Tag Archives: Children

German Men Sit Down to Pee

Relax. This isn’t going to be another post about my long-standing obsession with the German Sitzpinkel. “German Men Sit Down to Pee” is the title of a book I recently had the pleasure of reading. Co-author, James Cave, was kind enough to send me a copy to review and, although it took me a while to get around to it (sorry again, James!), once I did, I read it in a single sitting.

Even though I consider myself practically German these days, this book had me raising my eyebrows and chuckling away at all sorts of little quirks and oddities that I had previously been totally unaware of. Without giving away too much of the contents of “German Men Sit Down to Pee”, I thought I’d share some of these with you here.

  1. A pillow is considered a “passive weapon” in Germany.

Yep, that’s right boys, you can put all of those fantasies of hot German women pillow-fighting in their underwear out of your head. Not going to happen – no woman in her right mind is going to risk an assault charge just so you can get your rocks off.

Passive weapon alert!!
Passive weapon alert!!

But don’t worry too much – Germany will take care of you in other ways thanks to its lax laws when it comes to porn production. Germany has carved out a “nice” little niche for itself when it comes to gangbangs, urinal and fecal porn, otherwise known as Scheiße Porn. And if that doesn’t float your boat/penis, you’ll be pleased to hear that prostitution is also legal in Germany.

In fact, in Bonn, the ladies of the night buy tickets just like you would a parking ticket. This allows them to “park” themselves for the night and carry out the ins and outs of their business. Several cities have also introduced drive-thru sex areas.

“Yes, good evening, can I get a Big Rack to go, please?”

2. Do not “du” a police officer

As some of you probably already know, there are two forms of address in German – the formal “Sie” and the informal “du”. While in Berlin, you can get away with “du-ing” most people, it is actually illegal to “du” a police officer and you could end up with a fine of up to €600… Here’s how I imagine that working out:

Me: Officer! Officer! Kannst du mir helfen? That man has just run off with my bag! 

SIEgfried: Did you just “du” me?

Me: What? Oh, I guess but…but… the man! He’s getting away! 

SIEgfried: That’s not the pressing issue here, young lady. You just “du’d” a police officer and, in Germany, that has consequences.

Me: But…but…

SIEgfried: Can I see some identification, please?

Me: I would love to show you but IT’S IN MY DAMN BAG! 

The thief then thumbs his nose at me and strolls off into the sunset.

3. A fine for your finger

Although the German Autobahn is pretty relaxed when it comes to things like, you know, having a speed limit, there are other things that are strictly VERBOTEN. Road rage is one of them. Giving someone the finger in a fit of pique could result in a rather steep fine.

No badasses here, please. We're German.
No badasses here, please. We’re German.

Running out of petrol on the Autobahn is also illegal. It’s not regarded as “one of those things” as it’s something that you could have planned for and, therefore, avoided. And we all know how much the Germans like planning…

4. Love your hole

Germans are world-renowned for their lovable beach habits. Getting up at the crack of dawn to put their towels on the sun loungers – check. Letting it all hang out – check. Socks and sandals – check.

One German beach quirk that I wasn’t aware of, however, is the German love of digging holes in the sand. In 2010, a German tourist in Tenerife had to be rescued by firemen after the tunnel system he’d built to connect his holes collapsed around him, leaving him trapped up to his neck in sand. And while you might think this was just a one-off, there is evidence to suggest that it really is a “thing”.

At the German seaside resort of St. Peter-Ording, digger trucks appear early each morning to fill in the holes that have been dug on the beach the day before. Germans, eh? Who knew?

5. Have yourself a scary Little Christmas

The 6th of December is known in Ireland as Little Christmas; in Germany, it’s called Nikolaus. And what better way to celebrate the start of the season than scaring the bejesus out of your children?

On the 6th, unsuspecting German kids leave their shoes outside the door for Nikolaus to fill up with sweets and goodies – but only if they’ve been good. If they’ve been bad (NEIN!), his sidekick, Farmhand Rupert, will beat them with a stick and a bag of ashes – at least in the olden days. These days, they’ll just wake up to find their shoes filled with lumps of coal. It’s a real shame when these old traditions die out…

Heh heh
Heh heh

In parts of Austria and Bavaria, it gets even better worse. You can actually pay someone to come and scare your kids straight. Krampus will show up, terrify them a bit and hope they see the error of their ways. If they try to talk back, they’re picked up, held upside down and dunked in the snow.

Brilliant. Terrible…

Anyway, that’s just a small selection of the treats that “German Men Sit Down to Pee” has in store for you. If you’re planning on visiting or moving to Germany, I can’t recommend it highly enough. It will have you chortling into your passive weapon way past your bed time.

Order your copy here or check out the website. You’ll be happy you did.

Thank you again to James for giving me the chance to write a review!

 

On yer bike

Part of being a good Berliner, as anyone will tell you, is owning a bicycle. And since I’m now in a living arrangement where I can look at a bicycle as a bicycle (rather than just one more thing that will have to be moved in a month’s time), this seemed like the perfect moment to take the leap. Sheila, the half-naked Aussie, had generously offered me hers because she has to go back to Oz for a bit. But then, she’d also fallen off it into the back of a convertible as it was too heavy for her. I politely declined.

Fortunately, my Irish friend, Séamus, builds bikes for a living and (rather conveniently) was working on a nice petite model that might just be ideal for me. Unfortunately, he lives on the other side of the city. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, but with Berlin’s transport system up to its old tricks again, it took a bus and three trains to get there. Not to worry, I took one look at the shiny red beauty and instantly decided that it would be mine.

You will be mine, oh yes...
You will be mine, oh yes…

While Séamus rattled on about tubes and wires and oil and other important stuff, I was thinking “pretty, red, pretty”. But, being a professional, instead of just letting me ride off into the sunset, he insisted that we go down to his backyard and give it a couple of test runs to make sure it was a good fit for me. After a few precarious moments, I was off on a wobbly circuit of the yard and amazingly managed not to crash into any of the cars or fall off. A quick height adjustment of the handlebars and I was good to go.

Me: It’s going to be a bit of a nightmare getting it back to mine on public transport. 

Séamus: (giving it a manly kick) Ha, don’t worry. Parts of this thing are over thirty years old. I don’t think you’ll manage to destroy it in an hour. 

Little did he know.

He offered to ride with me to the station but, as a good law-abiding German, I refused as the one thing the bike didn’t have was lights. It’s only about a two-minute ride but rules are rules, you know. Plus, I just knew I’d be the unlucky bugger that got caught.

When we got there, people were streaming out of the station as the S-Bahn had shut down three hours early. So now, instead of two trains which would leave me a 5-minute walk from my door, we would have to walk for 15 minutes, and I’d have to take two trains and a bus. With Séamus practically wheeling the bike for me, and me impractically bitching and moaning the whole way, we made it to the next station. I got (and validated) a ticket for the bike and then I was on my own.

I’d thought moving my worldly belongings by public transport was tough until I tried to get a bicycle up and down escalators. Still, despite almost falling on several people and ramming an old lady in the shins, I made it to the bus-stop. The bus came bang on time and I hefted the bike through the middle doors.

“NEIN!” came a cry from the front of the bus. “NEIN!”

I figured he was probably talking to me, so I elegantly alighted and wheeled the bike to the front door to see what all the fuss was about.

Bus driver: No bikes. 

Me: But, but, I don’t have a choice. I just bought it and it has no lights so I can’t ride it. 

Bus driver: NEIN!

Me: But I bought a bike ticket! It’s only a few stops and there’s so much room and…

Bus driver: NEINNNNNNNNN! 

And then he closed the door on me. The fact that I’d managed to have this “conversation” in German gave me some small satisfaction, but not enough that I didn’t pause to give him the finger and call him a pedantic prick. (I used English for that one.)

So, there I was, stranded at the side of the road, facing a good 45-minute walk. It was almost 11.30pm at this stage and I just thought, “You know what, Germany? Stick your rules. If one set of rules means that I have to break another, then so be it”. And I got on the bike. It had reflectors and there was nobody on the footpaths, apart from (comfortingly) other cyclists riding without lights. About five minutes down the road, my cardigan got stuck in the wheel, which required a dismount, a good deal of swearing and some tricky extrication.

I got on again, sheer fury driving me forwards. Bloody mothers can wheel their jeep-sized buggies filled with their squealing brats onto buses. The bus driver will even make the bus “kneel” for them so they can more conveniently torture a busload of people’s eardrums for god knows how long. How am I, standing silently in the middle of an empty bus holding my bike, more unacceptable than that? Just because I didn’t push the bike out of my lady orifice doesn’t make it any less my new baby… And then I looked up and I was home. Huh, I was only a couple of minutes later than if I’d taken the bus. Good old rage.

Today, I decided to take Red Beauty out on a spin to a nearby park. The first thing I was faced with was a sign saying there was no cycling in the park.

Grrrr...
Grrrr…

Followed by a sign saying that you actually could cycle in the park.

It seems mothers and squealing brats are allowed too.
It seems mothers and squealing brats are allowed too.

Jesus, Germany, make up your mind…

Still, it was all worth it in the end.

20150827_162415[2]

20150827_163434[1]

20150827_163658[1]

That bus driver can still kiss my (newly-toned) white Irish ass, though…