Strange times, Erasmian late nights

“Welcome to Abercromby Square!” bellowed Peter in perfect Michael Buffer style. “And as usual we have a late-night concert for you. Tonight it will be the wonderful Hana from the beautiful Czech Republic!”

The gang clapped. As the sun went down on the beautiful little park in between the university buildings, right next to my department of Ancient History, we sat on or in front of one of the benches, some bottles of wine with us, the seagulls wheeling overhead, and waited for the music to commence. Continue reading


Sexy faces, sexyfaces

Alessandro´s kitchen looked exactly like mine, or like Lucia´s, or like Hana´s. Or Malte´s. It bore the same dining table, the same overcrowded shelves, full of tins and cans, and the same oven that every week again would showcase an impressive display of grime and filth to be removed by hard-shrubbing cleaning ladies with loud voices and magic shrubbing devices (Jonathan loved chatting with them in his loud Bavarian English while they were at it, well-prepared as for any given fire drill with a cup of coffee, and flirting with them, laughing his Bavarian cannon shot). On the inside, Agnes Jones was Agnes Jones, wherever you roamed.

It was apparent that the international flock was bigger than I had believed it to be. Little Gracia from Brazil welcomed us by jumping on a chair and yelling for booze. We met Thomek from Poland, a tall handsome volleyball player, and one hell of a guy, who explained for me that Borat´s basic vocabulary was actually Polish. When I heard what he studied I believed Gaddafi´s son to be a student of the same subject, in Liverpool, which Thomek found interesting because that one time he had in fact talked with a Libyan guy, who got pretty angry when asked what life was like when ruled by a dictator. We laughed and wished Thomek a nice funeral.

Continue reading

Conductor crushes and clubs from the outside

The five pounds we needed to pay as students for a classical concert were a wonderful offer. It was no wonder we tried to use this chance as often as we could. This time, they played Tchaikovsky and an almost unbearable Henze cello piece for us. We had ourselves some moshing bassists and old blokes banging the timbals, and after a waltzy Strauss evergreen, the principal timpanist, reigning lord of drums and thunder, was officially and with all honours sent into well-deserved retirement after bloody 41 years in the Philharmony to share the rest of his days in calm with his “long-suffering wife”. The auditorium exploded into applause, and I wanted to a) hug the old man and b) take over his instrument. For the glowing final of a brutal apocalyptic Stravinsky, he, for one last time, walloped his friends to the rhythm of the hyperborean conductor making love to his conductor´s stick, and I was just one step away from stage diving. Continue reading

And the greatest country in the world is…

It´s decided. Affirmed by the generally accepted, clearly objective standard of having read #BecauseIwriteso the most, still ahead of the place I come from and as you can see from the image below besting plenty of other heavyweights from around the globe, not just the read-a-lottest but globally bestest nation has proved to be LITHUANIA!

Rules are rules and promises remain promises. Which means that the next entry on this page shall not be in English as so often, not even in German, as would be comfortable, but in neckbreaking Lithuanian. Wish me luck. I am off self-torturing. See you around in a few days. Iki greito!


Honorable mentions: France (15), Iceland, Australia (12 each), India (9), Finland, Sweden (8 each), Portugal (7), Austria (6), Slovenia, Switzerland, Hungary, Turkey, Belgium (5 each), Singapore (4), Romania, Ukraine, Japan (3 each), Brazil, Israel, Trinidad and Tobago, Croatia (2 each), Gibraltar, United Arab Emirates, Poland, Ireland, Philippines, Indonesia, Norway, Thailand (1 ambassador each). Oh, and some who come from the European Union and feel that is enough of national marking.

This has gone far more global than I thought! What a fun ride this blog is.

A big Plate of Sideorders – Up the Anglican: Of Religion, old and new, and of looking down

When I woke up, morning had broken. It had also taken over the world with full force and knocked on my window for a few hours with its strongest beams, desperately trying to wake me up, and when it had grown tired of waiting for me, it had passed entirely.

I peeled my vegetable self out of bed and hauled it on the chair before the laptop. In garish colours, the chat programme spat the newest chunk of information into my face. Melli shared her idea of climbing the tower of the Anglican Cathedral at 12 sharp. A fine plan in my eyes. Until I checked the time. I had but twenty minutes. Continue reading

A Big Plate of Sideorders – Underground poetry

Bar Fresa was situated in tiny Colquitt Street, some 100 metres away from blitzed and bombed St. Luke´s. Agnes and I followed the flyer call for the rhyme´n´roll party Liverpool´s poetry-scene had organized. Dub reggae beats from the Senator Sound System bounced off the low fairy-light lit ceiling down upon us and made our feet swing in time, while two ragga-MCs toasted on di riddim, and a small crowd of artistic young people with their heads tilted and their arms crossed before their hearts or their hands feeling the warm wood of the tables in front of them were listening for wisdom, tea candles in glass ashtrays vaguely lighting up their faces. Continue reading

A Big Plate of Sideorders – Bad hair days, Chinese New Years and lots of music

“And when Tammy and I left the club, and Miguel shaw us together, ush, çe ashked, imagine what çe ashked! Çe ashked: Are you going for f-fucking now?” Giorgis still looked as if just confronted with the question. His mouth gaped. “I mean, can you believe that?!” And he touched his heart for the enormous impudence of such an enquiry. Continue reading