HOLIDAY DISASTERS:IN JUNE 1995, when I had no common sense, I was holidaying with two friends in tents in bushes on the grounds of Bremen University. We had been kicked out of our campsite because of the ants.
They’d taken to swarming around the bags of Aldi-purchased food we’d wisely bought at the start of the holiday to save money, but unwisely kept in our sweltering tents. In order to trick the ants, we’d taken to placing our plastic bags of food on home-made wooden spikes outside the tents (the ants managed to climb up the spikes anyway, as anyone with a basic understanding of ants would have realised).
The campsite manager thought this was insane behaviour and asked us to leave.
So there we were, unofficially resident on campus in Bremen, a city about which we were shockingly incurious. We were mainly interested in girls and had been told that there was a lake a couple of miles away famous for revels and parties.
When we arrived at the lake, night was falling and many attractive German students were gathered around festive bonfires. Sadly nobody invited us to join them (possibly because they recognised us as “those strange Irish men who live in the bushes”).
So in order to appear interesting, Friend A (not his real name) suggested we go for a naked swim and I agreed. Friend B (not his real name) decided to stay on the bank.
Like many things in life, skinny dipping isn’t as much fun as it sounds. We splashed about, trying to appear unconventional and free-spirited, but I wasn’t a very good swimmer and the water was cold. Apparently those bonfires weren’t just about aesthetics. Then, at some point during our fake carefree romp, we realised that both Friend B and our clothes had vanished.
Initially we called his name quietly from the water but soon, as the water dropped in temperature, we got louder. “FRIEND B!” I cried. But there was no sign of him. After half an hour we started worrying about hypothermia so we ran from the water to a bush next to a road.
We lay there for a while, clearly visible to passing cyclists. We tried to react casually to their surprised gaze – just two naked dudes lying in a bush, shooting the breeze. After half an hour lying there sporadically screaming (“FRIEND B!“), we realised that he was long gone and that we’d have to go home without pants.
So we stoically ran along the suburban tree-lined road. On seeing car lights advancing, we’d leap into a little ditch to the side. Lying there for the fourth or fifth time, I felt utterly defeated.
“Let’s stay here till morning,” I said. “Fine,” said Friend A. Then his eyes snapped open suddenly and he said, “But it will bright in the morning.” So we continued our textile-less jog home.
The stones hurt our feet. We avoided a police car by diving into a field of long grass, only to find it was nettles (strangely, we didn’t get stung).
I fantasised aloud about finding Friend B asleep in his tent. “Friend B,” I would whisper in my fantasy, gently shaking him awake and looking benignly at him before punching him repeatedly in the face.
It was after running unavoidably by a beer-garden of cheering punters that our inhibitions finally left us. “I quite like this,” said Friend A as we jogged nudely along. “I suppose it’s not that bad,” I admitted. (This was true. I was starting to enjoy it.)
We were by now, near the university in a relatively built-up suburban area. In the distance we saw a familiar hunched figure. It was Friend B, doubled up with laughter.
“Oh thank God,” he said, as our naked selves ran towards him. “I thought you’d drowned.” (Friend B is very melodramatic.) Then he fell over laughing.
“What happened?” said Friend A calmly. “Well,” said Friend B, picking himself up. “After I hid your clothes I went off to ask some German students could I borrow a camera. I wanted to get a photo of you in the nip, you see. But none of them understood what I was saying.” “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Friend A. “What were they going to do, develop your nudey pictures and post them to you?” Friend B looked confused.
“Where are our clothes,” I asked, impatiently. “That’s the thing!” said Friend B almost unable to speak with mirth. “I can’t find them.”
That’s when I kicked Friend B really hard on the arse. Friend A stared at me with what I think was admiration. Friend B soberly gave me his T-shirt and Friend A his jumper and walked solemnly in the direction of the lake to look for our clothes.
We watched him go, standing with our hands on our hips, clothed from the waist up and naked from the waist down (a style popularised by Donald Duck). We looked at each other. Then we looked up at the surrounding apartment building. People were staring down at us from balconies.
We sighed and walked back to our tents in the bushes on the grounds of the University of Bremen, a city I still know very little about.