The test

Speaking of Brothels…..well, my helpful post mentioned them a bit.

I recall when I first arrived  in Frankfurt, a beer soaked evening where a “friend”…we  shall call him Englebert*  decided to introduce me to some of the more ilicit pleasures that can be found in this fair city.   Namely, the Red Light District.

Now by introduce me to, I mean he thought it would be funny to take my reserved British self and try to embarrass me by walking me through one of the larger “Houses of negotiable affection”.

Did I say that we were drunk already?   Did I also mention that it seemed like a bloody good idea at the time?   No, ok, let’s move on…

Let me just say that these places do not score marks for planning.    I am not the fittest person in the world and (in this particular one) there are around 6 floors that are only accessible by very steep steps.   This leads me to 2 conclusions, #1 is that the “ladies of negotiable affection” on the lower floors are incredibly busy and, #2 by the time anyone manages to venture to the top floors, they are too knackered to do anything and essentially just throw their money away.   It should be mentioned at this point that the building is also split into two separate wings, more on that later.

Anyway, enough of the architectural critique.   We wander around all the floors, being tempted (read: women trying to negotiate some affection with you by such cunning methods of wearing very little and repeatedly shouting their price, like so many veg market salesmen) by what can only be described as some of the least attractive women I have ever encounterd.   It begs the question as to why so many blokes are around the place, but meh.

That said there were a few stunners amongst them and so with a spring in my step and a whole in my wallet (joking) we left to partake of more beer and laugh at the mottley examples of men wandering in and out of these establishments.

It was at this point that the title of the post becomes apparent.   Englebert hits me with a question.   Quite a simple question you might think to one so widely experienced such as myself.   The question was this:   “Which wing of the building had women in it”

After mulling this over and sensing the inevitability that this is a trick question, I responded thusly “Say what now?”.   This clever response did not elicit the “heh, just kidding” statement that I expected.   My response simply forced Englebert to repeat the question.

Panicked, I started mentally reviewing the negotiables for evidence of meat and two veg’iness and drew a blank.   Finally, I remembered that one wing had decidedly more “negotiables of Asian extraction” than the other.   Armed with this most heinous of sterotypes, I made my guess**.   I was correct, thank <insert deity here>.   I also managed to deliver my response with a cockiness of tone that somehow managed to hide the fact that I had no real clue, so I scored points there too :-D

What is the point of this story?   Nothing really, but if pushed I would have to say that Bangkok now officially terrifies me, no seriously.


Oh, as a PS to this little story, Englebert just reminded me that as we left the negotiables behind and headed for more beer, I was approached by a drunk, female homeless person.   She stank to high heaven and had almost no teeth at all, wearing that seasons classic tramp attire (I personally think of it as a timeless classic).   This woman asked me for money, and when I said no, asked if I wanted to pay her for sex….I don’t think I could understand the type of person that could leave such a building and then agree to go with that, each to their own I suppose (but seriously..WTF!).     After I finished we went for that beer……..

* Too much Eddie Izzard on DVD recently..
** No, I am not telling you which wing….if I meet you, I may test you ;-)

Just call me Mr Helpful..

Carrying on from the initial part of my last post, I bring you a demonstration in helpfulness…

So, it’s the summer of ’06 and the World Cup is underway. England are playing Paraguay here in Frankfurt and the local authorities have setup massive screens on…check it….ON the river. Around 20,000 England fans are lining the river bank and generally enjoying themselves.

I have, without a shadow of a doubt, the two cutest kids on the planet BTW – I submit into evidence, exhibit 1:

No...they are not under arrest. (Left: Zak, Right: Brandon-Lee)

No…they aren’t under arrest, they are doing their bit for international relations :lol: This shot should give you an idea of how many people were on the river bank. Bear in mind that there were the same number (if not more) on the side where I took the photo. Also, exhibit 2 for the cuteness stakes:

Woah Dad, how many lunatic Englishmen?

Unfortunately, all efforts to remove the screen and get it into my apartment were in vain… I did consider building a new apartment simply around the screen, but felt this may have been obvious to the authorities.

Anyhoo – Onto my generous, helpful and, dare I say, caring nature…

On the way back home following the game (and immediately after the 1st pic of this post was taken), I was approached by 2 bright lads from Manchester. I say bright as I was carrying my kids, whilst wearing an England top, carrying and England flag, next to Sarah (also wearing an England top) and with Brandon-Lee on my shoulders (in full England kit) and Zak next to me (full England kit also. Do you see a theme? I am also fairly certain you can guess what comes next….

“Do you speak English?” says bright chap #1 and possible Mensa member.

“No, we are from Botswana and speak very little of the English language you refer to in your initial question” <— Word for word I promise.

“No need to be sarcastic” says bright chap #2 (who at this point raises my opinion of his intelligence by a factor of 10). We will ignore the fact that it is me, so therefore there is every need to be sarcastic…however, he doesn’t know me so I apologise and we continue.

To save you having to read a page of quotes, the upshot is that they would like to know if I know of anywhere they can stay for a couple of nights, the local YMCA* equivelant is full apparently.

Being the helpful soul I am, I direct them to the nearest place that I can think of that has lots of rooms, plenty of beds and a decent maid “service” (ahem)….. I live in Germany, do I really need to explain more than that?

Ok, ok, get on with it.

A brothel….I sent them to a brothel. It would probably be ok if I hadn’t sent them with instructions…

“Head over to the big hotel building over there, the one with the pink curtains on every floor. Head through the pair of giant Betty Boop legs** and into the building. You will have to wander around until you find a room where the door is open. When you do, walk in and that can be your room. If you bump into one of the maids…just ask them how much”

Aren’t I a helpful soul?

And yes, I watched them go over the bridge and into the “hotel”

* Cue references to gay tribute bands and bad karaoke renditions of “In the Navy”
** I shit you not, I will post pics as soon as I remember to take some