Berlin: 2


I’m in the Weinmeister after the Lux overbook.  A joyless cab ride a few blocks.  A walk into a cafe in the morning and some joyless service.  I order in English being as the fucking menu is in English and get a curt response.  It is not so much that this is a problem, but any time we do hit a problem (poor service, unavailability of an item, awful service in the TV Tower restaurant) then there is no way back around to an easy solution.  The Germans appeared geared up to have things run along tram lines and won’t put themselves out.

Fur hier?, she asks and I say ‘yes’.  The coffee is okay.

Aside: not that world needs my thoughts on this (I have questioned this blog itself, in that the therapy angle is really the only pedagogic angle I can justify), but those plastic beaker cups that commuters drink out really do demean us all.  Do we all really not have time to sit and drink coffee anymore?  Hot and plastic, a glorious drink becomes overhot mouthscald.

It’s going to be hard to find a breakfast/brunch place, I think, as all they seem to do here is pastries, cakes, waffles and big slabs of breaded pork served with a side order of indifference.  But I find somewhere that serves a farmer’s breakfast, crisped bacon, onions in an omelette configuration with pickled gherkin as a counterpoint. Dave tells me picked gherkins are called ‘Wallies’.  He might well be right.  I had a jar of Wallies sealed so tight I had to throw them away, unopened.

So close, we can smell where the past
Left a mark
— Liz Worth, “Amphetamine Heart”

I sometimes can smell where the past has left a mark.  It’s a grapefruit sized bruise on a clear, pale thigh, once raspberry blue and now shades of ochre and yellow, and to me it is the fitful post-work shop from the market, rifling through the punnets for a pound and I’m desperate to feed on you —

We’ll make a smoothie of this yet, we think, but we’re lying to each other.  We’re clearly lying to each other.


I stumble upon Loveparade.  Banging techno that sounds like a heart attack and hundreds of teenagers dancing behind trucks.  They are all carrying glass bottles.  There are police only at the beginning and the end of the parade.  It simply could not happen in the UK.  Someone would stab someone else.  But then rather than throw the empties into a truck, or a bin, the street sweepers smash all of them. This creates a sea of broken glass that the road sweeper trucks don’t manage to retrieve.  Cars, bikes, all tyres grind over a mulch of broken brown glass and accrue slow punctures.  I can’t but think it a bit… stupid?

I am too tired to follow the parade.  I make a value judgement and I come down on the other side of that fence.  I am not young, or German, and I’m not clutching a bottle of Asti.  I do not have a mohawk and I am not on acid or Ecstasy.  I sit on a terrace and smoke.  Maybe I should have followed the parade.

Maybe I should have followed.

Maybe I should have?

But then I’ve spent the day enjoying the murk of Exile on Main Street and Adam was right and this is their best album and none of those floats were playing the Stones.  They were playing music that was setting off car alarms.

I get to the third Melrose novel and even Edward St Aubyn has lost his way and can’t make a middle aged Patrick interesting.  This doesn’t bear writing about inasmuch as it is a soft blanket and an anaesthetic.  A Cuba Libra burns its way through my stomach and ‘Stop Breaking Down’ draws to a close.  I think of William Carlose William’s ‘Pastoral’ and I know the limits of my own thought.  I know the limits of my talent in this forum.  But would I admit it?  What, after all, what I admit?  That I have no real desire to speak of events, only things and the gaps inbetween them?

Soft sweet hookah smoke drifts over.  I should finish this before the end of ‘Shine A Light’ but I won’t.  Angels all beating / their wings in time.

Later, on the roofterrace of the W, a man is wearing a black baseball cap unironically and the Berlin skyline has almost nothing worth the name but I know that when we were young and the world was ours to seize and clutch and grasp, in that very basic dawn after that hurdle was gone, this room I’m in would have made us sing and smile and I would have —

Yes, I would have.  I think of your butterfly bruise.  Your butterfly of touch and the things inbetween touch.  If anything, I was only guilty of not being me yet.


Published by gurdeepmattu

I’m an author and publisher. I live and work in London and am the author of “Sons and Fascination” (2011, Paperbooks). It's available here:

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