Becoming Bavarian - Interview with FORUM

Assimilation with a winking eye -  FORUM 14 August 2021

'Well, well' begins the full-pager in our regional newspaper, 'a thick skin and a strong bladder is what you need to become a decent Bavarian. That's Tim Howe's message to his fellow countrymen and all newcomers here in the Hallertau in his recent book Becoming Bavarian.

The reporter from 'FORUM' had got back to me only moments after I’d shot out a mail saying I’d done a book on Bavaria and was happy to talk about it to anyone willing to interview me. A day later, having answered all his questions in German, I had to sit down and work out how I would have said them in English. Headlined 'Assimilation with a wink of an eye', here’s the gist of the article:

Forum: You used this past year lockdown to do something very special, is that right?

Howe: Yes, I spent it turning my blog 'Being British in Bavaria' into a story. The tale starts some 40 years in England, where I was gung-ho about everything to do with Germany and how I came to move here. It goes on to talk about the adventurous loops which newcomers have to jump through to become a die-in-the-wool local.

Forum: Gung-ho about Germany?! How come?

Howe: Germany was The Promised Land for me. Whatever Brits did, Germans seemed to do better. Not just economically and in sports, but also when it came to food and music. I got a special kick out of German pop songs. Penfriends would send me video tapes (remember the days before satellite TV?!). Instead of  Top of the Pops, I’d be glued to Dieter Thomas Heck’s ZDF Hit Parade.

Forum: And is Bavaria everything you expected it to be?

Howe: On the one hand yes. It’s a treasure trove for anyone into sports: I love the mountains and lakes. We were lucky to find an idyllic plot of land to build on here in the Hallertau. On the other hand, I miss all traces of community spirit in our local village. I’d seen scores of Heimat films and expected to find everyone in the countryside living happily together in nice close-knit communities. But locals in deepest Lower Bavaria aren't all that bothered about mixing with people from outside. Perhaps because they just prefer sticking to their large circle of relatives. Or because of their dialect. If you want to get on with locals it’s not enough to speak German. You also have to speak Lower Bavarian!

Forum: Does an anecdote of  'cultural clash' spring to mind?

Howe: Yes, just after arriving here from England where we just chucked all rubbish in one bin. My neighbours, who up to then had always greeted me so nice and politely, caught me throwing a broken hairdryer into the normal grey bin, rather than taking it to a waste disposal centre. They reported me to the police. I laugh about it now, but at the time I was horrified that Germans seemed keener on policing their neighbours rather than just trying to get on well together.

Forum: So any tips on how a non-Bavarian can become a Bavarian?

Howe: You've got to join a club or association. That was my intention too, until I realised that out in the countryside there's actually very little choice: Shooting, football or brass band association. Take your pick! If you don’t join any of these you are and will always be a Zuageroasta. 

The interview was conducted by Bernd Wagner. 

I bin a Holledauer

Welcome to the gang. Oops, where's my hat? 

“Du schbuist doch aa Beckn, oda?" – you DO play "Becken", DON'T you?” – says Basti, making quite clear this is not a polite enquiry but a firm command. Basti has been my mentor for the past few weeks while I’ve rehearsed drums with the Jugendkapelle, our local brass band. I was so looking forward to playing drums in public. And now he's relegating me to "Becken."

“Ahhm, jaaah” I reply hesitantly, not wishing to sound unwilling.

To be honest, I’m not actually sure what’s on offer. When Germans talk about “Becken” it can mean a variety of things, including basin, bowl or pelvis. But it suddenly dawns on me that Bastian is talking about none of these at all. It seems they’ve had a committee meeting and decided I’m no good on drums. Bastian goes on to explain that their cymbals player has given up just two days before our public appearance. They've searched high and low for a replacement and couldn't find one. He doesn't say so directly, but the message is clear: I'm their very last choice.

Just to fill you in, if you're new to the blog. I'm on a mission to find out what it's REALLY like to be a Bavarian. I'm essentially trying to become a Bavarian - and a very special type too - a Holledau Bavarian. That doesn't just mean putting on a lederhosen and swaying from side to side with a beer-fuelled grin on my face. No no, I've gone the whole hog. From helping grannies pluck hops at a public viewing to fluttering fingers to cheesey Neil Diamond songs (very Bavarian). My final challenge, before I can call myself a die-hard Bavarian, is to play in a brass band.

Which brings me back to the cymbals. The only member of the percussion family I’ve ever played is the triangle, and not since school. Cymbals typically weigh in at around 3.5 kg, and holding them up to my chest it feels like I’m auditioning for Iron Man at the local INJOY.

We haven’t even finished rehearsing “Weiß Blauer” and my hands are already feeling like they’re about to disconnect from my limbs and slide off.

The Gallimarkt is the region’s biggest beerfest and one of the oldest in Bavaria. On the opening night we’ll play for an hour near the Town Hall and then head the procession of clubs and associations towards the beer tents. Marching time: approx. one hour. I seriously contemplate thanking the band for the nice experience and pulling out gracefully, before I make a complete muppet of myself.

On the big day, however, I decide to go after all. I arrive at the meeting place just after five, as instructed. But absolutely no one is there. Neither band nor spectators. So much for German punctuality. I panic. Maybe I’ve got the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong day even? Pulling out my mobile, I step into a shop doorway and pretend to look busy, checking my social media accounts, like an embarrassed teenager being stood up on a first date. No messages, no status updates. Nothing. Just as I'm about to leave, the band suddenly all appear, as if from nowhere. Soon Christian is handing me cymbals, along with a very smart hat and jacket. “When we march off, start on your left foot and just count one-two, one-two” he instructs.

Proud performers. And don't we look great, dressed up as Mennonites.

The concert goes quite well, actually. At least I manage not to drop the cymbals. I’m obviously much louder than anyone else in the band, because people are soon starting to clasp hands to their ears and move away from me. Band members and spectators alike.

Finally we start marching and it feels great, moving down streets lined with onlookers clapping and cheering us all on. Unfortunately, all I can remember from the march is the ear-splitting noise of my cymbals.

Our destination is "Dausinger" – an enormous beer tent, where the Bürgermeister is getting ready to do the "Anstich", the ceremonial tapping of the keg. Before we've even sat down the band are ordering mountain-size servings of Schweinshax’n and Halbes Hendl. I'm always amazed how Germans can wolf down XXL portions with every liter Bier. I’m far too excited after marching to eat anything at all. Soon we’re all clinking Mass mug and swapping stories. I start talking to trumpeter Maria, and ask if she’s still fit after blowing two hours non stop. “That’s nothing”, she says, “tomorrow we’ll play six hours”. I say how much I’ve enjoyed being their guest cymbalist and, laughing, she suggests I come to more rehearsals. Nice to hear they want to see me again. But Maria, it seems, has different ideas: “Du sollst a bisserl mehr üben – you really ought to practise a bit more”, she adds.

Go to Daily Telegraph 30.12.14 

Looking for the loo, I spot the Hallertau Beer Queen coming towards me. After the long drawn-out official proceedings, the evening is only just starting for 17-year old Anna, who I met recently at the hop-plucking ceremony. She tells me they’re all going to the After-Show at "Almhüttn", an alpine-style log hut behind the big tent. Will she be dancing on the tables too? No, Anna laughs, that’s for the younger ones.

By now I’m a little hoarse from trying to make myself heard over the sound of "Froschhaxn-Express" playing up on stage. My arms have almost gone dead after marching with two 3.5 kilo weights. Deciding to call it a day, I hand in my band hat and jacket and head off home.

What an amazing finale to all those rehearsals. Performing in public – albeit only cymbals – was far more fun than I could ever imagine, and I loved every moment of the concert and the ceremonial march. Thank you to everyone in the Jugendkappelle for letting me join your ranks and share the thrill of being part of a Bavarian brass band for a little bit.

So then, home and dry! My mission to be Bavarian - a Holledau Bavarian - is accomplished! And evidence below, that the whole process was more than worth it....

Burgers of the Holledau, you're the greatest – Ihr seid die Besten!

Good to go - anywhere you like!

Plug your earholes – this Englander's set to boom-bang-a-bang in Bavarian band

Hurry up!  Bavarians can't join a "Verein" quick enough. 

What’s the best way to get to know the locals when you move into a new area? In Britain it’s simple – just head for the local pub. But in Bavaria, to fully integrate, you must join what’s known as a “Verein”. The nicest thing about these associations – whether they involve playing skittles, skating on ice or fighting fires – you don’t actually have to do any of these activities. You simply need a strong bladder – but more on that later.

Here in the Hallertau it’s a straightforward choice: You either join a football club or sign up with a marching band. Every single town, often the teenyweeniest village, has its own “Blaskapelle” – or “blowing band”, if you want a literal translation. Frankly, neither option really fires me with enthusiasm. The only instrument I ever tried to learn to play – the humble recorder – was a disaster. I simply couldn’t blow and keep my fingers over the holes at the same time, and my poor music teacher was obviously at her wits end when she wrote on my school report “Tim is totally devoid of all motor skills”. So that just leaves football. Hmm…

Bavarians take their football clubs extremely seriously. When they talk of “Vereinsleben” – life as part of an association – they mean precisely that. Their whole life revolves around the club. When the village team plays, for example, housewives commonly spend all weekend cooking up a storm to serve their menfolk after the game. Sadly I’ve no time for football and my Hausfrau credentials would hardly pass muster, so it seems I’ve no choice but to try for the “Blasverein”.

For a second opinion on my musical talent – if you can call it that – I consult Stephan Ebn. Ex-drummer with pop diva Gianna Nannini, Stephan regularly tours with the band Middle of the Road, whose hits include  "Chirpy Chirpy Cheek Cheek”. They still play this earworm on Bayern Eins, and I catch myself humming it as I ring the bell of his studio in the pretty little town of Abensberg.

Foreigners often have this stereotype image of Bavarians dressed in lederhosen marching to brass band music, but Stephan quickly points out that Bavarians hardly play the best “Blasmusik” in the world. “That’s because of our beer consumption”, he tells me. “We join a “Verein” not to play music but to drink”.

I suspect Stephan already has a notion about my poor coordination skills when he suggests I try my hand first at drums: “Anyone who can’t play well in a band gets the drums”, he tells me. Standing astride a ginormous bass drum – 30 times the size of a regular pizza – Stephan demonstrates the basic marching beat, and then hands me the sticks. It’s easier than I expect and, feet pounding up and down to the Boom, Boom, Boom, I’ve soon got the hang of it. Next up, Stephan gets behind the full drum kit and shows me the “roll”, used to herald the start of a march. This is much harder, and Stephan patiently watches as I try, and retry, to multi-task on cymbals and drums, whilst pumping the foot pedal.

Boom-bang-a-bang...
  More Eurovision than Bavarian brass band, but good to go. 

The lesson's over far too quickly. Celebrating with a high five, Stephan encourages me to audition with our local brass band in time for next month’s Gallimarkt, the region’s greatest beer bonanza, second only to the Oktoberfest. There’s just one thing though, he says. All of a sudden I’m nervous. Will he criticise my deficient motor skills? But no, he’s pointing to my Bermuda shorts and smiling: “Don’t forget to wear Lederhosen, okay?”

Will the local Blaskapelle take me on? Watch this space…

Wo-ho-ho and yodel-odel-eee. I've just become a Bavarian, fluttering my fingers to sounds of the seventies

Hands up if you want to build a human pyramid..

What’s the best-loved party song in Bavaria? Surprisingly, not the latest chart stormer. It's not a yodeller or an alpine horn blower either. It's actually a 1971 hit by Neil Diamond. Everyone – young and old – knows the refrain Wo-ho-ho, good times never seemed so good. And they know exactly what to do when it comes to Hands, touchin’ hands, reachin’ out, touchin’ you. That’s the signal to stretch out hands, flutter fingers in mid-air and form a human pyramid. Like members of some strange sect, willing the holy ghost to move amongst them.

I’m witnessing this weird ritual right now. It feels like a happy-clappy church event or  ̶̶   the mere thought scares me  ̶̶   a Neil Diamond fan club reunion. But actually, what’s happening here has nothing to do with that at all. It’s “Sommerfest” at my daughter’s kindergarten. Huddled up on beer benches in an enormous tent, we’re being jollied by a pop duo with the unpronounceable name of Leidlfestodreiba. “Where are you all, children?” asks the lead singer. Rows of hands rise  ̶̶  mostly grownups. Next moment everyone's clinking beer mugs together and breaking into the chorus of “Hey, hey-ey baby, if you’ll be my girl".

But it’s not only middle-agers who seem suckers for schmaltz. Local teenagers also crave songs their parents grew up with. It’s difficult to imagine Neil Diamond having the same effect on British adolescents. What is it about these tunes that makes so many Germans, regardless of age, slap their thighs and swing from side to side, as if under hypnosis? I ask Matthias if he likes this music. “Actually not” he says, “I’m more into rock”. Nonetheless, Matthias is dressed in lederhosen, and his wife and five-year old daughter are clad in very pretty dirndls. As if to excuse his folksy outfit, he adds “But this here is different. Local tradition. We have “Stimmung”, good feeling, you know".

Matthias describes “Stimmung” by sketching a rough graph. “Look”, he says, joining two axis with a 45-degree line, “The level of willingness to sing and dance rises parallel to the level of alcohol consumed. Oldies and German hits, known as “schlager” unite people of all different ages and music tastes", he explains. “You can have a group of different nationalities, all with different tongues. And music is their universal language”. As if illustrating the global appeal of soppy songs when under the influence of alcohol, he cups his beer mug and starts swinging to the sound of “Country roads take me home”. 

This John Denver oldie  ̶̶  not even the BBC play it any more  ̶̶  is another typical crowd pleaser at beer festivals all over Bavaria. Hardly a day goes by without it being played on Bayern Eins, the state's most popular station, with a playlist so changeless you can predict what’s up next.  

There’s nothing very eclectic about the music playing here in the kindergarten tent, and yet we all seem to be tapping our toes to it. Some parents have even started swaying, doing little jigs, as they hover between bar, beer bench and child’s play area.

Yodel-odel-ee ­– back to roots with Reiser

To find out more about this phenomenon, I meet up with local singer songwriter Maria Reiser. Hailed as the inventor of “Yodelpop”, Maria describes her music as “Bavarian home loving” with catchy melodies and beats. We’re listening to her latest single “Glabbelwirt” and Maria is wearing a dirndl, of course. I tell her that any non-German dressing up in such clothes in England would be regarded as a bit odd. 

So why do young Bavarians get such a kick out of dressing up in traditional costume? Maria explains it’s all part of a back-to-roots trend, which begun when Germany staged the World Cup and – hitherto unheard of – started draping every available surface area with red, black and gold flags. “This patriotism, a sort of longing for local traditions, became a real movement from around 2010”, she explains. Privately, Maria enjoys Beyonce and Keith Urban. But she too admits singing along to Diamond and Denver.

Back to the kindergarten, and they’re playing “Sweet Caroline” once more. Before I can quietly disappear I’m being pulled into a pyramid of linked hands, and, wo-ho-ho, it’s actually quite fun. Matthias and Maria are right, the music, motions and traditional costumes – I’m one of the few people at the fest not wearing this attire ­– do create a sense of togetherness, the feeling of belonging to a local community.

Their music may be 40 years out of date, but young Bavarians are keeping local traditions alive and kicking, which must be good. I’ll sing along to that, even if it means fluttering my fingers and chanting Wo-ho-ho...

 Keeping traditions alive. Let's all drink to that.... 

Where on earth's the Hallertau and what the heck's a Titty Twister?

Happy Hallertau - Beautiful beer served with a smile

Willkommen to the Hallertau. Spanning over 2400 sq. km it’s officially the largest hop-growing area in the world. Inofficially it's the land of Titty-Twisters, where they dance on beer benches with the Bürgermeister.

The Hallertauers are lovely people, but they do tend to contradict themselves a bit. They happily fork out the 20 € surcharge for "MAI" (short for Mainburg) on their car number plate, yet complain when Guiseppe at the local café jacks up ice cream prices by 10 cents every summer. They busily sign petitions calling for a local cinema, and like the MAI-Kino page on facebook. Same time they're premium subscribers to lovefilm.de. 

Language is a thorny issue too. Two Hallertauers living just a couple villages apart might speak totally different dialects. But they'd NEVER dream of conversing in High German. That's a foreign language. English is much easier. Locals struggle with names of foreign shops like "Woolworth“ (pronounced here as "Vollwort“), yet at carnival time they sail through the lyrics of "What shall we do with the drunken sailor?”  

Hallertauers can sit for hours on end, debating engine specifications and lifting capacity of their favourite tractor, the bulldog. But when the Bürgermeister starts dancing on beer benches at the "Gallimarkt" (the region's answer to the Oktoberfest), they drop everything and join in. Hallertauers love to boogy, even if they move more like robots. They go to "Titty-Twisters" - farmers' parties staged in massive tents, in places with delightful names like Niederpumpernickerl and Oberaffengeilbach. You'll not find these villages on Google Earth, but they're somewhere between Kleingundertshausen and the autobahn junction "Dreieck Holledau".

When I moved here ten years ago and initially commuted between Munich and the Hallertau, the journey between the Bavarian capital and Mainburg felt like it took forever. Not surprisingly, Münchners joke that the Hallertau is in the middle of nowhere. That doesn't bother Hallertauers at all - and me neither. Seen geographically, we're right in the middle of Bavaria. 

Heaven in Germany is a chemists with angels dressed in fitness garb

You're never more than a stone's throw from heaven in Germany –

just look out for the Apotheke sign.

Passing Marienplatz the other day I suddenly feel a throbbing pain in my right leg. The knee hadn’t felt right since a couple days, when I sprained it rushing for the train, which I could see pulling into the station from the other side of the carpark.  A typical situation in which you know what you’re doing won’t do you any good, yet the short-term alternative – missing your connection – overweighs all other potentially worse outcomes. Bursting out into an athletic sprint I'd managed to make the connection, slumping with relief – but not without a huff, puff and wheeze – onto a seat in the end carriage.

By Friday afternoon, however, I’m much the worse for wear from my Olympian performance. Doctors’ surgeries already deserted for the weekend, I decide to slip into the nearest chemists’ for some instant pain relief. German chemists are like nothing you’ll ever see in the rest of the world, where a chemists nowadays is usually a pop-up “prescriptions counter”, in the corner of a crowded supermarket. In Germany every single chemists is unique. My local store, for example, in the nation's largest hop-growing area, has entire shelves devoted to personal-hygiene products made from hops: deodorants, shampoos, face, toe and nail creams. Even the corn plasters smell of beer.

Walking in you immediately feel like you’ve arrived at heaven’s doorstep. Smiling assistants welcome you with a "Grüss Gott" (literally "God greet you"), all identically dressed in sporty t-shirts, often with flowing white gowns and matching clog-like footwear. Without sanitary gowns, however, they look more like training assistants in a fitness club, ready to help tighten your straps on the body building equipment. The best thing about going into a German chemists is that about five staff immediately appear from nowhere and offer you help and advice – all at once. A bit like that scene in Pretty Woman, where Vivian is being helped in and out of shoes and skirts by a dozen brown-nosing salespersons.

The customer-to-salesperson ratio is slightly lower in this particular chemists, perhaps because it’s right under the Altes Rathaus, home of Munich’s world-famous Glockenspiel, so it probably gets one or two tourists popping in too. Still, as I stand in queue, waiting to buy a bandage, I’m relieved to see plenty of sales tills open. Deutsche Bahn and Aldi should note this.

For a spring day it’s pretty warm – about 20 degrees –  and, wiping the sweat off my forehead, I spot an elderly lady über-laden with “Kaufhof” shopping bags looking as if she’s just about to faint. A saleswoman, quick off the mark, manages to break her fall, and with the other arm quickly grabs hold of a chair for her to recover in. Over in the corner sits another customer, a bald gentleman with a pretty sales assistant leaning over him. I may be mistaken, but from where I’m standing she appears to be massaging his thumb. Before I can do a double take though it's my turn to be served.

I ask for a bandage, explaining I need it on straight away. The salesgirl produces some scissors and waits patiently as I, still front of queue, clumsily cut off a piece and start winding it round my troubled knee. Seeing my difficulty doing this standing up she apologises for the lack of chairs, gesturing to the elderly lady sitting with shopping bags and the bald gentleman, who really does look like he's being thumb massaged. 

Chemists assistants look more like fitness instructors 

The elderly lady, I notice, is now fully conscious again and murmuring between pouted lips, addressing no one in particular – as people of a certain age tend to do – about not being able to find a single store in the Bavarian capital where you can sit down and rest. I’m about to suggest that central Munich, with its highest density of cafes and bars in the world, surely has enough seating to fill the Allianz Arena a million times over, when I suddenly find myself agreeing – nodding like a Chihuahua dog bobbling from a car mirror. What’s the point of cosy sofas in a Starbucks at every corner, when you’re in the middle of the weekly food run, stuck between freezer cupboards and toiletries aisle, and suddenly go weak at the knees? Whoever invented the expression “shop till you drop” certainly hadn't reckoned with the disastrous effects of collapsing in a German supermarket.   

Semi squatting on the floor, one leg tucked behind the other like a dying crab, I struggle to bandage my leg up as best I can in the circumstances, wishing there wasn't a crowd of onlookers queuing right behind me. My gaze drifts from the sales assistant, who’s grinning as if to say “We don’t get this sort of thing happening every day”, to the woman recovering on her chair, still holding forth about the lack of seating in Munich stores.

Thanking the kind chemist, I get back up on my legs again, hobble out onto Marienplatz – and search for somewhere to sit.

The Divider Dilemma - how come there's not even a name for these things?

You know the divider thing you put between shopping at the checkout?

I never realised these things could create such conundrums til I came to live in Germany. 
I mean, why does the person in front never put the divider up between their shopping and yours? And if you put the divider thing up first do they ever thank you? Me neither.

Whenever someone puts it behind my purchases I don't know whether to thank them for taking the initiative, feel embarassed I didn't place it first, or just pretend I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer and didn’t see it.

Not enough that there are no rules for who places "the divider thing" in a land where everything else is so clearly fenced out and rulegoverned. I don't think there's even a word for it.

Is there really no German word for "the divider thing"?

 

It's a long day's work in Germany - counting down to "Feierabend"

Bridging the gap between lunchtime and Feierabend....

Did you know that the most used expression at work in Germany has absolutely nothing to do with work? It’s “Schönen Feierabend!”

Germans say the equivalent of “Have a nice evening!” even more than “Da warte ich noch auf Feedback” -  a euphemism for "I gave the job to some poor jerk lower down the ladder and he hasn’t done it yet."

Other top-rated phrases, according to a report just out in  The Local  -  Germany's News in English  include “"Na?” (alright?), "Auf geht's zur Telko!" (time for conference call!) and “Ich bin ein Teamplayer".

Interestingly, the opposite of "team player" is “Einzelkämpfer” – an uncool label for someone who prefers to fight battles alone. I always grind my teeth when I read German "Psychotests" with titles like "Bist Du Teamplayer oder Einzelkämpfer?" (= are you a hero  or zero?). That speaks volumes about cultural differences between Germany and Britain or the USA, where individualists are seen as leaders, and teamplayers as sheep, simply willing to follow the flow.

Germans have of course good reason to love their "Feierabend". When British office workers are only just coming back from their lunch breaks Germans are already clocking off and heading home for Kaffee und Kuchen. "Feierabend" on Fridays, however, takes it to a totally different level, with work virtually coming to a halt just before lunchtime, as the "Gang", or step, to the canteen also signals the last "workstep" of the week.

Still, when Brits wish each other a nice evening at least they’re a lot closer to it. 5 o’clock is normal leaving time in Britain. Fridays included.

142 Minutes of DiCaprio Leave Me Longing for More



Nice visual effects, shame about the script

 

Yesterday we had an English lesson in the cinema, for a change. I went with some students to see the Great Gatsby. It was the first dry day after a week's non-stop rain and floods. Most of Munich was celebrating the return of the sun in the nearest biergarten. We had the movie theatre all to ourselves.

There are over a hundred cinemas in and around Munich but only half a dozen show original English versions. One is a musty, but in a nice sort of way, oldy-worldly place with a retro feel. An audience of just seven, we sat in the backrow quietly munching popcorn. Very very quietly actually. There must be some rule about popcorn-munching in German cinemas.

The closing credits roll and we're all still hooked to the edge of our seats. I ask the students if the film makes them want to pick up the book. A row of heads shake in unison. No, they say, not when you know what's going to happen. Fair comment. I guess it’s a bit like having the barber chop off all your hair and then finding a better style on offer.

Still, bookshop displays are bulging with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 masterpiece and there are good reasons why you might want to pick up a copy if you know only the film.

The film’s visual effects (must look great in 3D - we foolishly forgot glasses) are a finger food feast for the eyes but the screenplay is gangster-style lousy. The book, by contrast, offers some of the loveliest language you'll ever find in English: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." No wonder they airlifted that sentence word for word into the film's final diary-style flashback.

The film script has the occasional funny moment. Daisy made me laugh (“I’ve never seen such beautiful shirts!”), but most humour comes more from the sheer über-extravagence of Roaring 20s lifestyle. Its hedonistic parties make today's drug-driven raves look more like afternoon tea at the vicarage.

142 minutes of Leonardo DiCaprio leave me longing for something more. If you feel that way too maybe it's time to read the book.

 

Or re-read it.

Germans are bound by the fattest rule book in the world. No wonder they freak out at Fasching.

Even if it's not verboten, don't push your luck too far...

                                        
Fasching passed uneventfully this year, though not without the usual pain and discomfort. Most Germans must have heaved a sigh of relief, climbing out of their sweat-filled cow or donkey costumes. Happy to see the back of this time of year known as the "fifth season", and return to the regulated Ordnung which characterises their lives for the rest of the year.

Alles in Ordnung – literally “all in order” – is one of the most common phrases in German – even more popular than “OK”. Another favourite is ordnungsgemäß – “according to rules”. Not that Germans really need any rules at all. They intuitively know what is and isn’t “in order”. They simply say “Das muss sein” or “Das darf nicht sein”. Saying that something “must be” or “isn’t allowed to be” justifies everything – no further explanation is required.

Germans not only keep a tight rein on themselves – they’re also quick to reprimand others. They pass comment on everything, from opening the window and causing a draught (a very serious offence, it seems), to sitting in a sauna without a towel (I tried this once and was immediately sent out). But it’s from disciplining each other on waste disposal that Germans seem to derive greatest pleasure.  What is it about waste disposal that gets them so excited? When I first moved to Germany neighbours were always leaving me notes on rubbish bins. We had about six various bins, all colour coded. Mix up codes and put waste in recycling, for example, and you got enough notes to fill a whole container. I used to come home from work to find a trail of post-its all up the garden path, stuck on every available surface.

Funniest note I ever received was after parking my car in a terrible hurry. Skew-whiff and half over the kerb, it was nonetheless no great obstacle to either traffic or pedestrians. I came back to find some smarty puss had stuck a memo on the windscreen, saying something like “If you have sex as badly as you park you’ll end up with a stiff neck too.” Chucking the note in the nearest recycler I remember thinking what a charming way Germans have of connecting two totally unrelated activities.

Orderliness and civil obedience go hand in hand in Germany. You’d be amazed at things Germans obediently refrain from doing: hanging up washing outside on Sundays, tuning pianos at midnight (luckily, I’ve so far resisted all temptation to do THAT) and – take a deep breath – denying a chimney sweep access to their home.

..and don't dare think about hanging up washing on Sundays

German legislation is at its most creative, however, when it comes to curtailing its citizens’ fondness for frolicking around in fancy dress. Turning up at a meeting or demonstration in a mask or false nose, for instance, will earn you a hefty fine or 12 months imprisonment. This so-called Vermummungsgesetz is suspended during Karneval, for obvious reasons.

Germans can’t possibly know every single rule though. When I moved into my first flat I put up a satellite dish to watch the BBC. I was just tuning into Teatime News when my landlady burst in, saying it was verboten and demanding I take the dish down. I politely recited the German Civil Code, which charters the right of every foreigner in Germany to watch television in their own language. Ah so. Alles in Ordnung, came the calm and orderly response. For a while everything remained calm and “in order”. Until we tried planting a small shrub in the garden – without permission – which really is verboten.

Peep over the garden fence and you'll see how Germans over-exaggerate when it comes to avoiding anything that’s the slightest bit verboten. Like letting leaves pile up on your lawn any higher than 5 inches. Only this would explain why I’ve had several neighbours who go around shaking tree branches before raking up the leaves – presumably in order to halve the workload.

Germans might take civil obedience to ridiculous extremes, but when it comes to forking out for fines they eagerly conspire to outwit the law. Take, for example, Blitzer-Meldungen.  Nothing, as Brits might think, to do with The War. Blitzer are speed traps, and Germans love phoning their local radio stations to warn listeners about where they risk getting “blitzed”. You can almost hear them purr with pleasure, patting their backs in self congratulation, as they reveal the whereabouts of these loathed devices. Brits loathe them too of course, but take the attitude it’s “a fair cop” – you speed, you pay. The idea of deliberately stopping the car to warn fellow motorists on public radio makes most Brits curl up with laughter.  

The typical German seems constantly looking out for pitfalls in life, guarding against whatever atrocities might strike. Something which the press must take part blame for. Doomsday warnings like “Werden die Deutschen impotent?” (are Germans losing their fertility?) and “Sterben die Deutschen aus?” (are Germans dying out?) are widespread. The latest online “Spiegel” carries an interview with a “Population Expert” from the University of Bielefeld. Written in typical Endzeitstimmung style, the message is that Germans needs an extra 500 000 immigrants by 2025, or they’ll die out.

Of course things are rarely as bad as they seem. Not even in Germany. After living here 14 years I secretly enjoy a bit of disorder once a year. I can’t wait for Fasching 2014.

 

German humour no oxymoron

At the count of three all laugh please. Eins, zwei.....

Henning Wehn, self-appointed German ambassador to Britain, once said “Brits think we have a no sense of humour – and we don’t think that’s funny.”* Yet some German humour does manage to transcend language boundaries, as testified by Loriot. Even the world-acclaimed Huffington Post reports the sad news of his death, announcing “Germans often cited him as proof of their sense of humor”.

I suspect “Die Zeit” is exaggerating a little when it compares Loriot as a German cultural figure to classical writers Friedrich Schiller or Wolfgang Goethe. Yet there was certainly something very special and unique about the comic who could make unexciting activities like taking one's place at a concert or eating a hard-boiled egg look so hilariously funny.

And who can forget the noodle on the upper lip sketch :-). My favourite sketch, however, was Deutsch für Ausländer – a spoof on all those diabolical audio courses, which were supposed to teach us poor Brits but actually ended up making German grammar even more incomprehensible than it actually is.

Loriot will be missed, but his sketches, films and cartoon's will run for many more generations.

* Check him out, he’s really funny: Henning Wehn - the funny German