Our Dreiecksplatz street riot

A few weeks after we watched A Clockwork Orange in 'Regina' cinema, we provoked a mass brawl with taxi and bus drivers near Dreiecksplatz when we were on our way from "UCK" to Hansastrasse 48. At least that was the prosecution's accusation. It was Ringo's 17th birthday. In the early evening we obtained free entry to the porn cinema of the "Entertainment Centre Kiel" (UCK), which was located at the Old Boat Harbour. I claimed to the cashier that I had read an advertisement in the "Kieler Express" (Kiel weekly newspaper) announcing free admission this weekend. The female cashier couldn't check, smiled and gave in to our pressure. She didn't even want to see our fake pupils cards or similar age verification. We were tickled pink and sat down at "UCK" Cinema 1. There we had an unbelievable horror show-like fun. While a hardcore movie was running, dirty comments about the current scene were constantly inserted. The laughter burst uncontrollably out of us. As if that hadn't been enough trouble, a few people openly started wanking. They became circle jerks in the ranks. That was a bit too hard for me. Marius finally sneaked into Cinema 3, the gay cinema. This process did not go unnoticed. We considered it as scandalous and roared with laughter. When he returned, he reported back while trying to imitate the language of gays,

      "There's a very very nice movie on at Cinema 3,"

Marius said half nasally with the typical intonation with which heterosexuals all too often mocked homosexuals. Nevertheless, I did not find our comments sexist and homophobic, because we did not offend anyone, but merely caricatured the porn scene.

When we had enough, we set off to continue celebrating at the house club Hansastrasse 48. We still called the building "occupied house in Hansastrasse", although it no longer had this status. We walked up Bergstrasse and crossed the pedestrian lights at the beginning of Lehmberg street. Suddenly the traffic light changed to red. A bus driver, who had just come down Mittelstrasse lost his nerve out of the blue, got out of the bus, violently attacked poor Wisent, grabbed him and tried to hold him. That was pretty daring and risky in regard to the size of our group. The bus driver was likely belligerent as hell and frustrated by his shift work. Wisent, of course, did not take it. It was funny how our Wisent took off his round nickel glasses, folded them and stored them in his jacket. Afterwards it got started immediately, and the fists flew in wild west style,

      "Bam, bam, bam!"

A chain reaction broke out. Some of us hurried to Wisent's rescue. People got off the bus and started to fight with us, more bus drivers hurried from the bus stops Lehmberg and Dreiecksplatz and simply left their buses. Also several taxi drivers from the taxi rank Lehmberg were right on the spot. Fast as lightning a street riot erupted that was sensational for our standards – a mass brawl that Kiel has rarely seen. Everywhere the shreds flew, everywhere was screeching. Our Dreiecksplatz riot was sensational and film material. It went that far that I had to kick with my leg in plaster. Suddenly the blue lights flashed from all directions. When finally the cops had completely blocked the area Lehmberg, Mittelstrasse, Holtenauer Strasse with an impressive amount of police vehicles with flashing blue lights and howling sirens, I gave the order in my boozed head and with leg in plaster to turn over the bomber jackets, so that everyone was running around in orange lining, which would make the cops unable to recognize us as skinheads. This was a trendy method when they searched for olive-green bomber jackets that was actually of no use at all. As the millicents intervened, the last punches were distributed and the mass brawl was officially over. Whoever could, pulled away. It was a chaotic tumult. Our original plan to go to Hansastrasse 48 to occupy the venue, make party in the cinema and continue celebrating Ringo's birthday was still valid. I limped with my leg in plaster through Annenstrasse and was one of the first to reach the building in Hansastrasse, despite my handicap. Little by little the others arrived. Some of us had previously been recorded and interrogated by the police in accelerated action. As a matter of fact, this could not stop our party mood. On the contrary. We were in riot fever. The Hansastrasse people didn't really dare to intervene in our party. They ignored us as much as possible and regarded us as crazy kids who wanted to celebrate their party here. On the right-hand side of the wall hung a kind of exhibition of used clothes. Amongst them was a Supergirl T-shirt, that I immediately took off the wall and pocketed. Later I gave it to $abrina. After a while we tried to start the projector. I went to one of the apartments in the side building where a guy was sitting at a desk. He claimed to write a book about Gonnrad. Man, that's been a day. Those unannounced Hansastrasse parties were outrageous.

A few weeks later, all those who were recorded by the police that evening received an 18-page indictment in the most ridiculous legal German. Extracts from it were read out at parties with a lot of hooting. Anyone who had not received an indictment was secretly sad. That's what I felt as well. Since all of those caught were schoolboys and apprentices, they were later punished by the competent judge only with working hours.

My new nickname Koreapeitsche

Now that I finally got rid of the plaster, I could always say that I needed Doc Marten's laced boots to stabilize my right ankle joint. When I rang Hecker's doorbell one afternoon and his mother opened, she asked,

      "What are those weird boots you always wear?"

      "They are Doctor Martens with air-filled soles."

      "Heimerich has them too. Are they health shoes?"

      "Yes, they are indeed health shoes. They are really elastic because of the air in the soles. They are called bouncing soles. It's good for the back."

      "Oh, that's why Heimerich has got them!"

      "Sure, and I have them because of my damaged ankle."

She didn't speak to me about the steel caps. I couldn't have euphemized anything upon that topic.

It was funny that even the mothers called Heimerich by his nickname. We were able to use really apt and provocative nicknames – just like in punk times – and tried to outperform each other. Heimerich had received his name from Ringo. Stidi regularly surpassed everyone. He not only provoked his brother repeatedly until furiousness with the name Beo. Everybody got his just deserts. If someone was overweight, it could happen that he called him "Dumbo, the little elephant". He could kill himself laughing about it.

Now it happened that in one of the last released Piss-Yellow Punk-Lists the debut record of a Berlin-based psychobilly band called Koreapeitsche (Korean whip) was announced. I found the name great and decided to order the record as soon as it was listed in the Piss-Yellow Punk-List, even if this type of music was a clear clashing with the skinhead style. I waited in vain. Vinyl Boogie had to announce a few Piss-Yellow Punk-Lists later that the band Koreapeitsche had already split up before the first album was finished. I bragged for weeks in my circle of friends that I wanted to order the Koreapeitsche record immediately after it appeared without having listened to the record beforehand just because I loved the name. The laughter was great when it leaked out that the psychos of Koreapeitsche had already thrown in the sponge. Thereupon I was mockingly called myself Koreapeitsche or short Peitsche (whip), which I had to put up with due to the increased group dynamics.

Playing football for "The Exit" in the pub league

A Friedrichsorter football trainer named Klas played pub football on the side of The Exit team. The Exit was managed by a Brit who himself participated in The Exit matches as goalkeeper. Klas drank his after-work beer there once in a while. When he noticed that I also hung around in The Exit now and then, he asked me spontaneously if I would be interested to play for this pub team. Of course this was an honour for me, because I appreciated The Exit and as well its guests. I found the idea funny. Klas was probably afraid that I would lose control even further and tried to integrate me better into society through this little manoeuvre.

My first assignment came soon. We played in strange, white jerseys, on which someone had painted the numbers on the back with black colour unclear and smeared. It was nice in this team, in which a few wavers, goths, mods and potheads played as well, even though I only came on a few assignments altogether. I was the youngest player in the team. The only ones I knew, besides the trainer, were the few mods who were always hanging out with us skinheads on the Ansgar, and two or three more figures who led their existence in The Exit.

When finally on a Saturday afternoon the game against the disco "Zorba the Buddha" was due, it was our turn to appoint the referee. Since nobody from our team wanted to whistle, the decision was made almost unanimously that I, the youngest player of The Exit team, should lead the game against the Buddha Disco. I could not really avoid this decision. My hair had just been freshly shaved – this time at a Turkish hairdresser in Schauenburger Strasse. My announcement was three millimetres. I was the first referee with a skinhead in the pub league. The game was fair, friendly and without any special incidents. I can't remember the final result, but I'm sure only a few goals were scored. It might have ended 2-2.

Starting in the late afternoon, the Buddha disco held a party for both teams with an opulent buffet in their premises in Eggerstedtstrasse. The party finally developed into an exhilarating celebration with the Bhagwan people, and nobody complained that I brought some skinhead friends. We filled our stomachs and enjoyed the drinks on offer. Stidi in particular was indescribably happy about the delicacies that were served. We were able to behave. When the sound system was powered up, we set off as a precaution, because we did not want to be attracted further into the spell of the Bhagwanis.

The Holstein Season '83/'84

With our group of skinheads we regularly visited the home games of Holstein Kiel. Mostly we showed up very drunk and only at the half time break, because at one entrance the stewards let us in the stadium for free. It went well for quite a while, but one day when the stewards rejected us, we harassed them and listed arguments why they should let us in for free. The main argument was that the game was almost over and every additional fan was important for the victory. Next, we stated that it was supposedly common practice throughout the stadiums of this league to let low-income fans into the stadium for free during the half-time break. We told more and more adventurous stories that we had already been in the stadium and had accidentally thrown our tickets away, but had to go once more to the petrol station. Also the claims were listed that we are by far some of the most loyal Holstein fans, without us no mood would arise and the game would be lost without us. If nothing worked we became vulgar and exerted massive pressure, which could also lead to success,

      "Don't upset us and let us through here."

      "As I said, only with a valid ticket or referee's card."

      "Six people won't make a difference. Let us through."

      "All right, this is the last time."

As the season progressed, however, the stewards received clear instructions not to let anyone pass without a valid ticket. We didn't cause any trouble inside the stadium. For us, the stadium atmosphere and football was our focus.

The hard core of Holstein fans there were various right-wing extremists. There were also a few skins, all Bundies (Bundeswehr members), who radically displayed their black and white patches "Ich bin stolz ein Deutscher zu sein" (I am proud to be a German) on the right upper arm of the bomber jacket including the imperial eagle. This often happened with arms crossed in front of the chest – a defensive attitude. They wore rolled up jeans and army boots, but never Docs. Those skins tried to check us out right away. Everyone greeted each other with scrutiny. Sometimes we had 15 seconds small talks. What a plight. Fortunately, when things got risky, we were able to switch to the topic Holstein Kiel. Of necessity everyone had to get along with each other as Holstein fans. Football once again united fans of alls shades: right-wing, left-wing, losers, rebels, active footballers, pensioners, severely disabled people, lawyers, sausage sellers and of course a few people from the punk scene who, however, had to refrain with their punk outfit for their own safety. Only the cops were equally hated by almost everyone. This season Holstein needed almost every fan and every point, because the team was relegated down from the 2nd Bundesliga two seasons earlier. Everyone was hoping for a return. Unfortunately, some Holstein fans had been shouting right-wing extremist slogans. This was probably one of the reasons why Holstein did not get promoted in the end and finally finished only seventh in the final table. 

Henz reads us the riot act

The beer vending machine on Knooper Weg was the next one to Bergstrasse and was therefore highly competitive. At this spot, a Friedrichsorter thug once tore a Mad Fighters patch off a black bomber jacket and kept it as a souvenir, but usually, we skins controlled the area around this beer vending machine.

One evening, four Kiel skins were standing at the beer vending machine opposite the petrol station. Our short haircuts, bomber jackets and bulky Doc Martens easily made everyone recognize which youth movement we belonged to. Suddenly a single punk appeared. It was Henz with a black leather jacket, spiky, blond hair and a four-row pyramid studded belt. Originally he only wanted to drink a beer – or was he looking specifically for us? We stood there, Gonnrad, the Konz brothers and I, when Henz suddenly began to swear at us. He was outraged,

      "What kind of outfit is that? Why aren't you punks anymore? What's happening on the Ansgar playground?"

We found it strange right away.

      "Are you right-wing extremists?"

he shouted.

We looked at each other in surprise.

      "Now tell me, what's all this about, do you want to utter right-wing slogans here?"

he kept taunting us. Nobody replied anything to him. We looked at each other in shame, because we were really not right-wing. In the meantime Henz pulled himself a beer. Finally he came up in front of me and shouted,

      "What's all this about? Walking around here in bomber jackets and Doc Martens scaring people."

The other three stared perplexed. I was under pressure to justify myself.

      "You're demoralizing all the people here,"

he kept on yelling. We were indeed really quite harmless. We hadn't even been infiltrated by fascists at the time. In our gang a lot of hot air was blown, but when someone was demoralized, it was mostly only people within our own gang, and only in those moments when the alcohol level was much too high. Henz wouldn't let up,

      "Now tell me what will happen next!"

I replied,

      "We just want to have our beer in peace. Stupid speeches are going on everywhere."

This made the somewhat paranoid-looking Henz all the more angry, and he almost seemed to freak out.

      "Leave the others alone at last!"

he kept teasing. He was a bit taller than me with his blond punk haircut, maybe as tall as Stidi? While he was facing me eye to eye at the beer machine, it dawned on me that he was merely looking for acceptance and recognition by his cursing, because he was quite new to the scene. Mig already knew him, but to me he was completely unknown – a nobody. After all, Gonnrad and the Konz brothers were former chief-punks, so Henz seemed to want to profit at our expense by reading us the riot act.

      Next he severely criticized me, although I was the youngest of all and the smallest by 1.83 m. If he really had wanted to make a name for himself, he should have confronted Gonnrad or the Konz brothers, but he didn't dare to approach them. He had far too much respect for the other three. As I stood right in front of Henz and we stared into each other's eyes, I became aware of this fact in a sudden inspiration, and the corners of my mouth turned into a smile. Now Henz moved away, suddenly turned around again, swore again briefly, went on, kept on swearing towards us and finally disappeared with the beer in his hand in the direction of Waitzstrasse. We looked after him as he moved away. When he was out of sight, we first had to collect our thoughts again.

      "I am speechless,"

Mig stammered.

We now had respect for Henz. In the end we found his rearing up courageous and impressive. This spirited rebellion gave him an enormous boost in the scene. Later he played in a Kiel ska band called Plastic Skanksters, which I liked because of their band name, because the name was derived from a The 4-Skins song.

Rust beating at "Kiel Seafish Market"

While we used to go on a daily tour as punks with our heavy, studded leather jackets even in midsummer, we now wore our winter-proof bomber jackets as skinheads in the summer heat, even though some of us owned Harringtons. Only sometimes during the hottest height of summer the bomber jackets were casually hung over the shoulder, just like the leather jackets during punk times.

Since the bottle attack on New Year's Eve, I have been more accepted in the clique than ever before. There were now bigger problem children among us: Stidi and Mig, the two brothers, now 19 and 20 years old, once protagonists of the punk scene, continued to attract attention through minor crimes. Their father, who had been an engineer, died young. His sons became skinheads in prison, because they were tired of pointlessly hanging around as punks. As is well known, they were not particularly impressed by the squatter scene either, which is why they shaved off their punk haircut, put on bomber jackets and Doc Martens boots and were among the leaders of the local skinhead scene. They had been put on trial again for various crimes, but this time the court decided by mutual agreement with the youth welfare office on an extraordinary measure. Instead of a prison sentence, as a judicial agreement, they were to free one of the ships at a kind of ship graveyard at "Kiel Seafish Market" from the old paint and rust. According to the plan, the small cargo ship was to be converted into a floating youth hostel.  

Suddenly Gonnrad was convicted to participate in a so-called job-creation programme within the same project. They said he had to follow a work activity or a kind of internship within the framework of the social welfare system. So the three would work together at the "Seafish Market".

The court order also allowed the three skinheads to encourage friends from their skinhead gang to support them. Thus the three would not only finish their planned work faster, but all participants received as a reward from the youth welfare office a two-week ship journey with a small two-master. The responsible officials secretly intended to socialize the whole group. More detailed information was to be provided by the contact persons at the youth welfare office. 

Stidi, Mig and Gonnrad soon started knocking off the rust. They were equipped with hammers and protective goggles, and carefully hammered the paint off the outside walls of the ship centimetre by centimetre. The three informed the rest of the gang and reported about the offer of the youth welfare office,

      "You can help with the rust beating, so we can finish faster. At the end we can all take part in a two-week sailing trip under supervision of an experienced crew." 

      "A sailing trip on the Asgård with skinheads only? How awesome!"

Since the youth welfare office was not quite sure whether the rest of the gang would accept, they promised the possibility of parties on the lower deck of the freighter that had to be renovated. Beer crates were promised to always be at our disposition. That sounded indescribably tempting. In the end, even hard liquor was available, and there was something to eat: toast with cheese, salami, ketchup and mayonnaise. Since some of our clique were still in traineeship or went to school, not everyone spontaneously agreed, but we wanted to show up at least once.

A few people actually came regularly after school to the harbour area, which looked exactly like an illegal ship graveyard, in order to support the two brothers and the trainee in knocking off the rust.

      "Hey, hey, hey, solidarity!"

one of us shouted when we came aboard. Armed with goggles and hammers we started the dirty work. In the late afternoon we usually passed on to partying. Those who wanted to stay overnight here were allowed to do so on the small two-master, the Asgård, that had moored to the railing of the motor ship. On the Asgård it smelled badly of mud and old oil. The ship rocked to the rhythm of the waves, and the wood creaked.

The whole project was running for a few days now, ending almost every evening with an excess of alcohol. It soon came to the point that a few schoolboys, who did not have any hours of work to do here, appeared almost daily in the morning to beat off the rust and worked for almost three weeks – simply because they had drinks available free of charge in the evening and they did not want to miss the two-week boat trip with the Asgård. The work was extremely exhausting and dirty. The rust flew off in all directions, into our faces, clothes and our hair. Our skin was soon covered with rust and coloured particles, our skin also became oily from a mixture of sweat and micro particles. The dirt landed in the nostrils, in the ears, in the mouth and slipped into our T-shirts. When larger particles loosened and splintered towards the face, we always twitched our heads and facial muscles at first. An eyelid reflex was automatically triggered, whether we wore glasses or not. It was absolutely hardcore. Sometimes, at particularly high speed, the large sharp-edged splinters caused pain. Soon rust and paint residues – a splinter-shaped mass – accumulated in our rolled up jeans. This looked like crushed up beach shells. We would squat down regularly to roll down the ends of our trousers again and let the dirt trickle onto the deck of the ship. 

      The rust beaters had to concentrate directly on the areas already exposed. The solid layer of paint had to be knocked off in the direction of the segments previously uncovered. If we put on the hammer correctly, a piece of the old paint splintered off with every hit. The exposed area increased with every hammer blow.  

Since no gloves were available, dirt particles constantly accumulated under our fingernails, and sometimes they would bleed. Small skin injuries were unavoidable. All our clothes were completely dirty after a day's work and should have been cleaned but we didn't care. We had fun at work, told "boozey stories", talked about Oi! music and made jokes. Every now and then one of us climbed over the railing of the two-master Asgård to take a look at the cabins and berths below deck to figure out the atmosphere on a boat trip. Some of us lay down for half an hour, especially when alcohol was involved. We were highly motivated. We anticipated the forthcoming two-week sailing trip was going well.

The weather was consistently good during the rust beating work. It was midsummer, the sun was extremely hot. We didn't realize how quickly we got sunburned. The back of everyone's neck was as red as a lobster, especially since the side of the ship, that we worked on first, was facing south. It was disgusting getting splinters in the mouth. Since neither mouth protection nor respiratory protection was available, some took off their T-shirts and hung it in front of their mouths and noses. They now had a free upper body, which caused even more sunburn. Others pulled the T-shirt up at the neck hem so that it covered the mouth and nose to keep out the dirt. After a short time the T-shirt slipped down again. Mig wore a bandanna that he tied around his head like a bandit in a western to cover his mouth and nose. The knocked-off rust and paint also splintered on the skull. The scalp started to itch a lot. We smelled of sweat, old paint, dirt and rust. All of us continued to work despite our severely sunburnt skin.

      Towards evening there were again alcohol excesses below deck. A table with several chairs was set up here. Culinary delights were provided as well. Below deck there was a juke-box as well, which we need not to use, as a large "ghetto blaster" was available for our Oi! samplers.

Mig and Gonnrad showed more work enthusiasm. This was partly due to the fact that an employee of the youth welfare office made irregular flying visits. The friendly-looking man, however, neither gave instructions nor reprimanded anyone. He checked the proper progress of the work only superficially. It was important to him that the two brothers and the welfare trainee worked here permanently, and he was happy about every other member of the clique who regularly showed up. Did the whole clique in the end let themselves be converted for the better by this strategy?

The work was terribly strenuous. The surface area of the ship's walls on the deck was of a size around 50 square metres. This meant that 50 square metres of ship surface had to be cleaned of rusty paint – millimetre by millimetre. The surfaces at the bottom of the walls were particularly difficult to knock off, as we had to kneel or sit down for this. There was less danger yet of being injured by the micro splinters of lead paint on the face, as the face was further away from the impact surface in this position. After hours of hammering, the palms of our hands started to hurt. Reddened skin, blisters and calluses developed.

      We were not wearing work clothes, so our clothes soon showed the first signs of wear. Usually we had to use the pointed side of the hammer for rust tapping. They provided us with hammers in different weight classes: 100 gram and 200 gram hammers, several sledge hammers, chisels, spatulas, scrapers, muck-rake hooks and other tools.

Without safety glasses it was almost impossible to work. After each break for talks or cigarettes there was the danger that the safety glasses, that were pushed briefly over the forehead or – if they hung on a band – were dangling around the neck, were forgotten to be put on again. As soon as the work continued after a break, the first splinters could fly into the eyes until the rust beater noticed that he had not put the glasses back on. Depending on the nature of the substrate, the thickness of the metal, the width of the antifouling paint, the presence of cavities, paint bubbles or welds, the hammering could produce more or less deafening noise. We tried a lot, rolled up some paper balls to put them in our ears. One of us worked with a Walkman with earplugs. Eventually someone found a real hearing protection below deck with shells for the entire outer ear.

Some of us went home from Wellingdorf in the evening drunk on the tram or bus. We started work in the morning or sometimes at noon. On our way there we had to walk from the tram stop and past the "Seafish Market" to get to the ship's graveyard. They asked our circle of friends to arrive on site at eight o'clock if possible. Most of us at that time had very little sleep and the school attendance of those who were still pupils, was strongly neglected. Every time we passed the production halls of the fish factory, where the freshly caught fish was processed, it smelled unbearably of fish residue. At one point of the building a small pipe protruded from the masonry, from which processing residues ran into a manhole. There was a slight rippling sound. The smell was unbearable here. We kept something in front of the respiratory tract every time we passed by so as not to have to inhale or smell the highly concentrated fish stench directly. Ringo, who once again participated, had to throw up at this point one morning when he noticed the strong smell and at the same time saw the semi-liquid fish processing residues swelling out of the pipe.

      "Eww, how does that smell?" 

he shouted. The small puddle with vomit was permanently visible on the asphalt for the remaining time until the work was completed. 

Fortunately, the motor ship itself, that resembled a Rhine freighter, did not smell of fish as it was a long way from the fish factory, and the wind drove the bad smell in a different direction. Instead, it smelled of old engine oil and rotten wood. 

In our clique there was mostly a friendly atmosphere, but as usual there were disputes between the Konz brothers. The older of the two worked like a bull, as if a special bonus had been offered, and only took a cigarette break now and then. Stidi was less determined, he seemed restless and unfocused. He often walked around the ship, could be found several times below deck and was much less frequently devoted to beating off rust. He was once harshly criticized by his brother. Mig shouted at Stidi,

      "You can't work at all! I'm the better worker of both of us!" 

Mig made very serious accusations against his brother and at the same time wanted to prove to everyone that he was even the best worker in the entire clique.

      "That's not true at all. You don't have an overview!"

Stidi defended himself.

When we had cleared the last surface of rust and paint after nearly three weeks of intensive work – some of us had already bailed out of the clique – everyone could be absolutely satisfied with the result. The youth welfare office was impressed as well, because Stidi and Mig had successfully fulfilled their judicial requirements and Gonnrad had completed the job-creation programme with the same success. 

However, the ship was still not completely renovated. Before the floating youth hostel could be furnished as planned, the ship had to be repainted and the interiors fitted out. Since the three main actors had finished their punitive measures and the job-creation programme, the promise of the youth welfare office could now have come true that the whole clique was to undertake a two-week cruise with the two-master as a reward. The young men would only need to set a travel date with the youth welfare office and the family who would operate the floating youth hostel in future, ideally during the holiday season. Now it was time for the closing ceremony, to which all participants of the youth welfare office project were invited. It was supposed to be an exhilarating celebration. The family of operators provided crates of beer and bottles of schnapps. It was a booze up. 

      We had our fun, were allowed to listen to our music, talked with the family about the youth hostel to be opened, in which the well-assorted juke-box should stand. Soon there was the first pogo-style rowdiness that was typical for our scene. In the consistently serious discussions, the two-master and the two-week tour were referred to again and again. The sailing ship itself was still slightly in need of renovation and stank miserably. 

      "When will the two-master be ready?" 

was asked several times. 

      "That's gonna take a while!" 

the hostel family replied, 

      "First, the floating hostel needs to be completely renovated. We'll have to put new beds in each cabin."

There was no rush for us. The two brothers were out of the woods for the time being, their judges' orders had been fulfilled. The rust was knocked off, the whole clique did not need to go to the "Seafish Market" in the future. Instead, we looked for a new regular meeting place. The clique was temporarily welded together again, despite all the quarreling caused during work. 

From then on we met again at the Ansgar playground near the city centre and satisfied our need for alcoholic drinks at the nearby supermarket, at the petrol station or at the beer vending machine. Stidi Konz and his brother Mig were urged not to commit any more criminal offences. No one knew what the youth welfare office would come up with next. The two decided to stay reasonable, but the alcohol consumption of our clique was detrimental to this self-declared goal, because we were still excessive with our drinking. Soon there began an increasing quarrel within the group. Nobody took the initiative to arrange a suitable date for the promised sailing trip. We should have stayed on the ball, should have arranged a travel date during this period of the judicial requirement. Instead, we lost control again and the dispute that flared up did not allow any more agreement. On the contrary, some of the clique had to be careful not to commit another offence. It wasn't too late yet, we still could have reached an agreement with the youth welfare office and the operating family of the floating youth hostel, but we didn't follow up at the old ship's graveyard any further. Only sometimes news leaked out when someone met the son of the hostel family in the Nieselpriem. One day it was said that the hostel ship had been completely repaired and is located a long way from the ship's graveyard at a provided mooring area.   

The Asgård was still not ready for operation, and it was not foreseeable when this beautiful two-master would be fully seaworthy again. The extent of the repair work was considered comparatively modest. First and foremost, a few hygienic interventions had to be carried out to free the ship of filth and stench. They said the two-master was supposed to be somewhere on this end of the coast. It has been reaffirmed,

      "The sailing trip is still scheduled for you!" 

That calmed us every time, because some mockers within our gang had already feared an empty promise of the youth welfare office, since they only wanted to control our group dynamics with this project. Unfortunately, we had no written statement about the promise, no official invitation for the sailing trip. Had the youth welfare office betrayed the Kiel skins? We were slowly but surely getting mad.

Once again we became hostile to each other, and an open quarrel broke out. There were small fights under the influence of alcohol, real rank fights. Soon there was the first punch-up.

When our group later split up, it was already foreseeable that there would not be a gathering between us and the youth welfare office, although the option still existed purely theoretically. The Cohesion was irretrievably lost. The fact that Stidi and Mig were confronted with drug offences added to the problem, but at that time the topic sailing trip was already over and done.

Soon the suspicion arose that our group was excessively exploited by the city administration, that not only the two brothers and Gonnrad were to be socialized or re-socialized in this unusual way, but that the whole clique was abused deliberately by the city as cheap workers. Knocking off rust is a dirty business. Despite this job-creation programme, Gonnrad had still not been able to find work. When the youth welfare office finally did not send out any signals to bring us together for the promised sailing trip, we felt frightened by this passivity. More than that: we felt deceived, misguided and distracted, even abused. When Stidi was later caught in a cocaine deal, it was clear to everyone that the project had failed completely. Today nobody knows what has become of the Asgård, whether it is still in Kiel or whether it had changed its name.