auf wiedersehen, German-Irish pubs.
I was in Germany for work purposes. I'd been sent to Saarbrücken with three colleagues and we had been left to our own devices over the weekend before a Monday morning meeting. None of us spoke German. No one in Saarbrücken seemed to speak anything else, which I found reasonable given that we were in Germany. We got by with a hint of mime and a hastily bought dictionary, but in two nights there we had frequented both the Italian and Spanish restaurant because we knew we could order food with some fluency; specifically food that did not involve sausage or cabbage.

Our stay was not without its touristic highlights. It began with the hotel, conveniently situated on the outskirts of town in what appeared to be an industrial estate. The methadone clinic and bail hostel across the road provided some nervous interest, as did the velour leopardskin print and mirrored ceiling in our total of two rooms - rooms which contained only a double bed which perturbed us as, close friends though we were, we weren't that close.

Fortunately, town was a mere 30 minute walk away through the red light district so we bravely ventured forth to see the sights. "There are seventeen interesting sights in Saarbrücken," announced the sign. "One: the church architecture. Two: the church door. Three: the church interior. Four: the square in which the church is located-" We lost the will to live and went for a coffee, which the waitress spilled all over my friend.

On the final night we lucked out. We found an Irish bar. Now there's a home from home. Irish bars do tend to be a-bicycle-on-the-wall-and-a-signpost-to-Galway affairs, but needs must when the divil drives. Besides, I'm Norn Irish. It's my natural habitat.

The Irish bar turned out to be run by a New Zealand bloke but he gave us a warm welcome, as did the other patrons who insisted on buying me whiskey to celebrate my genuine Irishness. The night wore on, the drink flowed, and a tall blond German in leather trousers took a distinct liking to me.

Then it all went sour. Too many whiskeys on top of fine teutonic lager took their toll and I dimly remember a lengthy episode of vomiting into the ladies' toilet. When I returned, weakened, the tall blond German in the leather trousers saw his opportunity and pounced. I did not want to be kissed (badly) by a tall blond German in the leather trousers, nor, I'm sure, did he relish the clinging taste of vomit in my mouth. Seeking my escape I looked hurriedly round the pub. One of my friends was backed into a corner, petrified, being propositioned by a butch lesbian in a lumberjack shirt and a haircut that wouldn't have looked out of place in 1985. Another was loudly proclaiming "but I LIKE Jews" to the neo-Nazi who wanted to show him his gun collection. My third friend somehow managed to divert attention long enough to usher us out the door and into the long walk back to the knocking shop we called our hotel.

I spent the next day throwing up into a clear plastic bag on the train back to Frankfurt. Due to the German efficiency of separating and recycling litter I spent a further half hour at the airport trying to decide into which compartment of the bin I should throw my bag of boke.

I have never been back.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:28, 6 replies)

surely
"boak" ... spelling is very important
( writerblock ... embedding disabled by request on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:58, closed)

Boke.
Definitely. Rhymes with coke. Us Norn Irish spell it right, here's me wha'?
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:12, closed)

Back in the 80s
it was the highlight of the family summer holiday to go shopping on the first Saturday of the month (the only one when the shops were open all day) to Saarbrücken.

Ahh...happy memories.

Good wine around there though.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:23, closed)

Saarbrücken
was the highlight of your holidays?
*shudder*
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:39, closed)

Sounds like the Irish bar we went to in Berlin, the obligatory bicycle in the window and Irish signs everywhere.

Some of the local Hells Angels took an instant dislike to the live band playing cheesy Euro pop and started throwing bottles at the lead singer. Still, it did have the best Guinness I have tasted abroad and was one of the few Irish pubs with genuine Irish bar staff.
( Stu71 ....bad money dies, I love the scene, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:23, closed)

Saarbruecken
I had the pleasure of having to go to Saarbruecken for work once. Worst fucking dive ever, fact.

There's just nowt there! Not even decent looking men. Gah.
(The Apeface Cherub is not a cunty-uber-cunt, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:54, closed)