it with the existing business to form Dralowid, short for Drahtlose Widerstände (Wireless Resistors). Their parts were used in things like record players, radios and projectors and mad things you wouldn’t have thought bits of ceramic would be in. It would drive you pottery just thinking about it.
The war opened up further openings and the product range was extended in 1939 to include production of parts for the V1 buzz bombs. Then this particular street corner was bombed to bejaysus on March 12, 1945, leaving gaps still there today.
After all the unpleasantness of the war, the Russians took over Dralowid, before it became the GDR-owned VEB Elekrokeramik producing ceramic parts for electric heating and radio frequency contraptions. It was the only company of its type in East Germany, making parts to be used for communications and no doubt helping the Stasi spy on anyone and everyone. Its days though, like theirs (oder?) were numbered.

What
Former Fabrik going under the names of United Magnesia Co. & Ernst Hildebrandt AG, Stemag, Dralowid and VEB Elekrokeramik – for the manufacture of ceramic parts for gaslights, heating systems, radio equipment, bombs, radio and spying equipment, with focus changing accordingly with historical events.

Where
Florastraße 8 and Gaillardstraße 34-38, Berlin, Germany.

How to get there
Get the S1 to Wollankstraße and walk from there. It ain’t far. I almost forgot the map. But this proves I didn’t.

Getting in
You can either hop the gate, or do as I did and go in through the trees at the bottom of the site on Gaillardstraße.

When to go
Sunday. Let the busybodies, nosy neighbours and smelly builders feast on their Kaffee und Kuchen.

Difficulty rating
2/10. Maybe I just didn’t give a damn anymore but I sauntered in there like I owned the place. Damnit, if you get caught, say you you’re looking at buying an apartment.

Who to bring
Girlfriend/boyfriend for an alternative date.

What to bring
Bier. And some more beer.

Dangers
The building’s in a bad way. I don’t think it’s been refurbished since 1930 or so. Try not to trip or fall or otherwise kill yourself, and as always, watch out for nosy neighbours, wannabe informers and builders.

Revealed, or indeed vealed for the first time

2011-05-24T23:19:00.005+02:00

The world’s littlest known famous journalist is surely a little less less known with the publication of a rare revealing interview. Words of wisdom and nuggets of nonsense. And a photo to boot! Not that the photo is of my foot – I mean it’s an added bonus in the way the English language considers boots to be something special. And I thought German was weird.
I’m rambling, as I tend to do when tired – not when I’m sick and tired, when I tend to do nothing at all – but merely tired and rambling, like Angela Merkel any time she opens her mouth. Anyway, I’d better get back to the point.
The interview. For Spotted by Locals, by Spotted by Locals. They asked questions and I answered, in itself a rare occurrence, paled only in rareness by an actual picture of me on the interweb. Unseenly. It was taken when I was much older than I am now, and is sure to get the offers of film work and modelling flooding in.
Feel free to share with friends (especially any involved in the film or fashion industries) and don’t forget to leave complimentary comments. I’ve already got the ball rolling to get you started...
http://www.spottedbylocals.com/blog/berlin-interview-with-ciaran/

Raúl

2011-05-19T13:17:00.003+02:00

Raúl’s in Berlin. Raúl! Here, in Berlin! It’s not everyday you get the chance to meet one of your heroes so I wasn’t going to miss the chance today when I had the, well, chance.
Raúl González Blanco – as if he needs introduction – is up there with the greats. Former Real Madrid captain, the club’s all time leading scorer (323 goals), the Champions League all-time top scorer (71), winner of three Champions Leagues and six Spanish Ligas, Raúl is Madridismo. El mejor. The day he left after 16 years’ service last year was a black one.
So I wanted to make a good impression. Normally I wouldn’t step foot in swanky hotels like the Westin Grand on Friedrichstraße (nor would they let me) but damnit, I’d make an effort today. Had a shower, brushed me teeth. I even put hair stuff in my hair and asked Jenny if I looked alright. “Doing yourself up for Raúl?” she asked. Of course! It’s Raúl!!
All that fluting around making myself presentable left me late, so I’d to cycle like the hounds of hell, burst into the hotel gasping and panting, sweating buckets. Thankfully he was late too. All the greats are always late.
There were other people there too, from Schalke, Benedikt Höwedes, others, mortals, but there was only one Raúl. A hush fell when he walked in the room. He took his seat, surveyed the hacks in front. Owned them all. “Buenos tardes.” The words! Puta madre, the words he used! Football speak, but damnit, spoken by Raúl! Every utterance beatified, every word embellished by virtue of his saying them.
I caught up with him outside. Raúl! He graciously obliged, a polite smile, an extravagant swish. His autograph! For the nipper of course. He’s a big fan too.

Die Gebühreneinzugszentrale (GEZ)

2011-05-18T23:41:00.003+02:00

A fatal error was made. We acknowledged the GEZ’s existence. Of course they’d been put onto ours by the fucking Bürgeramt. It seems you’re obliged to register with the Bürgeramt (it’s illegal not to) so they can pass your personal details to all and sundry.
The Gebühreneinzugszentrale – for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure – is a parasitic organisation, wholly legal in this country, which mooches money from people with televisions, radios (!), laptops (!) and other devices invented or not yet invented.
We don’t have a TV, but the GEZ was told we had two radios and two laptops. Big mistake. You have to pay for the privilege of listening to the radio in Germany, or even accessing the internet.
Once you’re snared in the system, there’s no way out. These are the situations in which German bureaucracy thrives.
Bills arrived. Demands for money followed previous demands.
Then a second fatal error. I wrote to the fuckers to tell them we don’t watch TV on the laptops, that one radio doesn’t work (it actually doesn’t), and that I sometimes use my laptop for work. They sent another bill for that too! As it stands I (stupidly) paid €50 for having a laptop and radio and now they want another €51.84! For nothing.
Germans seem to find nothing wrong with this – with paying a licence for a radio or laptop. “But you’re getting a service.” I’m not. The fucking GEZ isn’t providing a service. They simply send bills for someone else providing it. They want over €100 for not providing a service since last August.
The latest bill came with a friendly note: “Diese Erinnerung ist für Sie kostenfrei!” (This reminder is free of charge!) Why thank you, thank you for not sending me a bill for sending me a bill – for a service you’re not even providing.
But the threat is implied of course. The next reminder might not be free of charge. Bills arrive with a “fine” for not paying the previous one. And more bills will follow, with more fines, and costs will spiral to bail out proportions. All this is legal in a country where companies are sacred but individuals are milked for all they’ve got. Which ain’t much. But they don’t seem to mind.

Nuff said

2011-05-17T23:02:00.015+02:00

In other news, we’ve run out of tea bags but still have ample supply of loose leaf tea. I invested in a tea filter that has proved more successful then anticipated. I should have got one yonks ago. More tea has also been ordered to avoid any unpleasant tea-famines.
The wind smashed the bathroom window today. I guess that’s why they’re called wind-ows. Thankfully, Germans are forward-planning creatures and all windows in this city come with double panes. So fuck it, one’s smashed, but we’ve another. And we don’t have to bother opening two panes anymore if we want a gentle breeze to come in.
Meanwhile, I’ve ascertained that limes are incredibly expensive in this country. The cheapest lime I’ve seen is 39 cents. For a lime! Everywhere I’ve looked, a lime is 39 cents, meaning it’s 39 cents for the most expensive lime too. Coincidence? They must think we’re all lemons. We pay it, so I guess we are...

4=1/3

2011-05-14T23:30:00.000+02:00

Quatro meses! A third of a year old! Where does the time go? It seems only a lifetime ago he didn’t exist at all.
The nipper’s growing, puking and farting all the while – in that order – and becoming more vocal by the day. He hums, gurgles, croaks, beeps and squeaks, while maintaining the threat of all out screeching, and has tweaked his killer smile repertoire to include happy laughs and sighs of contentment. Ah, they’re great.
He talks too. Not with words or anything so vulgar as that, but with his own language less complicated than ours. Feck knows what he’s trying to say, but the response is always the same: “Really?! Jaysus, go on outta that!” Once he has your attention he’s happy to chat away for hours.
As I mentioned before, he’s a fan of music. He’s taken to stomping his right foot along to makey-uppy songs I bark to him. He loves barking noises. I’m sure he’ll grow up thinking he’s a dog.
He rarely sits still. Getting him to pose for a passport photo was a nightmare. There was no way in hell he’d keep his head straight, mouth closed or expression neutral – the way they want you to so you look like a terrorist – but eventually we’d to settle for one where he was looking at the camera. (Central picture below.) “I think we can make an exception in this case,” said the nice lady at the embassy.
Such a curious and easily-amazed person I’ve never met before. (Him – not the lady at the embassy.) He looks at everything, and everything’s a wonder, a reason for eyes to widen as big as the moon, even without mentioning Ireland’s fate or the latest financial forecasts. Yes, it’s been an interesting four months. Through the nipper’s huge eyes, and ours.

Foreign assignment in Hamburg

2011-05-09T23:53:00.007+02:00

From the fleeting glance of Hamburg I got through the S-Bahn window today, it’s a poor man’s Berlin. (Or a rich man’s Berlin by the prices.) There’s more water, sure, but what good’s water if you ain’t got a boat? The waterfront’s pretty enough, if you like looking at things, with its unimaginative spout spewing gallons up into the sky, but really what copperfastened my opinion was its pathetic excuse for a Fernsehturm. I got a fleeting glance of that too. Crap! Pointy, yes, but puny, barely a Fernsehturm at all, not even of a height to tickle the arse of Berlin’s beloved beacon. So that’s it. Bah Hamburg! Such a Fernsehturn is but an insult to the real one. I’ll give Hamburg another chance though. It’s not shit, like Bonn.
I got an ICE train there and back. Jesus they’re fast – no leaves on the track to slow them down here – and not as cold as I thought they’d be.
The longest part of the journey was trying to buy the damn ticket from Deutsche Bahn. I put in all my details, address, date of birth, credit card details (German and Irish), seat preference, blood groups, hopes for the future (a goddamn ticket!) religion, favourite colour, favourite number, shoe size when I was a toddler, ticked boxes, declined insurance in case I lost the ticket I was desperately trying to buy – before the damn system crashed – and I’d to do it all over again, SIX times, until I exploded and rang the fuckers on their premium rate number (the only way you can contact them) only for your wan to want an extra €9.50 for booking over the phone. “The internet’s not working!” I screamed. No matter. Extra charge. Then all the same rigmarole over the phone again, before she couldn’t include the U and S-Bahn stations, so I would have had to pay extra for them too... if her system hadn’t crashed and she couldn’t sell me a ticket either!
I know now why they’re called ICE trains – they want their customers to cool down when they finally do get on the damn things.
So I got to Hamburg, by the skin of my teeth, for my first “foreign assignment” to meet two lads intent on belting lumps off each other for four other belts. Why does a heavyweight world champion need a bodyguard? Beats me. That’s why, I guess.
From the ICE home I knew I was back in Berlin as soon as I saw the marvellous majesty of the Fernsehturm in the distance, standing tall and proud, wondering where I’d been. I was in Hamburg dear Fernsehturm, but you’re the tallest and the fairest of them all.

ClásiKOed

2011-05-04T23:25:00.001+02:00

The last 18 days have been hard. Four Clásicos have taken their toll. I’m shattered, nerves shot, indignation Piquéd, face slappiraed and belief beggared as four games ended all square with only one winner. Yes, Madrid won the Copa but any trophy you throw under a bus is hardly worth winning at all. Barcelona, “The World's Greatest Whiners”, win the league and, despite not beating a Real team (in both senses of the word) with 11 players, face a stroll against a pedestrian team in the Champs League final. They can’t both lose. Qué pena.

Riot act

2011-05-02T23:28:00.008+02:00

This year’s riots were even more disappointing than last year’s. As far as I know, there weren’t any at all! Not one police baton raised in anger did I see, not one stone hurled through a shop window, nor any windscreens smashed or buildings torched. Two cars were burnt out under the bridge at Bornholmer Straße. An Opel Corsa and a Mercedes, but that’s it.
In fact, there was very little anger at all from what I could see as Kreuzberg was taken over by live music, ethnic food stalls and a neverending supply of booze and techno. Paaaarrrty!!! It was brilliant. Freaks, punks and other wonderful people abounded. This is why I live in Berlin, I thought to myself as I inched through the crowds of revellers, beer in hand, and simply soaked it all in. The atmosphere as well as the beer.
The Polizei were there too of course, hundreds of them stuffed in every courtyard, their fingers just itching for a good scrap with lefties, righties or centralies – whoever would oblige – but people were content just to have fun. One crowd all dressed in black with sunshades and hoodies arrived carrying banners and they were definitely up to no good – they had earpieces and batons – but could not pass due to the crowds dancing to 70s hits outside SO36. Dancing the riots away.
Leftist nutters handed out propaganda for an Arbeiter Macht revolution to usher in 30-hour working weeks, solidarity with revolutions in the Middle East and North Africa, an €11 minimum wage, unemployment benefit of more than I earn in a month for everyone over 16, an end to taxes and racism etc. Nice ideas I guess. I shouldn’t be so cynical.
I’d brought my own beer to avoid the inflated prices, and later took refuge from the non-existent violence at an underground party near Neukölln. On my way home I cycled straight into more non-existent violence at Kottbusser Tor and decided to hang around in case anything was going on. Indeed it was, a Klezmer band playing their socks off and the crowd dancing their heads off. I stayed far longer than healthy, made new friends, promptly lost them again, ate some crazy foreign stuff, and have no recollection at all of burning those cars...

Hoffnungsträger

2011-04-28T22:22:00.020+02:00

The arrival of the nipper into the world did not go unnoticed by the local church. He was four weeks old when a letter arrived congratulating his mother on his birth, along with a booklet on baptisms and a bib – made of organic cotton – lovingly embroidered with the word “Hoffnungsträger”. Bearer of hope. For whom, or what exactly they hope to do with him was not divulged.
I was furious, not just because the fucking church was sniffing around, but because it had been provided with personal information by the Bürgeramt it had no business knowing.
For a country which kicks up such a fuss about privacy on the internet, it sees no wrong with the fact you cannot take a piss without the authorities knowing it, and then passing that information wherever they see fit. In this case, the local authority took it upon itself to pass personal details of a child to the church.
Registration of the nipper’s birth and existence was compulsory – presumably so he can be tagged, watched and controlled like all good citizens of this state are – but I didn’t realise at the time his name, address and date of birth would be passed around to all and sundry.
Just over a month old, he already had a tax number to pay his taxes, a health insurance card to pay his premiums, and now the church wanted to enrol him to pay his dues. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before the GEZ sends him bills for all the tellies and radios he must have stuffed in his nappies.

But the fucking nerve of the church to serenade him. Of course not every priest is evil, but cover-ups, feigned ignorance and an unwillingness to confront the truth indicate complicity. A refusal to adhere to the law, hiding behind canon law, confirms it.
I covered the Ferns Report while still a budding newshound with The Echo and it sickened me to the bone. Even worse, however, is the utter failure of the church to deal with it. Instead they promote their like into sainthood.
They’re all tainted, in Germany too, so when the fucking Bürgeramt passes on my son’s information to the local church I’m not amused. Of course, he can join it if he likes, but only when he’s old enough to be able to decide if he wants to.
That they pass his information around to anyone is bad enough, but the church!
My aversion was clear from an early age. My parents said I was a “good baby” who “didn’t cry much”. Then I was baptised and “had a fit” screaming and roaring the church down. It’s gotten worse over the years. Now I can’t hear church bells ringing without a feeling of unacceptable intrusion.
“I’ll go ring a bell in the priest’s face, see how he likes it,” I told Jenny yesterday. She rolled her eyes.
But I don’t remember being asked if I wanted to be baptised. No other group blackmails parents with hell and eternal damnation to recruit members blissfully (or not) unaware of their membership. With such easy targets, the church doesn’t need the Bürgeramt’s help.

Rabbitmess

2011-04-25T12:13:00.016+02:00

The annual slaughter of the chocolate bunnies has begun. It’s sickening.
All over Germany, they are rounded up in their hundreds and thousands, passed around like church collection boxes, and callously murdered, as locals give vent to the frustrations caused by their own rules.
Shiny gold wrapping seals their fate as soon as they’re wrapped in it. (The rabbits, not the locals.) No chocolate rabbit is spared – no matter how big those eyes, how floppy those ears, how buck those teeth.
Some dig burrows to try and escape the annual murderfest, but very few make it. Chocolate rabbits were the real reason the Berlin Wall was built, you know. Honecker couldn’t bear the thought of all those delicious Kaninchen fleeing to the West.
Tales of those who made it are few and far between, although one is remembered by the lover he left behind in the ballad “My bunny lies over the ocean”. He adopted the name Bugs in a swipe at the secret police who failed to stop his escape and became a big movie star in Hollywood. The rest, as they say, is history.

Heilstätte Grabowsee - TB or not TB

2011-04-21T01:14:00.005+02:00

Lurking in the shadows of the forest, Heilstätte Grabowsee creaks and groans through the gloom, the former tuberculosis sanatorium sighing with echoes of the past as it sinks into the resignation of decay.
Trees bend and sway to listen, their rustling branches quivering from the calls of the unfortunate souls who perished and suffered in these crumbling buildings, their solemn corridors, their tarnished halls, their empty rooms.
The breeze rustles from the branches and rushes thoughtlessly through the forgotten wards, swinging doors and windows, banging without respect. It foolishly attempts reviving the unrevivable, leaving new formations of dust and leaves in its wake. Nothing else stirs. No mouse steps paw in these haggard halls, no rat scavenges for discarded bodies. They’re all gone, long long gone.
They’re gone since 1995 to be precise – the Russians that is. They scarpered once they realised they weren’t as welcome anymore in reunified Germany. I’m sure the rats hung around a little longer. Rats don’t give a rat’s ass for politics and will happily live anywhere that isn’t too expensive. That being said, they are more attached to their arses then we are, and would not give them lightly for any reason.
The Russians stayed 50 years, using the place as a military hospital once the war ended, but I was unable to find much detail about their shenanigans.
My search for facts did uncover an altogether more interesting story than that of a nation with more military than sense (just one of them) when I stumbled on the tale of the lost city of Grabow! Apparently the city was destroyed in a “minor earthquake” (must have been made of straw) and was covered by the lake that today bears its name. Locals say you can still see the towers of the city in the lake on a fine day, notwithstanding their supposed destruction by this “minor earthquake”.
Apparently the ruins of Grabow Castle are nearby. The only ruins I found, however, were those of the Heilstätte. The former sanatorium can only be described today as fucked, which is a shame, as I’m sure Gotthold Theodor Pannwitz would agree.
In 1895, Herr Pannwitz was at the Kaiserlichen Gesundheitsamt, where he campaigned for a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients, quickly getting support before it was established at Grabowsee on a trial basis in March 1896. Twenty seven barracks for lung patients were added, and the first 30 patients moved in a month later. I guess they’re all dead now. Nevertheless, it was a success and became the Red Cross Sanatorium for the Working Class, before it was taken over after the Great War by the Brandenburg Insurance Company in 1920. The architect Arnold Beschoren was then responsible for the complex’s expansion and renovation, the results of which are the buildings which are crumbling today. A small church was built beside the lake at the time, but was burnt down by some idiots in 2007.
Of course the other Great War came and went, before the Russians did. A number of commercial enterprises failed, but apparently it was taken over by a crowd called Kids Globe in 2006. They have big plans to turn it into some sort of paradise for kids. Good luck to them. Thankfully the complex is far enough away from Berlin that some fuckbag developer hasn’t turned it into apartments.
It’ll take a helluva lot of money to do anything with this place, giving people a bit of breathing space before it’s “cured” but I wouldn’t wait too long, or the serenity of flaking paint, dust, rust, rubble, shards and impenetrable gloom may be shattered by the shrill screams of snotty kids.
A pigeon frightened the bejaysus out of me as it tiptoed down a long dark corridor – I swear he waited just long enough before flapping his wings for maximum effect – but he was the only soul I met. Old sofas, couches and chairs somehow always make their way to these places, as if drawn by the solidarity of quiet abandonment, and the forest is slowly taking over. It would be nice if it stayed that way.

What
From 1896 to 1945 the former sanatorium for tuberculosis patients of Heilstätte Grabowsee, and from 1945 a Russian military hospital.

Where
Grabowseestraße 1, 16515 Oranienburg, Germany. Beside the lake known as Grabowsee, incorrectly marked on Google Maps as Grabomsee.

How to get there
Bring your bike with you and get the S1 or regional train to Oranienburg, to the north of Berlin. Cycle east on Bernauer Straße until you hit the canal, turn left and follow this along until you come to the bridge which will take you across to the complex. You’ll pass the Sachsenhausen concentration camp on your way if you fancy a detour. I can’t say I’d recommend it. Here’s a map which may or may not be useful.

Getting in
Hop the fence. Easy enough where someone has conveniently cut a tree to make a handy leg up, confusing as a handy leg may sound.

When to go
Daylight. Whenever it’s not raining would make it less miserable.

Difficulty rating
3/10. Very easy to hop the fence. The hardest part is getting here and finding it, which isn’t that hard if you follow the instructions above.

Who to bring
As with the previous site, whoever. Go on your own if you like being spooked out.

What to bring
Camera. Torch. Sandwiches or something to nibble on. A beer or two for rehydration. Good boots and possibly a hard hat.

Dangers
The buildings are in a terrible state as I may have mentioned before. Watch where you step, and under which roofs you stick your head. Ceilings – like Irish banks – are very much in danger of collapse. Of course, keep an eye out for wannabe informers and any builders or security.

Back to banjaxed

2011-04-18T23:59:00.005+02:00

What a shit day. My back’s fucked again. Jenny’s back’s fucked too. And the nipper got his vaccines today so he’s got a fever and howling accordingly. I just offered to hold him but I can’t with my back so I’ll pound the keyboard instead.
Goddamnit. I didn’t even do anything to it this time. It started with a niggle yesterday and got progressively worse throughout the day until I was a hunchback by the end of it. I’d ring a doctor but there’s no point. They wouldn’t answer the phone, and if they did you’d need to ring back at a prearranged time a week later to make an appointment for the following fortnight, by which time they hope you’ll have died and saved them the trouble.
So I’ve been lying around all day with my legs up in the air reading about what a bunch of fuckers Coca-Cola are. Then Jenny came home with the nipper after his shots at the doctor with a free packet of Nestlé baby milk. The fucking doctor is distributing Nestlé baby milk! This is the same doctor who made the nipper (and consequently all of us) sick the last time. I wasn’t a fan then, so you can imagine how I feel now. The milk went in the bin. That whore of a doctor should follow.
Earlier I’d to sing to the nipper to calm him but can’t sing and don’t know the words to any songs. All my lyrics are variations of nip, nippedy, nippedy-nip and nippedy-nu. He likes it, which is the main thing. But I’m a bit worried he might never learn his real name. Whatever it was...
And then Jenny banjaxed her back. The solidarity is nice, but badly timed. Although hers was fucked before mine and there’s never a good time to banjax your back anyway. So it’s midnight and the nipper’s wide awake. I’m guessing the neighbours are too. It could be a long night.

Quarter

2011-04-14T23:59:00.008+02:00

A quarter! I wasn’t around to celebrate three months of nipperness with him today as I was working, but made it back on time to ascertain he still doesn’t give a rat’s ass for birthdays.
Despite the food, wine and friends who had gathered at the table (unfortunately, food and wine only gather when friends do) he cried and whined. He simply does not give a Scheiße for friends, food or wine, and kicked up a fuss until he was changed, kicked up a fuss until he was fed, kicked up a fuss until he was brought to bed, kicked up a fuss until he was sung to, kicked up a fuss until he was talked to, kicked up a fuss until he was rocked, and kicked up such a goddamn fuss there was nothing to it but to feed him again – his only friends, food and wine – before he was too knackered to kick up a fuss again. He’s asleep still as I type. The third monthivarsary put to bed.
The nipper bid adieu to the grandparents yesterday, before they took flight out of earshot back to Ireland, cries still ringing in their ears. I doubt they’ll be back.
I should point out for the natives that I am of course exaggerating. The folks seemed very happy with the little fella who ensured their lasting affection by shamelessly firing off a series of killer smiles at them before they left. He even gurgled and churgled at them just to make sure.
Of course he farted as soon as they met, and waited until they were eating before attempting Brahms’ symphony number 4 with his arse, much to my dad’s amusement.
It ain’t easy being a nipper (as he keeps reminding us) but all things considered, he’s doing a fine job of it so far.

Expecting expectants

2011-04-09T02:00:00.008+02:00

Expectant grandparents expected tomorrow, probably more expectant than expected (if that ain’t expecting expectations) as they visit in expectation of the nipper only expected when they were last here as expectant grandparents. Now they’re simply expecting.
They’ll pretend they’re here to see me too, but I know there’s only one star from now on.
I expect they don’t like being grandparents, but will be happy with the result once they see him for the first time.
Jaysus knows how he’ll react. His manners are still shockingly bad; belching and farting without fear of reprisal. He’ll probably fart in their faces. But stars can do no wrong.
Hopefully he’ll be quiet though. He’s been pretty whingey and whiney of late, screamey and screechey of early. It was 5.30 a.m. when he kicked off this morning! The apartment’s eerily quiet now, which has me worried for the storm ahead.
I guess my parents have been here before though. After all, I was a nipper once, or so they tell me. I don’t remember so can’t be too sure. But they seem prepared. It’s a short visit and they’re wisely staying out of earshot, down the road. Hopefully he won’t exceed expectations.

Preamtle (Not a typo, abandoned local government)

2011-04-05T01:02:00.014+02:00

Every window sealed, every door locked, until we went around again. Back to the first door. I noticed just one bolt and the handle missing. I gave a gentle pull, a more persistent one, followed by a convincing tug. The doors swung open, we were in!
We didn’t know what it was, but we were about to find out. Quickly closing the doors behind us, we hurried away from the exposed entrance to the corridor to the left. Darkness awaited, but we made our way along, systematically opening doors left and right as we went, stumbling into a world of discarded office junk and neglected shit no longer wanted.
Jackets, chairs, desks, drawers, phones, files, tyres, a Bon Jovi poster(!), spanners, other tools, a huge discarded German flag, a wheelbarrow, even a bicycle! What the fuck was this place?!
The Landesamt für Bürger- und Ordnungsangelegenheiten Kraftfahrzeugzulassungsbehörde Berlin Lichtenberg – to give it its full title, which no doubt its workers used to take sadistic pleasure in doing every time they picked up the phone.
From a limited amount of research, enthusiasm dwindled by a lack of Stasi or Nazi involvement, I ascertained this was up to quite recently Lichtenberg’s regional government authority, where vehicles were registered, foreigners tracked (there were a lot of offices dedicated to Ausländers), and from where the local population was generally annoyed and controlled accordingly with great mountains of bullshit letters and pointless correspondence. They now operate in Friedrichstraße, from where they terrorise the Lichtenbergers with less likelihood of them calling in.
The electricity was still running – lights worked when switched on – but the water was switched off. Offices above the ground were either locked or bare, suggesting they may come back to gut the bottom rooms, or they simply got bored and gave up before they were finished.
We were trying to get into the Stasi Prison when we found this place today. (Yes I know there are tours and you don’t have to sneak in. We wanted to see the bits they don’t want to show tourists.)
On our way, we also stumbled across a GDR (or shortly thereafter) industrial park where they used to wash and spray cars, make road signs for motorways, and where the buildings were made of absolute shite. They were smashed to smithereens, outside walls too, with the vandals betraying the prefabricated buildings’ utterly lamentable lack of brick.
An oul fart walking his dog stopped and came back for a closer look when he saw us poking around outside the fence. He was probably an old Stasi guard – habits die hard – with nothing better to do with his time than be pedantic. At least I hope he was. I’d hate to think he was normal.
Even his dog was tugging at his leash in embarrassment. “Come on for feck’s sake,” he was probably barking to himself. An Irish dog apparently.

What
Former Lichtenberg local government offices, responsible for making sure all its citizens’ cars were properly registered, all the pesky foreigners kept in line, everybody appropriately bothered with enough inane paperwork to justify its own existence. It was so successful, all its officials were duly moved to a more fashionable address in the centre of Berlin.

Where
Ferdinand-Schultze-Straße 55, 13055 Berlin, Germany.

How to get there
Get the tram to Freienwalderstraße, walk down towards the Stasi prison and go around to the right of that. The industrial park will be in front of you, and the Landesamt is behind that. You’ll see the top of it poking above the trees.

Getting in
Hop the fence. Watch out for nosy codgers with nothing better to do with their time. Having said that, we just ignored your man in the end.

When to go
Whenever is fine. Although the electricity is running, I don’t think there’s active security – although I may be wrong!

Difficulty rating
2/10. Quite easy actually, once you get there, and once you find the door with the dodgy lock.

Who to bring
Whoever. Go on your own if you like being spooked out.

What to bring
Camera as always. A torch for the dark corners. Quiet soles – just in case!

Dangers
No major dangers as far as I can see, but as always, be careful, keep your eyes peeled and watch out for nosy neighbours.

Glug glug goes the train

2011-04-02T00:42:00.003+02:00

It’s after midnight. I’m on my way home from work and have bought a beer for €1.50 in the train station as I await the U2 back from Alexanderplatz. Everyone waiting is drinking bottles of beer. Drinking is practically encouraged when they sell it on the platform. Glug glug glug. Weird and wonderful people abound. Everyone chatting excitedly, clinking and chinking. I feel I’m at a party. This is Berlin! And here comes the train...

Excommunicated

2011-03-30T21:59:00.004+02:00

We've been excommunicated! No interweb, no phone, no way of contacting the outside world - well, except by going out in it I suppose.
Our ironically-named Easybox died, I guess it found things weren't as easy as it might have thought, so now we're waiting on Vodafone to send out another. Whether it's an Easierbox or a Couldn'tBeArsedAnymoreBox, like the last one, is something we have to wait until Monday to find out. Monday! They can't send it any sooner. Schweinhunde.
This, in case some of you smart arses were wondering, is being painstakingly typed on my mobile phone that has a keyboard only a mouse could comfortably use. So don't expect many posts before Monday.
I suspect the church may be behind this excommunication and sudden death of the Easybox. My contempt for all forms of religion, parasitic industries that they are - combined with the local church's attempts to lure my son into its clutches - led to some scathing words which I'd planned to share with youse (to youse a word a friend of mine likes yousing) but evidently the gods currently in fashion deemed the Easybox a neccessary sacrifice to prevent their publication. The church is fond of Easy targets. But I won't get into all that again - this keyboard's too small. And I'm hungry.

Radiokopf's Universal Sightung

2011-03-28T23:54:00.008+02:00

Radiohead’s first foray into the world of print media brought us to Kreuzberg today to get our hands on The Universal Sigh, the band’s first newspaper!
Not knowing what to expect but an expectation of the unexpected, I was surprised to get what I was told to expect – an actual newspaper, albeit one devoid of news (yet still more informative than many).
I didn’t expect it to be in German, however, although I realise it’s not altogether preposterous for a newspaper in Germany to be in German.
I guess they were being nice and catering to local demand, even if Berlin is home to more Auslanders than in all the Auslands put together, but still, Radiokopf in German?! Jaysus.
Released worldwide at noon (local times), the paper was free, making it affordable even for most Berliners, and it was snapped up at a relatively polite pace with no pushing, fighting, gunshots or screaming despite the lack of an orderly queue.
The nipper, a big (but yet the smallest) Radiohead fan, was very excited to get his little mitts on a copy, and of course his German is better than mine – he’s been living here his whole life after all – but I haven’t gathered to strength needed to read any of the articles yet. German articles are full of articles – der, die, dat, dit and so on – meaning you need to be very articleate to read them.
Instead I contented myself with pictures and artwork, looked up Pitchfork and found that a New Zealand magazine posted a PDF version in English! Grand.
The nipper was delighted though, and is now eagerly awaiting details of a hoped-for tour. His infection for the music, combined with the danger he poses to my clothes, convinced me to invest in a back-up for my favourite Radiohead t-shirt. It should be arriving any day now, unless one of the Schweinhund neighbours stole it already.
All this newspaper publishing malarkey was apparently to promote The King of Limbs – another fantastic album – weeks after everyone already (legally) downloaded it, but it led to speculation the band may have other surprises in store, hence the certain uncertainty. In the end there were No Surprises (yet), in itself the most surprising thing of all.

The artwork featured here is not by own, but the pictures of it are, so I'm not sure who owns the copyright to what. The nipper is mine of course, at least until he gets a job.
I have a couple of spare copies (in German) of The Universal Sigh, worth a fortune, but free for any genuine fans who promise not to try and flog them for capitalist gain. You'll have to pick them up yourself though.

Train tracks of thought

2011-03-25T23:55:00.000+01:00

Cycling for the S-Bahn home today, I passed over three pairs of train tracks, set into the concrete, innocuous. They were rusted, disused, but aiming for Sachsenhausen, a couple of hundred metres to my left. Whether they marked the route of human freight trains to Oranienburg’s concentration camp, I do not know, but they’re still fucking there, streaks of ignominy, guilty or not. It makes you think. Meanwhile a shiny new car dealership advertised Mercedes Benz and Smart cars. Vorsprung durch Technik anyone?

Bubbha

2011-03-22T02:56:00.014+01:00

The chubby cheeked little feller’s gettin’ big. Big? Flippin’ HUGE more like. The nipper’s now got six bellies and four chins. The bellies flop to his sides when you lie him down. He has an insatiable appetite and it shows. He even dreams of food while sleeping, moving his jaws and licking his chops in anticipation of the snack he’ll call for when he wakes up.
He’s already doubled his weight since he was born. In two months! I don’t know if that’s normal. (Unlike some, I haven’t read a single baby book, preferring instead to get my baby trivia in the pub.) But we’re happy with his progress. The more he eats the better I say, although his mother – coincidentally his lunch – might privately disagree.
The aforementioned cheeks are the chubbiest I’ve ever seen on a human. I do not think a nipper has been produced with cheeks chubbier. They’re massive, in the literal and culchie sense of the word.
He’s been having a hard time the last few days though. He hasn’t had a dump for almost a week and is feeling the pressure. Like Angela Merkel, he’s full of Scheiße. So we’re waiting with bated breath for the inevitable eruption. The last days of Pompeii...
When he’s in distress, music seems to soothe his troubles. Luke Kelly has a captivating effect and Radiohead’s latest album seems to be a particular favourite. Jenny sings to him every night so I’m sure it’s only a matter of weeks before he has a band up and running.
He simply LOVES people talking to him. He lures them in for a chinwag with his chubby cheeks and responds with happy grunts, stretches and killer smiles. As mentioned before, his smiles are contagious. So he’s quite a sociable fellow, and people seem to like him despite his terrible manners, farting and puking away with impunity. Won’t be long before he’s sneaking off to the pub, if he isn’t already. (It would explain the beer bellies. And the manners.)
He’s also got a peculiar fascination for shelves, their corners in particular. He spends hours swinging his head back and forth as he looks from one shelf corner to the other, comparing angles, no doubt noting their shoddy workmanship.
After last week’s unsuccessful venture to Rangsdorf, he seems to have developed a taste for excitement. He was complaining today as we went for a walk in a boring park. So the verboten has its appeals, even at such a young age.
Two months ain’t long, but already he’s showing a joie de vivre, albeit a sleepy one. For his second monthivarsary celebrations last week, we brought him to a Mexican taqueria in Kreuzberg. He slept the whole time, wasn’t arsed at all with the festivities. I even had to drink his tequila! Next month it seems, we’ll have to do something really exciting.

Heilige Pádraigstag

2011-03-18T16:32:00.007+01:00

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh! A bit late I know, but yesterday we were at the very first St. Patrick’s Day parade in Berlin! A rag-taggle bunch of festive stragglers dressed in varying degrees of degreen following four girls brandishing a snake being banished around Görlitzer Park by the very man, St. Patrick himself. Brilliant.
Derek Scally of The Irish Times reckoned some 250 desperadoes took part “if you squint” and at least two dogs (only slightly less desperate) joined in the fun too. There was a bit of consternation when the congregation ran into the local hounds belonging to the punks and drug dealers who like to call the run-down park home, but once the customary barking and arse-sniffing pleasantries were exchanged, we all proceeded as before. The dogs sniffed and barked too of course.
A fella dressed in a leprechaun outfit complete with orange hair and beard followed behind on his bike, towing a trailer blasting out diddley-eye music, while a lone drummer accompanied the snake up front as it wound its way though the muddy patch flanked by graffiti and sorry stumps of trees.
The weather obliged by being typically Irish, damp drizzle pissing down from the greyness accompanied by a bitter chill to ensure it could only be described as fuckin’ miserable.
The nipper slept, or at least pretended to sleep, through the whole thing. He’s only impressed when engaged in dangerous and highly illegal activities it seems, and so a bunch of revellers traipsing around a park in the rain held little interest for him – although I’m proud to say the parade was illegal too, making it the third unlawful activity the nipper’s been engaged in in the space of four days.
It ended where it began, in a Mexican restaurant on the edge of the park. Where else? Judging from the racket, tequila and diddley-eye were made for each other. Fiesta mór!
¡Viva San Patricio, the hombre who drove the snakes out of Ireland!

Yesterday also marked three years of my being an Irish Berliner! Mad huh? I'll get philosophical about it all in another post, another in my increasingly lengthy list of posts to write once I find the time.

Spotted in The Guardian

2011-03-18T13:54:00.000+01:00

The world’s most little known famous journalist became a little less little known today when articles he wrote for Spotted by Locals’ Berlin guide appeared in The Guardian!
No doubt the articles on the Silberfisch and Schwarze Pumpe were seized upon by the UK’s most prestigious newspaper (not that there’s much competition) for the delicate turn of phrase, inspirational whatsits and hauntingly accurate and poetic je ne sais quoi.
They overlooked other Spotted articles I’ve done, the latest of which touches on the story of the ghost stations of Berlin and the city’s shameless rebuilding of the Berlin Wall in the chase for tourists’ dollars. Seriously, they’re rebuilding the flippin’ Wall! I'll have to write a proper post about that too.
The Spottiness continues. Next week the Spotted honchos want to interview me AND publish a picture of me. Through some mad coincidence of camera lens fate, I only have pictures where I look ridiculous. They say the camera never lies, but I say they’re wrong, and I’m never wrong, even when I’m right. That one of me wearing the hat opposite when I had the red beard was actually a police mug shot, taken by surprise.
Fame and (especially) fortune may remain distant pipe dreams, if not great big tube dreams, but as long as stuff’s being published, I can go on sleeping. Metaphorically of course, and nipper permitting if not.

Niptoe's first adventure

2011-03-14T23:56:00.000+01:00

Today, to mark the two monthiversary of his landing, we brought the nipper on his greatest adventure yet – to the abandoned former military airfield at Rangsdorf! It’s the airport from where Colonel Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg flew with the bombs to assassinate Hitler.
We were caught. So our excursion was about as successful as von Stauffenberg’s plot.
The nipper wasn’t as excited as I was about it all to be honest, even going so far as to sleep on the train as we made our way there, but he perked up a bit when I lifted the fence and Jenny wheeled him under in the pram. We were in!
We eventually discarded the pram due to the uneven terrain, and Jenny carried him on as he looked around with increasing discomfort as we passed empty hangers and approached the shell of the main terminal building. I assured him the Russkies were gone and any Nazis long gone before them, but the nipper was having none of it.
Perhaps it was unfortunate that the pangs of hunger struck at that particular time, but in any case I shall have to have a talk with him about basic etiquette while sneaking around places you’re not supposed to. Certainly, crying and wailing for grub is not very discreet or helpful to keeping a low profile while trespassing in an area surrounded by a link fence with “Betreten und Befahren verboten!” plastered all over the place.
The security guard came along in his car when we had nowhere to hide, directly in front of the main terminal building. We played the stupid tourists’ card, “Do you speak English?” and he very nicely informed us we weren’t supposed to be there and that we should leave.
So the exploration was cut short, but the nipper got his grub as soon as we hopped back out under the fence, and slept all the way home in the train. Enough excitement for one day.

Material has been presenting itself at an alarming rate since I bemoaned its insignificance last week, but everything is rendered insignificant as matters unfold in Japan. Nevertheless I’ll proceed with my trivialities, for what else is there to do?
I’ll have to return to Rangsdorf for a proper snoop before I can bring you a complete reportage. If anyone knows the security guards’ tea break schedules please let me know. Meanwhile, a proper nipper update, one befitting the momentous bimonthary celebrations, complete with pictures, will follow shortly.

Überlin

2011-03-10T21:19:00.002+01:00

I’ve been writing an awful amount of Scheiße lately, utter ráméis about tea and hair and the like, and it’s got to stop. When I started this here blog, I did it to communicate my impressions and experiences of life here with people back home – my new life as an Irish Berliner – for those who wanted to read it. Some people care, others don’t, but I’m pretty sure nobody gives a rat’s ass about hair or tea. I will not write about hair anymore. Barring major circumstance I’ll not write about tea either.
I no longer know why I write a blog. I thought it was for myself in the beginning. A sort of diary. Maybe it is. The travels in South and Central America were interesting, but now the herd wants to rein me in, assimilate me into herd life. Am I really so conceited I think my mundaneness is more interesting than anyone else’s? I could write and write about the nipper – he’s fucking brilliant – but everyone’s nipper is brilliant, and while I may think my nipper is the best, so does everyone else (regarding their nippers), and nobody wants to read about mine if he is.
So it’s not for me, or such a thought would not occur to be. I guess it’s for you dear reader, whoever you are. Why, though, is another matter. A raison d'être has to be more than simply être. Mere existence is never enough. Forget raisons, I want sultanas and currants d'être too. Life in Berlin, a city I love in a country I don't, should provide plenty of material. Tomorrow I go exploring.

This post has been amended slightly following an afternoon’s pondering on raisins and their brethren, and to project a more agreeable tone following the arrival of more tea(!) this morning. I won’t write about that – I promise – unless I go mad and buy a teapot.