Capital Punishment Part 2 – Prague

The Czech Grand Prix

It was a bit later than planned when the train arrived in Prague, having lost half an hour somewhere along the route. So the prospect of lugging cases onto two metros and a tram to get to the hotel wasn’t exactly appealing. We were going to splash out and get a taxi.

But first get some local currency. Finding an ATM wasn’t the easiest task to start with, and when we did find one and put a card in the first page of options for amounts to withdraw started at 20,000 KC, the second page at 6,000 KC and the machine wasn’t giving out anything smaller than 1,000 KC notes. So the worker in the convenience store on the station looked less than impressed at having a 1,000 KC given to her for a 33 KC bottle of drink.

Then it was out to the taxi rank where the two waiting taxi drivers were arguing over who would take us.

“You take them.”

“No, you take them.”

Before they both told us to go to the taxi rank at the other (far away) side of the station as it would be cheaper. So we trekked over there, only to find more unenthusiastic taxi drivers who weren’t any cheaper.

Anyway, we got in a yellow Skoda and it was like Marseille had been transported to the streets of Prague, and the driver was auditioning for the main role in Taxi 5. The front seats didn’t have pockets in the back of them, so we weren’t able to check for sick bags, but it was OK, we didn’t actually need them, though it was a bit touch and go. The speed limit and traffic lights may as well have not been there. It was almost like Tokyo Drift around some of the corners of the bumpy cobblestoned streets. We watched the taxi speed past our hotel, and there was a split second where we expected the driver to do a handbrake turn to get us round the corner to it. But it was a one way street so he slalomed around some side streets before slamming on his brakes fifty yards short of the hotel entrance. He was out and had the cases on the street before we could undo our seat belts. No sooner had we paid than he was away, nearly reversing over us and our luggage in his haste to get away and his seven point turn.

We had just been beaten to the hotel by a minibus full of conference bound businessmen. We stood behind them in the check in queue whilst over enthusiastic conference buddies came over and talked shop to them as they queued to get checked in. At 10pm, after travelling. I don’t care what conference it was, if someone did that to me they would get a quick jab to the nose.

We got an automatic room upgrade, to what the receptionist called “a very nice room”. Which was a very nice piece of understatement. It’s a suite, two toilets, a bath, a separate shower, living room, dining table and chairs, two TVs, loads of freebies, and a smart phone for our use for the duration of the stay, fully paid for our use whilst there.

It’s time like those walking through the door in to that suite that makes the year of having to travel up to East Kilbride every week worth it.

Walking in a medieval wonderland

The first morning in Prague got off to a sluggish start for some of us. Others went jogging, granted it was in totally the opposite direction from the plan, but it gave a good introduction to the city in the early morning sunshine before the rest of the tourists invaded.

By the time we were properly out for the day, the sun had changed to cloud, but at least no rain appeared. We meandered, not always in the planned direction to Namesti Republiky by the Powder gate and had brunch in a very elegant art deco style café. After that we headed along Na Prikope, which had used to be the moat to the old city but is now just another road full of high class shops.

Somewhere along that row is the museum of communism, which despite the fact we were looking for it, we were ironically unable to find hidden amongst the mass of consumerism that is rife there now.

And then we were in Wenceslas Square. Though long thin oblong is probably a more apt description. It stretches up for quarter of a mile, gradually rising up to the statue of Wenceslas on his horse, sitting in front of the grandeur of the National Museum and gallery.

On either side of the oblong are five and six story buildings of varying styles and ages. A number of them bear the name palace (or palace) although they are now hotels, or have been taken over by the usual brands and Americanisms; two McDonald’s, a Burger King, a Starbucks and a KFC, all in buildings far too good for them, but probably only they can afford them.

Hidden away next to a Costa was the entrance to the Palac Lucerna, a hidden gem of Art Deco magnificence which houses David Cerny’s statue of Wenceslas riding on an upside down horse. It is in an L shaped arcade, though the grander and more obvious entrance is tucked away on a side street.

At the top of Wenceslas Square, hidden around the corner is one the notable modern buildings, the new building of the National Museum, a complete contrast to the original old National Museum building across the road that you can see whilst walking all the way up the oblong.

We carried on around the edge of the older city until we came to what is called the New Town Hall. I don’t know how old the Old Town Hall is, but they were having riots outside this new one in the fifteenth century. It sits facing a park square covering two blocks and meant to be the exact dimensions of the square in front of the temple in Jerusalem, and is surrounded by more grand buildings and lovely churches.

As we turn to head down to the river we pass two more churches. One a very medieval looking dark brick building, which sits opposite a limestone squat building which houses the orthodox cathedral of St Cyril and Methodius. Plain on the outside, but very much grander, full of gold leaf inside.

As we hit the river, we find ourselves opposite what is called the dancing house, a building that curves and bends to look like it is a dancer taking a partner for a twirl. We cross over the Vltava River. A river that despite being more than four hundred miles from the sea is wider than the Thames is at any point as it flows through the city on London, despite that being less than thirty miles from the sea.

From the bridge we get our first views of the castle complex and St Vitus cathedral rising from the centre of it up on the hill on the far bank of the river. It looks like a small town in itself, and I’m looking forward to exploring it tomorrow.

We walk along the river until we get to the steps up to the east towers of the famous Charles Bridge. We get there just as the sun reappears for the first time since leaving the hotel. It removes a level of chill from the air almost immediately. The bridge is crowded, even on a late mid-week winter’s day like this. It must be pandemonium during the summer. No traffic gets to travel over the cobbled surface of the bridge, and statues adorn both sides of the bridge all the way across; in stone, both dark and light, metal and wood. There are dozens of stalls upon the bridge. Mainly artists selling their drawings and paintings and prints of the bridge or the views from it.

Stepping off the bridge and you are surrounded by more churches. They call this the city of a hundred spires, but that must be an understatement. It seems like you can’t turn a corner without happening upon another building with a spire on it. There are dozens of churches crammed in to the old streets, but it would appear that if a building is on a corner of a street then it was deemed fit enough to have a spire on it.

We cross over the tram lines and into the really old narrow streets of the old town. The street twist and wind without any obvious direction. There is a vast array of different shops. Numerous cheap tourist souvenirs and absinth shops brush with jewellers and coffee shops, and a museum for everything.

We stop for refreshments at one of the cafes and get hot dogs. They come out and are nearly the size of sausage dogs, and we wash them down with our first Czech beers. Despite the hot dogs being enormous we find an ice cream shop almost as soon as we leave the café, and eat the ice creams as we continue wandering the narrow streets in the sun, heading all the time for the Old Town Hall and the Old Town Square.

A couple of little alleyways are out final approach out into the square, they both proclaim they are a shortcut to it, which is probably an exaggeration to get you walking through them and past the shops they contain.

My first impression is how similar the square feels to the Grand Square in Brussels. And then I walk further into it and realise that doesn’t do it justice. There may be more gold leaf in Brussels, but this is bigger and grander. And more crowded. The late afternoon sun seems to have brought out even more people; either that or the crowds from Charles Bridge have followed us here.

After a few snap happy minutes we walk back up towards the river and our hotel. Walking past it to check out where the likely departure point would be for out jazz boat trip this evening. And then it is time for a rest for an hour or so. Those beers on the jazz boat won’t drink themselves you know.

Loving the Jazz Boat

The jazz boat wasn’t quite ready for boarders when we got to the pier. Yes we were early, but we were only second in the queue. As old men with instruments squeezed by us and on to the boat, we realised we were waiting for the band to finish turning up before they would let us on.

The music was already underway before we set sail upstream. The four piece band were in their sixties and seventies and certainly looked as if they were enjoying themselves as they played, sang, laughed and gurned their way through the numbers. As the boat glided along the river it passed numerous lit up buildings, a lot of whom we had seen on our wanderings during the day. They had lit up the buildings that looked spectacular in the daylight; they were just highlighting the fact they knew they were now.

The food and wine were good, but as the band started their third and final set of the evening I thought it would be a good idea to look at the drinks menu for accompaniments for the wine, and the first thing that caught my eye was the absinth. Why not? It’s a local delicacy, so called because of the delicate state you will feel the day after drinking it.

One was enough, but it led to trying the other local spirits they had on the boat. Slivivoce and Berchekova. Both of which were nearly as eye-watering as the absinth. Upon leaving the boat we floated back to the hotel where I continued on a voyage of Czech spirit discovery doing three additional and by now unrememberable Czech spirits with unpronounceable names, and one little French Pernod like number that thankfully came with a side serving of water.

Waking the next morning and opening the curtains to bright sunshine, my eyesight felt a bit like the effect you get on a camera where the sun is just peering around the edge of a building and blurring the picture with its brightness. On the plus side, I can actually see.

We’re the King and Queen of the Castle.

The earliest start on mainland Europe saw us out, across the river and eating breakfast before ten. Sustenance for the sore heads is just what we needed before starting on the long slow gradual climb up through the gorgeous little streets leading up to the main castle entrance.

The queue to get through security was snaking its way all across the castle square. Numerous tour parties had just turned up before us, so we headed off for a walk away from the castle to see what else was on the top of the hill. We passed a number of Palacs of varying sizes before heading in to The Loreto, a baroque seventeenth century pilgrimage site.

A mausoleum sits it the central courtyard of the building with wooden confessional boxes and little chapels strung out around what would be the cloisters. A small church sits at the east side of the building, boasting a magnificent array of gold leaf and marble. Upstairs are the treasury and museum, with more gold and jewels than Hatton Gardens.

We left and headed back to the castle, just missing the ceremonial changing of the guard, and found there was no real queue to get through security now. Once inside there are an array of choices as to what you want on your tickets. The queue for the tickets was longer than for security, and sneakily they don’t tell you there are several places you can buy your tickets from. Plus you needed a degree in encryption techniques to work out which ticket was the right one for you.

The reason for this is the sheer scale of the castle. It’s the size of a small town in itself. It is in the Guinness book of records as the largest castle in the world. The initial courtyard is big enough for a football pitch, with a couple of five a side courts stuck on the end. The courtyard is surrounded by five and six story buildings, and contains an orthodox chapel.

There are contiguous buildings all the way around the site, but they are from different ages, in different styles, and many different colours. Leaving the initial courtyard through an archway under one of the buildings leads you into what would have been a courtyard four times the size. Three quarters of that space is filled however, by St Vitus cathedral.

Dark and imposing on the outside, it is a magnificent piece of gothic architecture. Inside it is light and airy with a single central nave. There are no transepts, probably due to the lack of space to build them without imposing on other buildings. There are a number of spectacular windows, which I find later aren’t stained glass, but painted instead. The east of the cathedral behind the (very simple) altar has nine chapels, each with their own wonderful altar pieces and thrones for their occupants.

On the way around the cathedral, there was a very interesting “I’m going to stand in front of you as you want to take a photo” battle going on.

Out of the cathedral and across the square with its Egyptian obelisk in we head into the old royal palace and its cavernous central hall. The side rooms were the site of defenestration attempts. It was considered an act of God that none of the three men thrown from the windows of the room died after their fall to the ground far below. In the rooms they had eight foot high green ceramic towers that emanated a blast of heat as you passed them. They would have been the sixteenth century central heating, as they used to be filled with wood to burn, from a little panel in the walls so that they could be kept filled by staff without interrupting meetings, and without filling the rooms with smoke and soot. They are now run via electricity.

The exit from the old royal palace is down a high ceilinged and long shallow stepped passage. It used to be the case that those wishing to make a grand entrance could ride their horses up the passageway in full armour, straight into the main hall.

From the exit it was a short walk across the path to St George’s Basilica, but a lunch stop meant it wasn’t a direct route. Lunch included some goulash that came in its own, only slightly hollowed out batch loaf of bread. It was a good effort to eat as much of it as we did. After lunch and a walk around the Basilica we headed to what was called the Golden Lanes.

Originally a series of houses forming the northern boundary buildings along about quarter of the castle’s length, they have now been turned into a number of shops, examples of medieval life, or in some and all the way along the first floor of the row and up into part of the second and third floors is a museum of armour and weapons. And there are lots of weapons, and a whole host of unusually designed armour. Eye wateringly none of the suits of armour seemed to include any protection for the delicate nether regions.

We leave the row by going through a house where Josef Kazda had lived. He was a Czech film maker and obsessive collector of films from all over the world. There are tins of film crammed into every imaginable spot in the small house, and quite a few you wouldn’t have imagined. Including stacks on the stairs which prop up an end of a massive chest of drawers whose other legs sit on the landing at the top of the stairs.

Once you pop out of the Golden Lane you are on the battlements overlooking the city of Prague. It is an amazing view. You can probably see the one hundred spires of the city, plus quite a few spares.

We leave via the obligatory gift shop where a pen and a fridge magnet jumped into the shopping basket along with some other items.

The long gentle slope up to the castle lulls you in to a false sense of security as the “new” steps down never seem to end, and when they eventually do, we still find ourselves making our way down steep streets to the river and the bridge back over to our hotel. Nearly seven hours had passed since we left, but it hadn’t seemed that long at all. Well apart from to the legs. Time to use the spa facilities then.

Curry Time Again

As is usual, it was impossible to leave a European city without trying a local curry. Hiding not very far from the old town square we found the Indian Jewel. Lots of people have already used the phrase hidden jewel on trip advisor, so was it a gem?

When we arrived, it looked too well hidden, as we were the only customers, (It did fill up a bit later) and the staff didn’t look very happy. Not because they now had some work to do, but as we found out later, because the white pony tailed owner and his bossy Indian wife were in the building lording it up over those doing the actual work.

The service was good and the food was excellent, and with Staropramen on tap nothing could go wrong. And as a final added bonus it was cheap as well, I’d imagine they’d get swamped with British pissheads when it’s the full on stag and hen party season.

The old town square was quiet after dark, and it isn’t as lit up as some of the other main tourist attractions in Prague, they seem to save most of their lights for the castle and anything on the river. We walked through the square and back up to the hotel along a now silent shopping street, and swerved the hotel bar this evening. I didn’t need any more pens or match boxes from there.

More food and travel

The final day in Prague started with a run, not by me obviously. It was followed by a wander through the Jewish sector in search of breakfast. We found it in the Kafka Snob Café, where burgers for breakfast sounded like a great idea. The avocado burger was unique in that the bread was replaced by a whole avocado, cut down the middle with the burger in between the two halves.

We spent the next couple of hours just wandering the streets taking in as many glorious buildings as possible. Crossing Charles Bridge wasn’t any less crowded than two days before and it would seem that you are never very far away from a shop selling absinthe or a Thai massage parlour, no matter which part of the city you were in.

We did succumb to the former and bought some of the devil’s work back for a present (or punishment depending on your point of view). The latter we only saw in passing an open door, where the most bored looking oriental woman was half-heartedly rubbing someone’s feet.

As we crossed back over the river heading for the old town again, the first attempts at rain were felt. As least it had waited until it was almost time to leave. We have coffee and a cake in the Mozart café, part of the Grand Hotel, and overlooking the old town square and directly opposite the astronomical clock, which did absolutely nothing when the hour ticked over.

All that was left now was to pick our bags up (dump all the match boxes) and get a tram to the station. We didn’t think that taking our lives in our hands in another taxi was a good way to go, and at less than a tenth of the price of a taxi, the tram was a good chance to see a couple of bits of the city we hadn’t seen before at a more sedate pace.

A last Czech beer at the station helped pass the time before the train was due. And it was another compartment train, this with a bit more leg room between ourselves and those sitting opposite. It also had free water, tea and coffee and a steward to take other food and drink orders. We rushed through the Czech countryside in the fading light to Brno, before the train headed over the border into Austria and our destination of Vienna.

Capital Punishment Part 1 – Berlin

Getting there and getting about

After what seemed like no time at all, the alarm was going off. Five am on a Saturday morning is an obscene time to be getting up. Well it is until the point where you remember that you’re in a hotel next to Heathrow and you’ve got a flight to catch before eight nights abroad. Hop on a bus to terminal 5 where most of the other passengers are off to work, and we’re the only ones with cases.

Check in was going well until the clerk noticed we were on different rows on the plane due to a plane change. As the seats we’d booked didn’t exist anymore we had been moved. However the bell-end on the booking desk refused to move us to adjoining seats as they couldn’t move a passenger with no reason. The poor clerk on bag drop couldn’t believe it either. We were able to swap seats on the plane though.

Once through security it was first breakfast time, freebies in the club lounge. Second breakfast was on the plane, which judging by the route the bus took to it was parked in a field somewhere in Hampshire.

In Berlin it was clear that at Tegel, the famed German efficiency was obviously spelt with a silent D, as the wait for the bags took nearly as long as the flight. The bus journey wasn’t as planned either. They kicked everyone off early as they couldn’t go to the terminus as there were mass demonstrations. Just what new gadgets they were demonstrating we still don’t know.

We managed to recalculate a route to the hotel, pretty much in the same exasperated tone the voice on a sat-nav uses when you miss the turn she’s been shouting at you to take for the last mile.

After a bit of a rest we were off and walking the streets or perhaps I should say Strasses of Berlin. Through Potsdamer Platz, the Berlin Mall, the Holocaust Denkmal, past the American Embassy, through the Brandenburg Gate and all the way across to the river and into the Berliner Dom, the cathedral.

The spectacular space of the church was filled with the sound of choral music with fifty plus singers entertaining the passing tourists. Listening to them for a few numbers was a break before we traipsed up the (lots of) stairs and out onto the walkway around the outside of the main dome with its panoramic views over the rest of Berlin. From the heights it was down to the crypt, where they lead you through so that you leave through the coffee shop and the gift shop (yes fridge magnet and pen were purchased) and out into the changeable weather.

The couple of hours we spent wandering up to the cathedral had seen wind, sun, rain, more sun, hail, cloud and then heavy rain. The room and more rest were now calling, so we carried on walking up to Alexanderplatz, which had a longer, more labyrinthine route to their metro than even London Bridge or St. Pancras can throw at you. A change in transport at Potsdamer Platz from the U metro to the S metro was required.

At first glance it would suggest that the U stands for useable, and the S for shithouses.

It was getting towards food time, so as it’s the first night in a new city means we’re off for a curry and not of the wurst variety yet.

Curry time

Going for a curry on a U line, it really is only just useable. And the station name for the final destination of the train isn’t filling me with confidence.

Now, my German is shocking. I did one miserable hour a week of it in the second year of senior school. They were the worst hours in my entire academic history. Even worse than the woodwork and metalwork. Worse than the six thousand word dissertation on secret trusts. I can just about count to ten and say yes and no and that’s it. Looking at the long words on the route map makes my brain fade away. It’s like one of those magic eye pictures but in reverse. The image is there when I start looking at the words, and then it’s gone. Just a mass of random dots or letters.

Therefore I don’t know how the station name of Krumme Lanke should be pronounced, but all I can think of is that it says Crummy Lanky, as if I’m expecting to find Peter Crouch at the end of the line. I have a vision of sad and tired, tall and skinny people in a rundown post-apocalyptic train station.

We’re not even going that far, so I can’t override that image with what it actually looks like, so it’s stuck with tatty, peeling Peter Crouch wallpaper.

It is chucking it down as we come out of the station and there is no clear indicator as to which way we need to go. Google maps are garbage as usual so we manage to find the restaurant more by luck than judgement. And for a few uneasy seconds it looks shut. But the gate does open, as does the imposing front door, looking as if it has been half-inched from a Bavarian castle.

The food is great, and it’s not very expensive, there’s just no need for the mango schnapps that comes with the bill, or the refill when we politely say it was very nice.

We get outside and the rain has stopped, so it’s just a case of playing dodge the puddle on the way back to the hotel. The U line could be changing to useless as they force us to change for no apparent reason and the driver on the next train gets off to explore the station for ten minutes, but at least we are heading away from the home of Peter Crouch.

The hotel bar is very trendy, but the service isn’t very good, I think they’d be better off with snails working there, plus they appear to have a secret cocktail menu that’s for local people only, no cocktails for the foreign fuckers.

A day in the east

Waking naturally in Berlin at after eight was a much better start to the day than yesterday. No rushing for buses or planes. We ambled out of the hotel and headed for Checkpoint Charlie. We ignored the Checkpoint Charlie museum, which looked as if there may have been a small museum display and about 80,000 square feet of gift shop tat. We swerved the Checkpoint Charlie café and found a local café nearby instead. Large pretzels stuffed with cream cheese and chives for less than two euros, and pastries or doughnuts were a great start to the day.

Then it was on to wandering about. Up past some very interesting sculptures towards the communication museum before heading back to Charlottenstrasse and up to the Gendarmenmarkt. A space with three large spectacular building around it. In the centre is the Konzerthaus, and either side are two cathedrals with nearly identical main domes.

To the south is the Deutscher Dom, or German cathedral, to the north is the Franzosischer Dom, or French cathedral, built for the Huguenots escaping from their persecution for heresy in France. Any one of the three building by themselves would be a joy to behold, and there you are faced by all three. It can be difficult to take it all in.

Which would be amazing in itself, even without turning the corner to find yourself in the shadow of St Hedwig’s cathedral, which sadly like the Franzosischer Dom was closed for renovation. Contrary to popular belief (or at least in my head) she is not the patron saint of owls.

We were now back on to part of the route from the previous afternoon travails. We stopped for a drink opposite the Berliner Dom and attracted the local version of Mad Mary much to the amusement of the staff in the café, to whom she must be a regular irritant.

We then headed down to the river side to the DDR museum, dedicated to life in the DDR (or GDR depending on which language you try to speak) whilst the country existed between 1948 and 1990. A fascinating insight into the trials and tribulations of life in a totalitarian communist regime. The overwhelming message we walked away with was they were well paid people, only with very little to actually spend the money they earned on. Oh and the fact that their seventies décor was exactly the same as our own. Terrible colour clashes and horrendous patterns of orange, brown and avocado. By the looks of it they created the templates for MFI.

On leaving the museum (via the gift shop with pen and fridge magnet) we headed to the only remaining medieval part of the city. A few streets around Nikolai Viertel where it doesn’t have the imposing grandeur of the eighteenth and nineteenth century buildings elsewhere in the city. On those few streets it is more like the image you might find of a Bavarian visage, in the cobbled winding streets and almost alpine looking buildings. A small oasis of tranquillity that bursts out into fast flowing city traffic at almost every other turn.

We walk past the Berlin Rathaus, a behemoth of red brick that wouldn’t look out of place as a typical Victorian town hall (Reading, Leicester, Belfast, Stoke etc.) And then we find ourselves back in Alexanderplatz and looking for a drink. We see what looks like a small traditional looking bar – Besenhammers – tucked away in a corner of the railway arches and head inside.

The strange looks we got off the clientele and staff wasn’t as we first thought because we were English, but instead because we were a straight couple. We had inadvertently walked into the smallest rainbow bar in Berlin, which was fine with us. Not so much with the staff though, as they turned on some kind of entry system to the bar after we turned up, and people had to ring a bell to get in after that. They obviously didn’t want any more random straighties coming in.

After a drink we left the staff to thoroughly disinfect the glasses we may have sullied and headed back to get changed ready for the evening. There was a beerkeller with typical German fare calling out names for a Sunday evening meal.

Goat TV

Dinner with drinks is the phrase, though it really was the other way around this time. Lindenbrau were the lucky hosts as we started out in their Bavarian style restaurant room by ordering a meter of beer. Not quite a yard of ale, but a long wooden slat with eight beers, two of each of their standard draft beers. They had various TV screens around the room, most of which were showing alpine scenes as it ran through the four seasons in one hour. Including atmospheric thundering which caused the lights in the room to flicker and go out briefly, much to the consternation of the Japanese family sat behind me.

The screen I could see was a totally different matter. I had day forty-nine from the big goat barn. Lots of goats in a barn and a fixed camera. Surprisingly fascinating viewing. Strange creatures that have some sheep like tendencies, such as all staring the same way at the same time and moving as a single body. Then it looks as if some have been on the pop and are getting a bit lary and are sticking the nut in on the others. Then there was the confused looking black goat, the only one with floppy ears who looked distressed. Probably because the others were taking the piss. And then there were the two fitness freaks who kept running around the outside of all the others in some never-ending race. Probably the best reality TV I’ve seen in my lifetime.

After we had demolished the meter of beer and the traditional German fare that was the side line of food, it was onto the flavoured beers. Cola Weiss beer. Oh my fucking god, how nice was that, probably the most dangerous drink in the world. Never has the expression “you could drink that like pop” been more appropriate. Cherry, Almdudler, ginger, banana, there’s nothing they won’t mix with their beer. It was amusing that they called the one with lemonade (i.e. the shandy) the Russian beer.

Then it was time to try the schnapps. I’m assuming schnapps means something different in German. I’ll assume it means blow your fucking head off with paint stripper. Plenty of Metz judder type moments before moving on to the Baileys, and then back to more madness such as Linie Aquavit and Post, and that’s the stomach lining removed then.

It was still raining when we came out of the S line, which the more we travel on it; the more it would appear that it stands for Sub-Standard. The quest for more drinks in the hotel bar didn’t go well. After an initial drink we must have become invisible and we gave up waiting to be served after quarter of an hour. Another silent D in German efficiency again.

Auf Wiedersehen Berlin

Another leisurely start to the day that gave us the promise of sun as we unhurriedly got ourselves ready, only for the rain of the previous two days to appear as soon as we stepped out of the hotel.

We were making out way to the Tiergartden this morning, through some of the more modern buildings to the west of Potsdamer Platz. We stopped for a breakfast of currywurst and pommes at a little shack by the side of the busy Potsdamer Strasse and next to some unused waste ground.

As we ate there were surveyors marking the ground nearby with orange spray paint, much to the nervousness of the shack’s vendor, as if they were eyeing up his little pitch for more building work.

After food it was a walk through embassy land, with a building on the way into it that had survived the war, but still showed the bullet holes it accumulated during it. Some of the lesser lights are situated here, those unable to score prime locations in buildings close to the Brandenburg gate. We passed Egypt, Austria and some unremarkable east European country on our way up to cross over into the Tiergartden.

Once into the park it was lovely wooden footpaths meandering through countryside instead of straight lines. We came out at the Victory Tower. Its gold finish shining brightly despite the rain and towering over us at the opposite end of the wide avenue that sweeps down to it from the Brandenburg Gate.

Crossing over the road we headed back into the relative calm of the park and strolled along hearing the bells of the Carillion in the distance. We saw it looming through the trees ten minutes later, its bells now silent. Then we got to the monument to the fallen Russian soldiers of World War II. Ironically placed in what became West Berlin during the DDR years. We carried on up to the Reichstag, with its glass dome rising out of the old stone building. It is difficult to comprehend how large some of these buildings are until you are right up close to them.

Cold and wet now we headed back through the Brandenburg gate and into Pariser Platz where we entered the DZ Bank headquarters. Only into the lobby mind you and only so we could see the amazing atrium designed by Frank Gehry. It was café time and a chance to get out of the rain and dry off a bit.

We had some time to be able to detour to a shop we had seen the day before, but it had been closed before heading back to the hotel. We were covering ground we had trodden the day before, but in reverse.

As is usual, any hotel stay isn’t really complete until your room card doesn’t work. It took three attempts to get a working card, and it meant a rush to get checked out on time. A bus to the Haupbtbanhoff was another example to the lack of joined up thinking on Berlin’s buses. Buses serving the airport or the main train station have no space for any luggage. At all. Fun and games all round trying to navigate on and off the bus.

We had plenty of time at the station. Another drink and rest before finding the correct platform, where they did have a very good and specific diagram of exactly where every coach on every train would line up on that platform. Which made it very easy to line up at the correct spot to get on the train.

The train was set out in six people compartments, something I hadn’t been in since the late eighties in the UK. We had window seats in a compartment with four St. Pauli fans. Trying to stuff our cases into the overhead racks whilst trying to avoid clonking one of the already seated passengers was somewhat entertaining. Especially as there were no lights on in the compartment and the ambient light from the station was next to non-existent.

And so we sat entertaining ourselves as we make our increasingly delayed way through Germany and into the Czech Republic and on to Prague, occasionally looking up to peer out of the window at the passing German countryside.

Lonely Luggage

Have you ever noticed that when you are waiting for your luggage at an airport carousel, there is always that one piece of luggage that has been abandoned? It glides around the meandering track of the conveyor belt almost screaming out “Please retrieve me. Why have I been deserted?”

And as we wait for our luggage to make its way from our flight to the terminal at Tegel, there it was. That lonely suitcase. Doing endless laps around the carousel, like a brightly painted horse on a fairground ride. A pale red hard cased midsized suitcase, with definite signs of wear and tear. Scuff marks, a small dent, various stickers from previous journeys, and the little tag for its current one.

It was a remnant from an earlier flight from Istanbul. A poor lost lonely wanderer, forgotten by its owner, or discarded like a piece of paper in the wind. The number of laps it had made in unknown, but by the time our own bags turned up it had done well over twenty.

It had been turned around, and turned over, as people either looked to see if it might be theirs (despite one person who then picked up a black cloth bag instead), or nudging it out of the way as they struggled to drag their own heavy bags from the carousel.

We left with it still going around unclaimed. Had it even turned up to the correct airport? Was there a poor soul stood at Schiphol or Dubai waiting for their trusty pale red case to pop out onto the carousel there? The last person standing forlornly looking at the now empty carousel willing their bag to pop out so they can go to that meeting, or catch up with those long lost relatives. Only to find they now have a long lost case instead.

Will the case and the owner ever be reunited, or will they be doomed to circle luggage carousels for the rest of their days? Or when the airport closes for the night, will the suitcase be packed off to a lost and found, only to be auctioned off months later and only for the excited winning bidder to find it is full of now decidedly green Twinkies. What goes around comes around I suppose.

St Kevin

St. Kevin
St. Kevin

Hard as it may be to believe, there is actually a St. Kevin. If you can manage to get your head around that fact then it probably won’t surprise you to learn that St Kevin was from Irish stock. Records about his life are a bit sketchy, and they would have us believe he lived a very long life that spanned across three centuries. Granted it’s not as long as some of the ridiculousness of the ages quoted in the old testament (i.e. Methuselah at 969 years old etc.), but for someone to live to the supposed age of 120 in the fifth, sixth or seventh centuries is stretching the bounds of credulity.

He was born on an unspecified date in the year 498 and died on June 3rd 618. His name was Coemgen in Old Irish, which means “Fair begotten” or “Of noble birth” and is anglicised to Kevin. It took nearly thirteen hundred years from his death for him to be made a saint, but he eventually was in 1903 by Pope Pius X.

He spent most of his life in south east Ireland, mainly in Wicklow, and founded the Glendalough abbey c540. Glendalough meaning the “glen of the two lakes”. Having founded the abbey he spent most of his life being a hermit, trying to avoid those who would become his followers. He took refuge in a bronze-age tomb in the Wicklow Mountains, which is now known as St. Kevin’s Bed.

He was immortalised in the Seamus Heaney poem “St Kevin and the Blackbird”, as St Kevin is the patron saint of Blackbirds. Who knew? Blackbirds have their own patron saint. He also features several times in James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake”, and made it into song in The Dubliners “The Glendalough Saint”.

I was born in the right month for it as well, though still a fair few days off of his saint’s day on the 3rd June. A day that seems to delight in being the saint’s day for other numerous obscure saints – Charles Lwanga, Clotilde, Ovidius and Vladimirskaya to name a few. But falling as it does it gets somewhat overshadowed in the ecclesiastical calendar by the heavyweight St. Peter and St Paul’s day on the first of the month.

There are a few churches named for St Kevin, two in Dublin, one Roman Catholic and one Church of Ireland, two in Glendalough and then others in Kilkenny and Kildare. He doesn’t seem to have made it to the UK or USA, but there are colleges named after him in both Australia and New Zealand.

It’s so much easier nowadays to find this kind of information out. When I was a kid growing up in Leicester with the name Kevin, the only saint Kevin that would have been mentioned would have been the saint Kevin of Keegan as celebrated by Liverpool fans. Well right up until the moment he buggered off to Germany to play for SV Hamburg, and they inherited King Kenny instead.

Now you can track all the information down in the internet. There is no being stuck in a Catholic school where everyone had obvious saint’s names like Andrew, Peter, Paul, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Adverts ridiculed the name as well. There was the advertising slogan (for a now forgotten company), “So simple even Kevin could use it”, then the “Kev, Bev, Bev, Kev” adverts that came at the start of recent Oscar winner’s Olivia Coleman’s career, plus Aldi’s ridiculous Kevin the Carrot. And don’t get me started on Roland Rat’s sidekick Kevin the Gerbil.

Despite all this I do like the name and I now use it as a badge of honour, especially in its shortened version (as can be seen from the website etc.)

I was named after a saint, despite what many people seem to think. I’m not sure personally about the whole blackbird thing, but I can say there are churches (and colleges) bearing my name.

Sub Par Way

Another Saturday for writing, but it was just an afternoon session today, so I was wandering into town a few hours later than I usually did. I can see why I like going into town early; there are less people around, and a lot less lunacy.

It was no use going into Maccy D’s at this time of day. As I passed the front doors it looked like a sardine tin in there. Plus they stopped serving their breakfast items a couple of hours ago, and nothing else from there is worth consuming. I’d been put off of eating anything from Burger King due to an absolutely shit effort from their outlet on Victoria station a few months ago, so I decided to go for a Subway. I hadn’t had one in a while and it would make a pleasant change.

Which must have been the thought for lots of other people too, as it was the only outlet in the mall’s food court with a queue stretching out past their own frontage.

I don’t mind queuing, I’m fairly patient. Which is more than can be said for the bratty little girl in the queue behind me. She spent the entire time I was queuing just walking into the back of me, stepping back a couple of steps and then doing it again. I just about managed to resist the temptation to swing my elbow back in to the top of her head, or squarely into her evil looking face, but it was a close call.

I have a simple order, being a creature of habit, it’s the same one I always have, a Subway melt on hearty Italian. But today it was painful.

Do you want cheese on that?

Yes, it comes with cheese anyway.

Do you want extra cheese?

Yes please.

Sorry, I don’t understand.

Yes please, I do want extra cheese.

No, I still don’t understand.

Yes. I do want extra cheese.

Ah, OK.

Plus I want it microwaving please, not toasting.

Thirty seconds later after they’ve haphazardly slapped all the meat and cheese onto the bread, they’re trying to put my nice foot long sub into the toaster. When I stopped them and got them to put it into the microwave they looked at me as if I’d grown two heads.

Why the hell would I want a Subway melt toasted? There’s a hint and a half in the name. MELT, not fucking toasted. They are obsessed with everything being toasted nowadays. Granted, the microwaves are now hidden away in hard to reach places to try and prevent people having items microwaved, but that annoys the hell out of me. A melt is supposed to melt in the mouth, not rip the gums away in a crispy toasted bread hell. If I wanted overly crispy bread and crozzled ingredients I could do that at home without even trying.

When I got my sub done the right way with the right salad and sauces on, it was delicious and it did melt in the mouth. Their long running slogan was Eat Fresh. Well I just about did today, and I will again in the future, but I will have to remember to watch them like hawks to make sure they don’t slip it into the toaster.

My Favourite Song

The Tears Of A Clown – Smokey Robinson & The Miracles.

I was properly introduced to Motown by a couple of school friends in my third year at senior school – John Weston & Dictino Garcia – they were both instrumental in bringing Motown and Northern Soul into my life. Something that has stayed with me ever since, and forms the basis for my record collecting.

I had heard some Motown songs prior to this time, but hadn’t really understood where it all came from.

I was spending money from my paper round on getting the cassettes in the Motown Hits Of Gold series, and the week I bought volume four I played it to death. On the whole it covered the year 1970, the year of my birth, something I didn’t notice until much later, and had all the big Motown stars of the time on it. The Supremes, both with and without Diana Ross, the start of Diana Ross’s solo career, The Four Tops, The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, The Jackson 5, Jimmy Ruffin and Edwin Starr, but the track that caught my attention and has never let go since was Tears Of A Clown by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.

The upbeat whirl-a-jig circus sound to the music is such an uplifting piece, but the lyrics are so sad, and even as a teenager they spoke to me and spoke of me. I was shy and introverted, and I liked my own company. Yet to try and overcome this I would try to be a class clown. But at times I would be at home, in my own room, or lying in bed at night and I would feel so unhappy, so down.

This song was me at that point in my life and has been at many times since. There have been tens of thousands of records that have passed through my ownership over the years; hundreds of thousands of songs that I have owned, listened to and sang along to. But since the day I heard this song on that cassette it has been my favourite song, and I doubt anything will ever replace it.

Yet it could have all been so different. Originally it was a mere album track. Stevie Wonder and Motown producer Hank Cosby wrote the music for the 1966 Motown Christmas party, but couldn’t come up with lyrics for it. Smokey Robinson could, lyrics that had such juxtaposition with the music. It was one of three songs written and recorded with The Miracles in a similar vein along with “My Smile Is Just A Frown (Turned Upside Down)” and “Tracks Of My Tears”. “Behind A Painted Smile”, also from 1967 by The Isley Brothers is in the same theme.

The song ended up on Smokey Robinson & The Miracles’ 1967 album “Make It Happen”. It only became a single by accident. Three years later The Miracles – without Smokey Robinson – were touring Europe, and had had recent chart success in the UK, but were lacking any new material. One of the office staffers in Motown’s London office was pushing for “Tears Of A Clown” to be used as a single to keep the group’s momentum going. There were some doubts, but it was eventually released as a single in the UK in July of that year (just a couple of weeks after I was born).

Two months later it was the UK number one single, Motown’s first number one of the seventies. It was then released as a single in the US, and hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100. That belated success for a song only done as an album track meant it appeared on the Motown Hits Of Gold Volume four cassette that I had bought. (Along with countless other Motown compilations over the years as one of their biggest ever hits.)

It brought it to my attention, and I had to have the single. The original UK release with its now imprinted label number of TMG745 is not the most valuable record in my collection. It’s fairly easy to come by as it was such a big hit at the time. But it is easily the most prized record I own. In fact I have two copies, just in case!

Impromptu Soul Night

When I had dropped Helen and Jackie off at their friends just after seven, Jackie had jokingly said “pick us up after midnight”.

It was just after one when I did pick them up, as usual I was still awake, and being in I wasn’t drinking. Well not until we got back home and an impromptu soul session started. That started after lots of laughter instead of sympathy after Jackie stacked it on the slippy patio whilst playing with Charlie. The next half hour was a mixture between her shouting at the dog saying it was all his fault her shoulder was hurting, mixed in with playing with the dog.

After some time of this alternating, Jackie asked for The Snake, by Al Wilson, which prompted the usual discussion of ‘have you seen the clips where Trump reads the lyrics of the song out during speeches’, and the fact he draws parables between the snake in the song and immigrants in the USA. There are numerous YouTube clips of it. The man is barking mad.

From that single single came nearly an hour’s blast of soul and Motown singles, helped along by large tumblers of some imitation Bailey’s Irish Cream and ice. Just what the neighbours needed at two in the morning.

Even if I say so myself, there was a good playlist following The Snake.

Joe Tex – Under Your Powerful Love,

Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons – The Night,

Frank Wilson – Do I Love You (Indeed I do), which was being put on the record player seconds before the request came for it.

R. Dean Taylor – There’s a Ghost in My House.

Martha Reeves & The Vandellas – Third Finger, Left Hand and I Can’t Dance To That Music You’re Playing (which led to talk of Betty Boo).

Gladys Knight & The Pips – I Heard It Thru’ The Grapevine

Edwin Starr – Back Street,

The Velvelettes – Needle in a Haystack, and He Was Really Saying Something (and yes Bananarama were mentioned)

The Miracles – Love Machine,

Back to Edwin Starr – 25 Miles,

The Contours – Do You Love Me,

Before finishing with Motown’s first ever release sixty years ago – Barrett Strong – Money (That’s What I Want) and discussion on who covered it in the early eighties. (Late seventies and it was the Flying Lizards)

During the run of records the disco balls were dusted off and given a spin for the first time in years. Poor old Charlie looked most bemused at the fact there were people up and making noise, and sitting on his sofa during his quiet night time sojourn.

And despite the fact that we all didn’t go to bed until nearly three, Nathan still managed to time getting home to exactly ten minutes after we’d all gone to bed. The search for the camera continues.

Flanagan’s Run by Tom McNab

So where did I get the name for my latest e-zine, Flanagan’s Running Club from? Well, from my favourite book.

I am on my fifth or sixth version of this book, plus having it on my Kindle. I’ve lost a couple of copies in house moves, and others through lending them to friends as I’ve recommended it as my favourite book ever. But I get antsy if I don’t have a copy I could just pick up and read at a whim whenever I wanted to.

Since the first time I read it as a teenager, it has been a book I return to time after time. Thirty odd years down the line I’ve just done my annual reading of it.

It is a book that never ceases to move me every time I’ve read it, such is the affinity you feel with the characters. There are often tears, both of joy and sadness.

It is set in the United States in 1931, a time where the country was still suffering from the great depression. It follows the grand idea of Charles Flanagan to have a running race from Los Angeles to New York set over three months, and the trials and tribulations of the race, those running it, and those competing in it. Weaving in their back stories as we progress across America.

The characters are a great mixed bag, coming from a range of backgrounds and countries. Different ages and sexes. They entice you into the story with them and then carry you along on a rollercoaster ride.

And what a ride it is. There are powers at work trying to stop the race. The FBI are investigating it, others are worried that the race will ruin the Olympic Games that Los Angeles is going to be hosting the following year. Flanagan has to keep trying to overcome the obstacles set in his way.

Towns and cities that have promised to pay for stage finishes refuse to pay, or refuse to let them enter the town, or make it so they can only enter after dark. The caterers are leant upon to pull out, and the main sponsor goes into liquidation. Yet through chance, and the fortitude of the runners they manage to keep going.

They get involved in various sideshows along the way as a way to raise money, Highland Games, men vs horses racing, boxing matches and more besides, and when they do make it to the end, they get an offer from a new company to pay the original prize money. But there is a catch.

Real life figures come into play along the way, there is a team of Nazi youth competitors entered into the race, they cross swords with Al Capone and Frank Nitti in Chicago, J. Edgar Hoover takes a personal interest, and the big film stars of the day get involved in starting the race and spectating at the end.

You are rooting for the characters to make it, and pleasingly a lot of them do. They overcome what has been thrown at them, they have beaten the circumstances, the cheats and their demons. Some find love along the way, and some their personal redemption.

It is a glorious read, and even after over thirty readings, I will be returning to it again next year, and the year after, and every year that I’m still alive. There are stacks of books that I have to make my way through all the time, but I will always make time to read this and experience the magnificent journey of those running machines across 1930’s America.

Diddly Diddly

Sunday afternoon saw us heading to The Plough (Three Bridge, not Ifield) for a friend’s birthday drinks. It was advertised to us that there was a band on playing Irish folk music.

They hadn’t started playing by the time we got there, and already the pub had ran out of Guinness. I mean, seriously, how the hell do you run out of Guinness when you know there’s going to be an Irish band on. People were flapping and rushing around seeing if they could get a barrel from another pub in the locality. (Which they did manage about an hour later.)

With it being planned that I would be driving home, I ordered a soft drink, but in addition to the Guinness, they had no bitter lemon either, so my St Clements was out the window.

Not only that, but when someone else asked for a tea, they got as far as the teabag going in the paper cup and hot water added to it, only to find there was no milk left and they had to send someone out to buy some from the local shop.

It wasn’t quite a case of Slim Dusty’s “A Pub With No Beer”, but it was getting there.

Turns out it wasn’t just an Irish band, it was a bit of a charity do, and so there were all comers lining up to play some instruments and sing a bit. I’d migrated to the other bar to watch the Spurs game (another two hours of my life I’ll never get back – but that’s a whole different subject.) Even so, I could hear the change over from Irish folk music to a whole random section of anything goes.

Even in the other room it was difficult not to hear whoever the hell it was beating the living daylights out of Buggles’ “Video Killed The Radio Star”. The same person murdered something else straight after it, but it was so bad I have no idea what the hell they were trying to perform.

There was a better turn from Mike Dobie, and some reasonable blues (perfectly applicable for watching the football), before it ended up back at the folk music.

And then it was over, three hours of random music and catching up with friends over a few drinks was over, not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Shoot That Poison Arrow

For a lot of people there are big birthdays, the ones that most people recognise as milestones. The 16th, 18th, 21st, 30th, 40th, 50th etc. These are the ones that have parties and gatherings and are memorable. Not many people however, celebrate their upcoming 35th birthday as a biggie though.

Which is where Liam comes in. To commemorate the turn from his early thirties to his late thirties he did the only thing appropriate to mark such an occasion. He hired a room in a social club and organised a darts tournament.

Indeed!

So, on a Friday night in late January, sixteen of Sussex’s worst ever darts players made their way to Hove and the legendary darts venue that is The Goldstone Club.

What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? Tucked away in a side street near to Hove train station, crammed in to the middle of a row of terraced houses, it is a surprise that anyone has ever heard of it. It’s a throwback to when these little social clubs used to be all over the place. Yet so many of them have been destroyed over the years. The reduction in numbers of people using them have often meant they have been destroyed to make way for more soulless housing. It’s good to see one like this surviving, with it’s little bar area, then the good sized function room tagged on to the side at the back, so that it would be behind one of the terraced houses, and with it’s smaller meeting and function rooms upstairs. The kind of place where you would be taken as a kid, given a bottle of pop and packet of crisps and be told to sit quietly in the corner.

The bonus of this type of club still being around and available to hire rooms from is that the booze is cheap. Which is exactly why all the dart players go there.

Oh yes, the darts. Now Liam is a big fan of the darts, and he goes a few times a year to watch it, mainly I think because he loves the fancy dress bit. Therefore for his birthday, he wanted his own darts tournament. The first ever LBM Birthday Trophy Event.

Everyone who turned up was expected to play. Not only were they expected to play, but they also had to come up with their own dart player nickname. For those who couldn’t manage to do this for themselves, Liam provided a link to a dart player’s random name generator. Those playing weren’t even finished at that point. They also had to come up with some walk on music. Something that for twelve of the sixteen players was a waste of time, as the walk on music was disregarded until the semi-final stage.

There was fierce competition to be crowned the least worst of worst. One competitor even failed to make it to the oche, with a nick name of “The Rabbit”, he must have taken one look at the nick name of his opposition – “The Hyena” and done a runner.

Some of the games took quite a long time. They were only playing the one leg of 301 for the first two rounds, but some of those legs lasted longer than some televised matches. More darts were thrown at double one, Annie’s room, the mad house, or whatever else you want to call it, than would be thrown at it in a dozen World Championships. Not that it got hit very often. So much so that some games got to the stage where the players wouldn’t have hit a double if they played until Christmas, and so did a “highest score wins” to decide the games instead.

The host and organiser of the event didn’t manage to make it through to the later stages of the tournament, crashing to defeat against “Macca Crackers” in the second round.

After over three hours of low quality darts it got to the final, where the aforementioned “Macca Crackers” played “Magic Mike” in what turned out to be a bit of a mismatch as “Macca Crackers” ran out a straight legs winner, and was crowned as the first ever winner of the LBM Birthday Trophy. There has been the possibility of a stewards inquiry into the winner’s previous darting form, as it looked suspiciously like he could actually play a bit and had therefore been faking it to make it in to the final sixteen of the worst of the worst.

It was amazing that over four hours worth of darts went by in the blink of an eye. It was even more amazing that no one ended up with a dart in the eye, such was the standard of the arrows being thrown.

If this lot had been on the battlefield in the Battle of Hastings on the Norman side (keeping the Sussex connection going), then Harold would have kept his eye, and probably his throne, and there wouldn’t have been the multitude of 11th and 12th century castle building. So it’s probably a good thing they weren’t.

Then it was time for the final checkout, before we were all chucked out, and the competitors headed off in various directions to all corners of the county.

Overall it was a well organised and run tournament, which gives us just a little bit of hope that Liam can pull off the organisation of the proposed Brighton Pub Crawl later in the year.