The Blog

An Open Apology to Germany - Ich Bin Ein Hen

My Berlin hen weekend was the most terrifying thing to happen to Germany since World War II. And that makes me as proud as a hen who has laid a particularly fine egg... none of my hens laid so much as an egg, although we did see a few Berliners taking the sexy bullet on our behalves.

My Berlin hen weekend was the most terrifying thing to happen to Germany since World War II.

And that makes me as proud as a hen who has laid a particularly fine egg... none of my hens laid so much as an egg, although we did see a few Berliners taking the sexy bullet on our behalves. After witnessing some of the capital's finest Bratwurst, our grown-up cuddles will always be accompanied by the odd flashback and dry heave. A lasting souvenir.

My cousin doesn't care for dreary facts, like what day it is or why M&Ms aren't printed with the letter "w". So as we boarded the plane, she shared her excitement about visiting Belgium, since she'd never been. We may as well have been in Belgium, because we flogged every last, twitching, nerve-ending of fun, without catching so much as a glimpse of the Berlin Wall or Museum Island.

My dear bridesmaid, Terri masterminded our grand invasion of Berlin with the sort of efficiency and sadism that Hitler only dreamed of. She ensured our sight-seeing was tailored for eyes strong enough to be scrubbed with Domestos afterwards. So first on our itinerary, was the capital's notorious KitKat Club, a debauched den of iniquity, which made Bacchus and his chums look like a bunch of turtle-neck-wearing nerds, eating digestives and playing Dungeons and Dragons with their cat.

It operates a strict, "undress code," although we chose to ignore this. Sadly, the other guests held sartorial rules in horrifyingly high regard. It brimmed with the sort of Germans who had remained virgins until the age of 38 and were now nude as Jelly Babies, flaunting scrawny white torsos or bodies so spherical, they offered fellow fetishists an awful lot of person to love. The only benefit to their hirsute nether parts, was that it spared us the true horror of what lay beneath.

It was a delicious-looking venue, with assorted rooms which looked like they'd been decorated by Josef Fritzl and Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. We nabbed one of the cushion-strewn cabanas surrounding the heated "sex pool," which had a lesbian (with breasts like Homer Simpson's eyes) swimming naked through the film of pubes.

As an inquisitive traveler, keen to sample local cultures, my friend decided to take a dip in the sex pool. She feared not the petri dish of love before her, but was anxious about getting her frock soggy. So she worked her way around the two-legged libidos circling the pool, politely asking: "Do you speak English? Great. Can I borrow your top to wear in the pool, because I don't want to get my dress wet?"

Finally, a man - henceforth known as Vigo, because he looked like Ghostbusters II's haunted sorcerer painting - gamely offered her the vest we wished he'd wear himself. She gave it one sniff and returned it, adding: "Nah, you're alright, love." Another friend donated her top to the cause, so she bombed into the pool and posed for various pictures with thumbs aloft, shouting, incase we were hitherto unaware: "Look, I'm in the sex pool."

We later discovered - when a man angrily shoved her back in, after she'd dried off and put her dress back on - that Germanic sex people aren't big on British tourists loudly documenting their games of Hide-the-Frankfurter.

The same friend won even more German hearts the following day at Berlin's Gay Pride, by coming over all Bertie Wooster and stealing a soldier's hat. We watched him chase her through the rainbow flags as she held his headwear aloft, squealing: "Chase me!" If scale and spectacle are of relevance, then Berliners are way more proud of gay than us Brits. Theirs is one of the biggest in Europe and Olympic-esque shows, fireworks, processions and endless food and booze stalls take over the capital.

Brilliantly, Berlin is practically free. We left no foodie stone unturned; no sausage undigested and no beverage undrunk, so we may have lost our dignity and innocence, but we didn't lose our dosh.

On our final night, we visited a gargantuan club with more floors and impossible stairs than an Escher doodle. The promoter nervously stopped demanding foolish amounts of cash, when my wee sister tried to kill him with her bare eyes. Instead, he walked us in, made us pose for bizarre pictures with him as if we'd just met our favourite pop star, and gave us free shot tokens.

However, we discovered we'd need a laissez-faire attitude towards bankruptcy if we wanted to enjoy the fancy, white seating area. Luckily, my friend Gina is so persuasive, she can convince a mirror that she isn't there.

So moments later, she and the managers led us behind the velvet rope to their 'VIP' area, which was peopled with rich men with slicked-back hair and scantily-clad girls, keeping one eye on the men while they danced like they were having epileptic fits during a gynaecological examination.

We were then presented with assorted bottles of fizz, while Gina hastily told me that I was a massive pop star back in England and my friend was a big TV presenter. My chum was a little more convincing, when the manager conveyed his excitement about hosting such massive celebs. She flicked her hair and tutted: "God, celebrity. I hate that word. I'm just a normal girl doing my job."

And then something very curious happened. My amazing grandad raised me and passed away a few years ago, so will sadly not be there to raise a toast at our wedding - and he loved a good toast. He'd toast his lunch, his snacks, his socks, his carpet and anything else that was due a good toasting, with heroic amounts of vino.

His song was Hit the Road Jack, which he'd cheerfully sing as the soundtrack to his daily chores and which I now have had tattooed on my arm. It's a reasonably obscure, old song which you rarely hear these days, least of all at a Berlin club, playing thumping hip-hop about gangstas and hoes.

But that's exactly what happened. After 99 Problems there was a pause and then inexplicably, a whole chorus of Hit the Road Jack was played, before Bitches Ain't Shit resumed on the speakers.

None of my hens requested it and were as shocked as I. But it was a delicious adieu to the Berlin hen, as if he was raising a glass and telling me to hen the buggery out of Berlin.

And thanks to my amazing gaggle of lady ne'er-do-wells, we did him proud.

Although we probably owe Germany an apology.