“I have become a fat blob, like Oscar Wilde”

November 8, 2016 § Leave a comment

“I have become a fat blob, like Oscar Wilde. The fact the bars of Munich that offer nothing have survived, when the bars of Berlin and Vienna that offer everything have been wiped out, is so counter-intuitive that I cannot think of anything else. Men want the anticipation, and the frustration, more than the resolution, and the consummation? These are troubling times that we live in, Jerram.” “Yet then why do you spend all your nights and money in the Scotsman, which offers ‘nothing’ as you put it, when the Soho whores offer you everything for £20?” “I have no answer, but the answer that’s me. I don’t want Esmeraldas who I can pay to sleep with. I would rather seduce Tallulahs to me, maybe that is it. When do you hear a really great song? It is getting more and more rare. How often do you meet a stripper you want to sleep with? That is getting more and more rare as well. Is it our age, or the Age we live in, that is the question.” “What you mean is, was a young man who was fucking his way through the 1870s, was he already jaded and disappointed by the 1880s? Fucking his way through the 1920s already jaded by the 1930s? Fucking his way through the 1970s, already jaded by the 1980s?” “Yes,” said Edward, staring into his Spaten beer. “That is exactly what I mean. I have to react viciously, in order to obtain the freedom that I want. I don’t feel viciously, but I have to enact it. But I cannot. So it goes on.”
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The Uberfliegler. Now Take On Me on the Rechthaler Hof radio

November 8, 2016 § Leave a comment

The Uberfliegler. Now Take On Me on the Rechthaler Hof radio. I think because of Claudia, Abbaesque Agneta with the amazing shaking booty, I will come back to Munich. And as soon as I say these words, The Winner Takes It All, “I don’t want to talk” comes on the Rechthaler Hof radio. Ah, and now Can’t Fight the Moonlight.

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The waitresses at Rechthaler Hof are all to a woman white or silver haired

November 8, 2016 § Leave a comment

The waitresses at Rechthaler Hof are all, to a woman, white or silver haired, so one does not come here for the “crumpet”. Just for the gorgeous food and cold Spaten beer, and peace and quiet to be alone, to think and write. Lamm’s was my favourite bar here in Munich, but sadly that has gone, so I fall back on the Rechthaler Hof.

Nearly 4pm already—I thought this 9 hours between midday hotel checkout and 905 flight would drag appallingly

November 6, 2016 § Leave a comment

Nearly 4pm already—I thought this 9 hours between midday hotel checkout and 905 flight would drag appallingly, but if I get the train at 630 to the airport, I have very little time left. ‘The Streets of London’ now plays here in the Munich Rechthaler Hof. So, best memories of this trip? Blonde Claudia and her incredible shaking booty in Atlantic City. The gorgeous Wiener Rostbraten meals in Rechthaler Hof. That is it really.

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All those women out there who want to marry me just say to me the magic words “Alt Wiener Zwiebel Rostbraten”

October 28, 2016 § Leave a comment

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All there is to life is travelling and preparing to travel. London is just a waiting room

September 28, 2016 § Leave a comment

All there is to life is travelling, and preparing to travel. London is just a waiting room. It is dead for me now otherwise; it is of value only as a waiting room. There is nowhere for me to go in this city anymore. Even the ——– is so miserable. Yet I was miserable in Munich’s Atlantic City and Sexyland, miserable in every place I went in Frankfurt, and miserable in Brussels Empire. The greatest pleasures were the meals I had in Munich Rechthaler Hof and Brussels Grill.

So my expensive journey back begins, via Frankfurt

September 21, 2016 § Leave a comment

So my expensive journey back begins, via Frankfurt. There were two fantastic dancers at Atlantic City, voluptuous black haired Amelia, and gorgeous crazy black-skinned Angel, but I just felt completely unmoved. How I missed the girls of the ——–, even though I can do nothing with them. And so we leave a grey Munich behind. A gorgeous Wiener Rostbraten in the Rechthaler Hof seeing me on my way. To a two-night residency in Frankfurt I am not looking forward to at all. The girls of the ——– seem so sweet to me, I now think, because there is absolutely no hustle for money, as it is the last place left with no private dances. For someone brought up on Josephine Baker, and Anita Berber and Mata Hari, great sex dancers of the stage, the inception of private dances a few years ago was the death knell to the world of Eros as much as the arrival of the internet. How I yearn for the days when a curtain would open, a girl would dance for two songs, and then the curtain would close again. Those were the glory days. The ——– is the closest place remaining to that innocent concept. But it is this innocence that drives me back to Europe to search for bigger kicks which then do not materialise. I am a George IV, a Henry VIII, a glutton and voluptuary, wasting money I no not have on food, drink and women.

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