Episode Twenty Six

Get Your Kicks
With Baureihe 146

La, la la la la la la, la la la la la la, la la la la la la. That’s how that Toten Hosen song goes – you know, the one with the train in the video. I mean I know it’s a kettle, but still it’s a catchy tune, and given the low priority the German people place on trainspotting, then little wonder they simply stick any old engine on the film, and never mind what more discerning people might make of it. I mean there’d be Hell to pay if the telly people messed up something like the colour of a football strip, or a car or a motorbike or something, and I know they fobbed us of with late mark Spitfires in Reach For the Sky, and Spanish-built Buchon’s instead of Messerschmitts in Battle of Britain, but at least they made the effort. Trains always seem to get the brush off from the wise and good people in the media, which is a shame as they are fine things and deserve better.
Now I’ve lost my thread.
Oh yes, that song. It’s a German song about travelling, and thus we find ourselves driven inexorably on into the harrowing story of Blyth Power, abroad for the first time since these chronicles began.
It all began in the Northern fastness of Blyth HQ where TDL and Annie loaded the van and prepared to embark upon the first leg of the ridiculous journey. Ridiculous indeed – you don’t know the half of it, for our heroes were preparing to travel from Harrogate to Geneva via Kettering, Brixham, Warminster, Maidstone and Düsseldorf.
This may strike you as being very silly, but rest assured there was a good reason.
The fine grey Transit so beloved of Blythwatch readers is not passed for European usage. The problem is that although it has lovely comfortable seats in a tidy row behind the driver, there is no little window through which the passengers may gawp at the mountains, or whatever geographical delights they may be passing at any particular time. This in itself is not a problem, as Blyth Power generally detest mountains, perceiving them rather as things to be avoided than gazed upon in awe. Possibly a window in the back might have been useful to view such places as Tyne Yard or Bescot in passing, but in general it is an extravagance the need of which is vastly overrated.
This is not a view shared by the European Commission, who regard the presence of a seat in the back of the van without an adjacent window as an abomination, a death trap, and an act of sheer madness. Thus a van presenting itself overseas without the addition of such a window stands in grave peril of incurring the displeasure of the local beadles. It also costs twice a much on the ferry, because without the window in the back it cannot pass muster as a minibus, but must travel as a commercial vehicle.
For crying out loud. Thus it was that Blyth were obliged to borrow a van with the requisite windows in order to fulfil those engagements booked by the be-suited one on foreign soil. Not wishing to pay the going rate for one of HVC’s overpriced monstrosities, they elected instead to borrow one from their old chum Mr Dave Blomberg of Nozzle, Dance on Glass, and some other band of Devil worshippers fame. This was super, as he is a good egg and has a lovely shiny Mercedes with simply oodles of windows. The downside is that he keeps it in Brixham.
Look it up in a map book.
Most people in Brixham, so TDL lectured us on the way down, have trawlers. Not so Blommers. He has a fine white Mercedes, and thus it was that day one of the odyssey was a masterpiece of bizarre logistics and insane ramblings, not aided by the Highways Agency’s decision to close the M42 for maintenance on a Tuesday afternoon.
Thus it was an early start and onwards to Kettering, wherein Bambi, Steven and Fiona boarded the fine grey Transit. From there it was full steam ahead to Brixham, via the backwaters of a lengthy diversion through Redditch, and with only a couple of hours lost on the schedule things were looking good until – whoops! – seven miles short of Brixham a most spectacular blow-out ensued.

Good job we didn’t sling out that funny bendy rod that was under the driver’s seat. We looked on enthralled as the RAC man demonstrated the correct way to remove the spare wheel from the bottom of this particular mark of Transit. Heath Robinson would have been proud, and it was with only the briefest of delays that we sped onward to Brixham, minus one spare wheel, but the richer by one large hardboard Car Boot sign, which a nimble-fingered member of the band found by a nearby piece of waste ground. Jolly good show.

From Brixham, Blyth then proceeded in two vans to the current family seat of Clan Porter, near Warminster, at which point the gear was transferred into the Blommovan, and a night of gracious slumber was had by the weary travellers, who had so far spent a whole day gallivanting up and down motorways, yet were no further from home than Wiltshire. Be patient. Foreign travel will happen eventually.
Next morning it was up with the lark and on to Maidstone with both vans, one of which was to be dumped upon the doorstep of our good friend Mr John Forrester, who is clocking up credits in the Blyth ledger of goodwill and indebtedness at such a rate of knots these days that sooner or later we might as well just sign the whole business over to him and appoint him dictator for life. It’s OK John, we wouldn’t visit such a fate upon you really. Honest. Latest in a long line of favours for we which we are in the Forrester debt was the box of little orange flavour cakes that greeted our return, but that is a long way in the future yet, and all the breadth of Western Europe lay between us and their tangy sweetness. Twice in fact.

From Maidstone it was on to Dover, and a rather nice ride on the Norfolk Lines ferry to Dunkirk. This was a very civilised trip, and our fellow passengers consisted largely of silent Dutch lorry drivers, which was a blessed relief from the drink-seeking hordes of Townsend-Thoresen and Sally Lines. Oh sweet blessed Jesu! There was even a film, and it was free! Not the kind of service we have come to expect from these floating motorway-service-stations-from-Hell.
It would be entirely accurate to say that nothing happened next, and the second day’s destination, Meerbusch, near Düsseldorf, was reached by mid-evening.

Therein we all lay down our sweet heads in the lush apartments of Herr von Schnak, our beloved friend and colleague Dirk.
Alas and alack! No hauptbahnhofs yet for your heroes. Not for days to come either, for first of all there was the terrible ordeal of the Geneva gig to get through. Trial first by autobahn, then by skinhead, and then finally by sleep-deprivation courtesy of an atomic bunker under the city centre. Here are the ten steps to Heaven:

1. Travel in Blommovan for eight hours, pausing only for an occasional sausage and looking out of the windows at the occasional fleeting Bundesbahn E-lok. Arrive in Geneva extremely tired and present selves and equipment at L’Usine.
2. Find venue and discover that instead of the smart well-appointed art centre kind of place you had hitherto expected to find in a city like Geneva, L’Usine is in fact an oversized toilet. The event is a three-day Anti-Racist Festival organised by a group called Rude Boys Unity. This suggests a presence of short-haired folk, and indeed this is borne out on our arrival, which is greeted by about three hundred skinheads all unloading musical instruments and amplifiers into the venue. Fight for parking space after tricky load in.
3. Examine facilities. Toilets are awash with numbers 1 and 2. Backstage is too small for the amount of bands trying to function in it, and what little there was in the way of food and drink is pretty much gone. Everything seems to be too difficult for our hosts to get their heads round, especially the preposterous notion that we are absolutely shagged and want to go somewhere and sleep after we have played.
4. Get fed. Bloody vegetarian mafia has been here again. At least it’s not vegan.
5. Play to indifferent crowd of surly skins and punks. A couple of dozen people really like the band, so TDL throws in Burning Joan and some other folkies just to annoy the rest of the mohicanned brutes who are milling about acting bored in French. Sound is beastly. Everything is beastly.
6. Five hours after our arrival, establish that there is still no answer to the can-we-sod-off-and-sleep query. Eventually someone is found who can guide us to the accommodation ‘after the next band but one.’ It is now 23.00.
7. At 01.00 finally manage to leave venue, although it did involve fighting the van through a milling crowd of skinheads and broken glass, in convoy with two other vans, one containing a German band also in search of a bed, the other driven by a guide. It has only taken five hours to persuade someone to spend twenty minutes showing us where we are staying.
8. Arrive at accommodation, right in the city centre. Then spend half an hour trying to find a parking spot. Everyone now really fed up.
9. Accommodation turns out to be a state owned atomic bunker, used mainly by Switzerland’s territorial army, but seemingly available for rent. It has decontamination chambers, airlocks, communal washrooms and the most enchanting windowless bunkrooms, with three-tiered bunks sleeping sixty to a room. Crawl wearily into bed. Wake up forty times throughout the night as ever more pissed people come back from the venue and fill up the bunker. Everyone pisses in the communal wash troughs. Everyone belches gassily all night, everyone farts and everyone’s feet stink in the pitch-black dormitory. Some French git wakes everyone up at 07.00 going on about croissants. He is told in no uncertain terms to be silent.
10. Leave town. As quickly as possible, foregoing the invitation to return to the venue for breakfast, and fighting off the skinheads trying to climb into the van because they think it’s the shuttle bus heading back to L’Usine.

Thus we left Geneva in a state of mild trunch, and only a brief pause in Bern to visit the bear pits raised the collective spirits. In fact the aforementioned bear pits were the only reason Blyth went to Switzerland in the first place, as we all wanted to visit the birthplace of Mary Plain. There was a nasty moment around the Eastern end of Lake Constance when Old Man Porter, nose in a book, missed the turn off for Germany, and we thundered South for half an hour. Eventually, however, we made it to Ülm, where our next engagement was for a wild Saturday night at Betegeuse, that city’s premiere venue for happening bands, and also for the likes of Blyth who had played there in the past.

The warmth of welcome and the lack of difficulty in getting things sorted did not pass unnoticed. The support band, Sassafras, were a fine and splendid bunch, the food was good, the sound was good, and everyone was happy.

Best of all was the arrival of old friends from the distant past. Being back in Germany was like coming home again…

A civilised night’s slumber, then, in gentler surroundings. Thanks to our host Pascal for the use of his premises, and thanks to the Deutsches Bundesbahn for simply being there the following morning.
Sunday featured a leisurely drive to Rosenheim, in the deep South. Painstakingly ignoring the mountains, our famous five made their way to the Vetternwirtschaft, which like the band themselves has lasted down through the ages.

Support that night was from Never Mondays, some of whom we recalled from long ago. As in Ülm everything was most splendid, and TDL was pleased to photograph what he assumes to be an ex-Deutsches Reichsbahn Br 220 in what remains of the engine sheds. The beast was in some private company’s livery, and if anyone can shed some light on its true identity, the old fool would be cock-a-hoop. Many thanks to Andrea for the very wonderful pumpkin soup and splendid accomodation.

Monday dawned. We like Mondays. We usually have our Monday mornings on Thursday afternoons, so Monday holds no terrors for the Blyth Corporation and its members. This particular Monday kicked off with a leisurely trip to Rosenheim Hauptbahnhof, which provided sausage and good cheer, not to mention a fine selection of DB souvenirs, and a Br 101 with IC2298 to Frankfurt. Oh, and fancy that! Another ex-DR Br220 in the Bw! Jolly hockey sticks!
Monday was a day off, and the plan was to spend it in an idle meander back to Meerbusch, pausing perchance to take in any points of historical interest along the way.

Being serious students of 20th century history our chaps elected to drop into Dachau, which was just off the route. Being Monday, the curators of the memorial museum there were also having a day off, as indeed was everyone in the town itself. Thus we proceeded unedified on to Meerbusch, although not without taking note of the bizarre and somewhat unsettling motorway signpost directing motorists to Dachau itself.

Tuesday broke upon us all in the form of a great and almighty lie-in. Not even the prospects of Br146s on the Düsseldorf-Minden services could lure the boring one out of his bed before noon, so it was no trains at all that day, but just a leisurely trot down the now-familiar A61 Autobahn to Manheim, wherein our old chum Mr Rob Azari had arranged a date at the Old Vienna, a venue Blyth had visited in the past, and one we were looking forward to on account of its reputable cuisine.

Nor were we disappointed. The old man practically welled up when confronted with a brimming plateful of spiegeleier mit bratkartoffeln, and the rest of us were likewise glutted.
What a cracking night it turned out to be too, notwithstanding TDL’s increasingly bizarre German introductions to the songs. It’s terrible the things a chap can get away with when there’s no one to tell him what’s best. In the past there was always some sensible person telling him that his German was crap and that no one would understand it. Now he just waffles on regardless, which is pretty much what he does in the UK anyway, so we might as well let him get on with it eh?

It was a well-fed and well-watered band who bedded down in Mr Azari’s fine flat that night, and a well content Mr Porter who set his alarm for six o’clock, because the following day, Wednesday, and a day off, was all set to be the first big date with a real hard-core German Bahnhof. Mmmm. We can hardly wait

From Mr Porter’s Diary:

Up before dawn and off to the HB. Dark. Grim. Wet. Got to Manheim Hauptbahnhof by 07.30, which was really stupid because the first train it was actually light enough to photograph was a 09.44 departure to Mainz. Drank buckets of strong coffee and consumed yards of sausage. 10.16. Nailed my first Br146. Very nice piece of kit. 146 006. Also had 001 during the course of the morning. They seem to run to Bensheim and Mainz. From Ludwigshaven. Br143s, 218s and 110s are also in evidence. More sausage. More coffee. One of the high spots of the day (there are many) is 151 125, which pauses with an oil train in just the right quarter. Bang to rights. I had the brute. It was good. Met up with rest of band. Had to leave. Bugger.

And leave we all did, as some of the chaps had a hot date in Tilburg. Annie and the train-glutted Porter had a quiet night-in chez Dirk in Meerbusch, while the rest accompanied the Worthy German to Tilburg to see a musical performance by the beat group Motorhead.

Dirk seemed to be in possession of a piece of laminate card that miraculously opened all doors, so our gallant few got backstage and apparently encountered the great man himself.

Either that or their photo-manipulation skills have improved since the last time they tried to superimpose a picture of Jessi Adams onto one of Joseph Porter and came up with a portrait of Mr Punch. The evening was, we are able to confirm, well spent.

From Mr Porter’s Diary Pt II:

Up before dawn and off to the HB. Dark. Grim. Arrived in Düsseldorf Hbf before light. Sausage. Coffee. Then the sun rises and I find myself in the eye of the storm with locomotives hurling themselves into my lens from every angle. More sausage. More coffee. More Br146s. Enough said. You had to be there.

Once again the gricing activities were curtailed by the need to travel. In this instance it was onwards to Münster, in which freezing city the band were to rendezvous with the very lovely Barnstormer, for a wild night of rock in what turned out to be a former industrial building whose sole saving grace was the amusing electric hoist which we were able to employ to load in the equipment.

Oh dear. It looks like we have another ten-point whinge coming on…

1. All was well until the other support band arrived. They were very late and didn’t seem to think it was a problem.
2. They hadn’t even brought plectrums or drumsticks, although a look at TDL’s fine kit was enough to send them scurrying off to find a floor tom. Decorum suggests it is customary to bring, at the very least, a snare drum.
3. They were one of those dozy bands of youths who you know are going to annoy you when you see them mishandling the microphone stands and treading all over the cable jacks. (It was the Blyth PA).

4. They were too loud.
5. Themselves and all their rude pissed friends broke our guitar amp, damaged several leads and drank all the beer.
6. There was no earthly reason why they were there, other than that they were friends of the promoter.
7. Inexplicably they failed to take all their crap off the stage with them.
8. They had really, really, awful hair.
9. The part of their performance upon which most care had been lavished was the bit where they attempted to set alight to a small toy dog. This in itself was pisspoor, but added to the above exacerbated our collective trunch to a degree hitherto unsurpassed.
10. They were fannies with ears.

Following these delights, we parted company with Barnstormer and wound up staying in a flat full of young people having a party, in which we were to be billeted in the living room.

Most of the young people were very nice, and kindly took their revels to the kitchen when we expressed a yearning for slumber (although it wasn’t yet 3am), but there was one disgraceful incident on the couch as we were trying to sleep in which a pair of teenagers copulated noisily. We are unhappy to report that the union did not seem to result in any lasting relationship, as five minutes after its completion the gentleman was in the kitchen and the young lady, next morning, was nowhere to be found.

Not that Blyth had any time to worry about this. The following morning was spent by some in a frantic attempt to repair or replace damaged equipment, and by others – or at least one – in a frantic visit to the Hauptbahnhof in an effort to secure a couple of shots for the record in the scarce time available before loading out from the previous night’s venue and setting off on the long trek to Berlin.

Oh most blessed and civilised of towns. Our return to the Schockoladen was blessed with good food, good company, and the best onstage sound the band can remember having ever. It was a splendid and pleasant homecoming, and the hospitality was rich. We shall return.

From Mr Porter’s Diary Pt III:

Up before dawn and off to the HB. Dark. Grim. Arrived before light. Sausage. Coffee. How best to spend the time before the need to drive on to Chemnitz curtails these happy hours? Ticket bought at 07.20am is valid on all lines in Berlin area for two hours. Then it turns to pumpkin. Take trip out to Lichtenberg to spy out the land. Drat. Locos in BwLichtenberg now stable out in the yard, as opposed to the easy access of my previous visits. Rare German spotter on Lichtenberg Bahnhof, when questioned, informs me that the Ostbahnhof stabling point is also no more. Bugger. This is because Ostbahnhof is no longer a terminus, as in the good old days of the partition, so loco changes no longer happen there. Pish. Find good spot on Ostbahnhof and stay there for most of morning, save last minute trip back out to Lichtenberg for another look at sidings. Coffee. Sausage. Back to load out. Get in van. Chemnitz. Bugger.

Herr Dirk had accompanied us to Münster and Berlin, and he was vociferous in his distaste for Lower Saxony as we wended our way south. First destination of the day was to be Colditz, in which forsaken town there is, of course, the famous castle.

Not so famous to the Germans it seems. Apparently very few of them are aware of its place in the hearts of those British people still obsessed with ITV programmes, stiff upper lips, and giving Jerry a pasting. It seemed silly not to call in when we were passing so close, however. One elderly lady, it seems, is aware of the town’s significance. ‘I will catch you all,’ she informed us as she swept past on her bicycle, while we promenaded beneath the castle walls.

Chemnitz is to be noted chiefly for the fine accommodation provided by the local Socialist party, who seem to be unaware that they are now part of the capitalist West, and very kindly allowed the promoter to billet a smelly English band in their nice community centre. Thanks comrades.

From Mr Porter’s Diary Pt IV:

Up before dawn and off to the HB. Dark. Grim. Arrived before light. Sausage. Coffee. Were going to go back to Düsseldorf last night originally, so that Steven, Dirk and Fiona could go to see a football game. Game rescheduled, hence spare Sunday morning in Chemnitz. Up before dawn and of to the HB. Dark. Grim. Arrived before light. Sausage. Coffee. Did I already do that? Bugger. Chemnitz Hbf is like Leeds – before they remodelled it. Half a dozen bay platforms full of multiple units, and a few through platforms. Poor light. Not much happening. Single desultory shunter lurking in amongst stabled DMUs. Leeds. Bugger.

All that remained then was to return, via a jolly fine dinner chez Reinheldt and night’s kip in Meerbusch, to Maidstone, where Johnny F. and Alex treated us to those aforementioned rather fine orange fairy cakes. Hurrah. Then it was back to Harrogate, via Ketters, with all the gear back in the Blyth van, while Steven took Blommers’ Merc off to Norfolk to sell it to white slavers. Apparently the savages out in that bleak and barren tract have never seen a motor vehicle before, and have whisked it off to a remote island in the broads where they worship it as a God. There you are. Who needs foreign travel when there is such diversity at home?