Aussies like to celebrate in style and my mate Paul is no exception. So it was no surprise that his choice of venue for his 40th in 2012 made little reference to either his birthday or the number of fine working men’s’ clubs around the villages of the Calder Valley where he now lives, a far cry from Melbourne.
All of these could have offered a concert room, karaoke and a turn to boot but, although his birthday passed several months previously, ten of us had congregated at Manchester International for two days at the annual Stuttgart Oktoberfest; looking at my fellow drinking companions the omens were not good.
I am Godfather to Paul and Jill’s son, Sammy, and for good measure they had invited Phil and Michelle, parents of another chosen one with the same dubious honour.
Accompanying us were two couples I had never met. Both of the blokes were quiet, happy with a beer and clearly very successful in their chosen careers; their wives were simply the blueprint for the television creation Shameless.
Loud, brassy – one was a dead ringer for Mimi Maguire – hands stuck out awaiting cash almost constantly, you needed sunglasses and ear defenders simply to be in her airspace.
Mimi had had a boob job, nose job and a tummy tuck since shelling out three kids to the luckless husband. She had also tried every substance under the sun and had probably lived three lives within her thirty years to date; she was one scary woman.
As for me, well I had been under the threat of two broken legs and a free castration from Jill had I not made the trip given my history of unreliability.
As it had been booked many, many months ago then the decision to book two forward spots as a “couple” had been supremely optimistic to say the least.
At the last minute though, in yet another hour of sheer desperation and about to call my mate Big Al to share a room, Mild Mary, a friend of Jill’s not entirely unknown to me, had expressed a desire to share a room for two days with a drunken halfwit.
One of the clearest signs you are in the wrong company is when you are sat in an airport lounge with midday still several hours away surrounded by people you have chosen to spend a weekend with already tucking into cocktails and beers.
I sipped my coffee nervously, eyed the runway and, for the first time ever, airport shopping looked an attractive option.
Soon we were landing in Stuttgart and all the preconceptions I had about Germany seemed entirely true. The place was spotless, the natives polite and everything seemed to flow effortlessly; that is until Paul hit Passport Control.
“You are Australian?” enquired a very large and stern faced official, like a giant Punch and Judy puppet, squeezed into his booth. Did somebody really have a stick up his arse?
“I am mate…g’day…how’s it going!” replied Paul offering a hand of friendship.
“Why are you in Stuttgart? What is your purpose” asked the official as if Paul was the founding member of the Australian branch of Al Qaeda rather than just another Aussie drunk.
“The beer festival mate!” said Paul mimicking the drinking motion as if a German would have no idea what this meant. Suddenly, the official almost exploded out of his hutch.
“Ya, ya, ya!!! Gut, gut, gut!” he screamed with a massive grin breaking out all over his face, slapping Paul ferociously on the back and ushering him through, uttering a massive belly laugh.
“Drink, drink, drink…ya!!!!”
It was at this point that you just knew this would be a blast. With a “ho, ho, ho” our friend squeezed himself back into his hutch and switched the stern face back on for the next in line.
Although this was Paul’s trip, Jill had taken control of the hotel choice realising full well that Paul – with the clear support of the rest of the blokes at least and probably Mimi and her “sister” Kelly-Marie Maguire – would have happily chosen the nearest YMCA.
Even though she now has three kids forcing shopping at Primark instead of Prada, Jill likes the finer things in life and The Hotel Arcotel was one of them.
Slick, modern and with a mini-bar that you needed American Express to get into; I made myself hide the six Euro bottle of mineral water in the wardrobe in case I woke up with a thirst in the middle of the night. Perhaps I could nick it as a souvenir?
Our first night was, unbelievably, a relatively quiet and civilised affair opting to explore central Stuttgart after dinner in readiness for a long day at the beer festival.
A few beers in the hotel bar and then it was time to get some rest for the business end of the trip avoiding the six Euro bottle of water.
The train station was only a short walk from the hotel but once we got there the place was alive with masses of people in all kinds of splendid dress.
Lederhosen was the dress of choice amongst the lads whilst the frauleins looked terrific; the whole place was simply buzzing with life and it was quite clear that the beer was already flowing.
What was markedly different – for the entire day – was that even though spirits were high, there was none of the loutish antics had this been any English city…well apart from the Maguire sisters. One short hop to the next station and we were there; the place was frankly, amazing.
A huge funfair on a scale that I could not describe with rides that made me queasy just watching, propelling willing volunteers skywards at insane speeds, even the dodgems looked on acid.
The actual beer “tents” were like mini villages and the size of football pitches. It was barely midday so we took a peek inside the first one and it was simply impossible to believe; the whole place was bursting, every table was packed with people stood on them, waving steins of lager, singing loudly with a band bringing the house down.
We had found the Promised Land; beer, food and pretty girls…if my time was up it would have to be here.
There must have been a dozen or so of these “tents” and everyone was packed to the rafters, people booking tables months in advance to secure a spot.
Eventually we secured a table outside and ordered ten steins. You would have thought that given how busy the place was that getting a beer would be tough.
Not a bit, in a flash along came our waiter with five in each hand, supported by forearms that Popeye would have died for. By now German efficiency was beginning to mean more to me that BMW; I liked this place.
As if we had three wishes, the next German Genie brought us ten chicken and chips; stomachs were lined, the first beer was down…let the games begin!
Night simply merged into day inside our tented heaven and at one point we negotiated a VIP area…even with the Maguires. Finally we settled in our chosen tent – the only one we could get in actually – and then the beer really flowed.
Not just the beer as Michelle decided to take on the Maguires in a mini Jager Bomb festival of their own. Meanwhile I had gone for a wander to survey the local culture and had met a very comely lady called Heidi.
Whilst I brushed off my Grade C German O Level, pandemonium was breaking out with the rest of the party and, politely, the Brits were ejected.
There I was, alone in a beer tent with a strange, foreign woman; once again there are probably worse ways for it all to end.
Eventually I decided it was time to get “home” albeit solo but this was going to be a bit harder than the last train from Leeds to Shipley and if I missed a stop Bingley was not next.
Bearing in mind I only had one stop to make, the next couple of hours were a blur of passing train stations with strange names as I traversed the Stuttgart Uberbahn.
Hampered at this point by an inability to speak clear English let alone borderline O level German from thirty years ago, it was safe to say I was lost. At one point I sat on a hill outside some station; I had no idea where I was, the rain was coming down and I wanted my mum.
I remember being on the train as if in a glass cage as station after station passed by and a voice in my head like the man in the movie “The Fly” was saying “help me, help me”.
Amazingly, probably with some kind local assistance or divine intervention I made it back to the Hauptbahnhof eventually and burst into a taxi office to request further assistance as if I had just escaped from the Taliban.
I remember the bewildered faces as they explained that the hotel was only a hundred metres up the road – although how I could have crossed the road was anybody’s guess – and their refusal at my offer of all I had in payment, which was only ten Euros anyway.
Eventually, just to get rid of me they put me in a taxi and I had barely clunk-clicked by the time the guy was prising the ten Euro note from my hand and shoving me out of his taxi before anything worse occurred.
As I climbed the hotel steps I noticed somebody had defaced the slick marble steps with sick and also half filled the neat plant pots with the same; maybe those Germans were not so perfect?
Greeted as if I had come back from the dead, brandishing a train ticket from a station not even the bar staff had heard off, the rest of them filled me in on an eventful night.
After having been ejected from the tent as they were walking back to the station they heard sirens. Paul thought this was a danger signal and, eyes in a mad stare, hands up in the air, shouted manically “Disperse, disperse…hide!!!” and nine drunken adults ran to all corners of the theme park like a giant game of hide and seek.
When the danger was averted and everyone was safely reunited Paul decided he needed to take a leak as did Mimi. As they vanished down an alleyway Phil quietly mused on how funny it would be to debag a German; in a flash Kelly-Marie picked her target, zoomed in on him and one very confused German had his trousers around his ankles instantly.
Down in the dark alley, in what he could only describe as an “outer body experience, mate” as Mimi squatted, knickers on one hand, fag in the other and Jager Bomb skilfully balanced on her knee, Paul simply turned sideways and watered the squatting Mimi who protested not one bit.
Having seen it all Jill could barely speak as a drenched Mimi returned dripping from head to toe, lit a joint and strolled off to catch the train.
Sensing that it was safer on one of the monster rides still operating rather than confronting Jill, Paul decided to take refuge but by the time he got back to the hotel, the combination of numerous steins, Jager Bombs and the not inconsiderable G force of his “safe haven “ he had sought refuge on exploded all over the marble entrance steps and into the plant pots.
A marital battering was about to take place. Meanwhile, the Maguire twins were doing nothing for international relations with a naked Kelly-Marie now barred from the hotel and her chances not good given Mimi was her negotiator; it seemed a good time to retire with the still sober Mild Mary.
Poor Mild Mary had watched this all unfold with some horror and her torment was far from over. As she described it at around three in the morning I got up, switched every light on in the room and wandered off stark naked to have a shower.
Freshly washed I took to my bed, lights still on, grunted, farted and slept like a baby still clutching my train ticket to Destination Unknown.
The next morning was delicate to say the least – only Paul seemed to have a headache but then Jill can pack a punch. If you ever get a chance to go to this wonderful event grab it but never, ever go unaccompanied on the Uberbahn.
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