Movember Madness

Movember, formerly known as November, has arrived and we are half way through a month that is now celebrated by thousands of men worldwide, growing moustaches.


From the famous sporting stars (I offer up Lance Armstrong, Jensen Button, Kevin Pietersen and Gary Lineker for a start), to the ordinary man in the street, there is a kinship to be had during this month; a joyous togetherness in producing hairy top lips.......


Why? The answer is simple. Cancer.


Cancer? What's the connection between moustaches and cancer? None really, except a tenuous, but powerful one. If you get cancer and start a course of chemotherapy, you will lose all your hair...including your moustache. If you are lucky, you'll make it through and your hair will grow back, even your 'mo' should you want it (and who would to be honest?). 


Sadly, too many people still don't get the chance to regrow their hair, too many people succumb to this pervasive, unremitting, vicious disease. As I have moved into my 40's, so the number of people I have known who have suffered from or have lost their life to cancer has also increased. Only a week or so ago, an old college friend lost her brave battle against cancer.


So this growth spurt / sprouting season is motivated by a desire to raise awareness of and funds for cancer, specifically male cancer charities; in particular prostate and testicular cancer.


Hence the awful pictures at the top of this post. I wouldn't ordinarily walk around with a beaver nesting under my nose. But if it helps people understand and gain more knowledge about cancer, I'll gladly grow my mo. 


If it helps in the fight against cancer and towards finding a cure and in the treatment of cancer patients, I will be proud to sport my moustache and will happily encourage all those people staring at the under-nose-slug to ask me what I have a mo for. 


Maybe they'll grow one, maybe they'll donate, but maybe they'll think more about the need to tackle cancer and to check themselves for lumps and bumps in places they shouldn't be and hopefully be one of the fortunate ones who, should they develop cancer, catch it early enough, get cured and keep on living life to the full.

Weekend in Germany...Macht spass mit Fussball und Bier!

The newest Borussia Moenchengladbach fan

Wheat beers....2 with, one without alcohol

The Rhein as seen from the top of Cologne Cathedral

Germany, Football. Beer and  Moustaches

It's been quite a while since I have put finger to keyboard.

It is now November and the clocks have gone back, bringing in another winter to chill the bones and freeze the extremities. 

Since the last blog post, way back in July, I have travelled to and from the other side of the world - twice,  and popped over to Germany for a weekend. You may think of this as a jet setting lifestyle, but it is far from it. Flying for 16 hours, with all the family, in economy class, with a change in Dubai is not the best way to relax. A trip on Flybe is not exactly the height of luxury either. But I am not complaining.

The Flybe journey took myself and Simon, he of many previous blog posts, Paspartout to my Phileas Fogg, traveller supreme and consumer of beer and wurst, to northern Germany to visit Oliver at his home in Marl.

Oliver had very kindly invited us to visit him following the successful cycle challenge we had completed in June, 750km from Worcester to Dublin and back in 6 days.

I had suggested to Simon that we cycle to northern Germany, but the pained grimace on his face, couple with an expression that I believe was two words long, second word '....off!', meant that we left Birmingham at the particularly early time of 6:50am, bound for Dusseldorf with 10 other passengers. Yes, including the pilot, co pilot and crew we numbered 16....and they'll still charge you an arm and a leg for an additional bag.

Tour de Deutschland

Oliver met us in Dusseldorf and I made the classic 'I haven't been to Europe for a long time' mistake...trying to get in the car on the wrong side. Moreover, whilst sitting in the passenger, I continually tried to grab an imaginary steering wheel and press the non existent brake pedal...it's an odd feeling.


Friday was spent visiting Oliver's industrial production site in Duisburg, home of the company he works for, Grillo AG. I am now fully competent in the various processes and specifications required to extract zinc from industrial waste and in rolling zinc into cables and sheets. For a full discourse on zinc, I will be happy to send a Pdf document for which you can reimburse me £45.99.


Oliver drove us to Marl, a quiet town of 90,000; leafy residential streets with beautiful individually designed houses, supermarkets that have bakeries that sell delicious fresh, warm bread rolls and have a stock room with a floor to ceiling wall of beer.


We celebrated our first evening in Marl with a traditional German meal; the Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet. It was great, though I couldn't quite recall the German for 'more prawn crackers please'. 


The pretty Chinese waitress gave me a quizzical look when I asked for a non alcoholic beer - in German - a look that said..'er, I am sorry, I don't speak Mongolian'. Oliver came to my rescue and I thanked the waitress in Mandarin; 'Xie, xie'. She smiled and looked suitably impressed. Proof positive that my Mandarin Chinese is a lot more fluent than my German. My German teacher at school, Ronald Tidmarsh, affectionately known as Freak, would have given me piles of extra work.


Oliver suggested we retire to a traditional German pub for a couple of beverages. We crossed the road to 'Mulvaney's Irish Pub'. We had been forewarned that the German government had, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the smoking ban, so effectively introduced in the UK in 2007; wouldn't apply to German public houses. Immediately we walked in, our eyes began streaming. I had forgotten how unpleasant a pub full of smoke was. Come on Bundestag, sort it out.


We decided to go for wheat beers all round. As a non drinker, I was in heaven. One thing the Germans do extremely well is non alcoholic beers. All the major brands sell non alcoholic beer and it tastes great, as good as the real thing; though I don't really know as I haven't drunk the real thing since 1998. None of this terrible Kaliber nonsense for the Germans. 


In fact I drank so many delicious non alcoholic beers during the weekend, that my bowels produced what can only be called a 'beery sh*t'. The likes of which I haven't had since the aforementioned year, 1998. Ah, the memories.


We walked home, stinking of fags and half an hour before the live music was due to start. We had already been approached to pay 4 Euros each...1 hour before the music started; much to our annoyance. The 'bouncer / doorman' would have had trouble kicking Mr Bean out...a lanky, greasy haired, skinny youth....mind you, he could have been a black belt in Jujitsu. He didn't quite seem to understand that we were not paying 4 Euros each to sit in smoke, waiting for live music we weren't intending to watch.


Saturday.....Football, football, football, fussball.


Saturday dawned bright and warm. We wandered over to the supermarket bakery and bought breakfast; cheese, warm rolls, cold meats, sausages. After a good feed, we were ready to get in the mood for a long, exciting day out. Oliver had somehow managed to secure 4 tickets for a VIP box at the Borussia Park stadium to watch his beloved team, Borussia Moenchengladbach against Hannover 96 in the German Bundesliga.


The mood was set by Oliver's flat screen TV. No matter how many buttons I pressed on the remote controls, there only seemed to be one channel. SKY BUNDESLIGA....wall to wall football coverage, reruns of games that had finished 2 minutes before, analysis of what was going to happen, what was happening and what what going to happen afterwards in the world of German football. I can now tell you the name of every player in the Bundesliga, the managers and the coach driver for each team.


At around 1 o'clock, Oliver's work colleague and friend, Patrick turned up to take us all the 100 or so kilometres to Borussia Park. I had selected a suitable t-shirt, but Oliver allowed me to wear his hallowed Borussia Moenchengladbach shirt from the Bundesliga winning side of 1996. Topped off by a nice BMGladbach baseball cap.


VIP Status....living the German dream.


After parking up at the stadium (private reserved parking space) we sauntered to the VIP entrance. The sight that met us was absolutely stunning. No, not the architectural magnificence of the new stadium, nor the crowds flooding in to watch the match. No, the army of stunningly beautiful girls checking tickets, putting on VIP bracelets on trembling arms, smiling and welcoming you to the game. They were everywhere. Every beautiful girl over the age of 18 had been recruited. It was like a wall of Claudia Schiffer's and Heidi Klums (the early years). I think the recruitment interviews would have gone like this;


Knock on the door....'Come in'


Girl; 'I am here for the interview for the hostess job at Borussia Park'


Interviewer; 'Age?'....Girl  '18'


Interviewer, 'Experience?'....Girl 'Well, I have watched Borussia Moenchengladbach since I was 4 years old....'


Interviewer, 'Stop, enough....you're beautiful, you've got the job,. Get your uniform outside and see you Saturday'.


Interviewer, 'Next!'


Knock on the door...in walks someone who fell out of the ugly tree


Interviewer, 'Out munter!  Don't ever darken my door again'.


And who says discrimination is dead?


We climbed the stairs to our VIP box and were met by a lovely, friendly hostess who plied us with unlimited drinks and a wonderful buffet. During the game, as I sat in a plush, comfortable seat, she even dangled a strawberry Cornetto in my face. How could I resist? It was amazing. Even after the game, the feasting continued, with an unlimited free bar and buffet downstairs.


So to the game.


The build up to kick off featured rousing songs from the Gladbach fans; singing their hearts out - mostly in the direction of a bloke dressed in the club mascot's outfit; a foal. He ran up and down in front of the rapidly filling terraces (yes, you can still smoke in pubs and stand up at a football game in Deutschland...it's like England in the 70's and 80's, without the hooliganism) waving a flag and whipping the crowd into a frenzy.


As the teams emerged, the club anthem rang out and 50,000 people sang as one;


'Am Samstagmittag gehts es los, ins stadion zum Boekelberg'....a rousing Euro-pop anthem, in the true spirit of Eurovision. Actually, it was great to see the passion of the fans who sang with real meaning, furiously waving their club flags. If it didn't inspire their team, then nothing would.


And it worked. The game was not quite an epic in the style of English Premier league matches....Tottenham 4 Arsenal 4, Liverpool 5 Newcastle Utd 4 (still hurts that one), Manchester Utd 1 Manchester City 6 (enjoyed that) and on the same day as the Borussia game, Chelsea 3 Arsenal 5. 


But as games go it was enthralling and had just the right amount of drama, coupled with good skill and some moments of genius from a player we English need to take notice of; Marko Reus. Young, fast, skilful and a lethal finisher in front of goal. After taking a well deserved lead, Moenchengladbach were pegged back to 1:1 at half time. 


The second half was open with plenty of attacks, but one moment of brilliance that settled the game. Reus collected the ball to the left of the penalty area, turned back inside, almost Crueff-like, dipped his shoulder and drifted past another desperate defender, before unleashing a powerful shot into the bottom left corner of the goal. 


Our ageing English team will have nightmares about Rues in future European Championships and World Cups...the question is, where do the Germans keep producing these outstanding young players from?


I believe there is a 'Fussball Spieler' factory somewhere near Essen. German super footballers made to the highest specifications - an unbelievable ability to dribble, run fast, shoot with both feet and to take penalties. 


Whereas we English closed our Footballer factory a few years ago as a result of the economic crisis.....I'm afraid our current crop of footballers, the Rio Ferdinands, John Terrys, Steven Gerrards and Frank Lampards are beyond their 'use by date' and their batteries are running very low.


I digress. The 50,000 faithful left the ground, still singing, happy their team had delivered a win which took them to 4th in the Bundesliga. 


You can say what you like about sport. I enjoy watching from the comfort of my armchair, a cup of tea in hand and a biscuit to nibble on. But there is nothing like watching it live, in the stadium, soaking up the atmosphere. It's even better if you are sat in a comfortable chair, with your own VIP box, a cup of tea or something long and cold and a Cornetto to nibble on.




Köln / Cologne


I love visiting places I have never been to before. There is a feeling of anticipation and excitement like opening your Christmas presents. You have an idea what you might be getting, but you don't really know. It's like that with new places. You've read about them or seen them on the telly, or someone you know once went their for a long weekend and told you all about it....but until you go there, you just don't know.


I had been through Cologne many years before. Why Simon and I elected to pass through one of Germany's cultural highlights and spend the day at a poor Germany version of Alton Towers called Fantasialand is something I still haven't quite understood. The fantasy was that someone thought it would be really good....but sadly it wasn't. 


So, 25 or so years later, Simon and I rectified this oversight and were taken by Oliver to spend the day in Cologne, famous for its cathedral, its bridge over the Rhine, its old town and a drink called Kölsch. 


As we sped down the Autobahn, Oliver explained that as it was Sunday, the trucks that would ordinarily fur up the arteries of the German motorway system, were not allowed to drive on the Autobahns on Sundays. By law, unless they have a special permit. I counted 2 trucks in the 100km to Cologne. What a great rule that is. Perhaps we can do it over here, but make Monday the only day the trucks can go on motorways.


The most amazing fact about Cologne on the day we went (Sunday), was that it was OPEN. 
Normally, the shops of Germany stay resolutely closed on a Sunday and all the good citizens do other things on a proper day of leisure (but don't get that lawnmower out to cut the grass....naughty and definitely taboo on a Sunday).


For some reason, our German cousins like to have Bank Holidays on different days of the week. In this case, All Saints Day fell on a Tuesday. Therefore the Monday before was called a 'Bridging Day' - also a holiday. And that meant the shops could open on the Sunday. Confused? Don't worry, we didn't even go in any shops other than souvenir shops. 




The impressive cathedral beckoned us. We spent a pleasant few minutes wandering around inside and I was surprised to learn that a tomb at the front of the cathedral was alleged to contain the bones of the Three Wise Men, the Three Kings; those gentlemen who bore gifts for the new born baby Jesus 2,011 years ago. Now, I know they were ' three kings from Orient are...bearing gifts we travel afar'. Cologne seems an awfully long way from Bethlehem. Did they drop the pressies off, have a quick plate of falafel and some houmous  before carrying on to Northern Germany? 


Maybe their 'SatNav' ( a brightly shining star I believe) misdirected them. Or maybe they were hungry for a decent currywurst.



The three wise men of Marl now decided to climb the 509 steps to the viewing platform inside one of the two spires. 97.5 metres up. The staircase was a narrow spiral that went on and on. With every step higher the smell of sweaty bodies got stronger and the volume of unfit heavy breathing increased. Not for the faint hearted (literally), it was quite a climb and by the look on the puffed out red cheeks of many of those climbing up, not something they had expected.


The view was wonderful, out over the Rhein, the colourful houses of the old quarter glinting in the warm autumnal sunshine.


For our final stop in Cologne, we made our way down to the backs of the Rhein and the old quarter. For an autumn day, the unseasonally warm weather had brought lots of people out for a relaxing Sunday stroll and a glass or two of Kölsch. This uniquely brewed beer is served in special tall glasses, and served by waiters called Köbes who keep a record of how many beers have been drunk by marking the beer mat of the customers. These beer mats are legal 'documents' and you can be punished for tampering with them. 


Don't mess with the Germans and their beers. You have been warned.


I didn't try a Koelsch, as it wasn't served in a non alcoholic form; but again sampled a non alcoholic wheat beer. Delicious, as always....


***PLEASE MR TESCO....Import non alcoholic wheat beers and I'll continue shopping in your retail prison. My soul will be yours and I'll never look at a Sainsburys again.****

Kanst du Deutsch sprechen? ....Well, I thought I could.

Have you ever been in a situation where your mouth is working, but your brain just can't keep up?

Picture the scene. 

We were invited to dinner with Oliver's parents; a lovely couple who made us feel very welcome and served up a hearty meal. (Honestly, I did nothing but eat from the minute I arrived in Germany).

Oliver's father spoke a smattering of English which he employed to good effect. His mother didn't speak English. This, I thought, wouldn't be a problem as Simon speaks excellent Deutsch, Oliver is German (ie can translate if required) and I speak German too.

Well, I used to.

Years have flown since the necessity to speak German. I can read German relatively well. I can get the gist of what someone is talking about. And I thought I could speak it too. How wrong I was. 

The evening started well enough. My attempts at small talk were well received. I understood the conversation and the questions being asked. But then, disaster.

Something strange happened. Each time I tried to say something in German, the words that came out were distinctly of eastern origin. Indonesian.

I am pretty much fluent in Indonesian. I am comfortable speaking the language in any situation. It is natural and easy for me to converse with anyone and everyone on any subject. 

Unfortunately, the dominance of Indonesian outweighed my attempts to speak German, to such an extent that I gave up, frustrated and defeated. My frustration can be best illustrated when I attempted to explain some interesting point as follows;

Me: Ja, es ist in der...er, erm..Utara..Simon what's German for 'north'?

Simon: 'Nord'

Me: (blushing)...ja, in der Nord...

Me (thinking)...Utara?!...how the hell can you forget that Nord is German for north and use 'utara' instead. Drink your Bitburger Drive and keep quiet...smile and nod in the appropriate places...numpty.

How polyglots can trip between 11 different languages in an instant is beyond me. Again, Ronald Tidmarsh's voice is echoing in my head...

"Frobisher, this is first form work...Nord boy, Nord...it's not difficult is it?...Extra work for you. Copy out pages 10 - 12 of Sprich Mal Deutsch, Dummkopf."

So that is the tale of the weekend in Germany. A huge thanks to Oliver for organising everything and for his hospitality in putting Simon and I up and for treating us to an unforgettable experience at the Borussia Park and showing us Cologne. 

Next time, Oliver is coming over to the UK again. I will repay his kindness with a day out at Kidderminster Harriers and a greasy beef and onion pie at half time, washed down by a mug of Bovril. I'll then take him on a sightseeing tour of the West Midlands, including Wednesbury, Walsall, Dudley and lunch at KFC in Merry Hill (where the shops are always open). I am sure he'll go home full of wonder at our cultural heritage and explaining to his friends and family what a 'bostin' time he had.

As they say down our way, 'Tara for a bit'.