You Can´t Always Get What You Want

Last night „The Comedy Club“ came to town. Every third friday of the month three comedians arrive from London, to share a few laughs. They share, we laugh. You got to have a laugh once in a while, but I can´t say it comes to me naturally. There´s something about baring teeth. Comedians can be useful, though, one of yesterday´s threesome told us how to start a story. „With a drink“, he said, „ you have to start a story with a drink. This is England, after all. You won´t get far here if you start with, say, a salad.“ –

You have a drink, he continued, you have another one, and then you get on with the important issues of life conveniently arriving in your head just in time. You may become locally philosophical („We didn´t lose the Empire, we just forgot where we fucking put it“). Or you can picture yourself in a country where alcohol is banned -  so you can´t help wondering: „How the hell do they breed in this place?“ As I said, it doesn´t come naturally. To me.

Anyway, I feel like telling a story and it has to start with a drink. Problem is, this is the morning after the evening before. Plus, we are in Semi-detached Alley, that very English kind of Middle Class Bliss where two houses are glued together by one wall. Why they do it? Difficult to say. Obviously, you save the cost of building one extra brick wall. Also, it creates a bonding attitude among neighbours – we live the same-ish kind of life, we share same-ish values, we raise 2point4 kids each, we are equal. Ish. Nice, in a way. On the other hand, it is a bit like you and your neighbour walking down the road together, with your left foot being tied to the right foot of the neighbor. Unless it´s his or her left foot, in which case it is my right.

Back to the drink. Not much choice here, early morning in Semi-detached Alley. Got to be tea or coffee. And before that, you got to contemplate a flight of stairs. You sleep upstairs. You make your tea or coffee downstairs. There is no elevator. There is no way around the stairs.

Let´s go. The man to the story came down the stairs, took a sharp left towards the Eating Room and there sat his woman with her cuppa tea, so he stopped. Not much need for descriptions here, people who live in semi-detached houses are pretty much just that, semi-detached. They´ve lived together for longer than they care to mention, they are radically set in their ways, they could go about their routines blindfolded, on autopilot, no problem. They aged with their house, they have grown so old together even sexual intercourse has ceased to create problems. The few problems life might throw at them are age-related. Matters of maintenance, basically.

„I need a dentist for new tooth implants“, he said.

„I need a plastic surgeon for new boobs“, she replied.

„What would you need new boobs for? To put yourself back on the market?“ –

„I could say the same thing about your new teeth.“-

He went from Eating Room to Kitchen, got mug and filter, put the kettle on and reached for the box with the coffee.

„I need new teeth to be able to smile again in public.“ –

„I need new boobs to feel better about my cleavage.“ –

„Isn´t that what your Wonderbra was made for?“-

„There´s dentures for your missing teeth.“-

„Sure, those unspeakable things you take off and put in a glass overnight.“ -

„So what? You´re asleep then!“-

„Are you saying a boobjob is on a par with a set of proper teeth?“-

„Is it not?“-

„`Course not! Tooth-gaps are a social stigma.“-

„So are sagging tits.“-

„Your´s are fine.“-

„Not good enough.“-

He took the kettle, poured hot water onto the mug with the coffee powder in the filter, added sugar and milk, stirred the lot, went back to the Eating Room where she sat with her tea. He grabbed a chair and contemplated his coffee.

„A boobjob is much too expensive“, he said.

„So are tooth implants.“-

„There´s insurance money coming in. That will cover the cost.“-

„Didn´t you agree to give me half of that?“-

„You´ll get some. Not half, though.“ –

„Typical. Talk about keeping promises.“-

„What would you need the money for anyway?“ –

„To pay off a few credit cards, for starters.“ –

„Wouldn´t change a thing. You´d still have a lot of credit cards to pay off. New teeth, on the other hand, would change things completely.“-

„Like, how?“-

„I would feel better about kissing you. For starters.“-

„There´s more important things to be done.“-

„What could possibly be more important?“-

„The downstairs toilet. It is damp. We need a plumber.“ –

He lifted the mug and took a sip.

„Plumbers aren´t cheap, either“, he said.

„Nor are new teeth.“-

„Or new boobs.“-

„Indeed.“-

He took another sip of his coffee, she took a sip of her tea, they put their cups down, they were as close to harmony as it could get.

„What about a compromise, then?“, she said.

„As in …?“ –

„As in no boobs for me and no teeth for you.“ –

„You mean, the plumber?“ –

„The plumber.“ –

„And no proper kisses?“ –

„But a proper toilet.“ –

He finished his drink, put the mug on the Eating Table in the Eating Room and stood up.

„So the plumber it is“, he said.

And thus harmony had again embraced that semi-detached house in Semi-detached Alley with that semi-detached couple in it. Funny thing, life. There will always be problems. There will always be solutions. And then you die.

I took my thick Austrian coat off the hook, went for the door, turned round.
„I´m going out.”
„Meeting somebody, dear?” she asked.
„Honest or polite version?” -
„Polite, please.” -
„I´m going down the pub to drown my manhood in a pint of beer.” -
„How very subtle,” she said. „Is the honest version less understated?” -
„Pretty much the same. Just the pub is a brothel and the beer a whore.” -
„Now will you lower your voice! The kids might listen.” -
„No they won´t. They never do.” -

So the Pub it was. Obviously. There is no brothel in Winchester, cause there is no port. There is no sea and no ship, just a few ducks on a river that is flooded every other year. There are no sailors and travellers, just a bunch of local ABC-listers. Winchester is strictly ABC-list. Accountants & Advertisers and Bankers and Councilworkers. That´s Winchester. Not that it matters, in a pub. Once you enter, you drop your profession with the coat. After all, a pub is a pub and more often than not it is YOUR pub. Your watering hole, your home from home, the extension of something your home doesn´t provide.

My dear fellow Austrians, if you ever wondered why the living rooms of English houses are often so tiny, the Pub is a clue. The other one is about economy with an open fireplace. The average English Living Room is exactly as big as the average fireplace manages to heat without radiator, which is not very. Living is not exactly the accurate word for what a family does in that room. It´s more of a huddling room, a stop-over spot between dinner and bed. You huddle round the fireplace and feed it with the occasional log of wood. Then there´s a sofa or two; and a TV-set, in one of the corners. Not a massive TV-set, that would be soo Harestock or Stanmore – which are places on the edge of town. Places where they are not quite as fussy about class. But I´m talking Winchester Central here, where Middle Class is „it” and Middle classes don´t allow their TV-set to headline the living room. That part is reserved for the mantelpiece with the fire in it and the delicate artsy bits on it and the impressive mirror above it. There you DO tradition. You relax with The Loved Ones and digest the dinner and chat the chat and watch the telly. And feel miserable, as you do. Proper miserable. And then you might go to the pub.

Two things about being miserable. One, it is not what the German speaker means when he says „miserabel”. That would be awful. No, being miserable is closer to the Austrian „grantig”, you know, that bluesy if somewhat energizing feeling of being underwhelmed – by life, by the times, by the bankers, by the performance of your football team, by yourself. By everything, basically.
Two, why be miserable? Well, it is not a big deal. It just feels right. Take the opposite. Take happiness. Happiness can feel quite nice at times, but generally it is a bit overrated, no? Look at The Happy People. They are all alike, no? There is not much variety in being happy. But there is an astonishing wealth in the ways of being miserable. Every miserable person is miserable in his or her own way. That´s what Tolstoy said, incidentally, or at least he said something to that effect. And that is that: Being miserable is really about attitude. About individualism. About being different. Also, it seems to be suitable for living in England. I read a newspaper article the other day, where the author, reflecting on the recent boom before the present bust, pointed out that „if money could not buy the British happiness, it at least allowed them to be miserable in greater comfort”.  And this is where Winchester comes in. Being miserable in Winchester is misery in as great a comfort as it gets. Winchester is the richest town in England. So, in my very personal miserable way, I took to Winchester like a duck takes to the water of the river Itchen.

For me, it doesn´t take an effort to get „grantig”. It just happens. I might relax with The Loved Ones in the living room and feed a log to the fire and switch on the telly to get some news and there we go. There is something strange going at BBC News these days. All you want them to do is get some scummy banker and make him feel really bad about flushing the economy down the drain. Instead, you get – first – a rather pornographic update (tears & cash for death) about the final days of an unfortunate cancer-stricken, formerly „chav” woman called Jade Goody whose claims to „being in the public interest” are a couple of appearances in an obscure TV programme called „Big Brother” – where she loudmouthed about and insulted the rather charming Indian actress Shilpa Shetty. Interested? Check this clip.

Following that, you get a report of a 71year old rollerblader who allegedly enrages the people of a seaside town by – rollerblading. It is all very odd. And I´m getting miserable. Again. Which is okay, but not all the time. Sometimes, being miserable can get me down. Then I go to the pub.
My pub is The Alfred. Actually, it is The King Alfred Pub and we go a long way back. Fifteen years. Then, I would come in and the barman would say „Yes?” and I´d say „A pint of Fosters” and he´d say „A pint of Fosters, pleeaase!” Now, they say „A pint of Fosters?” and I go „yes, please”. On a very fortunate monday I might even get „Another Fosters, dahling?” Yes, we have grown on each other, The Alfred and me. Same with the pub-crowd. The people here are not exactly family, but they are familiar.
Today is monday. Incidentally. Going to The Alfred, it is quite useful to be aware of the day of the week, cause every day draws a different crowd. In the early years, I used to go thursdays cause we played football nearby. Now, I usually go tuesdays. That´s when „Special K” and „True Blue” are there. They´re my friends and please forgive the codes but I wouldn´t want to alienate them, you see. K is the one who always says „but you are home HERE” when I  mention how differently we go about things „back home”. And True Blue is a Chelsea supporter, of course, whose League Weekend Wounds are still fresh on  tuesday, so he´d say „I´m resigned to Premier League failure due to lack of variety. We should sell Drogba” or „I don´t care about League positions as long as Liverpool don´t win”. He is not a happy chappy these days, is True Blue, though now that Chelsea FC have hired a coach called Guus Hiddink, he might cheer up. But anyway, today is monday. Darts-monday. And Hull play Tottenham on telly, which means there are not many people in the Alfred. Which suits me just fine. After all, I am grantig.

Of course, some people drink here every day. There is that old geezer who looks a bit like Richard Attenborough and seems to have an off-day today, sporting a bandaged nose and muttering „it´s all because of that silly effing mother of yours” into his mobile, which is a bit rude, really. Then there is The Old Indian Jew and he says I got a chip on my shoulder, which is a complete lie. I don´t even like chips. But so what, you know. He is one of those guys not unlike me, doesn´t quite fit in, doesn´t quite know what to do about it. He is what they call a maverick and so am I, albeit one with an accent.
So there I sit by the Bar, a pint of Fosters in hand, and there is Bargirl Amy (not her real name, obviously), one of those human Prozacs you need when times are getting overly miserable. You see Amy, you feel better, and she doesn´t have to do anything out of the ordinary for it. Just pull your pint. She wears girl-next-door and is quite pretty. Not overly beautiful pretty or perfectly proportioned pretty, but she is perfect in details. The arse, more or less. Sorry, the bottom. You got to say it in a belittling way in Winchester. „Arse” is so London, so in-your-face, so Russell Brand (who is a comedian and has licence to talk rude). You got to say bottom. Bottom is like a nod, a nod to the ground. Look, down there, that … bottom. And Amy´s bottom is always there, it is something to rely on. A reliable time off misery. Now, where was I …

Anyway, Winchester. There are so many things to tell about this place, the people, the life, the culture, the VIPs, the everything. But not now. It´s last orders now and I´m a bit bottoms-up.

ICE Wien-Düsseldorf, Speisewagen. Dort sitzt ein Österreicher mit Wiener Akzent, der gleich im Laptop verschwindet, sowie ein Deutscher, der sich mit Verlassen des Bahnhofs ans Handy klammert. Umfrage-Erinnerung: 97% der Deutschen unter 30 wollen nicht ohne Handy leben können, 84% finden das Internet unersetzlich, 43% den Partner. Wahr ist natürlich auch, dass weniger als die Hälfte der Jungen einen Partner haben.
Noch ein Mann kommt dazu, optisch Balkan um die vierzig, ob Serbe oder Kroate ist so eine Sache, weiß ich von einem befreundeten Wiener, dessen Mutter in Serbien aufgewachsen ist, und dem Serbinnen auffallen, wenn er in Kroatien Urlaub macht. Bist a Kroat, stehst auf Serbinnen, so sei das eben seit dem Bosnienkrieg, als wäre man den Serben in Sachen ethnische Säuberung noch was schuldig.
Der Wiener mit der in Serbien aufgewachsenen Mutter hat mich zum Bahnhof gebracht, und da fiel uns eine junge schwarzhaarige Schöne auf, „Serbin?”, frag ich. „Naa, Rumänin schätz ich, vielleicht eine Roma, hast gehört, was die wieder aufgeführt haben in Ungarn?” sagt er, auf den Mord an einem Roma-Vater und dessen 4jährigen Sohn anspielend.
Ein junger schwarzer Ober mit makellosem Haarschnitt bedient im Wagen, der Handy-Mann redet was von einem Liftschacht, der fünf Zentimeter unter Wasser ist, draußen passieren Pressbaum und Rekawinkel, die Südhänge sind aper, auf den Schattenbergen liegt Schnee. Dann St Pölten, wo die Wohnblöcke jetzt höher sind als die Kirche und das gönnte man der Kirche, wären die Wohnstätten nicht so hässlich.
„Zugestiegen, bitte!”
Windturbinen tauchen auf und damit die übliche Frage, ob das ästhetisch ist, mich stören sie nicht, die gehören ins Jetzt und zu mir, „windmills“ sind immer da, im Weinviertel wie in Hampshire. Okay, in Hampshire gibt es sie nicht, aber nebenan in Cornwall massenhaft. Tolles Wetter heute und rechts ein Teich mit der Burg Pöchlarn. Zeit für die Landeshauptmannpröll-Story einer charmanten Weinviertlerin.
Landeshauptmannpröll-Story.
„Dem hab ich g´schrieben“, erzählte sie, „weil unsere Nachbarin Krebs hatte, aber nicht das Geld für die Behandlung, und da ist der Pröll gleich persönlich kommen und das Geld auch. Die anderen, denen ich dann geschrieben hab, sind nicht gekommen, die haben nicht einmal reagiert.” -
„Du hast anderen dann auch geschrieben?” -
„Na kloa.” -
„Warum, wenn das Geld für die Behandlung schon da war?” -
„Um zu testen, ob sie ein Herz haben.” -
„Die wären aber schön ang´fressen g´wesn, wenn´s kommen wären und das Geld wär schon da gewesen.” -
„Sind eh ned kommen.” -
„Und deswegen wählen wir den Pröll, nehm ich an.” -
„Das kannst annehmen.” -
Es gibt noch immer Leute, die gehen wählen.

Nach Ybbs und mit Amstetten kommt Industrie auf, kaltschnäuzige Ungeniertheiten, auf denen „Umdasch” steht oder „XXX Lutz”. Das lenkt die Aufmerksamkeit aufs Waggon-Innere, auf ein „Mobil, das Magazin der Deutschen Bahn”, mit Heike Makatsch am Cover, die auf Knef unterwegs ist und nicht uncool, checken Sie mal diesen Clip.

Also, die Makatsch im Zeichen von Knef, dann das Model Julia Stegner mit den langen Beinen und die Slalom-Riesch -  muss ich wohl mit Kollegen Dr Trash checken, ob er schon Neues Deutsches Fräuleinwunder dazu sagen will. Ja, deutsche Girls. So nett  wie ihre Boys zum Vergessen sind. Aber vielleicht liegt das auch daran, dass sie uns immer die Dumpfbacken aus der dritten Liga Ossi in die Geschäftsführung setzen.

Linz. Mit den neuen Glashäusern, die jetzt Bahnhof heißen, sind sie wenigstens ehrlich, so auf „auch wir haben Shops und was Originelleres fällt uns halt leider nicht ein.” Back To Basics. Geld machen. Geld ausgeben. Sterben. Das ist alles.

Ist das alles?

Das Re-branding geht los. Die Sprachverwirrung. Die Donau heißt jetzt „Blue Danube”, das Gasthaus „Cafe de Paris”, der Bus geht zum „Airport” und „ist frei heute, weil´s Wetter so schön ist”, sagt der Fahrer. Wird hier auch gewählt?
Ryan-air. Sie spielen Mozart im Flieger und die „kleine Nachtmusik” mutet etwas schräg an, wenn draußen die Sonne scheint. Zwei Stunden als Sardine und je weniger darüber gesagt wird umso besser. Seltsame Truppe, die Ryans.
Stansted, baggage claim. People waiting in the hall, Handys werden gezückt, „Servus Poldi, Hubsi hier, steh grad in London und, was sagst du? Ich höör dich nicht, weißt was, ruf dich später wieder an.” Dann through customs to Stansted Express, langsam verlaufen sich die österreichischen Klänge and make way for a largely international scene, der Zug gerät in Bewegung, the ancient wagons shaking and rattling and slowly gathering speed, Handys sind keine mehr zu sehen, people´s heads vanishing between sheets of newspapers. At Liverpool Street good news, die U-Bahnen funktionieren heute, even the City Line to Waterloo.
The pace in London quickens up, with the hurried clickety-clock of shoes in the subways and there we are, just in time for the 19.39h to Southampton, the chinese guy next to me listening to Ipod with closed eyes, otherwise everybody is covered in newspapers reporting an attack on the Sri Lankan Cricket team in Pakistan, and the wife of President Obama seems to have worn a blouse without sleeves and they ask is it cool for the president´s wife to show bare arms? Dominating the front pages a picture of Prime Minister Gordon Brown under the headline „Hand out cash and make us spend it”. Back To Basics. Make Money. Spend money. Die. That is all.

Is that all?

Between Farnborough and Fleet a nice Pakistani woman drops a paper and I bend down to pick it up, unfortunately with my left hand, so I feel a bit bad about it. And on we go. Should be in Winchester by 20.45h English time, after a nine-hour journey. Felt pretty quick, too.
Nine hours just aren´t what they used to be.