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

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.

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

In this issue

• BE Newsletter – change of format
• This week: Clash of the century; John Peel
• Virtual Snacks
• Bizarre Searches
• Joke and quotation

BE Newsletter – change of format

British Expat’s change of server finally took place last Wednesday, just as we would normally have been getting ready to send out the latest newsletter – so that was the reason (excuse?) for the newsletter not dropping into your inbox last week. Sorry about that!

However, we have been able to add a bit of extra functionality for you. You can now choose to receive the newsletter in either HTML or plain text format in future. Just click on the “To update your preferences” link at the bottom of the page, then tick the appropriate box. That means that those of you who prefer a little bit more colour in your inbox can have it, while those who are just after the raw content can get that too. (To start with, we’ve chosen to send in HTML format to everyone – but if that doesn’t suit you, just change your preference and you’ll get next week’s newsletter in plain text.)

This week

The changeover to new servers took up most of our week, predictably. Now that it’s happened we should be able to offer an improved service overall in the not too distant future, with more dynamic content on the pages. (For the non-technically minded of you out there, dynamic simply means that we can automatically update links, show the most recent postings on the fora, review and replace time-expired content more easily – stuff like that.)

Other news? Well, the “Clash of the Century” took place on Sunday (known more prosaically and realistically as Man Utd v Arsenal). Not a very edifying affair on or off the pitch, with a few cynical fouls, some questionable decisions by the referee and bitter complaints from the losing manager. Business as usual, then. Apparently Man U manager Sir Alex Ferguson had a cup of pea soup thrown at him in the tunnel to the dressing-rooms after the match, though the culprit hasn’t yet been identified. Frank Clark of the League Managers’ Association joked that Sir Alex would have seen it as a “storm in a soup-cup”. Witty, eh?

And sadly, John Peel died on Tuesday at the age of 65, while on a working holiday in Peru with his wife Sheila. John provided generations of radio listeners with hours of late-night musical joy, and gave several struggling new bands the breakthrough they might otherwise never have got. In a world of bland mass-production pop and playlist conformity, he’ll be sadly missed.

Virtual Snacks

Just a couple of suggestions if you have a little time to spare:

A bit of an anoraky one here: The Listener’s Guide, by Bob Ellis. OK, so it’s primarily about ham radio (and let’s face it, even these days there are expats around who need to listen to short-wave broadcasts because they can’t get broadband streamed audio). But it’s also a very funny read in places!
[Obsolete link removed]

And in spite of the trials and tribulations plaguing space exploration over the last few years, there’s still plenty to see and do on the NASA website:
NASA

Bizarre Searches

Some strange search terms which led people to visit British Expat recently:

• sexshop newsletter (4)
• hollywood hot & spicy actress;s (4)
• bizarre searches (I suppose it had to happen eventually!) (3)
• where is istanbul (C’mon, really…) (3)
• frozen people (3)
• freddie mercury magazines (3)
• anti loch ness monster (2)
• advertise here jesus (2)

Till next time…
Happy surfing!

Kay
Editor
British Expat Magazine

Quotation

“I never make stupid mistakes. Only very, very clever ones.”

- John Peel, disc jockey (1939-2004)

Joke

What has Old Trafford at 4.45pm on a Saturday afternoon got in common with Wormwood Scrubs?

They are both full of Cockneys trying to get out.

Author: Kay McMahon

Kay has been an expat for over 20 years. She set up the British Expat website more than 10 years ago, whilst living in London and missing the expat life. These days she spends much of her time lugging computers and cameras around the world. (Dave gets to deal with all the really heavy stuff.)

This week we’re on to “E”. Much as I like it, I can’t bring myself to choose Everything Must Go by the Manics. Primal Scream’s last album was called XTRMNTR (that’s “exterminator” – for the terminally thick). In order to dig myself out of a hole, I’ve decided (fairly enough) that that begins with an, um, “X”. Guess what the entry’s gonna be that week, ev’rybody!
AAAARRRRGGHHHHHH! Just realised that in all my effort to come up with something for “C” I forgot The Commitments, one of my very favourite films. I’m going to go and sulk now.

All-time great football team? Well, you’ve got to have Pelé, of course, and there’s few better defenders than Bobby Moore. That Ossie Ardiles was quite nifty, and then there’s the irreplaceable Sylvester Stallone. Hang on, what the hell…? Even if you absolutely had to have a film tough-guy in your AllStar XI, would you really have Sly? Would you really have him in goal? Not Bruce Willis as a midfield dynamo, or Jean-Claude Van Damme up front? Probably best not to put Kurt Russell on the wing. (Makes sense if you’ve seen the risible Executive Decision, starring Steven Seagull and Kurty (for approx. 12 minutes).) “Ah,” I hear you say (humour me…): “what if, hypothetically speaking, this AllStar XI is playing in war-time and has to have Sly as part of the escape team? And the only way to do so is to break your first choice goalkeeper’s arm in between two slats supporting one of your POW camp beds?” I’m tempted to give the whole plot away, but that would be very un-professional of me (By the by, Ms. Editor-person, I’m still waiting for my first pay cheque).

Cleverly the producers keep people doing what they can. Pelé and Ossie et al don’t try to act and Michael Caine and Sylvester Stallone are rarely seen with a ball. In fact, I think Stallone makes the same save about 17 times during the centre-piece match.

Escape to Victory is no The Great Escape, The Longest Day or Saving Private Ryan. It’s not so much about the brutality of war as it is about the human side. You can’t possibly have not seen it, it’s on every single Bank Holiday, sometimes twice. But it’s a feel-good movie, the good guys get what they deserve (except Stallone) and the bad guys get what they deserve (nothing). I may slate their decision to use fairly renowned actors as football players, but it’s got me talking about it so it’s obviously a reasonably good ploy. Well worth a look, in other words. In fact, you might say it’s something which…

Author: Atoz

(aka Dave Stock:) the first person in the world to write to britishexpat.com, and probably the last to send in his biog. After a few useful one-off contributions, Atoz started his irregular A to Z of cultural icons. At the time of writing this, he's up to "O" - but there's still no sign of the biog. (Update - he still hadn't sent it in by the time he'd reached "Z"!)