Sometimes I have trouble believing that Germany was the birthplace of the Romantic movement. Baron Heinrich von Fuchs-Langezeit, known to his friends as Bert, appeared on my doorstep the other night unexpectedly, clutching a large bunch of flowers.
“Meine kleine Pumpernickel”, began Heinrich, kissing my hand and clicking his heels.
“Yes, Hun?” I answered. (That went straight over his head).
“Mein pussykatzchen,”
“Oh get on with it Bert, Eastenders is on in a minute”.
“I haff a little tank...”
I closed my eyes to shut out the image of Lieutenant Gruber from Allo Allo that had just loomed into my sights.
“A little tank you, Daphne, for your mit meine hosen helping.”
The Germans are charming people, with beautiful manners. However, spontaneity and impulsive behaviour is a foreign land to them. I have a theory that national behavioural patterns are influenced by the language. How on earth can you be spontaneous when you always have to think what verb you’re going to use, conjugate it, get the right tense, store it away till you’ve got the rest of the sentence out and then stick it back on the end? This kind of patience I am not often having.
The assistance with his trousers he was referring to was this. There is something very anal about Bert’s dress sense. It’s not the lederhosen that bother me, he’s got quite good legs really, as one would expect of a 1966 World Cup squad substitute. It’s when he tries to do smart casual that he comes undone. So to speak. Jeans with creases, jacket and tie just makes him look like he’s going to his first day at school. All he needs is a cap and a satchel.
A week or so ago he turned up to take me out dressed like Just William. If I was not to be mistaken for Violet Elizabeth Bott I needed to take immediate action. I deftly undid his tie and threw it out of the window. Bert gulped. I then reached for his belt buckle. This was more spontaneity than one man could cope with. He fainted. When he came to, the creases had mysteriously disappeared, and he was looking like a model of crumpled chic. He still hasn’t worked out how I did it, but ever since he saw a woman do that trick with the bra (you know the one, popping the fastener with one hand behind your back and pulling it out through your sleeve), he is convinced that I have Houdini-like powers of getting people out of their clothes without undoing so much as a button. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I yanked them off him, soaked them in the bath, tumbled them dry and got them back on him again while he was passed out. And got a good view of Mönchengladbach into the bargain.
Anyway, as a result, barmen have stopped telling him he is too young to drink alcohol, although on the down side he has to pay full price in the cinema. Unless he wears the lederhosen, in which case I thkweam and thkweam until I make mythelf thick.
“Meine kleine Pumpernickel”, began Heinrich, kissing my hand and clicking his heels.
“Yes, Hun?” I answered. (That went straight over his head).
“Mein pussykatzchen,”
“Oh get on with it Bert, Eastenders is on in a minute”.
“I haff a little tank...”
I closed my eyes to shut out the image of Lieutenant Gruber from Allo Allo that had just loomed into my sights.
“A little tank you, Daphne, for your mit meine hosen helping.”
The Germans are charming people, with beautiful manners. However, spontaneity and impulsive behaviour is a foreign land to them. I have a theory that national behavioural patterns are influenced by the language. How on earth can you be spontaneous when you always have to think what verb you’re going to use, conjugate it, get the right tense, store it away till you’ve got the rest of the sentence out and then stick it back on the end? This kind of patience I am not often having.
The assistance with his trousers he was referring to was this. There is something very anal about Bert’s dress sense. It’s not the lederhosen that bother me, he’s got quite good legs really, as one would expect of a 1966 World Cup squad substitute. It’s when he tries to do smart casual that he comes undone. So to speak. Jeans with creases, jacket and tie just makes him look like he’s going to his first day at school. All he needs is a cap and a satchel.
A week or so ago he turned up to take me out dressed like Just William. If I was not to be mistaken for Violet Elizabeth Bott I needed to take immediate action. I deftly undid his tie and threw it out of the window. Bert gulped. I then reached for his belt buckle. This was more spontaneity than one man could cope with. He fainted. When he came to, the creases had mysteriously disappeared, and he was looking like a model of crumpled chic. He still hasn’t worked out how I did it, but ever since he saw a woman do that trick with the bra (you know the one, popping the fastener with one hand behind your back and pulling it out through your sleeve), he is convinced that I have Houdini-like powers of getting people out of their clothes without undoing so much as a button. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I yanked them off him, soaked them in the bath, tumbled them dry and got them back on him again while he was passed out. And got a good view of Mönchengladbach into the bargain.
Anyway, as a result, barmen have stopped telling him he is too young to drink alcohol, although on the down side he has to pay full price in the cinema. Unless he wears the lederhosen, in which case I thkweam and thkweam until I make mythelf thick.
5 comments:
Danke schon! Now I feel less like Malta ...
That post made me thkweam... with laughter. Too funny!
Back I'll be coming your posts to be reading.
Ooh, my fame spreads across the Atlantic, how exciting. I have Bert's trousers to tank.
Interesting website with a lot of resources and detailed explanations.
»
Interesting sexual fantasy with a lot of resources and detailed explanations.
FTFY
It's like that Dirk Bogarde/Charlotte Rampling film, except backwards and sicker.
No, but seriously, superlative post.
Never trust the Germans with someone elses labour legislation.
Post a Comment