Mayhem in München
When the British Tourist Authority enquired if we’d care to warble for them during “Englische Woche” in München, we accepted with alacrity (the famous Welsh stand-up comedian). One snag was that we were expected to sing at 10.00 Wednesday morning in München, and were booked to perform on Tuesday night in the great Pforzheimer Jazz/Folk Club, meaning we’d have to travel down to Bayern overnight. Still, it was only a wee snag, we did the gig, then went with Hese to collect Vincent, who we’d left with Lizzie and their kids. He was fast asleep, as were Hese and Lizzie’s pair, so we put him, in his carry-cot, on the back seat of the jam-jar, Shirley got in beside him, and by the time wed reached the end of the street she was fast asleep too. I reckoned at least one of us ought to stay awake, and, as I was driving, thought it probably preferable if the wakeful Wilkie was me.
We arrived, extremely cream-crackered, at around three in the morning at the Vier Jahreszeiten hotel, our home-from-home for the next few days. A uniformed geezer drove our lah-di to the garage, whilst we wearied into the foyer to avail ourselves of the, equally smartly uniformed, Concierge service– situated behind a long, wood–gleaming, reception desk ie: to check in (trying resolutely to refrain from gawking at the extraordinary extravagant vastness of everything, as if we were oiks unaccustomed to such unadulterated luxury). The foyer, I promise you, was big enough (crowned by a glass dome bearing depictions of the four seasons – from which, of course, the hotel’s name is derived) to have easily accommodated two ”butt and bens” leaving space for a vegetable patch, a car port, and a modestly sized pool of Japanese Koi fish. Spaced across its acres of deep carpet were meticulously arranged armchairs and couches, tables and standard lamps. Everything was sized and designed to satisfy the pretentious, persnickety, so-called upper crust. Even the lift, that normally humble take-you-up-and-down-from-floor-to-floor-guv device (this one situated atop a short flight of steps at the far end of the foyer) was so grandiose it had a chandelier hanging from its ceiling! Yes, folks, a fucking great chandelier, already! That’s how huge the bastard was.
Our bedroom was large, comfortable, and welcoming; with a big bowl of fruit, and a vase of flowers on the Cain an’ Able: however, I didn’t think that would satisfy our immediate, journey–induced, hunger, although the daffy-down-dillys did look delicious. Hoping to scrounge up a cheese sarni or some such untroublesome-to-prepare morsel, I phoned Room Service, and was politely told we should just choose whatever we wanted from the main mealtimes menu, and they’d bring it to us. This, folks, is how the fat cats live! (With me right arm forced up me back in a half-Nelson, I could, mayhap, become accustomed to it meself).
I still find it hard to believe how much BTA paid us (plus all expenses: hotel, grub, liquid refreshments, taxis etc) for what was really very little effort on our part, but they did (that’s one of the delights, or hazards, or angst–makers in our business – delete where appropriate – one minute you don’t know what ter do with all that folding bread being thrust into your sweaty palms, the next yer wondering how to raise enough for a quick drop of splosh). All we were required to do was sing, at around 10.00 in the morning, for about fifteen minutes in one of the tourist agency bureaus in town; grab a taxi to another bureau, do a fifteen minute spot there around 11.30. and the rest of the day we were free… well, almost free, in addition, we had to lay a fifteen minute spot on the unsuspecting diners every evening in the Hilton Hotel. The first evening, arriving nice and early, at the Hilton, we were surprised to be given the key to a typically luxurious bedroom. I explained we already had a room in the Vier Jahreszeiten, and was informed this one, for the entire “Englische Woche” was also ours, mainly so’s we had somewhere to relax, and to tune the guitar in quietude before the gig – though naturally we could use it during the day for whatever purpose we had in mind. After our 15 minutes of song, a Scottish bagpiper marched round the room in full regalia giving it one; he didn’t play in any of the tourist bureaus, nor was he booked for the Vier Jahreszeiten, he was hired solely to perform a coupler spots every night in the Hilton, where he was also staying. He said: “Colin Wilkie, that’s good Scots name,” then told us his best friend was a bloke named Bill Wilkie, and that he hailed from Perth (my grandfather’s hometown).
Our initial 10.00 gig was at a venue just up the road from the hotel. We’d already decided it was pointless using a car, going through the hassle of finding parking places, when some of the travel bureaus we were to sing in were within ambling distance, others reachable by cab, so left it in the hotel garage. The people running the 10.00 bureau made a big fuss of Vincie, giving him a desk to sit at in a backroom, pencils and paper for drawing, a pretzel and something to drink – a procedure repeated in every travel bureau in which we sang (Shirl and I sometimes got offered a cup of coffee at the end of our performance). After the11.30 gig we were free to amuse ourselves until the evening, we held a family conference and decided to have a butcher’s at the famous Deutsches Museum – one of the biggest technology and science museums in the world – an excellent decision. Vincent was enchanted by it (as were we) you could –and he did – set numerous things working, you could visit several fantastic exhibitions; he was absolutely fascinated by the reconstruction of a mine, so much so, that for a long time afterwards he asserted his ambition was to become a “Coal minder” (we hadn’t the heart to tell him the “d” was misplaced – so “coal minder” it remained, joining the terms “reckold” and “dedective” in his ever growing vocabulary. Fortunately he changed his ideas about “coal–minding” before we had to put a deposit on a Davey lamp, a helmet, a sturdy pick, and a pair of stout boots. Vincent was so enamoured of the Deutsches Museum, that every afternoon, when asked what he fancied doing, that was where he wanted to go. Ov kosst we did the usual round of cafes: devouring cream–oozing cakes, and large fruit ices, strolled streets to see some other sights, including the very funny Karl Valentin Museum: Karl Valentin was a brilliant Bavarian comic actor, musician, and author, who, like so many comedians, died (1948) in sadly tragic circumstances. We all love his films (unfortunately his puns, crazy word-plays and dialectical humor are simply not translatable into English) nonetheless, it was at the portals of the Deutches Museum we inevitably ended the afternoon.
In one of the vast rooms of the Vier Jahreszeiten, a traditional English pub (no jukeboxes, mechanical dartboards, or awful plastics – a genuine Midsomer Murders type of boozer) had been built. It was planned we should sing in it on Friday night, after the speeches and mutual back–scratchery. Down one side of another room, long, highly decorated tables, pre–strengthened to hold the free buffet, had been erected. Before it all officially started, we copped a peek at the buffet – quite incredible! A gargantuan selection of every kind of grub you can think of was displayed on the long, sturdily built, highly decorated tables – huge chunks of ice carved into the shape of swans and other exotic creatures were interspaced among the overflowing platters and bulging bowls. One of the waiters, a friendly young feller, suggested we choose what we wanted to eat, and he’d put it to one side, in a cardboard box. We replied we’d choose after we’d sung for the guests, and he laughed as if we were enacting a highly original comedy routine, shook his loaf, insisted we choose: right now, if we actually wanted to eat. Thinking it wouldn’t hurt to do so, we did so: after we’d sung, we could always pick something else if we changed our minds….…oh yeah……. with the corner up!
Before it all officially started, organisational minds were changed: it’d be better, they now thought, if I simply minstreled amidst the milling throng, gathered in and around the pub, playing a few guitar pieces, whilst Shirl sat decoratively at the bar sipping a Pimms No 1, or some other exotically umbrellaed, overpriced glass of the River Ouse.
Guests dressed in smart whistles and evening dresses (not at the same time) hovered in another room, while selected speakers prepared to deliver (undoubtedly long, and probably tedious) speeches about the beauties of Blighty, the philosophical meaning behind the simple phrase: “Englische Woche”, the importance of Tourism, the benefits of working with each other (oh, I dunno, the normal business–type crap that gets crapped at these wing–dings, I imagine), when one of the boss–fellers from BTA made possibly the greatest tactical blunder since Harold Godwinson said: “Right lads, now we’ve clobbered the bleeding Norsemen, we’ll slope off down to Pevensey and kick shit out of Willie the Wanker’s frog-scoffing lot”, instead of waiting until the speechifying was over, he announced (and this before anyone, even himself, had had a chance to have a good old speechify) “Ladies and Gentleman, I am happy to inform you that the buffet next door is open, but firstly….…
There was to be no “firstly“…there was to be only a major stampede, the room emptied faster than “Dear Henry’’s bucket: buffet tables vanished beneath shoving bodies, and shoveling hands; much like the chaotic scenes witnessed when planes fly in, or lorries arrive, to deliver food to a starving folk made homeless by war, earthquakes, trapped by floods or some other bloody awful disaster in an out-of-the-way, poverty stricken land; but these shoving bodies, and shoveling hands belonged to a scuffling pack of the thoroughly spoiled over-nourished, who’d consider themselves an endangered species if their enormous fridges were suddenly only three-quarters–full. It was utterly, stomach—turningly, revoltingly disgusting (and didn’t improve my opinion of the fucking jet-set one jot), a miracle (or perhaps a pity) no–one was crushed to death in the melee.
When the panic was past, organisational minds changed once more, and the jolly old minstreling around amidst the milling throng in the pub idea shelved; so, freed from having to amuse the greedy buggers, we wended to the buffet. Dropped, and
stepped–in food had turned the floor into a hazard zone.The once beautifully decorated tables were a complete shambles; bits of previously appetizing delicacies were smeared on tablecloths, dripped from plates. Not an edible crumb remained amongst the broken swans, empty bowls, and battered decorations, it was the Battle of the Little Big Spoon: Custard’s Last Stand!
Our friendly waiter grinned, reached behind him and handed us the cardboard box containing our pre–stampede choice of food. He didn’t say: “I told you so.” but ‘twas writ large upon his smiling face.
The following evening there was a similar do, this time in the Hilton, and, blimey! there they were again, the same sodding crowd as in the Vier Jahreszeiten. It was then the Deutsch Mark dropped, and I realised these parasites were undoubtedly professional free–loaders spending their lives going from one buckshee nosh to the next, swilling down litres of falling–over liquid and, no doubt, receiving handsome salaries; at least we were singing for our (admittedly overpaid) suppers.
In the entrance hall of the Hilton was a tall reproduction of “Big Ben”, cunningly made of dark chocolate. Well, to be pedantic, not really “Big Ben” he is actually the bell that produces those glorious tones, but everyone refers to the tower which houses him as “Big Ben”, so, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. One evening, after we’d done our “don’t-disturb-the-diners-but-do-sing-them-some-of-those-lovely-songs” spot, and were awaiting a Sandy, a group of about twenty or thirty tiny Japanese women came swishing through the door. They gathered round the cunningly made of dark chocolate “Big Ben” pointing, and chattering in excited voices. Shirl, loathe to miss such a golden opportunity, moved in front of them, pretending to pick chocolate from the tower, and making yum–yum noises (her Japanese is very limited). Within seconds, the little Japanese women swooped like a giggle of locusts, picking off chunks of chocolate and “yum–yumming” them. We were having a wonderful time watching this undiluted enjoyment, but a dark-suited, dark–tied, darkly-frowning, (obvious candidate for cardiac arrest) establishment Jobsworth, went spare. Running up, gesticulating wildly, yelling “Nein, nein, nein!” much to the Japanese womens’ confusion. Startled by furiously waving arms, and spluttering cries, they turned toward us, seeking confirmation that devouring the cunningly made of dark chocolate “Big Ben” was indeed welcome behaviour, but at that moment, our taxi arrived so we scarpered, falling into the cab pissing ourselves with laughter.
Apart from the Wilkies, other distinguished guests in the hotel were: the Dalai Lama, Princess Margaret and a few supposedly V.I.Ps.
One day during our stay, we three were going off someplace – the Deutsches Museum no doubt, if Vincent had any say in the matter (which of course he did) – and had arrived in the foyer when I suddenly remembered I’d left summat I needed urgently in the bedroom, and went back to get it. Shirley and Vincie waited for me, ensconced in the deep, deep, possibly still unexplored by man, depths of a coupler armchairs. It took me a few minutes to find wotever it was I’d forgotten, and wotever it was I’d forgotten, I’ve now forgotten anyway, not that it bears any relevance to the tale, so it don’t matter that I’ve forgotten what it was I’d forgotten. Having found wotever it was I’d forgotten, I returned to the lift, pressed the button and waited. When it arrived there were a couple of people already standing in it, but whatever else I may be, I ain’t a snob, (well, alright, I’ll admit I’m a bit of an inverted snob sometimes) and being gregarious by nature nodded hello, in my usual friendly manner, and joined them…not that there was any immediate peril of intruding on anyone’s private sphere within its vast, chandeliered confines.
When the lift reached ground level, the doors opened – as lift doors are wont to do – and I was confronted by a large phalanx of waiting cameras, all held at the ready. I’m no stranger to being photographed (what performer is?) so wasn’t too surprised, though the number of paparazzi took me aback a wee bit. Nevertheless, I am (he modestly acknowledges) regarded as quite a big fish in an albeit pretty small pond, and have even been termed “famous” in me time: so I smiled my best smile (a bit squinchy-eyed, like one accustomed to peering into bright spotlights; mouth slightly crooked for the roguish effect) stepped jauntily forward prepared to give the press a slice of my precious time, and was astonished to find the assembled paps pointing their cameras in the wrong direction – at the two people who’d travelled down in the lift with me – photographing them!
Most puzzling.
“I dunno what’s going on ” I said to Shirl, when I joined her and Vincie. “That bunch of photographers turn up, then, instead of me, they go and take pictures of them other two.”
Looking at me steadily she asked: “You seriously thought that crowd of photographers was here to take pictures of you?”
“Yeah. Course I did. Why else should they come?”
She shook her head slightly, gave me a questioning look. Before she could comment I said: “Seemed logical ter me. They’ve found out we’re staying in this hotel, but then they go and take snaps of them other two.”
“Don’t you know who ‘them other two’ are?” she asked.
I shrugged my manly British shoulders: “No” I replied. ” Haven’t a clue.”
”Well ” she continued: ” Let me tell you, ‘them other two’ just happen to be a couple of the world’s greatest opera singers: Maria Callas and Giuseppi de Stefano.” She sighed resignedly, employing the sigh she sighs when I’ve made some kind of a silly boo–boo, a sigh which, in its deliverance, is much, much more effective than a bellowed: “You great daft twat!”
