Der Himmel über Berlin

Sometimes I fucking hate Germany.

I went to the post office to collect a package that had been waiting for me and despite the large number of ID cards I produced to verify that I am indeed Mr. Ramposaurous Rex, the she-devil clerk stoutly refused to even look at them. Apparently they were not official enough. Of course, being a huge internet nerd, I buy lots of worthless shit on eBay, and only very rarely have had to produce a passport or indeeed any form of ID to reclaim them.

So off I trudged in the freezing bloody cold to fetch my passport. It wasn't far, but that's not the point. I was seething at her rudeness and refusal to even consider the possibility that sometimes common sense should prevail.

Back I arrived, and decided to do an experiment. I decided not to produce my passport until requested. The clerk didn't request it. Out of curiosity, I asked if she needed to see it. Nah, she replied dismissively.

That's not all of my ranting for today.

Earlier, I had been in an international newsagents trying to find a French newspaper for a Francophile buddy. There was a girl perousing the magazines written for foreign learners of English, naturally something I know quite a lot about. So, just out of a misguided desire to be friendly and helpful, I told her which one was the best.

She coldly said 'thanks' and turned her back on me. Actually turned her back! As though I had said 'I'd like to violate you with a carrot' rather than 'I think that one's the best, I'm a teacher'.

Anyway, I don't have a Germany t-shirt to blog, so I'd better just say that I love this place too. Most of the time.

You know I love you, right?

A few weeks ago, I had a very interesting conversation with my former blog colleague Phillippe. We talked a lot about our national identities, and how we fit into modern Europe. I've been formulating this post ever since.

I, for one, have always had problems with seeing myself as an Irishman. I don't have the groundless pride that many of my nationality do, and I am more than aware of what I have missed out on by having had my childhood education in Ireland, rather than in a more open and forward-thinking European nation. I am quick to publicise the frailties that exist and have existed in Irish society, and to criticise the close-mindedness and isolationism that these have bred in a large number of Irish people.

That said, there are parts of being Irish that I love. I love the positive reaction that it gets from people of other nationalities, every time. I love the country itself - when out the raw, rugged landscape I feel truly Irish and truly at home. I love the language and the rich history and how countless brave men and women gave their lives so that I can call myself an Irishman.

However when thinking of the things I love, my focus keeps getting broken by negatives that make me almost spit with rage. The Catholic Church with its 'holier-than-thou' attitude, which ruined lives, some very close to my own. How Irish people's personal freedoms were so shockingly restricted by archaic thinking disguised as righteousness. Contraceptives? Banned until 1979, only available with prescription until 1985. Homosexuality? Banned until 1993, when the European courts were forced to intervene. Divorce? Banned until 1997.

On my passport, at the very top, it states that I am a citizen of the European Union. Below that, it says I am a citizen of Ireland. This is ranking order that seems fitting to me.
I am a proud Irishman, but a very proud European. I am proud to have experienced the flair and cultural heritage from my time in Italy. I am equally proud to experience the German honesty, directness and work ethic.

I'm not saying that everything in Europe is perfect. I just feel that my time spent here has made me into a person I am happy to be. This is something that I feel could simply not have happened just living in Ireland.

...is going to be outstanding.

Frightened Rabbit are a Glaswegian four-piece, who on first glance, seem just like any other band. However I don't think I have ever heard anyone sum up so wonderfully what it means to be male. We whinge, we are irrational, we are self-indulgent, we hate ourselves for our failings, we are vulnerable but loathe to admit it. Some of us try to be poetic about it, but doing so doesn't really change anything, you just gotta get on with it.

I came across this record towards the end of my miserable period, and it really helped wrap everything up into a nice little package to be thrown into the bin.

"I don't want you back but I want to kill him",
"twist and whisper the wrong name, I don't care and nor do my ears",
"You're the shit and I'm knee deep in it"
"and now I, I tremble, because this fumble has become biblical"

I am finding it hard to decide which tune to embed here, but I'm going with this one.

Oh yeah, Death Cab for Cutie are also playing.

I started a new book last night, Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. It started well enough for me not to be daunted by its enormous size and I was motoring happily through it until the main character is saved from walking in front of a bus by a pretty girl. I get the impression that he's just been rammed in the arse by the old 'love at first sight' unicorn.

My cynicism may be leading me of course, but I am sceptical about the whole concept. I don't have much to contibute though, I have only ever loved one girl and I thought she was a boy the first time I saw her. There may have been a case of 'intruiged at first conversation', but that doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

Thinking of some of my paired-up friends, I can only think of one couple who come quite close, but they are both stinkingly good-looking so it doesn't really count. 'Desire to shag at first sight' is more like the raggedy old mule that eats the tops off your flowers than a mythical unicorn. I know that I feel it several times per day.

So, open question to blogland - has anyone ever felt love at first sight or is it just a pile of old bollocks?

On the way to blog HQ this morning, I stopped at the fruit stall where I usually buy some satsumas or bananas to get me through the morning.

For those of you familiar with Berlin, the stall is right outside Kottbusser Tor. Kotti attracts, shall we say, a certain type of character. These types usually have a number of dogs, are incredibly scruffy and smelly and are usually dropping back a bottle of Sternberg or Pilsator (particulary cheap and nasty beers).

One guy in particular seemed to be paying particular attention to me, and as I handed over the cash for my oranges, he made a quick lunge in my direction and swiped my wallet clean out of my hand. For a moment, I failed to compute what had just happened and by the time my brain clicked into action he already had a sizeable head start. Not that it mattered anyway, a little old lady had parked her little old lady trolley beside me, perfectly blocking my way.

My throwing ability is akin to that of a girl with no arms but sausages instead.

So when I pulled a satsuma out of the bag and flung it in his general direction, I had intended it more as a gesture of anger and frustration than anything else. Imagine my surprise when it made contact with the upper part of his skull and unbalanced him sufficiently to send him crashing hilariously into a bus shelter.

I got a deserved round of applause from fellow fruit shoppers (not from the old lady though, she was busy shouting at me for trampling across her stupid trolley) and sauntered up to my foe, reclaiming my wallet with a triumphant smile.

None of this actually happened though. I made it all up because I'm bored.

Six years ago, I worked for three months in a video store in a nasty area of Dublin. Among my colleagues were a guy who ran a black-market vodka business from the storeroom, and another guy who worked there because it was easy to have sex with the skanky females who used the sunbeds. He often did so in the tanning booths.

Three years ago, I worked a gardener. My boss there was a rather volatile chap, and I left one morning in a blaze of glory as his mother tried to restrain him from throwing stones at me as I walked away. He had flown into this fit of rage when I asked him not to shout at me or question my work ethic in front of the other workers. He also smashed some of his machinery, and punched the wall.

Two years ago, I worked for a language school here in Berlin. The owner of the school didn't speak a word of English and was a was greedy prat, charging huge prices to the students and passing very little of that on to his teachers. He made me vow never to accept anyone who couldn't do my job as my superior.

Eight years ago, I worked briefly as a toilet cleaner in a shopping centre. The security guard in the shopping centre tried to convince a guy to sue me after he bashed his head off the hand drier.

Why am I blogging about these people?

Because I just realised that, of all my previous work colleagues, I can pretty much only remember the ridiculous ones, the crazy ones and the downright idiotic ones.

However, now that Grit is now an ex-colleague, that trend can consider itself well and truly bucked. The office will be quiter, and less fun, but it's almost worth it to finally have an ex-workmate who is, simply put, really great.

We'll miss you, Gritti.

I pride myself on have pretty good powers of observation. I usually notice small changes in people and things - I'll spot your haircut (and throw out the compliment, even if it's hideous), I'll notice the new shoes and I'll certainly be aware of any small changes to my local area.

I'm also slightly paranoid, to the extent that I don't always believe in my own powers of observation. How can I be sure there used to be a bin there? Maybe your hair wasn't always pink. That tail isn't new, is it?

Despite this, there is one thing I am certain about.

The KitKat Chunky has decreased in size. Now it's only slightly bigger than an individual KitKat finger. This is unacceptable. I am not a huge fan of chocolate, or sweet things in general, however I get cravings just like everyone else, and the KitKat Chunky used to be perfect to sort me out. Now? A fecking temptation is all it is, and at the same price too.

Fuckers.

Last night I was gloriously bored and spend several hours linksurfing on wikipedia. By far the most interesting article was this one on on Hiberno-English.

I love the way it systematically justifies all the odd quirks that exist in Irish English, and I was especially proud when it alleged that some of the phrases that I personally use quite often are highly archaic and rarely in use any more. Hurrah for a rural upbringing, and lots of elderly relatives!

Some of my English teacher buddies have also been questioning the grammatical accuracy of some of the content on this blog over the last weeks. Now I can just point them to that article to avoid having to think about why my English usage is based on logical grammar rules. I like not thinking, so I do.

Anyway, by far the highlight was the enormous section devoted to slang words for being drunk. Some are bizarre, some are hilarious, all are wonderful.

There are many terms for having consumed a drop too much drink, many are used elsewhere, but the Irish tendency is to attempt to find the most descriptive adjective yet on each occasion. Some examples: "loaded", "blocked", "twisted", "full" (common in Ulster), "as full as a Gypsy's tit", "spannered","Spangled", "scuttered", "menashed", "stocious/stotious", "bananas", "baloobas" (common in Cavan), "locked", "langered", "mouldy" (pron. mowldy as in "fowl"; used in Galway esp.), "polluted", "flootered", "plastered", "bolloxed", "banjaxed", "well out of it", "wankered", "fucked", "fuckered","paraplegic" (common in Kilkenny), "ossified", "binned", "rat-arsed”, "gee-eyed", "demented" "flahed drunk" "langers altogether" "in shit drunk" (common in Cork), "buckled", "steaming"( common in Donegal), "messy", "rotten", "out of me tree" (common in Limerick) "off me head altogether", "off my face", "sloppy", "cabbaged", "wasted", "paralytic/palatic", "full as a boot", "full up", "full as the bingo bus" (common in Louth), "legless", "hammered", "circling over Shannon", "blootered", "squooshed", "banjoed", "mullered", "bingoed", "mangled", "ruined", "landed", "cant even see my hand in front of my face" "half-tore", "oiled", "jarred" (not too drunk, "I'm not drunk, I'm just a bit jarred!"), "scorched", "in the horrors"(common in Waterford), "stoned" (Louth/South Monaghan only), "I'm off my tits", "pissed", "cut and half cut", "flamin'" (common in Kerry), "sozzled", "blottoed", "trolleyed", "sloshed", "wrecked", "rancid", "goosed", "off my game", "off my trolley", "gimped", "destroyed", "rote", "rote off", "guitaroed" '"I wasn't banjoed I was guitaroed"', "steamed" (common in Mayo)

Grand so, I'm headin' off to get cabbaged, so I am. Good luck to yiz!

Has it started over there yet?

There are just the faintest rumblings of Christmas starting in Berlin now, and for the first time ever, I don't feel that they are far too early.

This is because Christmas is taking place on November 16th, for the Rampage clan at least. Since my sister and I will be in India on December 25th, and my parents will be somewhere warm in Europe, we have decided to move the whole thing forward by five weeks so we can have a Christmas together in the family home in rural Ireland.
This is why I won't be at of the blogmeets...

So the shopping has already started, and it is a pleasant experience when carried out this early. I am very much looking forward to enjoying the run-up to real Christmas without the homocidally high levels of stress that I usually experience. More time for relaxing mugs of mulled wine at the Christmas markets, you see.

Since I won't be having a traditional Irish Christmas dinner on December 25th, I have decided to have as many as possible between now and my departure on December 23rd. So the first one will be on Nov 16th, and I expect this to kick off a month of glorious turkey-based gluttony. I think there will be another with my housemates, and I might be able to manage two more with various buddies around town.

Hurrah! Tis the season to be jolly!

I have blogged previously about the evil Berlin ticket inspectors, however my fear of them over the last ten months has reduced greatly since I discovered an apparently foolproof way of cheating the system.

Step One: Purchase ticket
Step Two: Stamp ticket, but on the reverse side. If checked and questioned about misplaced stamp, argue you didn't notice that you stamped it wrongly. Utilise the fact that he thinks you are a stupid tourist. It helps to pick your nose at this point.
Step Three: Get to your destination and drink beer in celebration of being an anarchist. Hold on to the ticket though. You'll be using that bad boy again.
Step Four: For your next journey, stamp the ticket on the front in the right place. Now you need to display it in a way that the ticket inspector doesn't touch it and therefore doesn't have the opportunity to see the back. This is where you need a little display pocket in your wallet, like this.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he'll just move straight on. One time in a hundred (and it would be a rainy Nomber morning, wouldn't it), the fucker will ask you to take it out, scrutinise it closely and almost not look at the back. Almost.

They always work in pairs, and his buddy had caught someone too. The someone was either smarter or more of an asshole than me - as soon as he was out of the train, he smacked the inspector's equipment out of his hand and took off sprinting. I, on the other hand, was politely agreeing to pay the ?40 fine. I figured if he was the only inspector in Berlin that I hadn't managed to con, he deserved to have caught me.

On my return trip some minutes later, I saw him again. I moved to the other end of the train. I didn't want him to see my new (perfectly valid) stamped-on-the-back ticket.