Chapter VIII

In which Josh gets all Christmassy.

It has been a deplorably long time since I updated my blog. Sincerest of apologies to my avid readership, who will have been repeatedly disappointed, frequently checking the page, as I am certain they will have been. I offer up the flimsy excuse that December was a particularly busy time for me, and in order to get back on track and up to date I’ll make this a sweeping account of December, composed primarily of odd anecdotes, broad strokes and photographs. I trust that this will provide a rough gist of what it was like to spend the festive season bei den Deutschen.

For instance, anecdote number one concerns the day upon which I was taken, under duress, to see the final Twilight film. And what a load of old bollocks it was. A particularly impressive coup de théâtre was the “and I woke up and it was all a dream” segment, in which the preceding thirty minutes of the hour and a half long film are negated… However, it must be said that seeing Breaking Dawn, Part II in German was preferable, given that I was only obliged to look at Kristen Stewart’s poor acting and not listen to it, being treated to the comparatively delightful aural experience provided by the dubbing-artist. The day was, in spite of this cinematic ordeal, significantly ameliorated by the Trierer Weihnachtsmarkt (“Christmas Market”), sporting as it did a rather impressive outdoor ice-rink. This I naturally immediately patronised, to my substantial enjoyment. It was incredibly good fun, and after five minutes or so getting back into the groove, I put on a remarkably good show of it, although I was admittedly outshone somewhat by my Swedish compeer, who was taught ice-skating in games… There was not a single tumble, despite the rampaging children, and the only time we lost control, Isabella and I happened to collide, and in a remarkably - and inadvertently - graceful, pirouetting embrace, managed to right ourselves.

A particularly pleasant turn up for the books was my acquisition of a local, in more sense than one. Not only have I bagged a German beau, but he came equipped with a really lovely Stammkneipe (“local”, in the sense of “pub”), where I have spent a significant amount of time since, and am now on first-name terms with the barmaids, Kim, Lydia and Anita (who all love my accent, incidentally). I even have a “usual” for the first time in my life, and finally have the pleasure of not having to tell the barmaid what I want. On one instance, visiting alone in the early afternoon, I baffled Anita by requesting a coffee. Upon my completion of said beverage:

„Noch was?“

„Ja. Warum auch nit?“

„Diesmal was Alkoholisches?“

„Haha, ja… Ok!“

„Viez-Limo?“

„Bitte sehr.“

The vast quantities of snow which accompanied the advent of December were a particularly lovely treat. Indeed, the first time it snowed I was in a bar (only having brought my tweed jacket with me), when an incredibly powerful blizzard struck. We got a good couple of inches, rendering the Porta Nigra more of a Porta Alba, all whilst I was still in said bar. I subsequently had to brave the snowstorm to meet other friends at another bar a couple of streets away (appropriately called Simplicissimus, which pleased me no end). By the time I’d arrived, my entire front (including my hair) was covered in a thick coating of snow, leaving me looking like a particularly well-dressed abominable snowman. Unfortunately, once I’d been sat down with Heiko and the others for ten minutes, I was simply drenched through and reduced to using my jumper as a towel, the toilets having run out of hand-towels and unable to boast of a hand-dryer. And now for a series of snow-snaps:

The Trierer Weihnachtsmarkt was absolutely beautiful, and utterly charming. Thanks to Stefan, I was even shown which stall had the best Glühwein (mulled wine) and, having initially been repulsed by the thought of warm white wine, was encouraged to try the weißen Glühwein which, according to him, is much nicer than the Roter. He wasn’t wrong! It was delicious! However, another day I had a very jolly time finishing Pippa and Sammy’s Glühwein as well as my own, after they’d decided they didn’t like it and just wanted the cups. Cue accidentally-drunk Josh wandering around with his sober posse. The best way of conveying the lovely, lovely market is photographically, so here we go again:

The Trierer was certainly not the only market we visited, but was far and away the nicest. Everything is lovely, traditional, and –above all – tasteful (apart from the model goat bleating above one of the stalls). In contrast, the Düsseldorf and Köln markets were just over-packed, vulgar tourist-traps, full of drunk Frenchmen and stalls all selling the same tasteless crap. There was, however, in Köln a little LGBT Allee at the market, although, aside from a stall selling arseless pants, and shiny pink wrapping-paper covering all of the huts, it was disappointingly samey and uninspiring. On top of this, we were at one point trapped in a particularly overcrowded corner of the market, dominated by the most pervasive, hideous miasma emanating from a stall selling some cooked cheese-product, which absolutely hummed. Even the French and Germans were visibly appalled. On the plus side, we got more Glühwein cups to accompany our Stiefelchen (“booties” – little mugs shaped like boots) from Trier, had some Eierpunsch (“eggnog”) which was more rum than anything else, and rode a carousel on the back of pigs in Düsseldorf. Mine was called Berta. I had to sit an exam the day after Düsseldorf, but it was a piece of piss and pretty lols besides, so no harm done.

A nice thing which we did shortly before returning home for Christmas was our Secret Santa-exchanging, mini Christmas day, the tone of which encapsulated by my witty portmanteau “Triermas”. Daytime drinking was obviously a prerequisite, so I cracked out the Bolly (which had the added benefit of offering me the opportunity of the AbFab reference here). Pippa was my Santa, not that our respective Weihnachtsmänner remained terribly secret, with all of us deducing the pairings. It was a bit concerning what our presents said about us, particularly considering we’d only known each other for three months; I received toiletries, a bottle of tequila and the imaginatively titled Männer 2013 (“Men 2013”) calendar. Apparently I’m regarded as an over-sexed alcoholic in need of frequent baths… Ho hum, there are worse things.

The only hiccup in my final days in Trier occurred when, on the last night, the fire alarm started going off in my building. However, as my flat’s alarm wasn’t going off, fire wasn’t licking at my door onto the corridor and, above all, I didn’t want to go and wait outside, I preferred to pretend not to notice and hide in my room. To make matters worse, the fire brigade actually turned up, and when Sam came round to collect the cup which she’d left in my flat, I had to come down. This involved awkwardly squeezing past a group of burly firemen on the staircase and me loitering outside for the last couple of minutes with everyone who had been there for a good half an hour already. Awkward.

Mentioning the fire brigade brings me quite neatly onto a number of observations which I have recently made, numbering four in total. The first is that the Germans, in an extension of their penchant for staring, are remarkably fond of their “street shows”. These involve standing on a street where there’s been some sort of accident or incident, and gawking. For instance, on an evening out with Stefan, he spotted about five police cars and a police van outside Club 11, and dragged me over to rubber-neck. People were being brought out of the club, the police were surly and it was all kicking off. A couple of people were even taken off by a fire-van, which serves as a sort of St. John’s ambulance in Germany (hence the fire-brigade segue). My observations now begin to decline in engagingness. Observation number two, which is really more of a discovery, is that they sell almond Mars bars here! Mind. Blown. Thirdly, taking a leaf out of Daddy’s desert-book, I have realised, that given the depth of my shower-basin, I can use the kitchen-sink plug to fashion a handy bath-sauna in my own bathroom. This boasts the added excitement of making me feel like I’m having a wartime bath. Four: the Germans do Christmas undeniably well, but push the theme a bit in their desire to Christmasify everything. Just before my return to England and her pastures green, I ordered a tequila slammer. How could this be Christmasified, you may ask? Instead of a lime, I received an orange slice, and rather than salt, was presented with cinnamon. Seriously.

Christmas at home was lovely, and the trip back relatively painless. Christmas Eve and Day were spent with the family, mostly drunk. We enjoyed a marvellous, delicious Christmas dinner at the Suffolk Kitchen, where Simon comped us a bottle of champagne for being “such good customers”, lovely man that he is. A particular highlight of the meal was the desserts, particularly the mulled wine jelly with cinnamon poached pear. Boxing Day and the following day and a half were spent in the North, first with Mummy’s family, then Daddy’s. The day with the paternal grandparents was particularly enjoyable. I got a chance to play with my two young cousins (the only children I like) and the grandparents were, as ever, hilarious. Grandma provided some excellent twitter fodder (c.f. following examples from the day, below the video) and after rather a lot of wine decided to join in with the cousins’ karaoke. She sang a JLS song (never having heard of them), accompanied by Grandad on the pan-lids. Those brave enough for the rendition are offered the sample below:

Grandma Rocking the Mic

“Grandma's just been telling me about her glory hole... Turns out she means the cupboard under the stairs…”

“Grandma, when reminded that she doesn't like sparkling wine: "Oh no, I'm like Josh; I'll drink anything."

“Gran's neighbour's been committed to a home, so today gran used the spare key to nick her chairs and use her oven.”