I have a few things to say about Berlin, city of a thousand sausages. The other week, I was staying in the very colourful Schoneberg district where Christopher Isherwood and other light-footed gentlemen used to galavant with impunity. At the end of my road, there was a. a big pork emporium where men in blue overalls ate sausage standing up, b. lots of lady prostitutes (and a couple that defied gender classification) jay walking among the bmws, and c. a gaggle of maxi-skirted Roma girlies who spent most evenings dancing around a phone box to a Slavic boom box. Around the corner, I had the dubious honour of early doors at Kumpelnest 3000, a fabulously indiscreet former knocking shop boasting elaborately carpeted walls, glitter balls and a very sticky dance floor where repressed housewives regularly flashed their baps. I resisted; I was recovering from an evening spent at a punk rock reunion party with a right charmer called Chaos whose chat up routine involved donning a penguin costume and slapping a pair of dentures on the table. Believe it or not, it takes more than false teeth to seduce me these days, Berlin or no Berlin.
Posts Tagged ‘sausages’
It’s Sunday; let’s ramble. I limbered up with some star jumps courtesy of Carmen the Unintelligible and her Cardio Funk class. I stretched, I bounced, I quivered, I perspired and then I was ready to get down and dirty on my country walk. Yesterday’s ramble was a fabulous five miler just outside Brighton. Polly needed a wee right at the beginning of the walk but said she could hold it until we passed by a toilet (she ought to slash and go in a bush, thought I but not everyone likes to pull their pants down in a rural setting so I held my tongue). En route we passed through a very dirty farm which used to be home to some black, hairy pigs; not the most attractive individuals but who cares what you look like when you’re on your way to sausage city! Polly stroked a quarantined calf but then Malcolm, who is a man and very good at diy, noticed diarrhoea and there was a bit of talk about foot and mouth at which point Polly made a dash for the tap. We passed through the village of Rodmell where Virginia Woolf had lived at Monk House until she killed herself in the River Ouse. Malcolm had a fancy for a pint at the village pub but unfortunately, ‘due to circumstances beyond our control’ it had shut down. So, with no pint, no nibbles and no relief for Polly and her poor bladder in sight, we had no choice but to continue the ramble, back over the Downs and home. I believe Polly has now been. �