Chapter X

In which Josh parties with the wrinklies.

Well, January turned out to be an incredibly snowy month, where one seemed to wake up every morning to a fresh covering. Sadly, this was not to deter the industrious Germans with their Teutonic work-ethic. I’m very happy for them, being able to easily overcome the snow, feeling, as they do, the need to make it into work, but when this means builders waking me up at eight o’clock in the morning with a cacophony of power-tools, I take umbrage. It’s times like that that one misses the English attitude of exploiting the slightest excuse not to go to work. However, as much of an inconvenience as the snow can be, preventing me from wearing half of the footwear I brought with me, it does have the distinct advantage of facilitating skiing. Indeed, I have over the past few weeks organised a ski-trip with my dear friend Heiko, for the Easter break. I’m incredibly excited and made full use of the opportunity to go shopping and purchase a new ski-jacket.

In other news, I hosted an AbFab evening with three of the English Erasmus students; the Germans I have explained it to have universally failed to get it. This ended up dissolving into an incredibly alcoholic affair and an unplanned trip into town to go clubbing in Club 11. Let’s skim over that and move on to other news, such as our going to the cinema to see Pitch-Perfect, Luke having raved about it extensively on twitter when it was out in England. I was quite impressed by how the humour translated into German, but, funny as the film was, there were some incredibly cringe aspects, as should perhaps be expected from an American comedy. Much more satisfying, however, was our final purchase of our Fasching costumes! In the end I succumbed to my weakness for a good pun and plumbed for one of the animal outfits, emblazoned as they are with humorous slogans on the back. My final choice was a black sheep costume, which I thought particularly apt, with “Lammfromm aber echt scha(r)f” in red on the back. Lammfromm, literally translating “pious as a lamb”, means “good as gold”, whereas Scharf means “hot” or “saucy”. The pun lies in the bracketing of the -r-, however, as Schaf means “sheep”. So, I’m “good as gold [a lamb], but proper saucy/sheep”. It loses something in the translation, but tickled me, anyway…

 That weekend saw the utterly underwhelming Erasmus party. We spent two minutes there, already well-oiled, before opting instead to head into town and get well and truly sloshed. This we accomplished with aplomb. Indeed, we found ourselves in Lange Theke (the pub I’ve mentioned in previous chapters). We got talking to Lydia, the Wirtin, and ended up signing up to tag along for the pub’s annual trip to the opening of Karneval in Lommersum, much to her delight. However, since we were all so squiffy, she wrote down the details of when/where to meet for the coach on various slips from her order pad. She was very keen that we didn’t forget that it was half-past seven that we had to meet, and underlined this rather aggressively. I spent Saturday in, nursing my head, and on Sunday Sammy, Pippa, Jen and I caught a taxi into town dressed as a black sheep, penguin, Minnie Maus and Rottkäpchen (“little red riding-hood”).

We arrived at Lange Theke at seven, and were pleased to see that the other patrons had also gone for it costume-wise (although, it must be said, the phrase mutton dressed as lamb was, in some cases, quite apt). Apparently a quite popular Karneval outfit is that of a Scotsman, and Lydia was thrilled that her kilt pattern was the same as that on my bag-strap. This being Germany, we were of course drinking at seven whilst we waited for everyone, and at half-past, we all piled onto the coach, by far the youngest people there. The atmosphere was fantastic, and we were even passed out packed lunches and a label, which served as our ticket. Written on the label was:

Wenn ich voll bin

binde bitte diese Karte an mein Knopfloch und

bring mich nach Hause!

Klopf nicht an, leg’ mich einfach vor die Tür!

Wenn meine Alte/mein Alter erscheint,

mach’ daß Du wegkommst!

VIELEN DANK IM VORAUS!

When I’m plastered

Please attach this card to my button-hole and

Take me home!

Don’t knock, just leave me in front of the door!

If my old lady/man appears

Make yourself scarce!

THANK YOU IN ADVANCE!

Everyone also received a beer, which a few people tried to refuse, only to have Lydia insist, thrusting it at them with the words “Frühstuck! Frühstuck!” (“Breakfast!”). After handing these out, she then periodically swept the aisle collecting waste, adopting the rôle of a kilted rubbish-ayatollah. They were all terribly excited to be taking some Englishmen along, and sharing the experience with us. The Germans really are an adorable lot, and did so much to include us and make us feel welcome. It really did feel like we’d strayed into some sort of saga coach-outing, only more German; getting drunk in the morning with the elderly. In fact, I’d go further: it was like being on Channel 4’s Coach Trip, until Lydia came along the aisle and made us dance with her to the weirdy Karneval music playing the whole way. This was hilarious, particularly when Pippa was called on, and didn’t know what to do with herself. Another notable aspect of the bus journey was the parading of a dancing clown figurine (and rude cow) up and down the bus. The latter was a flasher-mac’d cow, which flung its coat open to reveal a massive willie and dancing balls, which was hilariously employed in eliciting squeals from one old lady in particular. Continuing with the toilet-humour theme, we also stopped along the way for a Piselpause, which was a pit-stop in a motorway lay-by, and it absolutely made my day so far to see Father Christmas peeing against a recycling container on the Autobahn, stood next to an elf.

We weren’t entirely sure what to expect when we arrived (it proved to be a “don’t ask why, just go with the flow” sort of day), but we were thrown - to say the least - when we entered a large village hall with a strange procession-sermon-thing being held, presided over by a priest speaking in the unintelligible Kölsch dialect. Everyone else in the hall was seated, wearing either their Sunday-best or Karneval regalia. Stood at the back we felt a bit out of place; a motley crew in full-on fancy dress. However, in true German style, the chairs were cleared away in the twinkling of an eye, and before we knew what had happened, there were long tables stretching away from the stage, the length of the hall, with a bar at the back. Much better. We were seated at a couple of the tables reserved for Trier and partook of the very cheap wine as the festivities began. There was a keg at either end of the table and the Germans were well and truly on it! (Particularly one woman, dressed as a hippie and having a good two-thirds of a keg to herself). Everyone was absolutely battered and a guy dressed as a kangaroo was soon fast asleep. He would go on to spend the majority of the day dozing off, leant against various things - be it slumping over tables or propped up against cigarette machines - whilst his comrades, Father Christmas and his elf wingman, proceeded to hit on every girl in the room. They struck out every time and ended up asking Pippa, Sammy and Jen how they like to “make party”, too drunk to grasp that they could speak German to us rather than their dreadful pidgin English.

The day’s festivities were centred around the various Karnevalgemeinschaften (“Carnival Societies”) from different townships as they presented their Prinz, Jungfrau and Bauer (“Prince”, “Virgin/Princess” and “Farmer”) amongst a good deal of sing-song, before some local dance group put on a little show. These figures are elected each year and have specific costumes, with the Prinz always donning hose and a pheasant-quill hat, the Bauer a remarkably impressive (albeit terribly cumbersome) peacock-feather hat and the Jungfrau generally being a man in drag. Each society differed slightly along this theme, as well as in their society members’ uniforms, presumably relating to the founding date of the society. Indeed, one society had Regency-style uniforms which immediately brought to mind the drumming uniforms featured in a particular children’s film. I half expected them to start singing “Treguna mekoides trecorum satis dee”. One troupe was particularly touching, as their Prinz and Jungfrau were a Downs couple, elected for life, who seemed so happy to be dancing and singing up on the stage. We quickly got the gist of what was going on, and at the end of every little segment, there was a little trumpeting followed by the regional Narrenruf (“Fools’ Call”) of each area present. These calls are shouted during Fasching, with Köln saying Alaaf! And Trier Helau! We were the only representatives there who were not from a Karnevalgemeinschaft per se, and were occasionally overlooked in the call-list, giving us the impression that we were a bit of a poor relation, which rôle the Trier lot played with gusto, always bellowing Helau! to remind everyone of our (certainly apparent) presence.

The Lange Theke lot were so lovely and incredibly keen to get us involved in the fun. For instance, near the start, Lydia called Jen over, to ask her if she’d come up with her and give a collection of money to one of the girls’ dance troupes which performs every year (apparently considered honoured guests). Jen obviously cried off and scuttled back to her seat. Cue Lydia beckoning me over. She wasn’t sure whether Jen had understood what she was suggesting, so sent me back to explain. Jen had understood, but was unwilling, so I had to go back and plead shyness on her behalf, knowing full well what was coming: “Never mind. You’ll come up with me instead, of course!”

Once the girls had finished their stomping-dancing (I am at a loss for the official name of the discipline), I was frogmarched onto stage by the kilted, whirling dervish that is Lydia and presented the money. As I sat back down, Pippa expressed her awe: “And it only took Josh 45 minutes to end up on stage! We should have known...” Lydia is such good fun, so well-meaning and an absolute force. Later on, she passed out the remaining sandwiches, having made far too many to allow people to choose between cheese and salami, before commencing her Olympian display of sausage-flinging. She stood at the far end of the table and started hurling foot-long Bockwürste from a brine-filled packet at everyone sat along the table. I was caught entirely by surprise and was quite proud of myself, managing as I did to catch the very slippery sausage which came hurtling towards my head. It must be said, the landlady certainly has a good arm.

The day was an absolute roar, and the live entertainment kept everyone in an excellent mood. We got the chance to chat to some really interesting people, including a very tactile old lady with dyed black hair and a skull-and-crossbones scarf who did not like China. At all. There was also a jolly nice man sat opposite us, dressed as a policeman, who kept plying me with – God knows how many - cans of champagne which he had secreted about his person. I suspect that this was due to my informing him, in response to his question of which girl was my girlfriend, that the girls were all members of my harem. He was good fun and at one point set the rude cow in front of the sleeping kangaroo, who was awoken by a whooping willie waving in his face. This cow eventually ended up sat atop one of the kegs, facing outwards and periodically exposing itself to the rest of the room.

The dancers were all really good as well. Although, the Germans seemed not to appreciate that it was a bit dodgy having little girls flash their pantied bottoms to the audience. It highlighted cultural differences rather when this display elicited cheers from the Germans and an uncomfortable chorus of “Oh, goodness!” from the prudish Brits… Speaking of awks sexualisation of children, one group naturally performed the Gangnam Style dance, which tune is still heavily dug in Germany. Nevertheless, I felt the need to record the hilarious spectacle, and it’s just a shame that my fear of looking like a perv led me to stop recording just before a heavy-set, elderly and moustachioed German man started joining in. He made my day. Indeed, the old people and their chat were golden, especially Ballon-Helmuth (“Balloon-Helmuth”), so named because he provides Trier-themed balloons every year. And forces them on anyone he can.

At the end it was our turn to go up on stage and, not having brought Trier’s Prinz Ralf, we just all had a jolly old dance on the stage as Lydia was presented with a Karneval medal and a plaque commemorating the twenty years she’s been coming with the Lange Theke patrons. This proved at the end that we were not the poor relations I had taken us to be, erroneously applying my British cultural goggles. On the plaque was a total of all of the street-miles covered, and hours spent, travelling there and back over the years, which was staggering! I had Jen as a dance-partner, as Father Christmas and the elf had seized Sammy and Pippa, slow-dancing with them in a glorious display of awkwardness (they were quite letchy). Once the party had wound down, we headed down the road to a pub, where a lovely casserole was laid on for us and we all continued to eat, drink and be merry, with the Germans beginning to fall over with ever-greater frequency. A particularly nice point was when Lydia’s brother tried to speak to me in English and Lydia came over and shouted at him, saying “He speaks excellent German! No English!” The bus journey back was spent sleeping by most, exhausted as we all were, although we were awoken to a particularly funny spectacle of an old man in a Mexican poncho ricocheting down the aisle and falling headlong down the stairs half-way down the coach, which was even funnier once it turned out that he was unharmed.

It was one of the most surreal outings of my life, but certainly one of the best of the year abroad so far! A big thank you - and shout out - to Lydia and die lange Theke!