WaltzerExperience	:w:
Check us out on the web!	week 137 : 10 September 2001
Archives: 2001 | 2000 | Wage Slave | Kaner Experience | Kaner Memories | Photography | Quote of the Week (coming soon)

Pete's leaving party: 1. Pete Knocks back the Sambucas, 2. Taking photographs of his friends, 3. Martin and Brian's t-shirts suggest they are about to have a race, 4. Shelley and Macky chilling in the Russell Court beer garden.

John's Stag: 1. John and Waltzer enjoying a beer, 2. John's friends in Belgo, 3. The crew in front of the restaurant, 4. Martin in front of a huge screen, 5. The lads after the go-karting.

ANTICS QUOTE OF THE WEEK: Martin: "I'm in the order of the rag." AROUND THE OFFICE: Schoolgirls back to school Share price annoying everyone Quake map never changes SERVICES SEARCH WALTZER Search through the archives. GOOGLE SEARCH Search the web. REMINDER Get e-mailed headlines every Monday. WALTZER.NET CONTRIBUTE The Waltzer Experience is a weekly underground culture magazine for the Clonskeagh office. Waltzer welcomes submissions to waltzer@waltzer.net. ALAN WALL Alan Wall is a graphic designer who's interested in photography, web design, Dublin culture and writing.

News Pete Leaves To see Pete off, we started in the traditional manner: lashing scoops back in O'Sheas. Pete took one of his mates in to meet us, so he helped us throw shots into him in the traditional manner. Unfortunately, Pete tried to put out the flaming Sambuca with his hand. It didn't quite work and ended up setting fire to his hand and the glass. Blowing it made it worse, but he got it under control in time for us to get a picture of him knocking it back. Then it was off to the Russell Court Hotel, picking up Shelley en-route. That night went on till the early hours with a visit to The Vatican. After a very shy presentation, Pete was giving it loads on the dance floor by the end of the night and taking pictures like there was no tomorrow. Pete goes back to college in England to finish his degree. Shane also left this week to go back to college, but I wasn't at his leaving party. John's Stag John chose a great venue for his stag dinner, Belgo in Temple Bar. Among the distinguished guests were Dara Walsh, our old friend from KW design. After a delicious dinner and plenty of beers, we had thrown in £75 too much for the bill, so that set up a tab in The Turks Head. Our reserved area was right in front of the Tennis game, so that gave everyone a good reason to look our direction. The next day we were go-carting in Santry, followed by drinks in Johns and then dinner in a Chinese in Killester. At this point the House crew went back south side, but John's non-work friends continued drinking in the Beachcomer. John gets married this Wednesday.   Now what's up with waltzer.net? I have decided to put the site together on Monday night instead of Sunday. This is just so I can relax at the weekend and not have to worry too much about it. It does take a long time and it's a killer having it hanging over me all weekend. So expect updates on Tuesday from now on. Don't forget you can subscribe to the reminder by filling in your e-mail address to the left. This week last year Fiona McKenna Leaves and Top 10 things people hate about their jobs. Some experimental photos.

That Wrecks Me Buzz That wrecks me Munich An eye-witness account of football hooliganism in Germany last week. By ex-KW designer, Mark Jordan. I've been living in the beautiful city of Munich for nigh on a year now. It's a lovely town: cultured, landscaped, sculpted, clean, friendly, crime free, cheap, high standard of living, your money actually seems to go somewhere and it's just plain fun to be here (all the qualities glaringly absent in Dublin upon my last return home, but I shant bitch about that now). That's why I'm still here, I guess. Last weekend, my love for my new home was given a trial by fire in the form of hordes of English soccer hooligans. Pleasant they are not. Saturday holds much the same function as Saturday anywhere else in the occidental world - shopping (except the curious Bavarians insist that all shops shut at 4 pm on the noggin). So town gets pretty packed with Muencheners on a mission. Combine this with the thousands of Japanese and American tourists who crawl through the city centre pointing at every recalcitrant gargoyle they manage to spot, there is absolutely no point in trying to negotiate town between the hours of 3 and 5. So to ease the pent-up tensions of powershopping, I invariably drop into the office for an hour or two and shoot people in Counter-Strike. Last Saturday was a little different though. Munichs Olympic stadium hosted a world Cup qualifier between England and Germany. Now, I need explain no further what that means. Age-old rivals and football titans clashing on home turf for the first time in over 30 years. Intense stuff indeed. English fans have a reputation for being a wee bit enthusiastic in their preparations for matches. Nevertheless, little was I prepared for the eye-opening afternoon of September 1st 2001. Making my way through town towards the office, eagerly anticipating shooting terrorists, I rounded a corner and walked straight into a Sky One 10pm Special - "The English Hooligan abroad - what we do when we're in Germany" or "How we got our reputation for Hooliganism". Clustered in their hundreds outside a MacDonalds, drinking beer out of paper cups (see Pulp Fictions Royale with Cheese scene), were English fans, decked out in all the St. George crosses the eye could take. Directly opposite them on the other side of the street thronging the entrance to a beer hall was an equally large, loud and drunken fellowship of German fans. Things were starting to hot up. The ever more rambunctious England fans became bolder and bolder, venturing with each new tune a little further across the street towards a seemingly nonplussed German faction, who murmurred and continued sipping their beers. All at once, a suitably thuggish looking England fan makes a stumbling run at the German fans, bellowing "No surrender! No surrender!" at the top of his Essex lungs. This does not bode well, for he is met with the wrath of many Germans. And at that the whole street erupts into a chaos of flags and fists. For all of about 30 seconds, before the clomp and trample of running riot police interrupts the mayhem and breaks a few skulls. Continued next column...

Wisely, I decided to move on. Out of the frying pan into the fire. Taking a route to avoid the main square, Marienplatz, I hurried through a maze of back alleys towards work, straight to Flashpoint #1, Ground-Zero. In front of me was gathered a huge crowd of over 1000 German fans, blocking the way to the office. The only thing to do was wade through, muttering politely everytime a drunken mullet spilled his beer on my shoulders. I emerged from the crowd and stumbled right into a phalanx of 50 heavily armed and armoured riot police, eyeing me through their visors with intent. The only thing that set me apart from the crowd was the copy of "The Lord of the Rings" in my hand, as opposed to the beerstein in everybody elses. Screwing the little courage I had left to the sticking place, I politely asked the policeman on the far left if I could pass. To my eternal surprise he smiled and stepped aside. Directly in front of me stood another phalanx of police, their backs to me, truncheons drawn holding a wall of England fans back, their swollen red faces spouting every possible profanity the English language could muster. The song "You gave us foot and mouth, you bunch of filthy Krauts" seemed to be a big favourite. Spotting a gap to the left, I waited 'til the scuffle had moved away from my window of opportunity and jumped through. I got into the office, a wee bit shaken and bewildered by all the excitement and crammed a fag into my mouth. Sitting on the window ledge, I peered down into the pub next door at the mass of flag waving english football fans as they sang "No surrender to the IRA" at passers-by. Around ten stood out on the street with their litres of beer in the hand. As if on cue, a group of five or so German fans came singing into our street to the joy of the ever more brazen England fans. Instant stand-off, just add alcohol. The abuse became ever more compound as both sides sought to outdo the other with insults. The thing that I'll never forget is the look of sheer unfaltering confidence on the English fans faces, as if they were uttely convinced that it was their birthright to be there on that street abusing the natives. That look was very quickly replaced by abject and primal fear as over a thousand German fans came marching round the corner up the street. When it became obvious that there was a bar full of abusive Englishmen, the alley quickly became a funnel of taunts and tommy-baiting, as the procession of fans ground to a halt. In a small circle at the pubs entrance, rooted to the spot, transfixed by fear, stood the small group of Englishmen (like that bit in Zulu Dawn), The crowd pressed ever further in on the hapless English and they were shoved to and fro with ever increasing ferocity. The crowd screamed "F**k the English!" repeatedly and it looked like things were about to get very ugly. Objects started flying through the air, aimed at the pub and the Englishmen. One skinhead seemed to be leading the assault on the Brits. Suddenly the crowd parted and a hitherto unseen lone policeman stepped forward and placed himself in front of the English fans, crossed his arms and stood his ground. He shouted frantically into his walkie-talkie. A loud whistle went up and from the bottom of the street some twenty-odd riot police came charging towards the crowd. Instantly the mass surged away and as one sped around the corner with the riot police in hot pursuit. The English fans suddenly reverted back to their previous form and began hurling abuse at the quickly retreating Germans. One German fan turned and approached the English with his hand outstretched as a token of peace. The English fans shoved him backwards as he attempted to shake their hands. He tried three times but they rejected all attempts at peace. Now that wrecks me buzz.

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