Samstag, 15. Dezember 2018

Cheerio Miss Sophie – same old sketch is must-see for Germans every Christmas


Year-end slapstick tickles the Germans' fancy like nothing else.  


Expats and migrants are often adept at picking up the local lingo and many have no great difficulty adapting to new climes and cultures. Yet when it comes to customs and conventions, the nitty gritty of daily life, they can still come a cropper. 


I arrived in Germany able to speak the language fluently. But it took ages to realise that a tersely uttered 'danke' really means 'nein danke'. And that a long-drawn out 'neeein' actually translates as 'ja'.

It also took me ages to suss all the details of German Christmas customs. I'd always thought of German Weihnacht and Christmas in Britain as being almost identical: Christmas trees, Winter Wonderland markets, glass baubles, tinsel, hot spiced wine, stollen and spicy gingerbread.

But here's a surprise. And it's something you'll find nowhere else in the world: whole families crowding around the TV on New Year's Eve to watch 'Dinner for One'.

While Brits flop onto their sofas every Christmas and binge-watch world TV premieres such as Mission Impossible Six it seems bizarre that Germans have to make do with an old black-and-white comedy – in English no less – which virtually no one else has ever heard of. And yet 'Dinner for One' is massive in Germany. This 18-minute skit about an English baroness’ 90th birthday celebration has run here every Silvester for the past 45 years. It’s broadcasted on almost every single channel. Think of the comedy’s popularity as such: just as every Brit can hum Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in their sleep, so too can almost every single Bundsebürger recite off by heart the closing lines to 'Dinner for One':

Miss Sophie: ‘Well, James, it's been a wonderful party!’

James: ‘Yes, it’s been most enjoyable.’

Miss Sophie: ‘I think I'll retire.’

James: ‘You're going to bed?

Miss Sophie: ‘Yes.‘

James: ‘Sit down, I'll give you a hand up, Madam. ‘

Miss Sophie: ‘As I was saying, I’m going to retire.’

James: ‘Ya, ya. By the way, the same procedure as every year, Miss Sophie?’

Miss Sophie: ‘The same procedure as every year, James.’

Just what is it about 'Dinner for One' that prompts millions upon millions of Germans to slap their thighs and howl with laughter every Christmas? Academic researchers point emphatically to the typical management structure of the country’s 3.7 million small and medium-sized enterprises. They claim that the ‘same procedure’ punchline reflects the nation’s desire for continuity and stability. Others, less academically and more hands-on, argue that the secret of the sketch’s success lies in Miss Sophie’s come-hither response to her loyal butler’s apparently innocent enquiry: ‘Same procedure as every year, James.’

This sexual innuendo delights Germans of all ages. The catchphrase has long entered their everyday vocabulary. It’s often used in newspaper headlines and advertisements too. It’s as well known in Germany as Vorsprung durch Technik in Britain.

So much for Miss Sophie & Co. But what still puzzles me after 20 years in Germany is this whole Father Christmas business. Children here are gifted by either baby Jesus, known as Christkindl, or Nikolaus. I typically mix these characters up, mistaking them for one and the same.

First I ever heard about Nikolaus was when I worked in an office in Bonn and we all turned up on 6 December to find a chocolate Nikolaus propped up against our coffee mugs. German bosses follow this custom every Advent, supposedly in honour of Bishop Nikolaus of Myra, famed for helping the needy around 325 AD. After his death, word of the gift-giving legacy spread, slowly transforming man and image into the modern-day, red-dressed chocaholic. The Christkindl, on the other hand, originates from Luther’s time. Ironically, it was Protestants’ attempt to de-bunk this whole Catholic celebration of Saint Nicholas on 6 December. 

How delightful that Germans still cling on to both figures, one historic, the other religious, rather than some beardy boozer from Coca Cola. But, as we're just about to discover, Christkindl and Nikolaus have a sidekick too. And I bet no one outside Germany has ever heard of him either.

Only a week into Advent and we get a terrible fright. Darkness is falling when a sudden thud at the front door makes us almost jump out of our skins. Peering out through the window we spot the shape of a ginormous figure plodding up our garden path.

This devil-like horned creature is actually Krampus. Half Gruffalo, half Godzilla monster, he's probably the last creature you’d wish to open your door to on a cold dark night. Let alone invite in and offer a piece of Plätzchen and glass of Glühwein. And yet that’s exactly what we end up doing, once we’ve established his real identity.

Local heros - scary Krampus (left) with Nikolaus


Dating back over 1000 years, Krampus’ sole role is to flag up naughty kids to Santa, before dragging them off to the underworld. That's what parents tell their kids, at least. Unofficially, he’s just an uncouth guardian angel, scary enough to put the wind up you. Like some Simon-Cowell-type ‘X-Factor’ judge. German readers - just think big mouths from Modern Talking.

Fortunately he’s not alone. Alongside stands Nikolaus, the absolute antithesis of the pot-bellied, larger-than-life All-American Santa. Tall and lanky, the Nikolaus outside our house looks more like the village priest. And since we booked him through the local church he probably is too. There’s just one small problem. Only children who polish their boots the night before will find them filled with goodies. Another key Christmas tradition I’d missed. Sadly, our child’s boots haven’t been cleaned since around Hallow’een.

You HAVE been gut, haven't you?


We come face to face again with Krampus and Nikolaus the very next day. It’s the duo’s annual appearance at the village Christkindlmarkt and I’ve just committed the classic yuletide blooper in the company of Bavarians – I’ve foolishly referred to Nikolaus as the Weihnachtsmann. Something only a Prussian would dare do. Well, it is all a bit chaotic and I’m trying to take a picture of Tildy shaking the old man's hand while an army of kids keep prodding me impatiently from behind. I can hear some of them quietly tut-tutting and one little boy politely corrects me:

‘Des is doch da Nikolaus!’

Oops...

It’s almost like Krampus is punishing me when he hands over his birch stick, the one with which he beats naughty children. ‘Hoid moi guad fest,’ he says, motioning me to hold tight while the old man patiently plods through the meet-and-greet routine with his little guests. Some are not quite so little, actually. One girl must be pushing at least thirteen or fourteen. She’s reaching over to shake Nikolaus’ hand. It’s something of a one-sided conversation with all the usual have-you-been-good, have-you-listened-to-teacher type questions:

‘Bassd Du oiwei im Unterricht auf?’    

Silence.

''Ho ho. Und machst Du oiwei des wos da Leahr sogt?’

Visibly embarrassed, the pubescent visitor is just nodding and giggling. Maybe she does still believe in the bearded benefactor, this is backwater Bavaria after all. Yet her eyes are clearly on the prize. She’s spotted the free bag of sweets which Krampus is preparing to hand her.

After Tildy’s encountered Krampus and Nikolaus a second time in as many days, reassured them she has been good this year, and collected her goodies bag, I slip off for a mulled wine. Snow’s falling and it’s icy cold. I notice some drinkers huddled under a patio heater. I’m quite surprised to see one of these contraptions in remote rural Lower Bavaria. Even Parisians have banned outdoor heaters because of their damaging effect on the environment. Still, this absurd appliance provides much appreciated warmth. Hugging my mulled wine like my last lifeline, I enjoy just standing there listening to snippets of conversation all around.

Although a little rough around the edges, there’s something mellifluous and singsong-ish about Bavarian dialect. One of my neighbours at the high table has just said

Mei Buidog schofft's den Hügl ned mehr houch.

My tractor can no longer make it up the hill.

Aha. Uttered in English, this might be aluding to the speaker's sagging libido. Spoken in Bavarian though, it simply sounds sweet. The three other mulled-wine sippers around the table show sympathy for the farmer’s plight, offering practical tips and advice on how he might soup up his vehicle:

‘Probier doch oafach moi de Kolbn und Dichtungsringe auszutauschn.’

Try replacing the pistons and gaskets. 

That's the Christmas spirit - Tildy & Co. singing in the snow


This is deutsche Weihnacht at its best – heavenly sweet aromas wafting from mulled wine urns, the local school choir singing ‘O Tannenbaum’, and the haunting blow of hunting horns. There’s something almost spiritual about this fairy-lit Christkindlmarkt. 

Most Bavarian Christmas markets run up til 23 or 24 December so still one or two more days to stock up on traditional handicrafts, gingerbread goodies like Lebkuchen, and enjoy one or two Glühwein under the enviromentally-destructive patio heater. 

And Dinner for One? 

31 December on (almost) every German TV channel. And here right now.  Enjoy!

Cult Cult comedy Dinner for One to get UK premiere after 50 years


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