Dear Readers,
my apologies for missing last week's Alex On A Saturday, I was away in Germany and it proved impossible to get a blog written. On my return, I was struck down with some kind of flu, from which I am pretty much fully recovered...
I was in Germany to attend a party - what else! The party was entitled 'The Roaring Twenties' and promised flapper girls, cocktails, and jazz bands, all set in a wonderful villa in Lüneburg, near the Danish border.
To do such a party justice I had to assemble a killer outfit - and our tale begins in Edinburgh....
+++++++++
I flew up to Edinburgh to attend the opening of South African artist Jonathan Freemantle's latest show. I've known Jon for years but we'd lost touch and having been really impressed by some of his recent work online I thought I'd take the opportunity of a couple of free days and a reasonably priced Easyjet flight to see his latest efforts.
I'd also discovered whilst costume researching that Edinburgh is home to one of the U.K's most impressive vintage clothing stores, easily eclipsing anything I've ever found in London and on a par with Los Angeles' 'Its A Wrap.' I think the mark of a great vintage store is that you can go in looking for something, and come out not only having found it, but also looking good. Its called Armstrong's, and its in the Grassmarket.
With the help of the lovely Beccy, this is exactly what happened, and I emerged after an hour delighted with my ensemble of tartan plus twos, cream woolen kilt socks, braces, a green army jacket from 1945, and a green beret with a wee bonny bobble. A picture speaks a thousand words and I'll soon be posting one up on The Fuse' new facebook site.
Jono's show was jaw-droppingly good, and a great success to boot, and we partied like you only can in Edinburgh. I met some great people, including a Russian girl named Asta who had a remarkable gift for accents and a voice like an opera singer - but that's another story.
+++++++++
The journey to Germany began at 2.45 on a Thursday morning. Booking a Ryanair flight for next to nothing always seems like a good idea at the time you do it - the enormous inconvenience of getting to Stansted is far off, as are the extra costs involved with taking Ryanair. Its classic modern thinking: buy now, pay later.
Five quid on a taxi to the station, five quid to get to Victoria, seventeen quid on the bus. So that's 27 quid on top of the flight before you even get to check in.
I was travelling with Adam, who had seen fit to prepare for the journey by drinking half a bottle of whiskey. Having slept on the coach, he was in that hellish state of deep, drunken fatigue that is unique to a combination of whiskey and 5.30 am, and he was ill-prepared for the ordeal to come.
We approached Ryanair's flash new automatic check in machines. Smart, I thought - cutting down on man hours and passing on the saving. Not so - I observed Adam muttering angrily under his breath and, braving it, went to investigate. A 20 pound surcharge from Mr O'Leary, for 'checking in.' Not a baggage charge - a check in charge.
I laughed - Adam and I are companions in Shaedenfreude, and in my half-witted state I assumed that Adam must have done something wrong in the booking process and that this charge could not possibly apply to everyone - that would be a bad joke, a sick piece of con-artistry more at home in the Sopranos. 'Ha ha', I chuckled, as Adam spat with rage and snatched his card back from the avaricious blue and yellow horror show.
I stepped confidently forward, card at the ready, but my last chuckle froze on my lips as I was informed that I, Alex Lato, would also be charged 20 pounds for the privilege of checking in.
Surely not, I gasped - impossible. 'You must be having a fucking laugh', I spat at the impassive screen - but to no avail. 47 quid and counting.
We approached the baggage handling area. It would be no exaggeration to say that Adam and I were both screwing. Fortunately the queue wasn't too long, and we weren't in a hurry, so we grumbled slowly towards the lady who was beckoning us. To my amazement she gave us a bollocking:
'You two are still asleep aren't you,' she gibed in good, honest, strong Essex. 'Where are your boarding cards?' she demanded. We fumbled around for a bit. 'Come on, we haven't got all day, you know.'
I mastered myself and produced my boarding card, a thin smile, and a half-hearted wise-crack. Adam wasn't having so much luck.
'Um, how many pieces of paper did you get from the machine dude?' he asked in a tone that hinted at the possibility that he had messed something up.
'Two pieces dude, how many do you have?'
'Um I've only got one.'
'Yeah man that's the receipt, you should have a boarding card as well - like this, see?'
We traipsed back towards the desks. I was quietly hoping that Adam would have to pay another 20 quid. It would make my own pain less severe. We walked over to the desk where there were people and Adam confessed his plight.
Disappointingly, he was able to get his boarding card at no further cost, and we spent our pre-flight time calculating how much money Ryanair were stealing, and how we would get even.
We reckoned firebombing one plane would just about cover it, and with revenge planned, we boarded the miserable Ryanair jet with its miserable unadjustable seats, and its miserable food at Waldorf prices. Arrival in 'Hamburg' Lubeck and another 9 quid to get to the city proper on a 75 minute coach ride.
55 quid extra to get there meant 55 quid to get back - 110 quid premium, in other words.
++++++++
The venue for the party was a steep-roofed red brick building accessed through a vast ex-army camp built in the 1920's to house tank divisions, and in its day it had been the officer's mess. We drove past walls stained black with diesel fumes, and it didn't take much to imagine the place heaving with men and machines on their way to war.
Nowadays it plays host to Lüneburg's ballroom dancing club, blessed as it is with a large varnished floor, some beer taps, and a caretaker called Carsten. Our challenge was to convert this enormous building into a venue suitable for a 170 strong party; we didn't have an enormous amount of period furniture to work with, and we didn't have much time.
So we set to it as best we could. Adam and I both have a history in event management so we were able to be useful, which was nice, as our hosts, the Fab 6 and Sabrina, organize wonderful parties every couple of years at which we normally only turn up and get drunk. It was good to feel helpful and I think we made a bit of a difference.
+++++++++
Party time, costumes on. The big lawn freshly mowed by Carsten, a task he had performed sitting on his mower with his legs hoiked up on the bonnet. We all liked Carsten, he was super helpful and even had his own vintage outfit to wear. He fitted right in.
The afternoon of the party was to be spent attempting to spend Reichsmarks. We were therefore all issued with 10k Reichsmarks, which we then spent on popcorn, candyfloss, penny sweets, cigars, and, most memorably, by betting on a sack race. In theory the money was going to buy a big prize of some kind, but in practice non materialised. As people realised this the value of the reichsmark disintegrated.
As an organiser I got to walk around with one of the penny sweet trays, and as a result talked to almost everyone at the party in my attempt to earn Reichsmarks. I charged outrageous prices - 5000 Reichsmarks for a small cigar. Bargain guv'.
Bartering is great fun, and I was interested to note that on the whole the girls drove a harder bargain. At a certain stage I met Kristina, who made me give her lots of sweets for free. She had the sweetest smile and beautiful big brown eyes and as I told her, I've always been weak in the face of beauty.
I wandered on, in my plus twos and Scottish bobble beret, beaming. Behind me were two green and white marquees dispensing punch, beer and cakes, staffed intermittently by girls wearing all sorts of beautiful period costume. To their right was a brass band playing jazz standards. Working round anti-clockwise, was a wooden frame which marked the end of the sack race. In front of me, a stall where people were throwing balls at cans, and finally, the start to the sack race between two stout trees, and the two Petanque pitches.
As soon as the sack race was announced the entire gathering lined the race course and gazed to their left at the assembled runners. The bookies did a roaring trade, and the strong favourite was an enormous German wearing a sailor's outfit. My money, however, was on the shortest man in the field, called Simon - I happened to know that Simon is a fitness fanatic who has calves like pistons. I confidently bet heavily in his favour.
I swear it felt like Ascot - bated breath under slinky hats, wild cheering at the off, and the comic thump of drunken men and women bouncing in Hessian sacks over the mole hills of this old German lawn.
And by God, could Simon bounce! His strategy was simple but brilliant - on account of his diminutive stature, he was able to tuck the sack into his trousers, thereby leaving his arms free to generate forward momentum, and two of his leaps happened in the time it took the enormous German to make one.
Rounding the bend, Simon was blatantly fouled as he crept and their were cries of anguish from his backers, who, to be honest numbered about 3. Miraculously he prevailed, stumbling in a cloud of dust over the finish line.
I was rich!
++++++++
Darkness fell slowly, and after a group photograph that caught the last of the light, we entered the ball room. On the left was a black curtain which housed a white screen, onto which were beamed various images of which I have no recollection whatsoever. In the left corner was a collection of black fake-leather sofas and some coffee tables where the drunker revellers would later seek respite.
On the right was the DJ booth and the bar, behind which hid three fridges rammed full of Becks and on which stood various bottles of spirits. Behind were the ballroom doors, uplit from the outside with yellow light. On the patio, gas heaters, and on the lawn, torches leading into a hidden distance.
It was spectacularly beautiful, and having charged our plates with hog and crackling myself, Adam, and our partner in crime known as Dan cunningly used benches to construct a table at which to eat.
I lit a fire in the fire basket I had prepared earlier, and before long we had a good blaze going. It was wonderful to have a fire at a party - not something I've managed before. Before long the warmth of the flames had attracted a good crowd and we sat companionably sipping our beverages, smoking, and talking whilst inside the dancers danced and the drinkers drank, and all of us lost ourselves in the eternity of possibility which all great parties succeed in creating.
+++++++++
My fire-starting activities had allowed my evening to progress gently, and I wasn't over-sozzled when I decided to take to the dance floor. My last outing in Germany had ended in acute embarrassment, and I was determined to pace myself and avoid this outcome on such a wonderful occasion.
So, I took it easy, danced gently with members of the fairer sex in a strictly ballroom fashion and generally attempted benevolence. Before long I found myself face to face with the very Kristina who had so enchanted me during my Reichsmark gathering, and being no great foot at ballroom I gingerly led her through a few moves before suggesting a trip to the bar.
Wonderful bars, bars where you can pour your own spirits.
Bumper gin and tonics, and a walk outside, where we were seduced by the light of the lanterns that led into make believe and the gentle touch of skin on skin.
And words lose their power - for none can do justice to the tenderness of those minutes spent side by side under the studded sky.
+++++++++
Adam got left behind at the venue - he waited at the wrong exit and missed the taxi. He arrived home having wandered drunkenly around for half an hour before finding a miracle taxi. He wasn't a happy boy.
The man known as Dan acted as timekeeper and reassured me as I fretted about the whereabouts of my passport. It did indeed turn up, but not before I'd spent a good hour wondering how exactly I was going to get home, and more importantly, how I was going to buy a new flight.
However, all's well that ends well and although Ryanair did indeed rip us off again - 20 quid to check in on the way back too - we were too hungover to blister about it. However, one comment by a fellow passenger sticks in the mind: 'they got us by the short and curlies here haven't they mate!?'
That and the sheepish German staff who were caught up in this robbery...
