Hanging out in Berlin

Berlin

The idea of going to Berlin for two weeks was simply that for 69 quid you could get a coach there via Amsterdam and there were friends in Kreutzberg to potentially stay with. And with the dole office ‘burnt down’ there wasn’t a pressing need to get back to sign on. Little did I know …

Hamburg

Dr Awkward is my oldest friend. We met after school one day, age around fifteen. I was in my signature acne and floppy hair. He was resplendent in a green Mod parka with a large target on the back. He even showed me his dad’s elaborate train set in the attic of his parent’s house.

Eventually, I couldn’t resist commenting sarcastically about the ‘clown coat’ he was wearing. Unfortunately, rather than rely on linguistic niceties and a well thought out and crafted argument as a rejoinder, he responded by punching me forcibly on the nose . We’ve been friends ever since.

The Deadman

So a few years later it was Dr Awkward who invited me to his exhibition of paintings in Hamburg illustrating his limited-edition book of Georges Bataille’s erotic short story The Deadman. Not only was I expected to make my own way there but I was also invited to  ‘pay for my supper’ by instigating a short performance.

So after a tumultuous sea-crossing, I arrived with my good friend Angel at the docks of Hamburg.

We walked onto the dockside, Angel and I. The crossing had been a choppy one all the way to Hamburg and now it was great to be back on dry land. I was there because the Dr Ackward had invited me to the premiere of his illustrated self-published book of Georges Bataille erotic short stories The Deadman. I had agreed to do some sort of performance – though I wasn’t sure exactly what. Angel had kindly come as a friend, confidente, someone interested in art and also as a translator.

We came into a small square.There were people sitting having their early morning black coffee and Geback pastry. Suddenly a man at a table got up, shuffled forward a few paces and then keeled over in the street. People ran over to help. After a while, having assessed the situation, they were saying something in German with a look of surprise on their faces. I asked Angel to translate. ‘They are saying he’s dead’ she replied helpfully. ‘Bloody hell’ I thought. ‘We’ve already encountered the Deadman and we’ve only been here a couple of minutes. The weekend hasn’t even started! God, this is going to be some weekend’.

It certainly was.

 In Hamburg we watched a college fashion show of a genuine melange of people, big small, old and young, choreographed to a soundtrack of Crass’s Nagasaki Nightmare. 

A typical performance (as Grayson Perry would no doubt attest) was the performer (or ‘shaman’) in a state of undress shuffling round a table with mysterious ‘alchemical’ bottles of paint messily arranged all over it- decanting them from time to time – for at least 12 hours.

This though was more a case of the logical consequence of a thousand frustrated nights ‘dancing’ at Upstairs at Erics colliding with an aubergine.

 

‘What Michael Said’ c Brian Williams Reproduced with permission. All rights reserved