Sonntag, 15. Oktober 2017

How come these lucky Germans are superfit at everything they do? I'm out of breath just watching them.


Fit for fun. Or maybe just for fun? Celebrating seven years Sour CherryThat's Martin and me with our "Glücksbringer" 


'Did you know that two out of three traffic cops these days are women?’, says Martin. I've no idea why he suddenly asks this. Actually, we’d just been discussing what a great pumpkin harvest it’s been this year.

Basically, I'm more preoccupied right now with the rather curious-tasting Bier-Wein-Mix-Drink in my hand. Drinking beer mixes has always struck me as a rather unsmart way of getting tipsy. I mean, beer is beer and should stay beer. Mixing it with anything else – and wine of all things – should be made a punishable offence. Anyhow, it’s the first thing I’m offered on arrival at the Sour Cherry Photo Studio, which tonight is celebrating its Verflixte Siebtes Jahr, or Seven Year Itch. A propos, no sign of any Marilyn look-alikes here, sadly. We’ve all been instructed to bring a little lucky charm with us. Mine's a teeny-weeny Muschel I found on the beach in Poland. 

Martin is expecting a response so, faking mild interest, I answer ‘Ah-ha. How come?'

‘Well’, he explains, ‘other day I parked for just two minutes outside Witmanns to get cigarettes. When I came back a traffic cop was writing me a ticket. A woman of course. And guess what?’ 

‘What?’, I respond. If this is a guessing game, I'm uncertain where it's meant to be leading us.

‘I know her’, replies Martin, ‘she’s one of my customers. I do her tax bills!’ 

He speaks the last sentence like a punchline, as if it were an enormous joke. To tell the truth, I’m unsure whether to laugh or just feel sorry for him.         

Instead I say ‘And she still gave you a ticket?’

‘Yepp’, replies Martin, ‘I pleaded with her, of course but she simply handed me the ticket and said des wern mia scho moi sengs – 'we’ll see about that!'.

‘Well’, I say, weighing up Martin’s rather restricted options, ‘You could have just refused to pay’. 

Martin shakes his head at this helpful but hopeless suggestion. ‘Na, na’, he responds, indicating that this is a no-go zone: ‘Here in Germany you can get arrested for that’.

Thomas, who’s been quietly listening to all this, suddenly joins in the discussion. ‘Ooh’ he chips in, ‘I wouldn’t mind being handcuffed by a woman in uniform!’ To underline this sentiment, he takes three short steps forward, raises his hands in mock surrender and says “Please, take me – wherever you like!”

I’m bemused. Only in deepest Lower Bavaria can you be talking one moment about the size of pumpkins and then move on, so effortlessly, to share male fantasies about being led away in chains by female traffic wardens. Still, it’s been an enjoyable evening and I end up arranging to meet Martin the following day. We’ve managed to dare each other to compete in Crosslauf, the annual six-kilometer cross-country organised by Mainburg’s Sportverein. It comes as quite a relief when Martin confesses he’s totally out of practice too.

My guilty conscience is pricking me, because the following morning I rise at the crack of dawn and do something I never normally do – I go jogging. Leaves streaked with autumnal yellowy-brown hues flitter from the trees as I enter the dense woodland next to our home. The sky is truly Bavarian blue, not a single cloud to be seen, and it’s unusually warm for mid-October - 17 degrees, I’d say. It’s a great day to be alive. I arrive back home beaming with joy, and all geared up for the ‘real thing’ – six laps around the hills above Mainburg – this afternoon.

After lunch, however, it’s so warm that I flop onto a sun lounger under the shade of our apple trees. I immediately fall asleep, and proceed to dream about cruising over the Crosslauf finishing post to tumultuous cheers and applause from the crowds. Waking up at ten past two, I panic. I have just twenty minutes to get to the starting point and register for the run. And I’m not even sure where this particular Sportverein is. I have to stop at Majuntke’s Garten-Paradies to ask for directions. Pulling into the club carpark with screeching tyres, I speed over to the starting banner. The only person still around is a young girl at a trestle table counting safety pins into a Tupperware box. I immediately bombard her with questions: ‘I’m late, yes?’ ‘They’ve left, right?’ ‘I can still run, OK?’

The girl, sitting there with her pins, looks me up and down suspiciously. It's as if I’ve just proposed running the race with nothing on except white sneaker socks and my competitor’s number tag. I fear she’s about to turn me away, because she says ‘Na, online Omeldeschluss war heit fria. 'etz könna Sie gar ned mehr’. It’s a bit like she’s saying ‘Too late mate’. But then suddenly her eyes light up, she smiles and says ‘i vastehe, is ’s just for fun, gell?’

 Just for fun is one of those lovely expressions that Germans bandy around so liberally, as if they’re blissfully unaware that it's not actually German.
             
'Ja, stimmt', I reply, somewhat relieved, ‘es ist just for fun’

Surveying the scene, I spot an elderly man breaking into a sprint close to the starting point. At this moment the girl presses a quarter banana into my sweaty hand. – Do a boh Vitamin – ‘Here, take a few vitamins with you’, she says.

Thanking her, I race off, hoping to catch the man up. It’s hopeless though. He’s disappeared into the distance before I’ve even taken three or four steps.

Although I‘m running far too fast at the start – that’s the impression I have at least – I gradually find my own pace and rhythm. It’s much slower. It's also a lot more sustainable, which is good, if I’m seriously intending to finish the race before everyone else changes clothes and goes home.

All of a sudden I hear the sound of feet padding the ground behind me. It’s hardly likely to be runners who have started the race after me. And I’m right. These runners are already on their second lap. Glancing behind, I realise they’re signalling to me to move over to one side so they can overtake. It’s a bit like those big black Audis that scare the living daylights out of anyone foolish enough to take a Mitsubishi Space Star onto the autobahn. I notice that a number of runners who promptly proceed to overtake me are a fair bit older – and a whole lot fitter too.

It’s weird. When I was chatting last night to Martin – he’s nowhere to be seen, by the way – about doing the race, we both had in mind that everyone would be running at a much more leisurely pace, casually chatting to each other about what else they were doing this weekend, and maybe also commenting on the relaxing countryside they’re passing through. Absolutely no question of that here though. These runners are drop-dead serious – they’re in it to win. When it comes to sporting ethic, it seems that Germans apply exactly the same principle to sport as they do to work. You do the work first and then you take a break to talk. In Britain, of course, it’s the other way round. As the next person comes up to overtake, I call out ‘den wievuidn?' – ‘How many laps have you already done?’ Instead of giving me a verbal reply he simply offers the hands-up-in-surrender gesture and surges forward, leaving me behind almost instantly.

Next to overtake is a petit young blond in a garishly yellow Rösle Lycra shirt, rinsed with sweat. Her long ponytail, more Rapunzel rope than ponytail actually, is swinging at great speed from side to side. I ask her the same question: 'Den wievuidn?'.  This time I receive a slightly more specific response – she holds up four fingers. Presumably to indicate she has is now on her fourth lap. At this stage of the race I am still just on my second. 

Straggling towards the finishing post among a group of runners lagging quite a long way behind the rest, I can’t help feeling a bit of a bluff package – Mogelpackung, as the Germans say. But to carry on running would draw attention to the fact that I'm at least two laps behind the rest of the runners. Better to pretend I'm already finished and just hope no one spots the difference. Breaking into almost a sprint at the very last moment, I stride past the finishing line to a round of cheers from unsuspecting onlookers lining either side of the route.

Just as I’m reaching for a glass of water behind the banner marked Ziel, the girl who’d given me the bit of banana calls out Ah, Sie hom's aa no gschofft! She’s right, I had also done it – well, give or take a lap or two.

Right then Martin appears. Ah, Di hob i übaoi gsucht – ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’ Martin actually finishes the race behind me. But then he reminds me that at least he’d managed all six laps. 

Go on Tim, you can do it!


Gschofft! I made it! Well, give or take a lap or two..


At the Siegerehrung, the presentation ceremony, instead of being awarded lovely shiny trophies or medals, the winners in each age group receive a five-liter barrel of beer. No one seems to mind. As everyone’s leaving, I go up onto the Sportverein balcony. Looking down at some half a dozen tennis courts and running tracks, I’m struck by how fortunate the Germans are. Everywhere you go, from the largest city, right down to the smallest Kaff – villages like our Puttenhausen – Germans reap the reward of extensive state-of-the-art sports facilities. I enquire about the price of an annual family membership. At just over 100 €, it sounds remarkably good value. I make a note to sign us up for next season. Or to do a Schnupperdog, a trial-out day, at the very least. 

Celebrating with a plastic cup of fizzy water, Martin and I agree we both need to get into far better shape if we’re to stand any chance at all in next year’s race. We arrange to do a few jogs through the woods together.

Celebrating with a cup of fizzy water - Martin, Hans - at 73, eldest participant in race - and me


Apart from my general state of health – I’d possibly been overoptimistic here – there’s something else I'm now starting to feel more respectful towards: Deutsche Pünktlichkeit. I’d often taken punctuality in this country a little bit on the light shoulder. Especially, for example, when they expect you to arrive at a party bang on 7 pm. To avoid standing at the host’s doorstep at exactly the same time as everyone else – not good if you prefer to make a grand entrance – I would always make a point of getting there between 7 and 8. Not any more though. From now on, I plan to be more punctual for absolutely everything. That includes registering for next year’s race the very moment it goes online. 

Fit for fun? Maybe not quite. For the time being it’ll simply have to be just for fun. But hey, I’m cool with that.

Freitag, 29. September 2017

Never mind the daft lyrics and fake accents, these lookalikes are absolutely lush!

Sensational... even more Abba than the Abba themselves

Very first thing that strikes me, as I enter the landscaped gardens of Flora Mediterranea, is just how flamboyant everyone’s dressed: metallic blue draped gowns, glittery cat suits, lurex pants studded with sequins and earth-goddess hairstyles all round. And that, I’m tempted to say, is just the men. The other thing is the unashamedly retro music. Blurring out of the p.a. system is Boney M’s “Daddy Cool”. This doesn’t feel like 2017, somehow. More like 1977, I’d say.

I’ve come to what is actually a top-of-the-range garden centre in Haslach, a sleepy village right at the heart of the Hallertau. It’s the sort of countryside bolthole where you'd expect to see a performance by someone like the Holledauer Hopfareisser or Erdäpfelkraut. But an Abba tribute band of all people? A4U, as they’re called, are one of the dozens of ABBA tributes currently touring Germany. Copycat bands are big business in this country, with their own festivals, their own stars, and, so it appears, their own fans too. Judging from their larger-than-life costumes, these die-hard retros certainly aren’t making light of it. What dumbfounds me is not so much the comic costumes but that no one here seems at all troubled that the group they’ve come to see isn’t actually the real thing. 

Curiously, when it comes to tribute bands, Germans talk less of “cover” and more of “revival” music. I’m not quite sure how the word sounds to German ears but it makes me think of a singer who’s been sick and poorly but now he’s recovered. Come to the concert and celebrate! Come to think of it, “tribute” is an odd choice of word too. The Oxford Dictionary defines it as “an act, statement, or gift that is intended to show gratitude, respect, or admiration”. From what I can gather pricewise, tribute bands certainly aren’t gifting fans with anything. Their sole purpose is to make money.

Pondering the misuse of English words in the German language, I eavesdrop on two middle-aged females seated next to me. Scrutinising the two “Abba” males larking around on stage in spandex playsuits, one turns to the other and says ‘Oooh, those boys are so much sexier than Benny and Björn!’ My own take is that this look-alike Benny appears a lot less healthy than the real one. The skinny guy can't weigh more than 60 kilos, max. I can't comment on his sidekick “Björn”, but as for the girls, the imitation Frida is only half as red as the original. This one’s more pink.

Yes, I know my Abba stuff. And, as a lifelong fan, I’d have paid good money to see the real deal live. I’m not too sure about this one here though. Whatever concert you go to here in Germany, whether real or imitation band, it’s expensive. That’s because German authorities tax live musicians at such an exorbitantly high rate it almost hurts. Or so I’m told. 

Luckily, however, I’ve got into the show free of charge. And this is something you can easily do in Germany if you’re tired of forking out for ridiculously over-priced tickets: Offer to review the event for your local newspaper. Regionale Zeitungen, it seems, are usually so short of staff that they rely to a great extent on freelancers to fill their pages. I’ve saved hundreds of euros this way: Acts like Chris de Burg, Cliff Richard, even the Beach Boys (or what’s left of them, at least) – all in return for reviews. 

So now I’m doing it for our local paper, the Hallertauer Zeitung. I hope my Deutsch is still up to it though, as I haven’t written German properly since completing my final thesis for university over twenty years ago. 

To give the “copycats” credit, they do actually sound quite like the Swedish originals. Especially when it comes to Dancing Queen, and Agneta sashays ostentatiously from one side of the stage to the other. At the end of the song she calls out, in a fake Swedish English accent, “Wheesper in your neighbour’s ear I’d like to get to knoooow you!’ It’s the ultimate in audience participation – and a sure tell-tell sign that they’re just about to break into Knowing me, knowing you

Yes, that other earworm, the one that starts “No more carefree”. When I first came to Germany, I couldn’t quite understand why some people found these opening lyrics so funny. Until a lady quietly took me aside, reached into her handbag for something and showed me. 

Never mind the daft lyrics. And never mind the predictability of the running order either. After Knowing me, knowing you always comes Mama Mia, doesn’t it? That’s probably what’s brought us all here in the first place, what we like most about ABBA – they’re just so predictable. No points then for predicting the final song. Some of the crowd have already donned their Napoleon hats, gearing up for Eurovision’s greatest hit. 

Mindful that the Hallertauer Zeitung requires my report tomorrow in order to make Monday’s edition – and that I’m going to have to look up words like “copycat” and “tell-tell sign”, which I don’t know in German – I skip the aftershow. And, mercifully, all those other those Boney M hits.

I hand back my press pass, shake the glitter dust out of my hair and, humming Mama Mia here I go again, head for home.

Sensational....joining the stars on stage
                           

Sonntag, 6. August 2017

Get ready for Being British in Bavaria - das Buch. Here's a taster, pre-Brexit.



‘So, let's just get this straight’, begins Frau Gürtelmann, removing her spectacles and fixing me slap bang in the eyes.

‘In your application’, she goes on, ‘you said that you are PC literate, but it turns out you can't touch-type, you can't tell the difference between pdf and power point, and my secretary had to show you how to send her an email. All you're able to do, basically, is open Word’.

Looking for confirmation, lest she might have misidentified my true colours, she cocks her head, and asks, ‘Right so?’

I’d been tickled pink when, having just graduated the previous autumn, Deutsche Telekom instantly offered me a full-time position in its translating department. But things hadn't quite panned out as planned. I was being called into the boss's office for my first – and, as I was soon to discover – only progress report. And I wasn't even half way through the probationary period. Frau Gürtelmann's damning appraisal of my practically non-existent PC skills was, alas, spot on. Humiliated and unable to return her gaze, I lower my eyes, bringing them to rest on a stain on the lacquered wood floorboards. Then, as if attempting to mitigate the charges being brought against me, I look up and whimper “Yes, but I also copy and paste”.

It's 1998, and – with the Internet of Things still very much in its infancy – I'd possibly taken "PC literate", buzzword of the time, rather too literally. I was, after all, literate and able to turn on a PC, was I not? A simplistic but nonetheless reasonable line of thought in the days when social networking meant little more than writing out a cheque each year for Friends Reunited and mobile phones came glued to a 15-inch antenna.

In my defense, I ought to point out that my ignorance of all things IT was not totally mea culpa. When it comes to computer skills I'm one of the so-called “lost generation”. The very year after I left school, IT classes were introduced to the National Curriculum. The idea of "catching up" and acquiring these essential life skills was never mooted, however. Right through university and well into my first full-time teaching job in Britain it was never once suggested that a basic grasp of PC knowhow might possibly enhance my career prospects. Not even when I took my Diploma of Translating shortly before the Millennium was there any talk of computer literacy being de rigeur for those wishing to progress in this IT-driven profession. As a mature student, I was easily ten years older than most of my fellow peers – every single one of them PC literate, of course.

Rewind further, back to the 1980s. In my final years of school I was obsessed with all things German. When classmates were kicking a ball around the playground, or as in later years, slouched on sofas in the sixth form centre, my ears would be glued to headphones in the language lab, following, almost religiously, the latest episode of BBC Schools' Deutsch für die Oberstufe, which Herr Lawson kindly recorded just for me – I seemed to be the only one interested – each week.

Just like today's younger generation sleep with their smartphones, lest they miss a lonesome late-night message or some sweetheart's status update, I would go to bed with my plastic-clad transistor radio, sending myself to sleep with Berichte von heute, North German Radio's roundup of the day's news. How much I was able to follow invariably depended on the strength of the crackly short-wave signal.

Each morning I would awaken to dulcet tones of Radio Luxembourg's Fröhlicher Wecker, aka Axel Fitzke. This slightly less cocky German version of the BBC's Chris Evans invited his Germany-based listeners, and probably his sole follower in the UK, to wallow in a glorious fuddle-muddle of Deutsche Schlager and Europop. The latter – chart toppers from Brittany to Bucharest – despite being sung in relatively comprehensible, albeit rather nonsensical English, never seemed to make the British hit parade, strangely enough. The line-up included stars with dubious-sounding names such as Gazebo, Secret Service and Joy. Not to be confused, of course, with the somewhat more sophisticated Police and Joy Division, which most of my peers were into at the time. But if Germans were unashamed fans of banal europop then I was up for it too.

Had you asked me back then, in those halcyon, pre-Brexit days, if I'd rather be German than British the answer would have been a resounding Jaaaa!

To be continued in Being British in Bavaria - das Buch


Mittwoch, 5. Juli 2017

These days it takes only one "Moas" to send me sprawling. Keep quiet but mine's just a radler

It's exactly 100 years since they threw out their royal family. But that doesn't stop Germans ceremoniously electing another type of royalty every year. Sharing a half with Her Royal Highness, Beer Queen Angela Ertlmaier.


The Germans have a saying 'Dienst ist Dienst, und schnapps ist schnapps'. Don't mix business with pleasure, in other words. But when it comes to their Lieblingsdrink, Germans are far more flexible. I'm lucky to teach in a college that actively encourages mixing business and pleasure - right down to the last drop. Students follow courses in brewery technology and get to test the final product too. Our campus at Weihenstephan is home to the oldest brewery in the world - with a great beer garden to boot. This week my students wrote their final exam. Deciding where to go and celebrate afterwards seemed a bit of a no-brainer.

Bildergebnis für weihenstephan brewery
Just steps away from the lecture halls, where you can easily smell the yeast fermenting. 
No wonders students feel so happy here. 

Which is where I end up the other evening - the Braustüberl beerhouse. It's lovely and warm and I'm looking forward to a cool brew - or two. Scaling the few steps separating exam hall and beer hall, my colleague tells me how, after a couple beers with him, his students sometimes ask "Can I say 'you' to 'you'?". He says the second 'you' in a slightly husky voice, indicating a deeper level of familiarity. Sounds like a very German dilemma - not knowing whether to address someone formally with Sie or informally with Du. Grown-ups might go all their working life calling each other Sie, before retiring with a typical arm-linking, beer mug-clinking ceremony (so-called Bruderschaft trinken), in which they solemnly pledge to call each other Du till their dying day. Nothing to slap your thighs about, but then Germans never did take drinking to closer friendship on the light shoulder.

I'm last in line so simply grab what I guess everyone else is ordering: The classic liter. After all, as the saying in Bavaria goes, A Moas muss sei (literally, a liter must be). But, as I struggle to gulp down the final suds, I notice how most students are nursing just half liters - and drinking verrrrry slowly. 

Life's unfair. I mean, when you're young you can handle beer easily (young Germans, given half an opportunity, can drown a liter or two without batting an eyelid). Only problem is when you're studying you can't afford the full fling. So you go halves with a mate. Then when you're older you can afford to up the ante, but you just can't handle the quantity. That said, the average German manages to drink 104 litres a year. That's almost twice the amount consumed per capita in Britain. 

But not necessarily - you can cheat with Radler. Weihenstephan, by the way, is even older than the Bard himself . They've been brewing here for over 1000 years. 
To beer or not to beer? Fortunately there's a third option. Radler is part brew, part lemonade. For Bavarian purists that's almost akin to blasphemy. Anyway, served in liter mugs, it looks just like you're drinking the real man's thing. The problem, of course, comes when you splash out on a big beer and get handed a Radler by mistake...

Relaxing on the terrace overlooking the "green campus" (so called not just because of its green technology courses but also the whole site - beautifully bathed in a sea of greenery), and enjoying good company late into the warm evening, it strikes me that this could easily pass as the gateway to heaven.

Looks like it'll have to be another Radler.

                                                           

Sonntag, 4. Juni 2017

Stretching it a bit - Califonia Dreaming comes to Lower Bavaria

It's not everyday you get to ride through the sleepy Lower Bavarian countryside in a chauffeured Californian stretch limo. 

We'd been at the local swimming pool and the father of one of Matilda's schoolmates offered us a "lift" home in his company car. The 5½-metre long sedan had caused quite a commotion when it arrived outside Tegernbach's Freibad and promptly swallowed up four or five parking spaces. 

Anyway, thank you Romulus of Romways Limos for everyone for chauffeuring us home in style....  


Door to door service and a royal wave..




Our sleepy cul-de-sac had certainly never seen anything like this before. The limo just about managed to scrape past next door''s timber truck. 


Samstag, 4. März 2017

When it comes to blowing away the winter blues, Bavaria's benchmark

I awake at half past six this morning to golden rays of sunshine streaking through a slit in the curtains. For a moment it feels like the long Bavarian winter might finally be drawing to a close - last week did after all mark the official start of spring. Let's not be lulled into a false sense of security though; we're still very much in the grip of wintertime. Last year it still snowed here late April. By that time, mind you, most of us had long stowed away the ski gear - we'd had enough.  

So what do Bavarians do to blow away their blues? They head for the sauna, of course. It's funny, really. Tourists tend to treat Scandinavia as the definitive destination for hitting the hotshed. They've probably been watching too many Scandi thrillers starring sweaty souls beating each other around the thighs with fresh-cut birch tree branches. Maidens in Lederhosen films might be dull in comparison, but as every self-respecting Bavarian will tell you, here is where it all began. 

Hey bro', that's my end of the bench....


Germans, remember, invented FKK - free body culture (local lingo for "getting nice and nude"), and they've developed a cult around everything to do with saunas. I was just reading that you can actually train to become a qualified Sauna Meister - a title which carries every much respect in Germany as that of, say, qualified accountant or  lawyer. 

Don't be fooled into thinking the man above is taking a swipe at the guy after some heated (no pun intended) argument. He's actually wafting cold air into the sauna, an intricate process known as "Aufguss", or infusion. More show than sauna, the Meister invariably cracks a few jokes about the pain he's inflicting on his captive audience before marching out to a hearty round of applause. Bavaria has more Sauna Landschaft, nude landscapes, than anywhere else in Germany. My favourite is the Kaiser Thermen, just south of Regensburg.

Just one tip if you're a foreigner - any form of clothing in the sauna is an absolute no-no. Brits and Americans typically find that hard to deal with, but really it's no big deal. When I arrived in Germany one of the first things I did was join a spa health club, the highlight of which was an underground landscape dotted with steam rooms, thermal pools and jacuzzis. No clothes, naturally. It was a bit like stumbling into the The Garden of Eden. Prude Englishman as I was, I nonetheless soon shed the towel around my waist.

Wild things - last week's ski trip to Lenggries


November and December, notorious for gloomy skies and dearth of sunshine, is not a great time of year in Bavaria. But from new year onwards winters here are just like winters should be - as cold as a dog's nose, yet with crispy clear air and bright sunshine. Yes, spring does typically arrive here later than in most parts of Europe, but Bavarians have a remedy for that too. In recent years they've taken to dressing up in kinky costumes. As animals. And not just for Fasching either. You'll also find Bavarians disguised as half-bearded policemen, vikings, and Elvis.
          
                 

Donnerstag, 10. November 2016

Germany's shell-shocked, but Stars and Stripes just about saves the day

When German newspapers start running headlines in English you know they're gearing up for another shit storm.



On the day after the election my colleague from Texas comes into the staff room looking as miserable as the gloomy November sky. “Ooh my Gourd!”, he groans. For a moment it sounds like he's suffering from Muskelkater, those awful aching bones and limbs which Germans so enjoy complaining about.

I know it's not funny, but I almost choke on the brezel I'm chewing. As you might do when you want to laugh but suddenly find something's in the way. Because that’s the very headline on most of the day's German newspapers: "Oh my God!" And, underneath, as if some sort of afterthought, following a long editorial discussion whether readers would understand the foreign language expression – "Geht's noch?”. Yes, that lovely expression which Germans mutter when showing the middle finger.

Anyway, typically British, I simply reply “Oh dear”. My colleague, you see, had been worried what to tell his students. Even though I’d reassured him that the disastrous result was not entirely his fault. But now he’d really gone and added fuel to the fire: “I played them HIS Acceptance Speech, and one girl started crying. I’ve come to get some tissues for her.”

Not a brilliant start to any lesson. But deep down inside I know I'm not going to have an easy lesson either. After all, we Brits used to rule the USA too. And we weren't very popular rulers either. No wonder they kicked us out.

Suddenly however, I have a Geistesblitz - a brilliant idea. I’ll make the lesson topical yet totally avoid having to talk about HIM.

I go in and show the students Why Americans love their flag, which takes us back to the very first U.S. president, George Washington, and how the Stars and Stripes was born.

We all learn something new about American history. And – I’m delighted to say – no one cries.

"Trump wants only one dollar a year in salary"
 "I'd give him twice as much just for him to quit". 

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