We invaded France in a T Reg Audi...and lived!

Doubtless this will be my last post before I go to Paris this weekend.

I am meeting up with my two most excellent chums as Paris is a conveniently exotic half-way point between our respective homes in Surrey, Aberdeen and Strasbourg. We are celebrating 21 years since we met. Any comparisons to Sex in the City will be met with derision.

I haven’t been to Paris before but I have been to France. This next story will tell you the story of how I went to France.

The story breaks down into four notable points of interest, which I'll summarise for you now:

1. We packed seven people into an Audi 80 and whinged them across the UK, France and the Pyrenees.
2. Excuse me, has Mum only put one cassette tape in the car for this two day journey?
3. We all nearly die through misadventure.
   
4. We all nearly die again. But my mum predicts it, so we're OK.

Cast and location

So the story concerns our first family holiday abroad. My mum and dad had rented a villa in St Jean de Luz, the first town in France after crossing the Spanish border. Or if you are a Basque separatist, one of the towns in the Basque Country.

We were to go by ferry and car as planes weren't invented yet. The von Schneider Family as we were known, were five individuals: Mama von Schneider, Papa von Schneider, RedBellyButtonBoy, Misssy M and CheekyMonkey.

How to pack seven people into an Audi 80 and whing them across the Pyrenees.

We had a green Audi 80, as befitting our Germanic heritage and were destined for France, also befitting our Germanic heritage.

Oh, and did I mention Aunt R and Uncle T were being shoehorned in too? So, imagining a Sesame Street counting animation, let's count! 1,2,3,4,5,6,7 people in a family saloon.

This all took place in the days before people-carriers, but funnily enough not in the days before 7 people legally should have been split between two cars.

So now let’s look at what was involved in this journey with two adults in the front, two in the back and three children sat wherever they could get purchase.

• Aberdeen to Plymouth: 14 hours
• Overnight stay in car waiting for ferry to leave: 6 hours (yes, we all slept in the car!!! I know!!!)

• Ferry crossing to Santander (thankfully outwith the confines of the car): 12 hours
• Santander to St Jean de Luz (over the Pyrenees): 5 hours*

Total time in car: 25 hours

Should I call Guiness?

A quick footnote on the Santander-St Jean de Luz stretch. You know that bit at the end of the italian job with the truck hanging over the side of mountain…that’s the kind of thing that is par for the course on that stretch of road.

O.M.G has Mum only put one cassette tape in the car
for this 2 day journey and two week holiday?

So we’ve got everything stuffed in the Audi. Miraculously we’ve managed to fit enough luggage to serve four adults and three kids for two weeks into the car. There was probably a roof rack, there might have even been one us kids strapped to it at one point. So have we got everything, then?

No. It’s not long before we realise that we’ve only one cassette tape in the car. It is a homemade tape. Worse; it’s one of Mum’s.

Side One: The Long Run by the Eagles
Side Two (and this is going to hurt): Rock and Roll Juvenile by Cliff Richard

To this day, each of us three kids would be able to sing along perfectly to either of those albums without one single lyrical mistake. We're not proud of this.

The tape just got played and played and played. If I go to hell, that same tape will be playing in the purgatorial waiting room. And the Devil will look like Cliff Richard circa 1979.

Nobody buy me this.

We all nearly die

Well two of us do. I’m jumping past the whole holiday and back to the return ferry journey.

My parents, Aunt R. and Uncle T. take my five year old sister, CheekyMonkey, to arrange our ferry tickets, leaving me and my brother Red BellyButtonBoy* in the car alone (alone except for Glenn Frey, Don Henley and Cliff). Their biggest mistake here, is thinking that CheekyMonkey is the root of all trouble.

As soon as they are out of sight, we jump into the front seat and start messing about with the car controls, and generally arsing about.

It's important for you to know at this point, that the car is parked facing the water at the quayside of St. Malo harbour. There is a chain across the quayside but this is merely for decoration, as it is not high enough to stop anyone falling in. It merely signifies the end of the quay and makes the place look finished.

Whose idea was it to start the car up whilst it was in gear? Accounts vary. But let’s just say, for argument’s sake that it was RedBellyButtonBoy in case my parents are reading. This close to going in the Channel, we were. THIS close.

My parents only remark on the terrible smell inside the car on their return.

We really could have nearly died

The reason we're in St Malo is that the original return ferry was cancelled in Santander due to mechanical failure. The ferry company offered us an alternative route.

They would fly mothers and children home, leaving Dads to drive their car back across the Pyrenees and across the whole of France to Northern port, St Malo. My dad, Aunt and Uncle looked forward to the Cliff and Eagle-filled two day trip with no kids on knees. But one thing stood in their way. My Mum.

My Mum didn’t want to fly on her own with us kids. Maybe it’s not surprising given that we were the kind of kids that would drive a car over a quayside like in this road-sign which was designed after us.



I really don’t know why she didn’t want to go on that flight, but something made her nervous. That "something" is now confirmation of my mother'soothsayer status. Six hundred years ago in France she'd have been thrown on a bonfire alongside Joan D'Arc for that kind of stuff.

That plane had to crashland in Kent. Actual fact.

Mechanical failure, apparently. Some engines stopped working or something, much like what happened in Heathrow the other day. No one was hurt. But my God, can you imagine? You'd never board a plane again.

FIN

I look forward to a speedy and uneventful two hour flight to Paris on Friday.

(And blogging about Paris on my return)


*When you are 9 and your brother gets a mosquito bite slap bang in his bellybutton, the nickname is inevitable. What we didn't realise was that it would stick for the next thirty years.

The Tearoom Six

Kids are not to be trusted. Never forget that.

The reason I say this is because despite being quite a good girl at school, give me any job which included an element of trust and I would simply blow it. Especially given the presence of a buddy whipping me up.

Some key phrases seem to have had an almost chemical effect on me.

They were:

“Awww, go onnnn…”,

“C’mon Misssy, it’ll be a laugh”

And my all time button pusher,

“I dare ya”

In Primary Seven when I was 11 years old, each week a pair of girls would be on coffee duty for the teachers. Aside from flouting the laws governing equal opportunities in a cavalier fashion, (like, can boys not make a cup of tea?) it was a chance to get away from maths or somesuch bollocks 15 minutes early.

The deal was that two 11 year old pupils would make teas and coffees to order for all the school’s teachers, in the combination staff room/headmistress’s office. It was a quite a small school, so we’re really only talking about nine coffees... tops.

I could burble on about the teachers taking complete advantage of our child labour but really the week you were on “tea and coffee duty” was, in truth, a bloody great week.

At first, the casual vandalism was slight and unimaginative. One of us would maybe spit in the kettle or wipe a bogey in the jacket pocket of a less popular teacher, but pretty soon the whole thing got out of hand. Ahh, the addictive power of hysterical, wet-your-pants laughter.

Now, we never nicked anything, I want to make that much clear. Destruction and slow burning pranks were more our bag. Even when you were not on tea duty, you would wait to hear stories at playtime of the offences committed by your tea-making compatriots. We got away with it for months.

There was one particular teacher we didn’t like, Miss Mathers. Her nickname was "Muggy", quite why I don’t know, but it suited her. She looked like a hippy with lank henna'd long hair, no bra, (complete with pendulous boobs like a Masai woman) a muslin collar-less shirt and floaty skirt. This outward appearance would lull you into a false sense of security. Outside she was a clean living version Janis Joplin; inside she was a dragon. She kept order in her class by simply screaming in the faces of kids to an extent that their hair would be blown back like in a cartoon.

Still she had never done anything to me, so why did I feel the need to fill her rubber mac pockets up with washing up liquid, when I eventually decided that spitting in them wasn't going to be enough for me?

Bizarrely (OK predictably) , this was the prank that got us all caught and banned from the “privilege” of doing the teas. Which was sad really, because we'd had a good run.

As the six Primary 7 girls stood before the Headmistress, each not owning up nor ratting on one another (just like in Prisoner Cell Block H, we weren’t no “Laa-aagers”) we felt strangely cheated as the washing up liquid was one of the tamer things we did.

I almost felt like saying, “But we did much worse than that! C’mon! What about the pinhole in the student teacher’s condom that was in his jacket pocket? What about the prank phone calls from the Headmistresses desk? What about dead mouse smuggled in from home that we’ve put in the staff toilet cistern that you’ll only find out about in six months when you finally work out what that stench is??”


Never trust kids. Especially girls.

Love actually

Living in an old house, as I do, the wind makes an impact even on the inside the house. In mine and Meeester's bedroom there is a gap under the skirting board at the window through which blows Aberdeen’s chillier version of the mistral. This particular wind is designed to go straight up pajama trouser legs and nighties. Every winter we say, “Must fill that gap”, and every summer we forget to do it.

The chilling conditions make the folk from Aberdeen an anthropological mystery. It’s simply far too cold to get naked. How has the race survived in these parts? I mean, Meeester had to stop me from wearing my woolly black hat to bed last night; it was THAT cold. I’m not exactly working the whole sex appeal thing, am I?

And Meeester did have sex on the brain last night. But not for the reasons you’d expect.

For today, as a teacher, Meeester has to do his first ever Sex Education class to a group of Sixth Years (17 year olds). Rightly, he has been taking this very seriously and has been thinking carefully about what it is that he needs to say. It's a big responsibility and I look forward hugely to hearing how he got on.

I am particularly pleased that Meeester has given this some real thought, as I am one of the millions of eighties kids who came away from sex ed. thinking we'd get AIDS or pregnant if we even thought so much as about it. I seem to remember having to decipher a video with an iceberg in it and then watching a woman giving birth in the seventies in a second production (even in a just hospital gown you could she was in the seventies).

Not one bit of rumpy-pumpy do I remember getting to see, despite a great deal of anticipation to the contrary. It's a wonder I'm not still a virgin.

Hilariously, one less experienced teacher at Meeester's school thought it was a good idea to kick start the lesson by simply chalking up as many words for genitalia on the board as she could. Aided by suggestions from the pupils. Now, I haven't been a teenager for a pretty long time but the idea of a group of teenagers being encouraged to shout out "Fanny! Cock! Knob!" and the rest makes me shake my head in bewilderment. What was she thinking could be gained from such an exercise? That lesson will not go down in student folklore as being the time the students gained a springboard for sexual understanding.

No, that lesson will simply go down in lore as, "That time Mrs Smith wrote 'Cunt' on the blackboard."

By comparison, Meeester thought he should make the lesson useful; maybe impart some wisdom that would let the class in on a few secrets that might otherwise elude them for some time and ask anything they want.

He decided to do some research. His subjects are those who've been involved in the shagging game for some considerable time: his friends and family.

I was personally thankful that he didn’t suggest the approach taken by John Cleese in Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life”. Which you can see here, if you haven’t already.



Meeester decided to ask us all three questions .

Here are the questions he asked us:

• What things would you tell an 18 year old you about sex?
• What is the greatest sex myth?
• What is sex for?

Chillingly he also phoned my parents and asked for their contributions. I did not know he would do this. Stunned, I asked if he had phoned his own parents. He simply went grey and said, “Of course not”.

He got some interesting answers, though. Not least from my folks. I particularly liked my father’s response to the first question.

It was “Chance your arm every time you can. The worst that can happen is she’ll say no”.

What advice would you give the 18 year old you?

Little Green Bag: A Certainty

In a bizarre turn of events the Flying Martinis are somewhat taking over the airwaves on Sunday 27th of January.

If one were to perhaps tune into the Sunday Showcase on Original106FM at around 5pm-9pm this Sunday, one may just discover the loveliness of the singing voice that belongs my noble consort, Meeester, and his fabulous band of talented monkeys, The Lorelei.

The band are playing live on the Showcase hosted by Andrew Learmonth, whose Sunday Session has been a weekly treat in the new radio station line-up so far.

Testament to Andrew’s taste goes even further, when he, in addition to picking the Lorelei to play live, then has me, Misssy of the Misssives, on to kick start the new year’s Cult Movie Soundtrack event (can you tell we still haven't thought of a name?...Suggestions appreciated) which is to be happening on a month to month basis, monthly, every month.

Each month we'll be showcasing a movie or collection of movies that have been notable mainly for their fabulous soundtracks.This week/month, Andrew and I will be discussing the movies of Quentin Tarantino and the role that music plays within them. Lots of chat and lots of handpicked gems from the Tarantino flicks’ back catalogue will abound.

It goes without saying that I will be dressed as Uma Thurman in a yellow ass kicking tracksuit and Andrew has promised to slick his hair back and don some Raybans in a Vincent Vega stylee.


I'm also still on every week on The Evelyn Brown Saturday show at 9am til 10am for Martin at the Movies. And will be until they find me out.

In Utero

Ha! If you think this is icky
you should see the state of my Mum.

On hearing a friend of mine has just had her first baby, I am reminded of the experience myself.

Don't worry, friends, there are no photos.

I feel obliged to write a quick ready reckoner for all Mums to be. Frankly, I don’t think any of those pregnancy books are telling it like it is. But don’t fear; the Misssives will.

The following is to be viewed by those that are ready for the truth about childbirth. If, like Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men, "you can’t handle the truth”, look away now and come back in a few days time. Or go and have a look at some fluffy Mommy bloggers’ sites and read about how magical and spiritual it all is.

These blogs also act as natural insomnia remedies, if you are in need of something soporific.

Midwives
People who work in maternity units do not spend all day waltzing about with bluebirds on their shoulders and going on about how amazing the miracle of childbirth is. This is their job and they sometimes get sick of finding bits of afterbirth in their hair after a shift. As you would.

Like any workplace there are good guys and there are wanks. There are people who love their job and there are people who hate their jobs. The good guys will help you through this rather challenging time in your life and make sure you are well cared for. Given a few choice narcotics, you may even tell some of them that you love them.

The wanks will ram a loaded tea tray through your ward door without opening it first and switch the strip lights on a mere five minutes after you have dropped off to sleep after fourteen hours of labour and a sleepless night with your new baby. If that doesn’t wake you they will holler some thing like “Right ladies, you cannae sleep all day. Yer breakfast is here. Up ye get!”

These are the same people who on receiving the answer to their question about the name of your baby, will say something like, “Aye, well. It’s up to you”.


Doctors*
If a doctor comes in the room when you are labour it will be for one of three reasons:

1. You are in big trouble. Be worried.

2. They are students who will want to do unnecessary procedures on you and your unborn for “the practice”. Remember, the chances are these people are only four or five hours clear from mainlining tequila at a drinks promotion at the University Union.
Tell them to “Fuck off”. No really; use that phrase. You’re in labour ,so people expect that kind of language to be coming from your mouth. Take advantage. These students are trained to handle it. That’ll be the only “practice” they get from you.

3. They are lost.


Nastiness
Your undercarriage will be rent asunder like something out of a Quentin Tarantino film. I’m not going to lie to you. You may also poo and not notice. There you go, I bet Miriam Stoppard or Dr Spock don’t tell you that! Ahh... the beautiful miracle of the human body....

Your relationship
Your husband may find it difficult to look at you for a few days after the event. Mainly due to item the stuff I mentioned in Nastiness, but also because in the last 24 hours you’ve called him “The biggest, most useless twat that ever lived” just because he offered you a sip of water. You’ve forgotten about it, but it might take him a wee bit longer; he didn’t get any pethadine, after all. Even though he asked for it repeatedly.


The sweep
If you aren’t going into full blown mega labour quickly enough they will suggest a membrane sweep.

This may sound like they run a little implement like a metal detector over you, or gently stroke your belly.

But no, it’s nothing like that. A nurse is going to stick her whole hand and fingers in your lady-bits and rummage around in there like she’s looking for a lost kirby grip in a massive handbag. Effectively, she is going to claw at your cervix roughly until your baby shouts, “Okay enough already**, I’m coming!”

The sweep also never works. All it does is make you feel sick, sore and violated. I swear, the membrane sweep is worse than labour itself. Pregnant ladies, if offered a membrane sweep say, "No, I read this blog once that said it was tortuous unnecessary barbaric bollocks. So, I'll just politely decline, if it's all the same to you."

If I met the woman who swept my membrane tomorrow in the street, I’d instinctively cower away from her like I was a dog whom she had once mistreated.


Getting your own way
You can say “no” to people in white coats. This is a well kept secret. In fact, they pretty much have to do anything you ask. No-one tells you this. This is because it will open a whole Pandora’s box of patients asserting themselves and the NHS would fall to pieces. Old ladies know this, this is why no health professionals want to work in geriatric care.

However, in the heat of battle, you may forget what it is that you want. And you may also find that only swearing will fall out of your mouth whenever you do try to communicate.

This is why I advise all pregnant friends to get t-shirts printed with the following on them:

“Bring me the finest painkillers known to humanity.”

Then everyone is clear.


The day after
Warning: You will still look full-tilt preggers the day after baby is out. The bump will still be there in its most humungous state. The only difference will be that it will be wobbly like a darts player's belly. You will be able to sink the whole of your hand into it.

Do not pack your skinny jeans into your overnight bag. They will be of no use to you. You know that scene in Jaws where Captain Brodie turns round to Hooper after an attack by the shark, and says, "We're gonna need a bigger boat". Well, that same scene happened to Meester and I at the hospital, except the boat was my trousers and the shark was my postnatal ass/belly combo. You get my drift...

That said, you will be placed in the bed next to a sixteen year old new mum who will be pulling on skin tight lycra and a boob tube with ease the next day. Pulling a curtain to separate yourself from such scenes is useless. You will need earplugs. These will be handy when her neddy, bum-fluff moustachioed, Kappa wearing boyfriend comes in for visiting hour and you are bombarded with proletarian banter and an overwhelming desire to call social services.

Other babies
All other babies will be so hideously ugly that you will look upon their mums will ill-disguised pity. This must be a chemical thing to make you bond with your own child. It will take all the strength you have to be shown someone else’s kids and not turn away in horror and exclaim, “Oh you poor thing!”.


So that's me blogged childbirth, I will never return to it, I promise.

I tell you, it’s just as well you get a kid at the end of it, or else no-one would do it.

* My two doctor friends (who are also Misssives readers) are going to spit in my tea next time I'm round at theirs because of this. Sorry, B and D!

** All babies talk like American Jews until they reach the outside world. Fact.

Berlin, Alexanderplatz, and all that.

Part Two


Walking across Alexanderplatz, we agreed it had been an odd day.

We were two Western eighteen year old student teachers who found themselves separated from the party of other eighteen year olds who were looking for a pub after their bizarre trip up the Fersehturm (TV tower) of East Berlin in May 1989.

"You don't go to East Berlin to go to the pub."

We went our separate ways from the pub bound faction. Cultural differences.



From the top of the tower you could see the whole of Berlin; the whole of it: the American sector, the British Sector, the French sector all merged into one sprawling West Berlin. And then the big old wall that stretched as far as you could see and closed off the Russian Sector that we all now stood in.

Alexanderplatz from the Fersehturm

As we wandered round the windowed observation point at the top of the tower we eavesdropped in on a primary school party of East German kids obviously on a little day trip of their own.

I’ll never forget this. The teacher asked her class, who couldn’t have been older than six,

“And who is that in the statue down below on Alexanderplatz?"

A little boy waited to be chosen amongst a sea of little raised hands. A quick gesture from the teacher to respond and he said like rote the most bizarre sentence I have ever heard a little kid say ,

“That is Karl and Marx and Friedrich Engels, the fathers of our nation, the German Democratic Republic.”

“That’s right.” said the teacher and moved on with her tour, unaware of me staring at them open mouthed.

Marx and Engels: Fathers of the DDR, apparently. Poor guys.

So back down on the ground, Fiona and I were on Alexanderplatz talking about the group of kids. And wondering what to do next with our only day in East Berlin. Alexanderplatz is huge, so we decided to walk away from the wall direction and keep going.

“Let’s just keep walking and see what we find.”

On the edge of the square we waited at the pedestrian crossing, well trained to wait for the green man after countless months in West Germany where pretty much all of us had been done for “jaywalking” across an empty road on a red man.

"Christ, if they’d fine you 30 marks for crossing the road wrongly in Cologne, you’d probably be dragged off to a detention centre and have your family tortured in front of you over here."

East Berlin was bugging us, to be honest. We’d been told off for countless petty things. This is a peculiar German pastime; giving foreigners into trouble for the most inane reasons. We were used to the tut-tutting of West German old ladies on trams if we moved the wrong way. But over here in East Germany the petty rule keeping was up several gears.

Earlier we had moved a chair over from an empty table to accommodate a fifth member round the table at lunch. As you do.

“This is a four person table” the waitress said.

“But there are five of us”

“This is a four person table”

"Do you have a five person table?"

"No. This is a four person table only."

“But…oh never mind…”

We waited for the green man to appear at the pedestrian crossing. Then behind us, we heard a little voice.

“Zwanzig, dreizig, vierzig, funfzig. Ein Mark….”

We turned round to see a little boy sat on a kerb counting pocketfuls of coins.

“Hello. What are you up to?” I asked.

I was just making conversation. It’s refreshing for students of German to have a chance to talk to kids; they don’t automatically want to try their English out on you and you can have a right good old chat without anyone correcting your grammar. If you’ve ever tried your German out in Germany, you’ll know what I mean…

“Look” he stretched out his hand. He was maybe seven or eight with dirty blond hair and glasses, clearly very chuffed with himself and not at all shy about speaking to two strange women. He was a smiley wee bloke.

We went over to him.

“I’ve got this much East money,” he said holding a handful of the almost weightless, little, fake looking East German coins.

“But look how much West money I’ve got!” he said digging a smaller haul out of his pocket.

“Wow! Where did you get all that?”, said Fiona, in the over-the-top astonished manner you do with kids.

“From the tourists. They just give it to me.”

“Cool. What are you going to spend it on then?”

“Nothing, I’m going to give it to my mum.”

That was it. Fiona and I start rummaging in our bags for our purses.

To this day, I tell you that little boy got me. I don’t know if he was the biggest player in East Berlin and I don’t care. He got to us.

Can we, at this point, just stop and view a misty vaseline edged flashback of our tour leader, Frau Lohse from the meeting the day before? Let’s have a look at her…there she is…

“Never give East Germans any West money. You’ll get them into serious trouble.”

Yeah you can see her, can’t you? Maybe she’s even wagging a finger? Maybe there’s a crowd of us nodding blithely in response?

Well, at that moment we didn’t see her, we didn’t remember what she said. Or we didn't care. We dug into our purses for handfuls of whatever money we could find and then….

“Guten tag.”

We looked up and to the side of our new friend. Our faces flushed as we realised what was happening. A tall East German policeman in a dark green uniform. There. In front of us. He’d been watching us for goodness knows how long, about to hand over Westgeld to a little boy. Which we aren’t allowed to do and he isn’t allowed to have.

It is like he has appeared OUT OF NOWHERE.

“What are you doing?” he asks us.

The little boy stops the counting but does not put the money back in his pockets. He just looks up. He knows what is coming.

“ Nothing.”

“Then on your way, ” he motions back towards Alexanderplatz. It is clear we are not going to be allowed to go any further out of the square.

We walk away, cold sweating, hearts pounding, back across Alexanderplatz in the direction of the wall. The vastness of the square means we can see the police officer as he stands with the little boy, motionless as he watches us go. We walk further, we look back. He’s still watching us.

Alexanderplatz: Unfeasibly vast.

After five minutes, we’re nearly at the other side of the square. We check; in the distance, he’s still standing there with the boy, who is now standing up. They both then cross the road together, now tiny figures, walking away from us.

The little boy is about to have all his Westgeld confiscated because two stupid girls thought they could solve a little problem that didn’t even exist. Two girls that thought they were cleverer than everyone else. Two girls that didn’t listen when they were told that giving money to East German citizens could get them into real trouble.

We felt sick. We couldn’t talk. We got on the train, and went home and went to bed at 7 o’clock exhausted, guilty, sad and bewildered about the German Democratic Republic.


When the Wall came down six months later Fiona was the first person I called as I watched the news.

“I can’t help thinking about that wee boy”, I said.

“Me too.”



To read Part One of this story click Here

Berlin: East Side Story

Wishful thinking
by a West German Wall graffiti artist

When I was 18 I lived in West Germany from 1988/1989. Turns out, this was a pivotal year in Germany’s history. You may remember….

Walls come tumbling down
after 28 years

In the region of NordRhein- Westfalen, the state sponsored English Assistant Teachers, of which I was one, got taken on a trip to Berlin every year, by way of thanks for their hard work and to provide them with a cultural experience.

In May 1989, we traveled by bus, leaving West Germany, making our way through the German Democratic Republic, the country name that makes me laugh the most, and eventually alighting in a little Western outpost called West Berlin.

Blue for West Germany (BRD),
Red for East Germany (DDR),
Yellow for West Berlin

In 1988, Berlin was still split into East and West by means of a hulking big concrete wall populated by men in ridiculous outfits, who were eager to shoot those who tried to climb over it.

East German guards
in the 1970s

Official figures say that around 125 East Germans were shot between 1961 and 1989, whilst trying to get over the wall, or walls. There were actually two parallel walls with a strip of land known unofficially, of course, as the “death strip” in between them. The Wall was over 155 kilometres (96 miles) long.

The body of Peter Hechter 1962:
One of the few photos to reach the West
confirming the policy of shoot to kill for defectors

Bear in mind, official East German figures would of course be doctored. No one knew how many people were actually killed whilst trying to escape to West Germany at the time of the regime and the shoot to kill policy for defectors was, for a long time, denied by the Communist regime. Yet, the documents are there, now in German archives, confirming the command for shooting those caught defecting. The numbers are higher that those admitted to previously.

An East German guard peeks
through a crack in the wall in 1989
by Kurt Woodward

In 1989 the west side of the wall looked like this.



The East side of the wall looked like this.



At the end of our week in the city we were to spend a day in East Berlin. This would be the strangest day of my life.

Before our cross-border trip we were given a talk on how to behave in East Berlin. Anyone not attending the meeting would not be allowed to go on the three minute S-Bahn train journey from the west to Freidrichsstrasse in East Berlin.

The meeting, hosted by our West German school teacher chaperone, Frau Lohse, broke down like this.

As western citizens, we would perhaps be unable to digest the reality of life for those who lived in East Germany. We may be tempted to show our feelings about any weirdness we encountered or anything we may have read prior to our visit there.

We may even feel sorry for those who lived there. We may be too curious about their lives. We may naively try and do something that makes a small difference. In no uncertain terms should we follow these urges; East Germany was not to be messed with.

And be sure of this; not all East Germans want to escape.

We were told that the people of East Berlin may not be friendly towards us, but there were reasons for this. Having lived in Cologne, traditionally the most unfriendly city in the whole of Germany (and that’s saying something!), I was at least was glad to hear the Ossies had an excuse for their rude behaviour where the average Kolsche* supermarket assistant did not.

The East Germans would be nervous of being seen talking to visitors from West Berlin. This could be for two reasons. Firstly, the Ossies are acutely aware of always being watched by police, or undercover Stasi (secret police). Contact with Westerners was frowned upon at best. Secondly, many Ossies are suspicious or disdainful of those from the West. Their state feeds them propaganda about the West and it is not complimentary.

We were told, "Do not make them any more uncomfortable by seeking their company or imposing yourselves upon them, if not invited to do so."

Secondly, do not give any of your money away. At the Friedrichstrasse train station in East Berlin, you may come across people who look like they might need some cash. Do not be tempted to give them any money. On reaching the East, all visitors are required to exchange 30DM for Ost-marks (simply known as Marks, the East German currency). You will find next to nothing to spend these Ost marks on. This is a ruse by the East German government to get their hands on Western money. You will not be able to exchange your leftover Ostmarks for Western Deutschmarks. You WILL have left over East money which you will tempted to get rid of.

Under no circumstances give your money to East Germans. This will get them into serious trouble. Most especially, do not give any Western money to East Germans - even if they ask you for it. It is illegal for an East German to possess western currency. Yes, yes, we know the DDR Government has it. Yes, yes, we know the DDR economy can’t function without it. Their citizens are forbidden it.

It was like being warned not to feed the animals by the zookeepers. We took it all in with a large pinch of salt. How bad could it be?

A final note from our hosts. Do not take photographs of any officials, border guards, The Wall or any government buildings. You may be approached by police, asked to empty your camera of film and surrender it. If this happens to you, do not argue. It isn't worth it, you'll be put on a train back to the West immediately.

The meeting ended with a wish for us to enjoy our visit to East Berlin, and a reminder that we are guests in a different country with different rules. Rules which, no matter how we feel about them personally, we must respect.

We would catch the S-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse at 8am the next day.


Next: Berlin. Part Two: Alexanderplatz and All That



* Kolsche: A person from Cologne. Also their local beer.


Berlin: Part Two now up

Batten down the hatches: The Flying Martinis are coming!

Misssy in the Kandalama Hotel, Sri Lanka,
relieved to not have brought any pestilence with her

For someone whose dream is to be a travel writer (with the inevitable TV spin off making me a household name, of course) I have something of a predicament. I am a travel hex.

I am the firestarter. A twisted global firestarter, if you will.

I seem to be able to unconsciously cause major world events by involving them in my travel plans. This has happened too often to be a coincidence.

View the evidence, members of the jury.

May 1989: I visit East Berlin. November 1989, the country collapses (yay!) and the Berlin Wall comes down (another yay!). My official statement, which I had prepared should the press call (which they didn’t ) was simple,

“It wasn’t me, honest! I wasn’t leaning against it or nothing. It just happened.”

After we got back from East Berlin, me and my mates did do a human pyramid on the front lawn of the Reichstag, which we meant as an conceptual artistic statement on the whole east west situation*. Could it have been this action, that struck a chord in the minds of some Ossies looking over the wall at us? I'd like to think so.


March 2006: The Flying Martinis are due to go on a school trip to Sri Lanka in June**. Within weeks of the Flying Martinis being asked to join the trip, the years -long ceasefire between Sri Lankan government and the Tamil Tiger rebel forces is broken and violence ensues, plunging the country into renewed civil war.

The North of Sri Lanka is declared a potential no-go zone by all outside foreign offices, and the Tsunami stricken country sees its chances of economic recovery through tourism go spiraling down the drain. We still went though, cos we’re THAT hard. Couldn’t recommend a country to anyone enough. Things have improved slightly since we left, it must be said.

Meeester makes it to the the top of Sigiriya, Sri Lanka,

without being caught in any Tamil Tiger skirmishes

September 2006: Misssy presses the "confirm" button on her e-booking for flights to Thailand. Within a week a military coup is underway against Prime Minister Taksin Shinawatra and tanks fill the streets of Bangkok.

Misssy watches the events live on Sky, making the Homer Simpson "Doh!" noise, with Britney Spears's "Oops! I did it again!" looping in her head as an earworm.

Mind you as coups go, this one is bit of a laugh. Apparently, most Thai people slept right through it and only one drop of blood was shed when someone cut their finger whilst opening a tin of cashew nuts.

The Martinis make it to Thailand in April 2007 and no damage seems to have been reported.

"Mum, can we keep her?" Indy with fierce friend in Thailand.

Still, the coup is our fault, I firmly believe that the butterfly effect of my visa transaction set events into motion.

December 2007: Having taken delivery of Sonny the Dawg, our travel plans for the coming year will be largely centred around the British Isles. However, we have one overseas commitment in the form of a school trip in 2008. Where? Yup, you guessed it; Kenya!

Looks like that’s off then, eh?

Never mind, travel plans are being adjusted to take in a new alternative destination. Yet to be confirmed, it will be one of the following:

1. Thailand and Cambodia, or
2. Mexico and Belize, or
3. Rajasthan, or
4. Iran

Okay.... that last one is a joke, but you’ll know which of the other three we’ve plumped for when something huge kicks off.


* or larking about, I can't remember which.

** The event that started me blogging

My (cough) Cultural Life

Some memes are good un's. This one is to share your cultural life at the moment with your readers. So I've been asked:

1. What am I reading at the moment?
2. What am I listening to at the moment?
3. What am I watching at the moment?

Quick answer:
1. Reading this post for typos.
2. Listening to my dog tearing up a tennis ball.
3. Watching to see if Junior Misssy gets felt tip pen on my carpet.

Am I being too literal?

Listening: After 3 months of a new job that does not necessitate that I spend 7.30-8.30am in my car, my years-long habit of listening to Radio Four has withered away in the mornings. I am now hopelessly ill informed about everything. Hilary Who? Obama doing what, you say?

I now listen to music instead. I am particularly enjoying the new Robert Plant and Alison Krauss piece of loveliness, Raising Sands, and the soundtrack to “I’m Not There” which is chock full of Dylan covers. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in the world but who needs to know when you’ve got Dylan telling you like it is?





Watching: Every week I have to set out, Scott of the Antarctic stylee, to the cinema to review my film of the week for the radio fluffiness I do on a Saturday with the talented Miss Evvy B.

The cinema trip is supposed to be tonight but it’s too windy and cold outside. I mean, it's actually cold and windy inside, so how bad must it be out there? Anyway, I’m not going to risk a tree crushing my Mini to watch the Kite Runner. I shall be watching my DVD of the week, The Lives of Others, instead. Yes, yes, I know everyone else has seen it but I haven’t and you can bet the good folk of the North east haven't either. I like a good bit of German cinema and am obsessed with anything to do with former east Germany and often dress appropriately whilst enjoying such treats.

Oh and Meeester and I have taped the whole of Band of Brothers and we are watching them back to back. How much of a cock is David Schwimmer in that? Loving it. Still don't get why they renamed all those Normandy beaches with American names, though...



Reading: I found this weird book left at a hotel I was staying at recently. It sits next to my bed, but every time I read a bit of it I have trouble sleeping. It’s called The Guide to Near Death Experiences. I think it may be American. I’m a bit of a cynic but, there’s a horrific little story about a little boy who after waking up from a road accident induced coma describes meeting the Devil who smelled vile and looked like he was made from raw meat with bits hanging off him.

I haven’t been able to get the image of the little boy’s drawing out of my head for weeks, so in an attempt to force it out with the lighter side of things, I am reading Russell Brand's, “My Booky Wook” which I got for my birthday, instead. Maybe enough musings on dinkles, shagging and drugs will force demonic images from my mind.

*****

So there you are. I was tagged by the normally non-tagging Ms R, so I will keep it going as a bit of usual non-tagger myself. I am going to tag five folks who should provide some diversity.

They are Avery, Farty, Asym, Taexalia and T&A, but I also extend the invitation to anyone else who wants to join in. So actually you are all tagged, I’m just too lazy to do the whole URL thing.

I look forward to reading.

I'm Misssy: Fly Me!

Ian Brown: He'll cut yer fookin' hands off, apparently

I have just had the misfortune to travel by aeroplane in the UK.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, Meeester and I were inconvenienced greatly throughout. We were subject to non-cleared icy runways, cancellations, delays, lost baggage, systems that don't work, bad attitudes and soggy chicken sandwiches. It is safe to say that normal economy class passengers are treated like peasants and the only way to guarantee a journey that doesn’t induce a potential aneurysm or inevitable prison term, is to drive yourself by car to your destination. Or go by Private Jet, or at a pinch First Class.

A friend of mine is privy to the inside workings of British Airways and confirms this to be the case. If you are neither Business or First Class they couldn’t give the slightest nugget of shit about you. Fact.

At Heathrow we were ferried by body odour stinking bus from International Arrivals to Domestic Arrivals. This was despite the fact that we had not been anywhere international. They just had spat us poor passengers out at the wrong gate like the human chunks of vomitus we seem to be.

As we were bussed along the gunnels of the airport we noticed several signs proclaiming special VIP routes. Sign posts to the upper strata of rarified existence where one is kept separate from the Hoi Polloi and Muggles. An existence that few of us will ever savour.

Not for them, the ubiquitous unsmiling she-dragon at the check-in desk who when asked for assistance looks at you like you’ve just farted directly into her face.

Not for them, the lounges filled with disgruntled passengers who know nothing, other than the fact that their plane is going nowhere fast and their kids are re-enacting Lord of the Flies right in front their faces.

Not for them, the missed first day of their holiday because the parochial airport they are flying from didn’t read the weather forecast for snow and take action timeously.

Not for them, the lost bag with the kids’ presents in because they wouldn’t allow it on the plane as you were 1 minute later than some made up cut off point for getting luggage on board.

Not for them, the word “Sorry” uttered like it is an expletive.

Check these new (temporary) personal heroes of mine out:

Peter Buck from REM: Airplane rage incident 2002. I'm guessing he was not a shiny happy person that day. Charged but not convicted.

Ian Brown from Madchester: Airplane rage incident and prison term after threatening to cut the hands of an air stewardess off. She apparently offered him duty free. Did he perhaps mistake her comment for the oft heard "Your solo career is utter gash, Brown". I'm just putting it out there...

Courtney Love, Hole: Airplane rage incident 2003. Her nurse wasn't allowed to attend to her as she was sat in a different class. Two things occur. When was the word "nurse" changed to mean "dealer" and why was Love so tight as to have her "nurse" upgraded if she needed her so badly? Anyway, she said lots of swearwords loudly and folk don't like that. To be honest, I said lots of swearwords yesterday but only under my breath to Meeester. I guess that's the difference.

Diana Ross, La-la-land: Involved in a "security breach" after she complained loudly and aggressively about being inappropriately touched during a body search . I hear ya, sister, I had such an invasive search at Schiphol Airport by a female security attendant that I think it officially qualifies as a same sex encounter. But were 10 of your students standing watching whilst your tits were expertly cupped under the bra and your pudenda grabbed roughly by a large Dutch woman, Diana? Well, mine were, love. Mine were. I win.

Next trip for me is one to Paris in February. I wonder what treats await me there.


Apologies to my blogfriend Tattooed Atheist who is one of the fine people staffing the planes of the world, who no doubt have to deal with an enormous amount of utter horrors. But just let me vent for today, it’s my birthday and British Airways suck.

Your 2008 Horoscopes by Mystical Misssy

Real horoscopes from a real witch. Guaranteed* to guide you through the ups and downs of 2008.

Capricorn

Being the most successful and wonderful of the star signs you will have an amazing year. Always remember that Jesus, Bowie and Elvis were fellow Capricornios and they have cornered the respective markets of holiness, adrogeny and fried sandwiches. 2008 is your year. As is every year. Go Capricorn!

Virgo

Stop being such a bunch of wusses and buck up your ideas for 2008. Nice and innocent can wear thin. Stop making the rest of us look bad and then you’ll find no-one will be putting thistles up your nightie just to see what you do.

Leo

Aaaah strong willed Leo.... You will find this year, if you don’t stop being such a megalomaniac that someone may kick your head in. If you don’t learn to calm down, don’t be surprised if you find Mars firmly wedged in Uranus.

Sagittarius

It can’t be easy being the sign that no-one can spell. Is it two T's? Is it two R's? Is he the satyr or a fawn? Or just a genetic-mistake-freak-of-nature? This year make it your business to let the world know your worth (in Scrabble scores at least).

Pisces

Pysees, piskays. Whatever. You’re a fish, what chance have you got? Really? But don't worry you'll forget all about it in five seconds.

Gemini

Duplicitous, evil Gemini gets a bad press usually. This year try and turn your reputation around by not bad mouthing folk behind their backs and being utter gits. Twins are freaky. No two ways about it.

Taurus

Bulls this year will have an interesting year. The sign of both the Flying Martini children, the stars are clearly saying keep your rooms tidy and let the Capricorns in your life have a sleep on the couch mid afternoon without interruption whenever they want. Follow these simple rules and no bulls will be for the chop in 2008.

Aries

Poor Aries. Sheep, sheepy, sheepish, woolly and skittish. Sometimes with clagnuts round the bottom and out in all the varied weathers of life. There is only one rule for Aries: Keep away from cocker spaniels. They want to eat you.

Cancer

Unfortunately being named after something really unpleasant, you’ve a lot of work to do before people will accept you. The stars are clearly indicating that you will find a way to make your crabbiness acceptable. Or hang on, maybe not. Horoscopes are just so namby. Anything could happen.

Aquarius

Having had a whole musical based around you where hippies get nekkid, you’d be forgiven for thinking that you are the dogs bollocks, ya big drink o' water! But given we’re talking a good thirty years ago now, time for Aquarius to come up with some new PR stunt for 2008.

Scorpio

Irrationally, people are wary of Scorpios since that David Attenborough documentary had a scene where a woman put her foot into her slipper and got stung on the toe by a sleeping Scorpion. But how about showing people the cuddly side of your personality? Start chronologically through the rest of the Zodiac and give each sign a present. Capricorn’s first? Oooh, why thank you!

Libra

Yes, yes you do sound like a name for a sanitary product, but use it! Be the sign that can roller skate being pulled by Golden Retrievers whilst feeling generally a bit crap otherwise. Holding the scales, if you must.



* This is an "astral guarantee", valid only in certain galaxies. Terms and conditions apply. Statutory rights will be irretrievably affected.