Some German traditions have roots stretching back deep into the mists of history. More usually, they pretend they have. Occasionally, you wish others really did go back that far, and those historic mists had included sufficient impurities to have killed them at birth.

We have a May tradition like that here in Nuremberg. It takes place about once every four years. This is known as relegation from the First Division. 1. FC Nürnberg is a football club rich in tradition, and their colours are red and black. Der Club (a nickname which is as familiar as the Gunners or Spurs are in England) have won the German championship nine times. The importance of this as heritage springs from the fact that the most recent triumph was 37 years ago. Compare this depth to the superficiality of those Bayern upstarts in Munich, who seemingly care nothing for history. This year, local papers haven’t issued ‘Katastrophe beim Club‘ editions, complete with photos of sad teenage girls seeking to console their tearful fathers. Relegation has been avoided with two whole games still to play, and they’ve printed souvenir survival issues instead… Complete with photos of dementedly joyous fathers embarrassing tearful teenage girls.

Of course, not all regions mark the post-blossoming of spring by thrashing VfL Bochum 2-1 in front of 44,000 dancing maniacs. Some young Bürger of Berlin have evolved their own style of making merry in May. As dusk prepares to descend, groups of young men gather in the streets of the district of Kreuzberg. When sufficiently provoked, they turn to the task of trashing cars, and employ a method of ignition not envisaged by the motor industry; the petrol bomb. If this happened in Munich, I’m convinced people would emerge from the surrounding houses, armed with sausages and steaks, and commence cooking. The Bavarian State flag is composed of light blue and white checks. It’s best understood as an ever ready tablecloth. However, these young Berliners are more inclined to throw the arriving firemen through shop windows, rather than attempt to feed them Bratwürste. It’s of interest to note that “the annual May 1st riot, often complete with police helicopters” is now included in the events listings of some travel guides.

Another May tradition has sporadically emerged on Fathers’ Day, which coincides with Ascension Day. At some properly equipped petrol stations (ie. ones which sell beer), mysterious gatherings of men can be seen at nine or ten in the morning. The group we witnessed last year had several ingeniously constructed, placard-adorned handcarts, one of which held a barrel. The other available space was used for storing cases of beer. The men stood around chatting and gulping for a while, and then wandered off down the road. I can’t report on where they went or what they did, but I suspect the word handcarted was appropriate at some point. I did express an interest in sating my curiosity on these points, but I was informed by my wife that I wouldn’t want to do any such thing. It would be bad and they can’t have enjoyed themselves at all.

German television has created some traditions which are most regrettable. May is the month when Marianne and Michael commence inflicting open-air Volksmusik on audiences, who really should know better. Volksmusik is not to be confused with folk music. It’s more the equivalent of the most highly sugared Country & Western imaginable, but the taste is even sicklier, and the teeth whiter. Hideous children sing blood-curdling homilies to their mother, who pairs up with her sister in retaliation, by yodelling the delights of a village they don’t come from. Bare-footed former used car salesmen prance around pretending to be gleeful, impoverished shepherds. And should this month’s edition be broadcast from anywhere within a hundred miles of the North Sea, the stage will be littered with the stuffed carcases of seagulls, nailed down in an attempt to add a flavour of salty aired authenticity. Go and yodel at a convenient seagull and see if it sits around waiting for an encore. The reactions of any passers-by would also provide a good indication of the effects of open-air Volksmusik upon the unsuspecting.

In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to. I wonder what he was thinking about previously. Perhaps they don’t make them the same way any more.

[This article was originally sent to us in 2005. Trevor's just (April 2006) sent us the following update:]

When I first wrote that two years ago, 1. FC N. survived relegation on the last day of the season. Consequently I did a sneaky re-write, seeing as they were safe by the last but one match. This season was going fine. They were bottom of the table by October. However, things turned a bit around and they were a point above the relegation zone by the middle of December. Then something weird happened.

There was a six-pointer against MSV Duisburg, so a bloke called Vittek scored a hat-trick (with two in the first 15 minutes). 45,000 Franconians stared in happy surprise. This was followed by a six-pointer away to 1. FC Köln. A bloke called Vittek had a hat-trick within the first 25 minutes. Next came Werder Bremen. Vittek was off form and only got two.

Nürnberg are now ninth in the table and, with four games left, ten points above the relegation zone. Somehow or other, they’re closer to qualifying for Europe than going down. It was touch and go against Kaiserslautern last Sunday with a sell-out crowd of 47,000; 2-2 with three minutes left and Kaiserslautern desperately needed the points. So Vittek scored his second of the match, and the visiting players and supporters looked extremely sick. They’d played really well until the 87th minute.

Author: Trevor Dykes

T D Dykes: putting the in before sanity.

Dr Trevor Dykes, aged 42.09, is a starving humorist slaving away to almost universal indifference in the comedy mines of Franconia. Born in Bournemouth, he emigrated to Germany in 1992 to loud cries of Bon Voyage, relief and good riddance. He earned his Doctorate in Humour from the University Collage of Dipwytch, Dorset by paying fifty pounds. His special areas of study include: sleeping, West African e-mail fraud, mammals and near-mammals of the Mesozoic and the virtual village of Dipwytch. More on those themes can be learned later, so you have been warned.

This is Dipwytch!
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And of course I haven’t forgotten. A freshly polished beating stick is a reliable mnemonic, and I see it’s been placed on the handy hook in the passage. I can’t recall what S-T-I-C-K stands for, but the sight of it helps me to remember some things. That’s how come I’ve just returned from the shop with a box of chocolates. This will be a lovely surprise on the breakfast table in the morning; as original as always.

I’m going to add an extra touch this year, assuming I can find one of those amusing e-greetings cards. If I put enough effort into it, I’m confident I’ll come up with a heartfelt template at Yahoo.com. Imagine my wife’s delight at discovering an ‘I Love You’ e-mail on the computer! I wonder if they’ve got one with dancing dinosaurs. Of course, I’d prefer a message featuring the newly described Upper Jurassic mammal, Fruitafossor. (It was a mouse-sized eater of ants, by the way.) However, this is intended as a romantic gesture for my wife, and I doubt Yahoo.com have any anniversary e-cards featuring Mesozoic mammals. I can’t think why.

Any damned fool can say it with flowers, but it’s far more original to attempt to articulate with Fruitafossor. (The molar teeth are surprisingly like those of armadillos, but they’re only very distant relatives.) Mesozoic mammals were far more romantically inclined than non-birdy dinosaurs. As evidence, I offer the fact that we didn’t go extinct.

Given the recent news from Rome, some may think our forthcoming festivities inappropriate. I was reminded of the demise of the Pope, as the local Catholic church is right opposite the shop. I doubt you’ll be surprised to hear about the flag being at half-mast, but I’m referring to one in the garden next door. The church has three large, colourful flags, and they were fluttering full with hope in the breeze. There’s a special poignancy in the air, as the minds of the faithful were strongly reminded of the story of the resurrection at Easter, and that was the weekend before death visited the Vatican. The resurrection is a story of suffering and hope. It has no happy ending because both suffering and hope continue.

Those with a taste for cynical humour might wish to take advantage of an apparent irony. Shortly after celebrating a resurrection, the Pope died. Can we expect a second resurrection, they might ask. I suppose that’s humour of a sort. The local priest is a man who likes to smile, and this is despite having seen and experienced much suffering. It forms a large part of his job. If things go fine, you turn to each other. If not, ring a doctor. Should all else fail, you ain’t going call Ghostbusters, not in Bavaria. I suppose he’d find that sort of humour as distasteful as I would, but his answer could be yes, expect a second resurrection. This has been promised by his Boss.

Although many Catholics mourn the passing of the man who was Pope; offer prayers on his behalf; these prayers aren’t for his return to the Earth. What need has the local church of flags at half-mast? Ring them bells and let the colourful flags signal hope in the breeze.

I like irony that spreads warmth, rather than the sort which seeks to ridicule. If jokes are mean, they’re worse than average.

The flag in the garden next to the church is at half-mast. I have a preferred explanation for this, even if it’s not the correct one. This flag is red and black, and emblazoned with the white legend of 1.FCN. That’s our local football club. They’ve been losing with regularity since the season resumed after the winter break, and have sunk to one place above the relegation zone. Saturday saw der Club go down 4-1 away to FC Schalke. Catholics are promised resurrection, but no such pledge is given to football teams. Nevertheless, with seven matches left and a five point advantage, this sign of resignation is premature. Hoist the flag in hope. It’s Rostock at home next week. All football folk will understand this, and the recently departed used to play in goal.

Pardon? I might let you know how we celebrated our anniversary, seeing as I’ll know by the time I submit this article. However, I’ll probably not inform the rest of the world. It’s none of their business. This is the second time I’ve had to remind you about nosiness. Besides, you’ll derive far more satisfaction, should you find the answer for yourself. And you don’t have to await your anniversary in order to celebrate the joys of living.

Author: Trevor Dykes

T D Dykes: putting the in before sanity.

Dr Trevor Dykes, aged 42.09, is a starving humorist slaving away to almost universal indifference in the comedy mines of Franconia. Born in Bournemouth, he emigrated to Germany in 1992 to loud cries of Bon Voyage, relief and good riddance. He earned his Doctorate in Humour from the University Collage of Dipwytch, Dorset by paying fifty pounds. His special areas of study include: sleeping, West African e-mail fraud, mammals and near-mammals of the Mesozoic and the virtual village of Dipwytch. More on those themes can be learned later, so you have been warned.

This is Dipwytch!
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It wasn’t an easy undertaking. I’d only popped down to fetch a new light bulb. Unfortunately, this smashed when the brown case fell on it. Should you be planning a visit to our cellar, it would be advisable to wear shoes because of the glass. There are plenty lying around, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find some that kind of fit. I counted about half a dozen in the heap created by the brown case.

I’ve no idea where that case fell down from or how it arrived in the cellar, although some of the bric-à-brac is probably fertile. As the locks no longer close (should they have ever done so), it could only be of much use if tied shut with old cables. Luckily, they’re readily available as well. I tripped over one, and that’s how I came across half of a booklet published in 1812: ‘Merryweather’s Concise Compendium of Wisdom, Idioms and Expressions Collected during Mr Merryweather’s Journies Around and Through the.’ I’m not sure where Merryweather had been, seeing as the cover was less than well-preserved.

It was an intriguing half booklet, and I hope the remainder might be found in roughly the same area. I’m planning a thorough excavation of the location later this year. Should conditions have been favourable for the fossilisation of more of Mr Merryweather’s work, I hope to be able to provide a reasonably complete reconstruction.

In the meantime, I can offer an interim insight into his anthology, and restore a number of well known sayings to their former condition. As would be expected, many have diverged significantly from their ancestral stock over the generations.This is fully in line with Darwinian theories on linguistics, should he have provided any. I doubt Darwin discussed the issue at the time (he was only three), but he may have done so later.

The Interim Merryweather Report:

i. A bird in the hand may necessitate a convincing explanation.
ii. All roads lead to traffic congestion.
iii. ‘Tis as easy as falling from a log and certainly as painful.
iv. Crying over spilt milk serves no purpose, but it does no harm and might make one feel better.
v. A stitch in time saves a clock repairer from future disturbances.
vi. Rome was not built in a day, but neither was Nuneaton.
vii. Never do today what can be postponed until the morrow. Another fellow might have done it competently in the meantime.
viii. There is nothing common about sense.
ix. One cannot have one’s cake and eat it, but it will go mouldy if left alone.
x. When looking for a needle in a haystack first apply fire.
xi. He who laughs last is probably constipated.
xii. There is more than one way to skin a cat, but none can be considered polite.
xiii. When in doubt one is normal.
xiv. When in doubt, or perhaps not.
xv. One swallow does not empty a bottle.
xvi. If God is indeed a Yorkshireman, then why did He create Lancashire next door? Or at all?
xvii. One ought not to judge a book by its cover, unless it has Jeffrey Archer written upon it.
xviii. Pride cometh before zebras make haste.
xix. A bad labourer quarrels with his tools. A wealthy one blames somebody else’s for the damage, and claims the insurance.
xx. Robbing Peter to pay Paul helps keep Mary healthy, wealthy and wise.
xxi. One cannot teach an old dog card tricks.
xxii. The early bird catches both barrels in the game season.
xxiii. ‘Tis neither the winning nor the losing. It is the taking part that’s so bloody knackering.
xxiv. Learning to take the rough with the smooth is still theft.
xxv. The face that launches a thousand ships will require much anti-wrinkle cream.
xxvi. If alcohol provideth not the answer, then perhaps one should rephrase the question.
xxvii. Too messy cooks soil the broth.

Author: Trevor Dykes

T D Dykes: putting the in before sanity.

Dr Trevor Dykes, aged 42.09, is a starving humorist slaving away to almost universal indifference in the comedy mines of Franconia. Born in Bournemouth, he emigrated to Germany in 1992 to loud cries of Bon Voyage, relief and good riddance. He earned his Doctorate in Humour from the University Collage of Dipwytch, Dorset by paying fifty pounds. His special areas of study include: sleeping, West African e-mail fraud, mammals and near-mammals of the Mesozoic and the virtual village of Dipwytch. More on those themes can be learned later, so you have been warned.

This is Dipwytch!
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My last match was FA Cup Final Day in 1997. Admittedly, it wasn’t that game itself, but it took place on the same day. Rather than in the fevered, tense cauldron of a packed Wembley Stadium, we played before slightly less enthusiastic spectators in the village of Penzendorf. The pitch there is rather like the one at Wembley, now the stadium has been demolished. A kindly description would be end-of-season. There was some greenery, but this was mostly provided by the dandelions emerging heroically through the grit, stones and bits of broken brick.

I was to be the purring motor of the FC Gaulnhofen Kindergarten Fathers attack, and we struggled manfully with our counterpapas from Worzeldorf. The match had been their idea. When she’d heard about a game against the Worzeldorf Kindergarten team, my wife had put my name down immediately. When informed, I expected some relaxing recreation. However, upon turning up and discovering that we were up against the fathers rather than the kids, my flabber was gasted.

As we kitted up in the salubrious surroundings of a tractor shed, the spirits of my team mates soared. I happened to make known my professional football experience in England, albeit mostly in the old Third and Fourth Divisions. With an ex-profi on board, Worzeldorf Fathers were surely in for a thrashing. However, team morale became more modest when I mentioned this experience consisted of having watched Bournemouth at about forty league grounds (plus other stadia such as Weymouth, Dorchester and Yeovil – these three were all subsequently demolished. I hope this was coincidence).

We entered the arena and heard the mighty roar of the Worzeldorf wives and children. Most of our families had found pressing engagements elsewhere. Knowing that football’s partly played in the mind, I concentrated on trying to look full of fitness and calm confidence. I jogged casually as I puffed on my fag, and hoped to gain that crucial, psychological advantage over the opposition. This ploy wasn’t overly successful, though there was nothing wrong with my jogging. Unfortunately, what with all their stretching, cartwheeling, pyramid-building acrobatics and weightlifting exercises, the opposition failed to notice. I took up my position as rightwing wizard. The referee blew his metaphorical whistle (he actually mumbled something about starting), and it was match on. Displaying impressive pace, I finished my cigarette at a sprint and jogged casually on the attack.

My advance spread confusion among the defenders. This was because Worzeldorf had the ball, and were besieging our penalty area. The left-back was kind enough to point this out, so I jogged casually back to help out. However, by the time I’d arrived, the lines had been cleared. And so had the ball. We were besieging their penalty area, my colleagues were wondering where the rightwing wizard was (I was asking the goalkeeper for a light), and my legs were beginning to ache.

After about fifteen minutes or so, I managed to synchronise my actions more appropriately. This was in part thanks to the generous substitution allowance. Players could come and go as and when, as long as there weren’t too many more than eleven on the field at any time. The replacement left-back was a short, chubby, bespectacled, one-legged gentleman, which did wonders for my confidence. I resolved to dazzle him with my skills. After a while, the ball happened to be deflected in our direction. I outpaced the thoroughly static defender, won it and homed in towards goal. Scenting an opportunity, I resolved to get in a shot before any bigger, bipedal defenders arrived. As with a trigger, I cocked my leg in readiness. (I withdraw that phrase.) I struck the ball as powerfully as I could towards the net and fell over in a heap. The keeper was completely helpless. He was laughing too much. The trajectory wasn’t quite as intended. The ball jogged casually along the edge of the penalty area. Luckily, one of my team mates reached it first and belted it in the goal past the still hysterical keeper. We were in the lead, and I was congratulated on a brilliant pass, whilst lying semi-conscious from exhaustion on the ground.

The drawback of the generous substitution allowance was that there were only eleven of us to begin with. I was much relieved when several latelings turned up, and I was able to drag myself out of the fray. Although depleted by the absence of their clapped out purring motor, the attack made light of things by scoring again in the second half, and the defence held firm. I wasn’t in a fit state to tackle the arithmetic myself, but I was reliably informed this meant we won 2-0.

The strongest impressions of my final match were provided by my legs. In the days following the occasion, they resolved to protest against the unreasonably heavy workload imposed upon them. My legs elected to work to rule, and many other body parts expressed their solidarity. It was both agonising and effective. Following negotiations between limbs and brain, the management agreed to hang up the training shoes for good, excepting for the occasional, pre-agreed kickabout in the park.

Author: Trevor Dykes

T D Dykes: putting the in before sanity.

Dr Trevor Dykes, aged 42.09, is a starving humorist slaving away to almost universal indifference in the comedy mines of Franconia. Born in Bournemouth, he emigrated to Germany in 1992 to loud cries of Bon Voyage, relief and good riddance. He earned his Doctorate in Humour from the University Collage of Dipwytch, Dorset by paying fifty pounds. His special areas of study include: sleeping, West African e-mail fraud, mammals and near-mammals of the Mesozoic and the virtual village of Dipwytch. More on those themes can be learned later, so you have been warned.

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Why would anyone wish to do such things? In the first three cases, it’s generally so they can appear on Wetten, dass ..? I’ll return to the fourth later. It’s possible that these ingredients might provide 45 minutes of vague interest. However, chuck in a few singers, various professional celebs, the presenter’s neighbours and the odd visit from ex-President Carter, and that’s Saturday evening’s programming sorted out. And this is one of the more interesting formats. German telly habitually stretches such material to fill at least two hours. This helps explain why the supermarkets do such a good trade in beer. Four bottles improve the viewing, whilst eight render it irrelevant.

Occasionally, somebody interesting may appear in one of these would be extravaganzas. I’ve already mentioned ex-Pres Carter. Otherwise, it could have been Peter Ustinov. Lesser mortals are professional celebs, but he was the only professional Peter Ustinov, and fulfilled this entertaining function effectively in a variety of languages. Another possible sighting on German TV is someone you may well never have heard of. I’m referring to Gotthilf Fischer, whose name would translate as God-help Fisher. (Out of mischief, I tend to plant an uns – “us” – in the middle.) He’s the senior citizen from Remstal I mentioned. I’m not sure whether he’s ever appeared on Wetten, dass ..?, but it’s certainly possible.

Rather like Dolly Parton, Herr Fischer is beyond parody. Try to exaggerate any part of these two characters and you’ll find they’ve already beaten you to it, though whether with purely natural material is not something I’d claim to know. Unsurprisingly, Gotthilf (uns) doesn’t look much like Ms Parton. I think of him more as an amalgam of several Doctor Whos; Patrick Troughton, Tom Baker and Sylvester McCoy, with the hair supplied by Jon Pertwee on a windy day. He’s a choirmaster and conductor known as the leader of the singing legions. Gotthilf Fischer seems to be a thoroughly likeable man, and he has a mission.

He was born in 1928 and formed his first choir in 1942. His chosen medium is traditional German folk song, which was a rather popular genre with the authorities at that time. However, when advantageous, the Nazis sought to alter the words, so as to bring them more into accord with the absurdities of their ideology. If traditional songs couldn’t at least be made tame, they could be banned. This fate apparently befell “Die Gedanken Sind Frei” (“Thoughts Are Free”). I don’t know what this teenager then thought of Hitler & Co. His views on the traditional songs are clear. He loves them. “Songs are abused by every party. Every epoch, every state takes widely known melodies and fits new lyrics to them, in order to mislead people. I sing the old songs as they were written, including those which were abused by the Third Reich. These songs arose before those times. So they ought to be sung. I’m merciless on this, I sing those songs and don’t worry about the consequences!”

In the years since, he’s been loving those songs and pursuing his mission. All over Germany there are now Fischer Choirs. These are made up of ordinary people. Every year, our local one has a pre-Christmas appointment on the lawn in front of the newsagent shop. The performance is accompanied by mulled wine and grilled sausages. This is Bavaria. They also sing in hospitals, old people’s homes and probably anywhere else they’re wanted. And they are wanted. Fischer and friends have sold over 16 million records. However, whilst album sales are doubtless welcome, I strongly suspect they’re incidental.

Hr Fischer has nothing against the new. In 2001, this then 73-year-old was part of the techno scene’s Love Parade, which annually transforms the centre of Berlin into a slowly meandering, pulsating rave, with hundreds of thousands of people on the streets. As very pleasant looking, less than dressed young ladies let it all hang out, there was smiling Gotthilf, waving and being waved at, at ease on the back of a lorry.

Most choirmasters would be proud enough of all this, but Fischer’s a man with a mission. He will happily set himself up in parks, market squares and shopping centres. And people smile and join in; dozens, hundreds and sometimes even thousands of them, singing along with tunes we know as “Roll Out The Barrel”, or “I Love To Go A-Wandering”. Possibly the largest ad hoc choir he’s conducted was the crowd at the Final of the World Cup in 1974. Other outdoor gigs have included the Winter Olympics in Innsbruck, the Giants’ Stadium in New York and the Pyramids in Egypt. He doesn’t want to teach the world to sing. He wants to hear it. “When someone comes into the world, they don’t even know that they’re a person, but they can already sing.”

(The quotations have been freely translated from Subway Magazin -Gotthilf Fischer:
http://www.subway-net.de/magazin/1997/06fische.shtml)

Author: Trevor Dykes

T D Dykes: putting the in before sanity.

Dr Trevor Dykes, aged 42.09, is a starving humorist slaving away to almost universal indifference in the comedy mines of Franconia. Born in Bournemouth, he emigrated to Germany in 1992 to loud cries of Bon Voyage, relief and good riddance. He earned his Doctorate in Humour from the University Collage of Dipwytch, Dorset by paying fifty pounds. His special areas of study include: sleeping, West African e-mail fraud, mammals and near-mammals of the Mesozoic and the virtual village of Dipwytch. More on those themes can be learned later, so you have been warned.

This is Dipwytch!
News and views frum virtual Dorset (via Franconia)...