Hey, you: wanna hear a tale of legendary nude spa Vabali, filled with steamy saunas, burning incense, young love and quivering genitalia? Of course you do.
This post actually took place on the same day as the Bärenquell adventure with my girlfriend, who we shall once more refer to as Maya, in the interest of her modesty. We shall refer to the other character in the tale (me) without alias, for I have no shame.
So then, mucky, bruised yet elated, we left the old brewery behind us and frolicked our way back to the city. We grabbed some Vietnamese food in Kreuzberg, in an establishment that served excellent dumplings but which was let down by a surly waitress whose sole expression can be fairly summarised as ‘hateful glowering’. With our bellies full of reasonably priced noodles, we skipped over to Hauptbahnhof, which my sources tell me means ‘Central Station’ in German. It is very large, and there was a man vomiting loudly on the floor outside a sandwich shop. Continue reading
My girlfriend, who for the sake of her privacy we shall refer to as Maya (always liked that name), came to visit me a couple of weeks ago. She doesn’t live in Berlin, which has its ups and downs. On the plus side, the autonomy allows us the freedom to grow as people and not rely too heavily on each other, but the downside is the lonely nights, the constant, grinding heartache, and the fact I get laid but one weekend a month, which as far as I’m concerned is a violation of my human rights. On Maslow’s Heirarchy of Needs, sex may only come in the middle of the table, but listen to me: Maslow is full of shit. Continue reading
Some more nefarious deeds have been done down in the gloomy frozen backalleys of Berlin, and I’m going to let you in on them. Walk with me a while, let’s talk. But, just like last time around, my cast of characters are real people with real lives who don’t necessarily want me to bounce their stories around the stratosphere. So we’re going to need disguises. We all know who they are really, but let’s play make believe for a few minutes. So, meet Jack and Sal. This time I think the narrator will be, oh I don’t know, Levi. Yeah, Levi is good.
So, as a warning to the reader, I would like to paraphrase and bastardise the title of the Oscar winning Daniel Day Lewis film: There Will Be Drugs.
Further to this, I would like to evoke a young Eazy E: Don’t quote me boy, cause I ain’t said shit. Continue reading
Yesterday I was searching for some music to listen to. I was listening to Rodriguez, because I’m slow on the uptake of what’s cool and I’d only just heard the soundtrack to Searching for Sugar Man and loved it. I began poking around in different genres, and I stumbled across Buena Vista Social Club. I threw on their album, and sat still, amazed. Man, those guitars, those soft, complex nylon strings. Those soulful voices, those drums. Chan Chan. I knew that song, or I had once known it, somewhere far away. I’d heard it before, two years ago on the far side of the world. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes and I was there again. Continue reading
This article was illustrated by my incredibly talented lil bro, Charlie. If you like his stuff you can jump on over to his Instagram, here, to see more.
Vic and I were complaining to each other a couple of weeks ago that although we’ve been in Berlin for a quarter of a year now, we’ve only gone to a few night clubs. I’ve been to Chalet, Monarch, Sisyphos twice, Kater Blau four times, and yet there are dozens of clubs I’ve never gone anywhere near. So, when Michelle text me last week saying she was off to the near-mythical Heideglühen for a day party on Saturday, I was well ready for mayhem. Mayhem I tell you! Continue reading
Today’s entry actually took place on the same day as the previous article. After I sorted my shit out down at the Burgeramt, a celebration was in order – that is, a celebration in keeping with the amount of money currently in my bank account, which is minus several thousand pounds.
Thursday I braved the snow and lashing winds and headed down to the Bürgeramt in Wedding. ‘What is the Bürgeramt, Dan?’ I hear you plead. The Bürgeramt, my friend, is a frightfully dull bureaucratic building, an official government site where you have to sort out all your throat-slittingly boring paperwork, registrations, documentation, whatever. After three months living in the city, I have finally moved into a flat where I am able to register – which is a crucial part of moving here, as it allows me to get a bank account, get health insurance, get paid, you name it. The German word for this kind of registration is Anmeldung, a term which now boils my blood every time I hear it. Continue reading
Maybe it’s the dark Italian coffee my flatmate has just brought me, or maybe it’s the remnants of last night’s snow outside my window, dusting the streets and trees and cars under clear blue skies. Maybe it’s the red wine hangover ebbing away, or maybe it’s the afterglow of an evening spent in the best company. Continue reading
*It’s a dark, blustery evening. You lie in bed, but you cannot sleep. The only thing that will do, you decide, is a bedtime story from your favourite grandfather. You creep downstairs, your teddy grasped tight in your little palm. You enter my office timidly, and find me an old man, reclined in a rich leather armchair by a roaring fire, spectacles perched on the end of my nose. I am quietly perusing a large, ornate copy of Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species. I glance up with a start as you close the door behind you.*
Oh, hello my sweet grandchild! Didn’t hear you come in. It’s that time already, is it? Time for another story, ey? Well, you scamp, come hither and rest your arse upon my knee, and I will thrill you with tales of my youth in Berlin. Today’s story is set way back in 2017, on the 2nd of January. Continue reading
After three weeks at home in Leeds for the Christmas holidays, I flew back to Berlin on the 31st of December at 4.45pm. My lovely grandad gave me a lift to the airport, and thanks to 17 years in the military his punctuality is such that it goes way past being sensible and gets rather ridiculous. Four hours early, then, I checked in and sat drinking Guinness and reading until my flight – the last flight out of the airport that day, as everyone who wasn’t a moron had already got their flights out of the way, not saved them for last thing on New Year’s Eve.