Excerpt, translation of PSEUDO into English, the last 3 chapters

Barne’s fall

I met Barne very rarely then. He had worn a mohawk that was not nearly as tall as that of Leo in former times or that of $abrina. Finally a new disco opened at Bergstrasse on the old premises of Pfefferminz. Maybe this was even the second, third or fourth follow-up disco after the Pfefferminz. The dance floor was no longer at the back, as in the old Pfefferminz, but further in front, where the first bar was located near the entrance. That's why it always seemed like rush hour on the dance floor. That was a bit annoying. I talked to Tall John there, who worked as a bartender at a pub called Sonderbar in Jägersberg Street. Gonnrad danced alone on the dance floor. Barne wore half-length dreadlocks and sat with three young punk girls on the ground at the edge of the dance floor. We all watched Gonnrad dance and found it weird how he moved because we had never seen him dance at a disco before. I suddenly had trouble with Tall John who didn't speak a word of German. He suddenly became very aggressive. When I wanted to piss off, he yelled at me,

      "Stay!"

I had another drink, watched Gonnrad and looked at the scenery. Anyway, this was one of the last times I saw Barne. I later met him again at a Roskilde festival. He had arrived without luggage and showed me his side cutter, that he pulled out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket, with which he cut his way through the fence of the festival grounds to avoid the horrendous entrance fee. The very last time I saw Barne was when he was sitting in front of the entrance to the Alte Meierei at a punk concert. He now had a bald head and, as usual, his round, metal-rimmed glasses. I can't remember exactly which bands were playing that night, but I guess it was the Culture Shock concert. Maybe I was wrong, it might have been a Leatherface concert. I am not sure. When he recognized me, he immediately shouted,

      "Moin Shelter!"

and laughed. I greeted him back, but I didn't feel a great need to talk to him, because we all knew that he was on heroin. To be honest, I was also a little irritated that he suddenly ran around with a skinhead haircut, although he used to backbite on skinheads like all other Kiel punks. I finally entered the Alte Meierei and listened to the concert. Barne stayed outside. I never saw him again afterwards. A short time later I learned that he had died from an overdose of heroin. Hecker was at his funeral and reported back. They played his favorite song. I think it was "Gentle Murder" by Mayhem. A sad story. We were all strongly affected and devastated. He was simply too popular in Kiel, almost legendary. In the following time, even more people passed away. For some it hurt more, for others it hurt less. Suddenly the despised Long Jock was found murdered in Kiel-Gaarden, and the Konz brothers soon followed into the realm of the dead. Although Mig managed to get his entrance qualification for the polytechnic university – he even started studying electrical engineering at a university of applied sciences – he later became so addicted to drugs that he died of his addiction. This was a heavy blow for all those who knew him better, but especially for his young brother, who himself fell down afterwards. Stidi couldn't get rid of alcohol and finally died in agony of cirrhosis of the liver. When I recently learned that our old punk idol Gonnrad had also died in a terrible way, I realized that a whole punk era had come to an end.

For many, unfortunately, the whole thing here was just a short appearance. Recently I counted all reported drug-related deaths in my family, circle of friends and acquaintances. Believe it or not, I counted 17 of them – exact figure unknown. And even then the conventional suicides of drug users from my environment are not considered at all. Evil, evil, evil. I knew the majority of the dead from the Buschblick Youth Club. Greetings to Christiane F.

  

The car attack

As far as I am concerned, I was regarded as left-wing scum by some people, while at the same time others regarded me as right-wing or formerly right-wing because of my skinhead times. As if that wasn't bad enough, I was also cursed by the rocker scene. The problem never seemed to disappear completely and flared up again and again, but in many cases I persuaded myself to think that. When I hoped that my mental wounds from punk and skinhead times had healed to some extent and the waves had been smoothed out, I was once again proved wrong.  

      One day I rode my bicycle along Fördestrasse. Coming from Kiel-Pries, the way led me to the neighbouring district of Schilksee in the north, where I wanted to visit friends. To get to Schilksee I had to cycle one kilometre through a rural area on Fördestrasse. Right beside the road was the bicycle path for both directions, and immediately beside the bicycle path a broad, deep ditch extended, which did not completely reach to the Seekamp exit. About 15 metres to the right of the ditch ran an old parallel road, which I should have taken instinctively despite its damaged condition. On this section of the Fördestrasse there were neither houses nor any other buildings.

When I cycled the route that day, there was not much traffic, because it was a weekend. I cycled a good distance – as usual, at a relatively good speed – but without exhausting myself. During the ride I was already thinking about topics I wanted to talk about with my friends. These included new releases on the record market, scandalous events among friends and problems with people from the right-wing scene.

It was dead quiet at first, when a car gradually approached from behind. I continued cycling normally, without suspecting anything, until I suddenly noticed changes in the engine noise of the approaching vehicle. The car accelerated and shifted gears rapidly in order to reach the highest possible speed. I turned around suspiciously, to see a car pulling out onto the cycle path and racing towards me. I had to be careful not to lose control of the bicycle, but I saw two sadistically laughing skinheads sitting in the front seats of the car, heading straight towards me. In an instinctive action I made a sharp turn to the right side, drove into the ditch and fell off the bike. I picked myself up again in a matter of seconds, jumped up immediately and climbed up the ditch's slope. I saw a total of four skinheads sitting in the car – one of them fat and fleshy. These jesters were apparently Karl Melitz and his fascist skins. The driver accelerated and the car moved away at high speed, so I could only recognize from the license plate that it was a Kiel registration. Was this a murder attempt or just a stupid joke? I was in shock, especially as I realized that the skinheads were obviously after me. I pulled my bike out of the ditch, checked that it was intact, and continued my journey, worried and with my clothes dirty from the fall. I rushed to Schilksee-Süd to turn right onto Graf-Luckner-Strasse at the pedestrian tunnel, in case the skins made a U-turn to come back. I was rather disturbed and permanently afraid that the car of fascists could appear again. I still had several minutes to cycle, and all sorts of delusions took place in my head: why they did that, whether they were drunk or whether they even wanted to run me over deliberately, because they recognized me from behind. I finally visited my friends and immediately told them about the car attack. They were almost more worried than I, because they recognized what a murderous incident had happened. It was more puzzling to think what the motives for this car attack could have been and whether it was a murder attempt. If I hadn't rescued myself in the ditch, they would have hit me with the car. It was obvious that they were the Schilksee and Strande skins. We didn't follow up the matter, because there would have only been more bad blood.

Several times, I saw the aforementioned little group of skinheads at different street celebrations at Strande and Schilksee. I thought I recognized the same sadistic laughter I saw through the back window of the car when they attacked me with their vehicle. The whole fascist clique seemed to know about it and were maliciously happy about the attack.

The dead hitchhiker

My old hitchhiking spot near the comprehensive school was not used much at all by hitchhikers. During the day you could spot single hitchhikers there from time to time, or you could spot a hitchhiker on weekends or in the evenings who wanted to get into the city centre or to Bergstrasse. It was always the same people who stood there and held out their thumbs – first and foremost, students. There were different rush hours, during which many cars raced along – mostly at times when the big companies had the evening off or the comprehensive school had their lunch break, or at the end of school. At Hohenleuchte junction, the vehicles, most of them coming from Pries-Friedrichsort, turned left into Fördestrasse, where my hitchhiking spot was located. Other peak times were during summer and particularly at weekends; when there was a run on nearby Falckenstein beach; and when the beach visitors arrived in the morning or at noon, or drove back into the city in the late afternoon. These cars were often already on the main road coming from Schilksee and drove straight on. For many drivers, the hitchhikers standing at the bus stop were a thorn in their side. These were usually local drivers who couldn't stand seeing hitchhikers like me standing there so often. They detested the lifestyle of the hitchhikers. Some were notorious hitchhiker haters.

I stood there regularly for years; maybe I was the person who held out their thumb the most. That bothered some in particular. They regularly symbolized this to me with grim facial expressions, curses and disparaging gestures, but I didn't let myself be intimidated and continued to hitchhike at that bus stop in the future, especially when there was no bus or when I had just missed one.

At that hitchhiking spot one afternoon, a notorious rocker attacked me with his heavy motorcycle. He came from the direction of Hohenleuchte Street, turned to the right onto Fördestrasse, and when he saw me he grumbled something as he nearly hit me and immediately folded his visor down at the end of his sharp turn into the bus bay, in which I stood, hitchhiking. I had to jump to the side of the pavement. The rocker was visible through the narrow slits of his visor. He was probably just trying to scare me.

On another day, a skinhead in a jeep that came from the direction of Pries drove directly towards me and accelerated, as if he wanted to lift me onto his radiator hood. I saw a skinhead sitting at the wheel and had to make a big jump to the side to prevent a collision with the jeep. The driver made a serious steering error in the stopping bay, that he ran the risk of losing control of the vehicle. When he had stabilized the jeep again, he returned to the right lane. The skinhead cursed during this action, as if he wanted to tell me,

      "Don't let me see you here again, or I'll run over you!"

At first I wasn't sure whether the driver of the wine-red jeep just wanted to scare me or actually knock me down on purpose. I even knew him by sight. He ran around as a skinhead for a relatively short time and played handball in the local sports club. That could have quickly gone wrong.

One day an article appeared in the local newspaper, Kieler Nachrichten, in which a kind of traffic accident was described. A taxi driver noticed, several metres behind the hitchhiking spot at which I stood so often, that he dragged along a heavy object under the car. When the driver finally stopped and checked it, he noticed the lifeless body of a man below his car. The newspaper article did not give more details about the incident. That was absurd enough. They neither wrote about the cause of death nor about the victim himself. When I read that article, it raised more questions in me than it gave answers. I suspected that something terrible had happened there. The newspaper article sounded harmless, as if something like that could just happen every day. At first glance, the text gave the impression that a person lay down on the street at night until he was caught by a taxi and dragged along. Of course, the suspicion arose in me that the dead person could have been a hitchhiker who had been hit by a car before, or even killed by that car on purpose, and finally lay lifeless on the street. The reader had to assume that in the next issue of the newspaper the case would be dealt with in more detail. But no follow-up article appeared on the incident. I remembered the driver of the wine-red jeep, who had almost mowed me down with his vehicle while I was hitchhiking a while ago, and also the brainless skinheads, which had driven their car onto the bicycle path.

Since the identity of the dead hitchhiker remained unmentioned and no characterizing body details were given, I also suspected that some people in my town and my circle of acquaintances mistook the dead person for me. Slowly but surely, I had to understand that my days in Kiel were numbered. Therefore, I thought it would be better to move to Berlin in order to have a happy and safe life there.

Auszug aus PSEUDO - a punk novel (English Version), last chapters

(No) Future for the fascists?

While I was still at Hebbelschool, Töle's brother told me in the smoker's area of our school yard,

      "You either have to be completely right-wing or completely left-wing!"

That was modified by Steff, who had meanwhile changed from the Kiel-Pries Secondary School to Hebbel Grammar, as he said,

      "Someone can be so extremely left-wing that the person is already right-wing again!"

Steff was the very first person I ever heard using the expression "left-wing fascist". It was really a very politicized time. In German lessons with a young female teacher, we had finally discussed the topic of right-wing extremism. That definitely was two years too late, maybe even three years for those who had repeated the class, like me. Nevertheless, we did not read a single book about right-wing extremism at school. After the experiences from my skinhead time, my conviction was that you are only acceptable as a skinhead guy or girl if you clearly position yourself against right-wing extremism and at the same time make a statement against right-wing extremism with your outward appearance – be it through a patch, button or T-shirt.

Since pissing in the assembly hall in the U2a class, I was on the shitlist of every teacher at Hebbelschool and felt literally like I was walking through hell. Whenever I met teachers in the administration corridor and humbly greeted them with "Good morning" or "Good day", they simply didn't respond. Even when I met them in the corridor alone, or when my class teacher passed by, they would hard-heartedly ignore me and just walk on. That was inhumane, as if I were a convicted felon. The mental punishment lasted three more years, and I despaired of it in the long run. That's why the television series Tod eines Schülers (Death of a Schoolboy) repeatedly haunted me, which was controversially discussed in the nationwide media for years. This always caused anxiety in me.

Unfortunately, I didn't get a real chance at Hebbel Grammar anymore. With the teachers it was over, and my school performance got worse and worse. By '86 I finally managed to leave Hebbel Grammar and enrolled myself at a Comprehensive School in Kiel-Friedrichsort, where a commie teacher had just been banned from teaching. Due to this cross-transfer I lost another school year. After the new start at school, I felt liberated of a heavy burden. After that I never saw Nazi-Gerd again. He and his peers had incited countless people to extremism and seemed to have got away unharmed themselves. I was told that he went to the Bundeswehr after school, then studied business administration and joined his father's security company.

Many years later, after reunification, I learned that he had moved to Dresden and had founded a private armed security company guarding Bundeswehr properties. I think his security company was just a vehicle for him to complete his evil work. You could count on five fingers what Gerd planned to do in Dresden, and as former secretary of the BHJ he could have made a contribution to kick-starting the right-wing scene there.

It was blatant that his companion, Nazi-Thorben, after leaving Hebbelschool as well, went to Kiel Business Grammar School with my sister to get his A-Levels. I have been told by various sources that he holds a mid-level position as a credit risk analyst at H-SA Ortbank. The suspicion automatically arose that, given his past as a leading right-wing extremist in Kiel, he could pursue a kind of right wing cronyism as the person responsible for granting loans. Did Nazi-Gerd and Nazi-Thorben perhaps even try to establish a right-wing operative network? There is a lot that is unclear.

      As far as my own misery was concerned, I could not shift the entire blame onto Gerd and his companion, the fascist piss artist. I also could not blame the teachers for my career, who were in some cases former participants in the war, who beat and reprimanded us – their pupils – and occasionally tried to manipulate our opinion about the Third Reich. I should have shown stronger steadfastness and personal responsibility in order to resist the manipulative efforts by the two young Nazis and the right-wing teachers. As long as I was part of the punk scene, this worked quite well, because we could stand our ground using a lot of mockery during breaks and after school. When I showed up later with my bomber jacket, however, people from different sides tried verbally to bring me into line. I did not remain true to myself and my principles, otherwise I would have fought with Stidi much sooner and would have defended myself against Nazi-Gerd more decisively. I should have more strongly opposed the creeping process of spreading right-wing radical thoughts in the skinhead scene. However, I have to say that someone from the scene had tricked me into taking a pill as Heimerich later claimed. As I tried to ask him for details, he played it down. I couldn't find out whether he meant Gerd's supposed caffeine tablet before the sports class, or if there was another incident with LSD. Maybe it would have been better to leave school immediately during the hard punk times, because Hebbel Grammar was no fun for people like me at that time. Unfortunately, I was too cowardly, to simply strike back at the teacher Haberlack. Only Maxi was able to do something like that. I would have been spared a lot of suffering if I had found another school in time.

Hot coffee

I don't recall what kind of elections were to take place, whether state or local elections were called, but the election campaigns were running at full speed. Word had got around that the radical right-wing party, NPD (National Democratic Party of Germany), was driving through the Kiel working-class districts with a loudspeaker in order to distribute its right-wing propaganda. I was just standing in the large amusement arcade in Friedrichsort, as someone shouted from the entrance,

      "The NPD car is coming!"

I held a full plastic cup of coffee in my hand, which I had just bummed for free from the amusement arcade supervisor. The cup was very hot, so I could only touch it at the top and had to move it from hand to hand several times to avoid scalding my fingers. When I arrived on the platform in front of the arcade, I saw the NPD car driving at walking speed down Friedrichsorter Strasse. With a loudspeaker fixed to the roof of the small, white car, the occupants blasted the citizens of Friedrichsort with right-wing extremist slogans. Determined, I went to the opposite side of the street with the full cup of coffee and waited for the car. Meanwhile, the dirty slogans ran from the car's cassette player. Beside the driver sat a muscle-packed front-seat passenger as a reinforcement. The usual hate speech about migrants was being spread, with which the NPD typically tried to dupe the population. When the car finally arrived at the area opposite the arcade, I walked up to the car, leaned diagonally over the windshield, and emptied the entire load of coffee into the forward-facing megaphone. At that moment a librarian from the district library walked by and shouted,

      "Well done!"

With a light crackle, the inflammatory slogans of the NPD fell silent. End of the announcement. The bodybuilder in the passenger seat reacted grumpily and seemed to want to get out, but the driver gave him a sign to stay seated, because he had noticed that the young martial-arts-experienced Turks of the "Bloody Eagles" had gathered in their black bomber jackets, with patches sewn on, in front of the arcade, from where they watched the action attentively. Instead of getting out of the car and knocking me down, the NPD members got the car into gear and drove off in the direction of An der Schanze Street. I was afraid that I might be charged for the defective loudspeaker, but if the NPD pack had got out, the "Bloody Eagles" would certainly have rushed to my aid. The situation would have been different if the NPD had called the cops, but for that they would have had to get out and dial 110 from the phone booth. They obviously shied away from doing this because it would have put their anti-immigrant slogans on record.

Leather jacket theft at the Alte Meierei (Old Dairy Farm)

Over the years, two new dark wave bands were formed in Kiel. One was called New Dawn Fades, with Gerti as the singer; the other was called Church of Insanity, with Manja on the mic, who used to sing in a punk band. Many mixed up the two singers with their permanently dyed black hair. They also backcombed their hair in the same way. In the end, they were nothing more than punk girls turned goth. Later, even $abrina and Zilvana tried to start a small singing career – one in metal and the other in rap.

My self-confidence had now recovered and I was able to resist against people from the right-wing scene, just as I had always managed to do before Gerd tried to convert me. The mates that I knew from school, the sports club and the big amusement arcade stabilized me again. A stable circle of friends redeveloped, and I made sure that I kept in touch with them. I really blossomed again, had wild hairstyles and my record collection became more colourful. Also, my love for punk became revitalized, but not as extreme as in my early days. I slowly developed into a fan of the Dutch band The Ex, which I liked to hear while sitting alone in my armchair at home.

I occasionally got punk zines, including Trust and, later, Wahrschauer. Despite my positive development I still had a few distinct habits. I wore electronic resistors, which I'd bent into shape, and a small skull from a chewing gum machine as earrings.

I hit back at others more consistently than ever if someone expressed a right-wing attitude in my presence. My negative experiences with the neo-fascists were serious and left their mark on me for life. These events should not repeat themselves again. I even corrected people's speech, called them to task and put an end to their right-wing ideas, but here, too, there was always the danger of getting caught with the wrong people.

Soon the day came, when the LP Neither Washington nor Moscow lay permanently on my turntable. My hair was ten centimetres long at that time. Whenever I saw the record cover with the sailor pictured on it, I had to think of my dead cousin, who worked as a mechanic on the supply ship Spessart. He searched in vain for an effective treatment programme. My cousin was not the only one in my family who died of an overdose. This also happened to a half cousin in Austria, whom I never met in my life and who was presumably in the punk scene with a mohawk.

With our clique we attended a lot of concerts. We extended our range of movement, going more often to Hamburg to the venues Fabrik, Markthalle, Molotow and Docks. Among the highlights were concerts by The Pogues, Meat Puppets, Bad Religion, Hüsker Dü, Serious Drinking and, finally, Peter and the Test Tube Babies. In Lübeck, at a venue called Alternative, we saw The Neurotics and Attila the Stockbroker, and landed again at Plünschli in Husbyries, where The Vibes and The Sting-Rays played – both trashy psycho-combos.

At the Sting-Rays gig I was drunk and stoned. Smoking weed happened every now and then, even with inhalation. After the gig, I took a guitar that probably belonged to the supporting band. This was a really idiotic deed that I later felt sorry for.

Before the Vibes concert we went to a cemetery near Flensburg. To make matters worse, Töle knocked over a tombstone. That was totally unacceptable, even though there was something annoying engraved on it. With $abrina I even stole a microphone from the PA during a New Model Army concert. I simply removed it while $abrina held her open imitation leopard skin handbag in front of me. All of this was not very positive.

The Alte Meierei was, meanwhile, fully established and enriched the cultural life of the city with punk concerts. Especially on weekends, punk bands from all over the world were regularly presented there. Not only when American groups like Youth of Today, Verbal Assault or False Prophets performed in this wonderfully filthy venue, it was crowded to overflowing. We saw countless convincing and rousing concerts here. At the cash desk we usually had to pay eight Deutschmark. Sometimes there was a so-called "Vokü" or "Volx Küche" ("people's kitchen" with cheap food for everyone), in which large quantities of food were cooked for visitors. Many people here had dyed hair, some wore Rasta curls, some mohawks, others skinheads. I also saw Radke here again, who with dyed red hair also distanced himself from the skinhead scene. Here you met normal intellectuals, students, workers and certainly plain-clothes policemen who wanted to check out whether potential terrorists or drug dealers were running around. From time to time we saw punks with the RAF emblem on the back of their leather jackets.

There were constantly dogs running around, sometimes quarrelling violently, sometimes barking or sniffing each other. The drinks were remarkably cheap. What annoyed many people was the elitist behaviour of some autonomists, who always felt superior and even regarded righteous punks with suspicion – skins anyway. Many of the old Kiel punk dinosaurs avoided the Meierei because the scene became too political for them. When the venue was crowded, people liked to dance bare-chested in front of the stage, and stage diving was not stopped either. Many wore leather jackets, band T-shirts, "Against Nazis" patches and Doc Martens with steel caps. Studded belts were everywhere to be seen, even though the wide, four-row ones with large pyramid studs became increasingly rare. Last but not least, the toilets were to prove unsuitable and disgusting for the residents, bands and visitors. The sanitary facilities were already so filthy at the time that a thick layer of fungus grew on the enamel of the basins and elsewhere. This proved itself difficult to tolerate, especially for women, and was repeatedly discussed.

Next to the cash register there were always leaflets on current political topics, such as drug addiction, Kurdistan or the police state, although these were not imposed upon visitors. However, these DIN A4 sheets were not noticed by many young people. The concert posters, that were placarded everywhere in the city, were quite imaginative and rich in contrast. That was what accurately characterized the Alte Meierei at the time. Sometimes I even found their posters on electricity boxes in Kiel-Friedrichsort.

But the venue was a thorn in the side of the city administration from the very beginning, because they didn't want anyone, even if they were just a few critical youths, to organize themselves subculturally or politically. The people here were brightly-coloured; some had tribal tattoos, hair ornaments and many piercings. Unfortunately, there were black sheep in this scene who liked to pinch leather jackets, parked bicycles or backpacks. Some visitors were afraid to go too far away from their belongings when they were drinking, pogoing or chatting, because they could get stolen under certain circumstances. In principle this could have happened in any Kiel disco or concert venue. Usually junkies were – as is the case everywhere – under general suspicion.

At the end of one concert, as a dark, Irish folk-punk band played, Töle, the little punk from Kiel-Wik, who was by no means a junkie, grabbed an old leather jacket out of the blue and left the venue with it. We did not expect him to act like this. We were shocked, because he had never done anything like this before. In former times he wouldn't have dared to even think about it. Töle, as though he was being remote-controlled, went outside with the black leather jacket, which had been lying in a corner, and followed us, his mates, to the parking lot at Lübscher Baum, but he failed to reckon with the owner. As we crossed the parking lot, a well-built, autonomous, left-wing woman with shoulder-length, blond curls suddenly stood behind him. She was probably a martial artist. She zealously threatened Töle that he should immediately hand over her jacket.

      "Are you sure that is your jacket?"

      "Oh, isn't that my jacket?"

      "Give me back my jacket immediately!"

Töle handed her the jacket. Otherwise, the woman would probably have attacked him. Töle felt highly embarrassed about his misbehavior. He said very quietly, 

      "I'm sorry." 

Without saying a word, the woman turned around and crossed the Theodor-Heuss-Ring towards the Alte Meierei. After all, should she have thanked Töle for returning her jacket without any complications? On the whole way back, Töle seemed to be extremely concerned by his own deed. His behaviour was inexplicable to him. Something had gone completely wrong with him – a classic blackout, in which he threw away all good qualities and virtues. But in this case there was a lot of booze involved. Even though he had some bad habits, he usually behaved very well, treated his friends fairly and, later, even did his alternative civilian service in caring for the elderly, for which I admired him very much. He never did anything seriously wrong, except the small, chaotic binge-drinking events with the punks, which were criminalized all over town. Töle never put his hands on other people's leather jackets again, even though he would have liked to have owned one.

A pile of punk records

A Friedrichsorter pothead, a former HDW trainee (Howaldtswerke-Deutsche Werft, the biggest shipyard in Kiel) who is now unemployed, had given me a few cannabis seeds and explained to me how to sow them and grow the plants. A few weeks later, several marijuana plants were growing on the windowsill of my room in my parents' house. The risk was that there ran a small path next to the house, from where everyone could see the plants. The further the mini hemp plantation sprouted on the windowsill, the more it became a bone of contention in the family. My parents protested strongly against my illegal plant-growing. However, they did not dare to do anything about it or throw the plants into the dustbin or onto the compost. When they were ripe, I cut the plant stems cleanly, let the plants dry and assessed the harvest which fully met my expectation. I stowed the plucked leaves and blossoms in a blue Adidas shoebox. When Marwelli, who was still drudging in the tank construction company, got some of the harvest to smoke, he immediately wanted to buy the whole shoebox full of grass in his dazed state. Marijuana was considered a scarce commodity throughout Kiel at that time. You could only get the dirty, thinned down hash of the rockers and disco jerks. In exchange, Marwelli offered me his last 30 punk LPs. When he told me which rarities were in the pile of records, I agreed without hesitation. I handed him the blue shoebox at my parents' front door, which really weighed next to nothing. At the same time he handed me the aforementioned pile, among them Endangered Species by UK Subs, the first three Slime LPs – uncensored – and, finally, the Beton Combo LP Perfektion ist Sache der Götter. Also, several popular samplers like Chaos en France, Underground Hits Vol. 1 and the Back-Stage Pass-Sampler were in the pile. Without scruples I integrated Marwelli's last punk records into my own stock. Even today he still swoons over the grass.

My new sunglasses

A Friedrichsorter junkie had specialized in the theft of sunglasses by trying them on at opticians and pocketing them or, in some cases, leaving the store cheekily without taking them off. Or he walked inconspicuously away from the sunglasses stand outside on the pavement. I passionately enjoyed talking to junkies at the time. I envied them for their broken stories, even though the other side effects of their lifestyle hurt. The junkie in question was in the hotel room where my cousin overdosed. He was not able to revive him.

This junkie had just taken an expensive Ray-Ban Wayfarer pair in cold blood from Brillen-Reese in Friedrichsorter Strasse, and was now searching for a buyer in the big arcade to finance his addiction. I haggled him down to a price of ten Deutschmark, which I would otherwise have put into a Venus Multi slot-machine. It was an uplifting feeling to be able to add real Ray-Bans to my rediscovered punk style. I felt indescribably cool with them, but the fun didn't last long.

When I walked up and down Kielline (a party zone during Kiel Week) with Töle one weekday during that year's Kiel Week, I started off still wearing the Ray-Bans on my nose. As usual, when we started drinking together, we were in quite a jocular mood. Suddenly Töle began to beg to try on the sunglasses. Several times I decidedly said no, but in the end I let myself soften as it slowly got dark. Töle, who was at that time more of a fashion punk and was finally equipped with his own leather jacket, walked next to me for hours with my new sunglasses on his nose, until he pushed them over his hairline onto the raised punk haircut. We caroused through the night and at dawn we lay, pissed, on a slope at the Kleiner Kiel pond to watch the swans. When we had had enough, we took the next bus towards Wik to head home. From Wik I wanted to try to hitchhike to Friedrichsort or take the next 44. While I dwelled on the penultimate seat on the right, Töle sat on the penultimate seat on the left and drummed with his palms on the backrest of the seat in front. The first commuters were on the bus, looking forward to their working day. We got off at Knorrstrasse, and I demanded my sunglasses back when I said my goodbyes. Töle claimed, to my horror, that he had left them lying on the seat next to him on the bus. At first I believed that. I judged the situation in such a way that I was not entitled to claim compensation from Töle for the sunglasses that a junkie had shoplifted, but when I later ordered an LP and a single with his next Malibu order, I simply owed him the money. That was my form of response. It's just a pity that his mother was paying the money in advance. It later dawned on me that forgetting the sunglasses on the bus was a white lie so he could keep them. The junkie couldn't steal me a new pair, because he too died of an overdose soon after. The Turk, Tomb, sold him the heroin on a regular basis. It's incomprehensible how a single dealer could drive so many people to death. Even the first woman to whom I ever made timid advances at the youth club was later hooked on heroin by that bloke.

A neo-Nazi leader at the Ferry Pub (Fährstübchen)?

Someone told us that the FAP leader Michael Kühnen was due to come to the Fährstübchen (Ferry Pub) near the Skagerrakufer in Friedrichsort, in order to give a speech and possibly force people to join the party. We were shocked that the fascists now apparently even wanted to convert the workers in Friedrichsort. The Fährstübchen was located halfway between the tank and engine construction company on one side and the large shipyard on the other. This dive had the reputation of a run-down workers' pub.

The FAP, the Free German Workers' Party, was regarded as the most right-wing extremist party in Germany at that time. We only learned about the event at short notice on the same day, and we didn't manage to drum up any more people to turn the place upside-down with a majority. I still had a baseball bat at home, which a while ago I had taken from a former member of the Friedrichsort kick-start moped club, Clash, unopposed. The two of us, St. Pauli Bole and I, had just decided to go down to the Fährstübchen pub, armed with the baseball bat, with the intention to break up the event. We had quite an unpleasant feeling as we approached the Fährstübchen pub, because we didn't know what to expect or how many people would gather there. When we finally showed up right in front of the place, it was pitch-dark inside. We tried to peek through the windows, but nothing moved inside. The event seemed to be cancelled at short notice. Had the fascists pulled back? Otherwise there probably would have been a catastrophe. We stood a few more minutes, threatening and belligerent, in front of the pub, until we moved back up to our neighbourhood near Wagnerring Street. I brought the baseball bat back home safe and sound. Since we had reacted immediately, we still felt satisfaction. Or did someone deliberately make a fool out of us?

PSEUDO - a punk novel (Post-Skinhead chapters)

Life goes on

In spite of all the events and experiences in my life, drinking continued to play a decisive role. After a senselessly drunken night, I wandered through Friedrichsort on a Saturday morning, styled in a slightly punk fashion and with black 8-hole Docs. There I met the Friedrichsorter St. Pauli-Bole and during our conversation I had the crazy idea to steal a pack of vitamin E pills from a supermarket to fight my headache. I actually went with my Friedrichsorter friend to the nearest supermarket opposite the church and searched for the shelf with nutritional supplements. While St. Pauli-Bole was standing next to me, I grabbed the vitamin E tablets as planned. Single-mindedly we walked past the cash register to the exit. It came as a horror when a strong guy with a pornstache stood in our way at the exit door. It was the shop detective who ordered me bluntly to follow him into the office, though I hadn't even left the shop yet. I thought for a moment to simply throw the pills away, push the shop detective aside and run away, but refrained from doing so, since almost every damn soul in Friedrichsort knew me anyway. Most likely, the detective would have compromised St. Pauli-Bole and arrested him. I dropped the pills anyway on my way to the office. A saleswoman observed this and silently carried the tablets behind me. In the back office of the supermarket I had to wait until the cops arrived. Meanwhile, the store detective urged me to confess to the store manager. I realized that it was pointless to deny the shop lifting and hoped to be off the hook as soon as I had paid the 50 Deutschmark shoplifting fine. Far from it.

Since I didn't carry an ID card with me, the cops chauffeured me home. They didn't charge me for this ride. At home I unlocked the front door, and the boys in blue followed me into the entrance hall as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Here they stopped for the moment without a word and waited for me, while I fetched the ID card from my room upstairs. Meanwhile, my parents were sitting in the living room and – thank God – were not aware of the small crowd of people in the entrance hall: two men in uniform with handcuffs and pistols and the son who was in big trouble.

It would have been my end if my parents had left the living room at that moment. One of the cops took down my personal data. They said,

      "You will hear from us soon!"

I was relieved that they didn't want to talk to my parents as well. Also, nobody in the neighbourhood noticed that a police car briefly parked in the garage entrance. When the coast was clear again, I sat on my bicycle and rode back to the district centre, where I met St. Pauli-Bole again in the big amusement arcade. Together with other Friedrichsorters, we laughed heartily about the incident.

Things seemed to happen so fast. I received a summons to the 7th police station and was intensively interrogated and criminalized by a young, zealous cop in a way that made me wonder what a dangerous criminal I was. He obviously enjoyed being in a position to interrogate a grammar school pupil; he wanted to know all the details and asked me about sports and school. At the end I had to read my statement again, but it contained words and syntax which I would never have used on my own. I felt so powerless that I didn't realize the police were including small hidden messages to the legal authorities. I signed the paper obliviously. Later, I received the transfer form for the penalty fees. As if that wasn't already punishment enough, a summoning for a court trial for this case was thrown through the mail slot into the house. My parents once again opened my letters and there was a horrible quarrel. The judge sentenced me to several working hours, which I did as usual in the house for the elderly at Andersenweg. But the main punishment was yet to come: the policeman, who questioned me so energetically and typed the statement, was suddenly in a relationship with my sister. That was the absolute maximum punishment for me. I got incredibly upset inside every time I saw the guy, when he was passing by in a car or on a bicycle, or when he walked or jogged along. Even after he had separated from my sister, the sight of him made me feel uncomfortable.

Die Toten Hosen at Plünschli

There were positive moments in life again. Through different channels we learned that the band Die Toten Hosen (Dead Trousers) were to play at the Plünschli venue in Husbyries near Husby, a small village east of Flensburg. In the run-up to the concert I came into possession of a poster of the Unter Falscher Flagge (Under False Colours) tour, which was supposed to officially start in Hamburg. Hecker got the second Toten Hosen LP with its later forbidden original cover, on which an EMI flag was shown on the ship, which the record company did not tolerate. We learned that the concert in Husbyries was supposed to be a dress rehearsal for the tour kick-off. After we had checked that the concert really would take place, we met in a small group on Saturday to go to Husby together. We searched out the bus connection from Kiel-ZOB to Flensburg beforehand and took the bus to the north. On the bus we were obviously tipsy, with various alcoholic drinks. Measure was of importance, because it was difficult to use the toilet during the ride. We had occupied the rear area of the bus and enjoyed the ride, with much anticipation which lasted for approximately one hour and forty minutes, with much anticipation.

After we arrived safely in Flensburg, we first drank a few beers in the pedestrian zone in the city centre and took the bus to Husby, from where we trotted off on foot to Husbyries in the best mood; there was glorious sunshine. Rumours were afloat that the Toten Hosen organized a football match against selected punks wherever they performed. When we passed a small field, we realized that such a game could be played on it, but we were already too drunk to be able to play football properly. Soon we reached Plünschli in bright sunshine. Various punks from both sides of the Danish-German border were already drinking together in the backyard of the venue. We joined in and drank beer with the same enthusiasm, until finally the first soundcheck took place inside. Suddenly a punk came out of Plünschli, and who was immediately identified as a member of the Toten Hosen. He carried two crates of beer in his arms, which he just slammed down at the feet of the punks sitting there. He shouted,

      "Here, we bought you something to drink!"

before he disappeared into Plünschli again. The shouting and cheering was raucous and the punks pounced on the beer like predators on their prey. Unfortunately, we got nothing out of it. The popularity of the Toten Hosen rose sky-high. It became more and more lively and crowded in the backyard of Plünschli. Suddenly several punks appeared, wearing sombreros and leather jackets with the inscription "Amigos" on them. Some wore their sombreros casually folded on their backs. It was said that the Amigos were another band that were to perform tonight as a support act. When the tension was bursting, someone opened the gates of Plünschli for the punks that were, for the most part, already heavily drunk. They stormed into the venue like the Troops of Tomorrow. We learned that next to the Toten Hosen the Goldene Zitronen (Golden Lemons) were supposed to play, along with the said Amigos, which many thought to be a rumour because nobody had heard of them. Also, Der wahre Heino (the true Heino)[1] was mentioned again and again. Due to a blackout, I couldn't recall whether the Amigos actually played or even if the popular "true Heino" entered the stage. Ringo, on the other hand, claimed to have seen "the true Heino" on stage. Before the Goldene Zitronen appeared on stage, Ringo and I ordered a La Flute salami and ham in the Plünschli restaurant area to temporarily satisfy our hunger. Since it took ages for the La Flutes to be served, we missed half of the performance by the Goldene Zitronen, but heard it through the open connecting door. Again and again, we went in the direction of the event hall and looked through the door to see what was going on. At some point the ordered La Flutes were finally served. As somebody reported that the Goldene Zitronen were throwing lemons at the audience, we stuffed the rest of the food into our mouths and sprinted into the event hall, where the fun had been raging for a long time.

When the Toten Hosen later entered the stage, we shot like hornets through the hall. The concert was breathtaking.

I had my Sham 69 school bag with me, in which a bottle of corn brandy was hidden, which I had saved especially for the performance of the Toten Hosen. I had succeeded in smuggling my schoolbag completely unnoticed past the cash register. The corn brandy gave us the last kick. After all, you are only young once. We drank the swill unhindered during the concert, directly in front of the stage, without being reprimanded for it. It was a unique punk buzz with like-minded people, cheerful pogoing with hugs and fraternization gestures. Plünschli went berserk. I don't know how many people were already puking in the toilets or whether I was among them temporarily. Anyway, after the concert I tried to steal one of the monitor loudspeakers from Plünschli without considering how I could have ever transported it to Kiel. I carried the box straight towards the exit, while the staff stood in a cluster around the pinball machine in the passage to the restaurant area, enjoying themselves. Before I could leave the venue with the heavy box, a staff member caught me, took the box away from me without much of a moral lecture and took it back to the vacant stage. Immediately afterwards, I met my mates again. We wandered around the area for hours and talked to like-minded people. We were still intoxicated in the morning. At dawn we set off on our way back to Flensburg. Since there were apparently no busses that morning, we had to walk all the way back to Flensburg city centre. On the way along the country road it got explosive again. After an arduous first leg we were so exhausted that we simply lay down across the country road to take a nap. We only wanted a short break before continuing our walk. We were sure we could recognize approaching cars in time. The last of us on the road was Hecker. Only a few minutes had passed when Hecker suddenly cried out. A cyclist loomed over him, who, lost in thoughts or daydreams, had cycled his front wheel over Hecker's abdomen. Hecker doubled up in pain. We jumped up and made the most serious accusations against the young cyclist, but when he told us that he was going to Flensburg to play football that morning, there was immediately a common basis for discussion and our minds calmed down. It turned out that he played in the youth section of TSB Flensburg and in the coming season would probably be in the same league as us. Everyone was happy and we hoped to play against each other in the near future. After we briefly checked whether the bike had been damaged, we wished the cyclist good luck in the football match. This little interruption made us feel more or less sober again. After the strains of the previous walk, we could laugh again. A few kilometres further on the almost endless country road, we saw a pair of tattered corduroy trousers directly by the roadside, hanging on the barbed wire. Laughing nervously, we agreed that it had to be the legendary dead trousers, pulled out our lighters and set the good piece on fire. When the pants were in flames, we continued on our way, but turned around again and again to check whether the smoke clouds from the dead trousers could still be seen. We finally reached Flensburg, glad that we had overcome the drudgery of the way back. First of all, I had to get something alcohol-free for my dehydration. Totally exhausted, we took the bus back to Kiel. It was an absolutely outstanding tour.

Another useless New Year’s party

This year, I wanted to celebrate New Year's Eve together with Ringo and Hecker. Since I was still a much sought-after drinking partner in many places, I had already met Arnt and Rob, both Friedrichsorters, in the early afternoon. They were themselves wearing bomber jackets a while ago, but they soon left the skinhead scene again. Around 2pm we went to the Köm Deel pub at Fritz-Reuter-Strasse to sip the first beers. Rob was a bit smaller than me, but much stronger because he regularly did dumbbell training. His brother was a bouncer at the Hinterhof disco. Although I had promised to meet Ringo and Hecker in the evening, I did not express myself clearly enough to Arnt and Rob that I already had plans for the turn of the year. After the drink at the Köm Deel, I went back home to take a nap for an hour – in other words I was plastered. When I got up again, it was pitch dark outside. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I knew it could only be Arnt and Rob. That's why I didn't answer the door. There was nobody but me in the house. When Arnt and Rob noticed that there was light in my room, they got angry because they felt betrayed. Immediately afterwards, they waltzed off and decided to take revenge. They had only one goal on New Year's Eve: to catch me and pay me back for ignoring them.

Later in the evening, I met Ringo and Hecker as planned. We had no real plans for New Year's Eve and just wandered around in Kiel-North. We knew about a celebration at Dreikronen Village. A woman from the athletics department of my sports club wanted to throw a big New Year's Eve party there, but none of us were invited. Nevertheless, we trudged to the house in Heischer Tal valley and were promptly turned away at the front door. That was quite frustrating, because we knew that women would be celebrating at that party. It was necessary to go back along Friedrichsruher Weg and all the way to Pries Village, because we assumed there would be another party with people of our age. Suddenly, Ringo didn't want to continue any further and screamed,

      "It's all pointless, I'm going home!" 

      "Ey mate, we'll find a party for sure," 

Hecker shouted after Ringo in a last attempt to convince him, but Ringo had already turned right in the direction of the crossroads, in wise foresight of what would happen next. Hecker and I turned left onto the Uhlenhorster Weg. About 50 metres before the bakery we suddenly heard screams,

      "There's the bastard!" 

It was Arnt and Rob, who ran towards me in a rage. Hecker was a good five metres behind me when the two of them attacked. They didn't want anything from him. Rob and Arnt grabbed me at the same time and gave me a grilling. While one of them held me tight from behind, the other hit me hard. Even though I played football with them – I'd played with Arnt for five straight years – they attacked me like I was their worst enemy. It didn't stop after the "goose egg" and "jaw punch" they had promised. Arnt held me tightly and Rob kicked me in the face with his knee while I was bent over. They changed positions briefly so that Arnt could also kick me with his knee. They did not only strike once or twice, but with a whole series of punches and kicks. They became more and more brutal. I stood bent over with my face down, and had already given up all resistance as the blood ran out of my nose like a thick thread. I thought I was bleeding to death. Hecker stood silently next to us. When he recognized the blood flowing out of my nose, he was afraid that the two ruffians could attack him as well and ran away in the direction of the Pries crossroads. Arnt didn't need to hold me at all anymore.

      "Pull through properly,"

Arnt continued to incite his colleague.

      "Yes, really give him one."

My nasal bone made two frightening cracking noises. A puddle-like pool of blood had already formed on the street. I tried again and again to keep my arms in front of my face, but instead they kicked me in the stomach. A little later Rob grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me even harder kicks with his right knee. Finally, Arnt said,

      "That's enough now, Rob. Stop it. He's had his punishment!" 

Rob gave me a farewell kick that was harder than all the others. It felt like he kicked all the way through. Satisfied, but still cursing, they went back towards Friedrichsort. I straightened up and had to get a grip on myself. I was glad that I had no missing teeth and apparently neither my nose nor cheekbone were broken. At first I staggered a few metres, dazed, and thought,

   Just do not go to Friedrichsort, or you'll probably meet the two madmen again.

So I walked further north along Uhlenhorster Weg until I saw a light burning under the roof where a childhood friend of mine lived, who was in the rocker scene. I went upstairs and knocked at the door with my smashed face and bloodstains.

      "Can I wash my face in here?"

      "Oh, what happened to you?"

the young rockers asked, when they saw me standing on the threshold.

      "I've just been hit by Rob and Arnt."

The rockers gave me refuge. Normally, I didn't like Acers, but they really helped me now. One of the young rockers was the son of a tank and engine construction worker who is said to have uncovered the first corruption scandal of his company in the mid-1980s, where the balance sheets of engine sales in Indonesia proved to be manipulated. However, the scandal did not go through the media and was kept largely secret. I was allowed to wash my face in the bathroom and was expected to join the New Year's Eve sit-in where the young rockers shot their heads off with dope. Here I told the story of Rob and Arnt in detail, how Rob kept pulling his knee through and Arnt continued to spur him on. The young rockers listened attentively. A giant joint was rolled and passed around clockwise. I was so frustrated and broken that I accepted the joint without comment when it was handed to me and pulled at it as a matter of course. That was the first joint I smoked in my life – out of pure frustration – even though I never inhaled. The rockers managed to give me new courage with a few calming words and several joints. Soon we could laugh together. Nevertheless, the start to the new year was very frustrating because of my smashed face.

A new squatted house?

In the course of time several occupied houses were demolished in Kiel: at Sophienblatt, in Lerchenstrasse and at Lehmberg. At least one cat is said to have died.

In the meantime, a completely new punk generation grew up in Kiel, which liked to hang around and rebel in front of Error on Friday or Saturday evenings. At some point the first Kiel punks dared to occupy a house on their own. The selected property was a four-storey building at Sophienblatt, about 50 metres from Alte Lübecker Chaussee. The house, which had stood empty for a long time, was number 77. When the group of punks moved into the building, the city authorities did not evaluate the squat as a squat, but rather called the process a tolerated condition in order to keep the term "squat" out of the media. Among the tolerated squatters was Barne, who just had a really good time. He told us that he was now hanging out with a punk band called Agitare Bene and was involved with a pretty punk girl called Ann-Kristjanne. He even wore a colourful orange Rasta punk hairstyle.

The punks' interlude at "77", as the supposedly squatted house was affectionately called, didn't last long. Typically, these alternative housing projects were a thorn in the side of the city authorities in the long run, and they exerted pressure so that the punks had to leave the house again. Whether an eviction took place is not known to me. The punks were on the street again. Afterwards the city superiors had their peace. As far as I know, this incident at 77 was the last squat in Kiel, even if it was not officially declared as such.

      At that time there were still other houses uninhabited in Kiel. Klas, the football coach, had to be professional with the municipal building committee. He told me on occasion that in Kiel, houses were unjustifiably vacant for an indefinite time and were not used appropriately, but I did not pass on this information consistently enough in the scene.

Above the roofs of Kiel

It was the final phase of the beer vending machines, which were being banned from the beginning of October, 1985. A whole era came to an end. By far the best and most popular beer vending machine in Kiel was located at the beverage market, Dudda, at the corner of Holtenauer Strasse and Kämpenstrasse. If somebody shouted,

      "Let's go to Dudda!"

      "Off to Dudda!"

or

      "Tonight a party at Dudda's?"

you knew immediately what was on the agenda. At Dudda the punks and pseudos, and sometimes even rockers without motorcycles, stood comfortably together. Sometimes they sat on the pavement and gave the impression of being on a sit-down strike. To the left and right of the entrance door to the beverage market, identical but differently stocked cigarette vending machines were installed. There was never trouble or stress here. This beer vending machine was unique by Kiel's standards. You wouldn't find a better or similar type anywhere else. The device was man-high, orange-coloured and had transparent, 10 cm square buttons for selecting the different types of beer, behind which the label of the type of beer could be seen. Even a drunk could not miss the large buttons. After inserting the coins and pressing the corresponding button, the selected beer slid into the output tray at knee height with an unforgettable rumble. The unique thing about this beer vending machine was that Mr. Dudda, the owner, mostly equipped it with the very popular Einbecker beer, sometimes even with the more popular Einbecker Maibock beer with its bright green labels – and at very fair, almost charitable prices. It was regarded as something quite posh to be able to stock yourself up with beer here. Accordingly, you often heard the saying here,

      "The world will die in luxury!"

Mr. Dudda didn't care much if he had to sweep away a few pieces of broken glass in the morning after the excessive drinking or if a single bottle landed on the street. During the final phase of the beer vending machine era, Kiel was covered with the most varied types of these machines. They became the pilgrimage sites of our street drinker generation – until suddenly everything was gone.

I still had the chance to experience how a special type of Holsten vending machine, which was frequently represented in Kiel, was manipulated and emptied completely. Tank construction apprentice Mannek showed us this violent trick. You only had to purchase a single beer from this machine and leave the compartment open. This type of machine was purely mechanical. All you had to do was close one of the small flaps of a beer compartment two-thirds of the way, hit it powerfully with the heel of your hand, while at the same time an accomplice opened another compartment with full force. The rumour spread that we had emptied both beer vending machines opposite the main entrance of the tank and engine construction company, and sold the bottles to the workers at a reduced price after the late shift at ten past midnight. This technique was not possible at Dudda, since the automat had electronic shift keys.

One day, a scaffold was erected near the beer vending machine at Dudda, on the front of one of the four-storey houses on the opposite side of the street. When we sat in front of Dudda on a Saturday afternoon with over ten punks and pseudos – a few people were leaning against the wall next to the machine – someone came up with the crazy idea of climbing the scaffolding as a test of courage. Since the good Einbecker beer was already having an effect on many people's minds, this action was much more risky at this very moment than in a sober state. The day continued. Hecker even had his pocket camera with him and took some photographic proof. One of the photos showed several punks and followers sitting on a wooden crate box, which someone had picked up at a construction site earlier. Others crouched in front of the crate box, others leaned next to the windows on the outer wall into which the beer vending machine was anchored. In that photo I could be seen sitting on the wooden crate box and, strangely enough, I look like a goth with a high undercut and a fringe down to my chin. I was totally smashed and listened to records like Acid Bath by Alien Sex Fiend and Concert – The Cure Live.

Later in the afternoon, we incited each other until the first drunken punk, Töle, crossed Holtenauer Strasse to explore the condition of the scaffolding. Since the lowest ladder, which should have led from the pavement to the first level, was missing (it had apparently been dismantled by the scaffolding company after work), Töle tried to climb the first level via a diagonal and vertical pole. Thus, the scaffolding instantly became a climbing frame. Our cheers and yells were frenetic and drove Töle on until he waved at us from level one. We had already made bets on how far he would make it. Töle seemed to have already made the decision to climb to the top.

It was a great spectacle, which, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed by the residents, who stood like shop dummies at the windows. The first voyeurs appeared next to the curtains pulled aside – mostly former World War II participants who, as is well known, did not agree with the behaviour of our generation. What happened next seemed like a real Hitchcock movie. When Töle was almost at the top, our escalation expert Barne and another person crossed the street to follow Töle on the way up. Töle made it. He stood at the very top of the old building, ran a bit to the right and lifted both arms up into a winning pose, accompanied by unrestrained applause. While Töle remained up on the roof of 246 Holtenauer Strasse in a jubilant pose and enjoyed the applause, Hecker pulled out his pocket camera and took a photo for eternity. In the photo, a tiny Töle can be seen in a daring position at the very front of the roof with his arms diagonally upwards, below him the house façade to the right of the scaffolding. When Barne and the third man, who was unknown to me, finally reached the second level, the cops arrived but without flashlights and sirens. Obviously the voyeurs had denounced the climbing punks. We could see that Barne and the third man had doubts for a moment whether they should climb further up to follow Töle or start their descent.

After loud interventions by the cops, the third man came down again. Barne, however, climbed further, to the shock of all eyewitnesses. It was jaw-dropping. We were breathtaken and reacted like little children at a circus. We were already afraid that Töle could stumble and fall down in his euphoria and with the adrenaline generated by the cops. He climbed down the scaffold floor by floor from the roof. Barne, on the other hand, had no mercy for us, the voyeurs and the cops and, to the horror of all eyewitnesses, climbed higher and higher. Barne and Töle met on the next platform and exchanged briefly. When Barne finally reached the top of the roof, we saw him run to the right, orientate himself briefly, and look around until he finally disappeared on the roofs of Kiel. He wasn't in the mood for the henchmen.

Töle and the third man were now threatened with serious consequences because of their behaviour. The boys in blue rigorously and despotically grilled the manneken and took down the personal details. The coppers were aware that there was still a third person on the roof who made no effort to climb down. They wanted to know his name, but Töle and the third man kept quiet and did not reveal Barne's name. The cops seemed somewhat confused and strained, for they did not really know what to do. Meanwhile, Barne was fleeing over the roofs. The cops briefly explored the possibility of ascending the scaffold. More silent World War pensioners appeared at the windows, staring, petrified and outraged. Barne had made use of the opportunity to disappear up on the roof without them being able to record his personal details. Concerned, we watched the events from the opposite side of the road. A short time later, the cops discussed their course of action. They seemed to be worried that Barne had escaped. In their eyes he had to be caught as quickly as possible to deter any potential imitators, but the cops were powerless. One of the cops finally came to the part of the road opposite us and screamed in the direction of the Dudda beverage market,

      "Do you know the person up on the roof?"

Some shook their heads.

      "Well, listen, he must be known to you."

We denied it timidly,

      "We've never seen him before."

That was of course a lie. This time the henchmen at least addressed us with some respect. We already expected that some lectures were to follow:

      "This is not a children's playground,"

and

      "That's not a climbing frame either!"

We hummed and hawed a little. A cop finally screamed over to us,

      "Couldn't you have stopped that?"

During these discussions several cars whizzed past on the road between us and the henchmen. After this rebuke we decided to take to our heels as well. The cops consulted with their police station on how to proceed further. Who knows how long they waited in total, and whether they were going to call it a day or not. They probably suspected that Barne would soon have to take the same route back. Far from it. The next time we met Barne, we all cheered him. Some had assumed that he had been hiding on the roof for hours, only to descend the same scaffolding again later. Others suspected that he had found an open roof hatch. Soon it leaked out that he actually took another route from the block of houses, which he wanted to keep to himself at all costs, and he may have even made it across the roofs to Seeblick Street or even to Quinckestrasse. We were incredibly proud of his masterpiece.

That was one of our last big beer vending machine parties. Unfortunately, a short time later, without exception, all beer vending machines were radically abolished and dismantled once and for all due to the new "law for the protection of youth in public". Not only the boozing youths were shocked. With much melancholy we enjoyed our last beers there. The Kohl government had hit us hard.

The arrest on the bus

We met Zosch, the "Red One", in Old-Schilksee, where we had a little sit-in and sipped Grasovka. At that time we came up with the weirdest ideas and even drew up a contract, in which we all solemnly promised to meet again in 30 years. Each one of us signed the contract with his own blood, which we performed gruesomely.

That year we were more into the folk punk of the Pogues. They had just released their second LP, on the cover of which the band members were shipwrecked. In no time at all we became lyrically accurate and sang along loudly with the most important of their songs. After the sit-in on that day, we went to the bus stop at Langenfelde to take line 64 towards the city. Equipped with a few beers to maintain our party mood, we increased our alcohol level with each bus stop we passed. As usual, the bus ride became a small party on the back seats of the bus. On our way over the large canal bridge, the Red One started to sing the Pogues' song, "Navigator". Whoever knew the lyrics joined in, and Zosch helped us to get started when a line of text got lost. In Kiel-Wik came the first announcement from the bus driver,

      "The singing of songs on the bus is forbidden!"

This caused us and other passengers to laugh loudly. After a short break from singing, which we used to compose ourselves after the laughter, we sang "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda". Zosch helped us loudly as a lead singer whenever we forgot the lyrics. The bus driver boiled with rage and made another desperate attempt to stop the singing.

      "Please refrain from singing at the back of the bus immediately. This disturbs the driver and other passengers."

We laughed even more, and we saw the driver's face angrily staring at us through the interior mirror. We were not intimidated by the third announcement and just kept singing. But the anti-war song by The Pogues got the driver so upset that he threatened to call the cops. This caused roaring laughter again which finally made the driver alert the coppers a few moments later. I don't even remember where we originally wanted to get off when the bus suddenly stopped halfway between the streets of Lehmberg and Jägersberg, right in front of the kebab shop. It was directly at that spot, that, years ago, a Friedrichsorter named Spike attacked me with a bread knife because Ringo had pinched his girlfriend.

As if out of nowhere, there were now a huge number of police at this very spot, some in civilian clothes. In addition, apocalyptic-looking vehicles and KVAG task forces were sighted. There were police cars everywhere in front of and behind the bus. We stopped the singing immediately. A giant policeman rushed onto the bus, who didn't speak a word but immediately instilled respect and fear into us because of his resolute action. He wore neither a cap nor police lettering on his leather jacket, nor any emblems. The bus driver forced his way through to the back, while a cluster of hungry police officers formed outside the last entrance. They were clearly in the majority and eagerly awaited us. The bus driver pointed at everyone involved, and the giant policeman silently grabbed the first one by the arm and dragged him to the door. He grasped very firmly and painfully at the upper arm, just above the elbow joint between muscle and bone, and squeezed like a vice. This seemed like a typical police grip. On the pavement the juvenile offender was received by the other drooling henchmen. The giant cop went back and grabbed the next one – again like a vice – until we all finally stood outside. They probably didn't want to enter the bus all at the same time in order to avoid trouble, but why such a large police force was mobilized and why the KVAG troop was involved remained a mystery to us. The bus driver set the bendy bus in motion again and drove into the night. Now we were in the middle of this absurd crowd of people. The masquerade of the police minions became annoying, but the situation did not escalate, although the henchmen were keen on it. We remained peaceful and did not let ourselves be provoked. This was probably due to the fact that we had sung that great song on the bus, which made us feel peaceful inside. In the crowd of minions, every single person on the pavement was interrogated briefly without the right to argue. All personal details were recorded. There were a few words of caution until we were finally allowed to leave. As a goodbye, a top-level cop warned us not to mess around again.

      "If you become conspicuous again tonight, we will take you to the police station."

Typically they said "Du" to us, while we strictly referred to them as "Sie"[2]. Neither subpoenas nor summonings were later sent out to us. The henchmen had once again made a mountain out of a molehill. Nevertheless the police had registered us again. A few years later – by chance? – the giant policeman became the brother-in-law of one of the folks registered on that day. That policeman was strict, family-conscious and despotical. His father was a police dog squadron leader whose father was a KL commander.

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[1] "The true Heino" (Der wahre Heino) was a punk entertainer who was sued by the real Heino, a German traditional folk singer who sold millions of records at that time. "The true Heino" illegally imitated the official Heino and was therefore sentenced to pay a fine of 10,000 DM.

[2] In German there are different forms of address in conversations and correspondence. If your conversational partner is close to you, a family member or a friend, you can say "Du" (you). If he or she is unknown to you or in a higher rank of society you have to say "Sie" instead of "Du".