I am not sure what I was expecting from the Oktoberfest but it was huge. There were rides and sideshows and food wagons and the place was heaving with people, but the real action is to be found in the so-called ‘tents’.  There are about 18 such ‘tents’ owned by the major Bavarian breweries. There is not a piece of canvas in sight, they are made of wood and cement and just taken down and stored when the beerfest is over. Each one of these ‘tents’ contains literally thousands of people standing on the tables singing and dancing and drinking beer from litre steins.  After about three litres of beer it was chucking out time and along with one of my new American friends, Burke ‘the Hippy’, I went on one of those rides that takes you a couple of hundred yards up in the air and then lets you plummet like a stone, putting the brakes on just before you come to an untimely and sticky end.  The view from the top was superb though. After that I somehow misplaced the hippy and was somewhat concerned because I knew he did not speak German and as far as I could tell had only two words of English, ‘awesome’ and ‘dude’. Even in my well-oiled state, however, I was fairly sure I knew where the hotel was and headed back that way.

   Generally speaking when choosing a landmark it is best to select one that is fairly permanent, landmarks such as cars and people with beards are not normally recommended. However there are exceptions to every rule.  Weaving happily along the road I espied Jack ‘Das Wunderkind’ Passion, so called because in the space of two years he has managed to grow a huge red beard that he could probably tuck into his socks.  He asked me where I was going and I explained that I was returning to the hotel.
“That hotel?” he enquired pointing to one I had just passed. There is surely a patron saint of the steaming drunk.  Had I not bumped into Das Wunderkind when I did I would probably still be walking down that same road even now and well on the way to Norway.

   As far as I knew Ted and I were the only two Handlebar Clubbers there. But at breakfast the next morning I espied a familiar maroon coloured tie with neat white handlebars on it being sported by an American wearing what I can only describe as a Mississippi riverboat gambler’s moustache.  It transpired that I was speaking to one Jackson Eldridge, member of the Handlebar Club and indeed American ambassador to the Ministry of Moustaches (a body with whom I myself long ago burnt my bridges by publicly describing the Attree antiques emporium as a junk shop).  Well his (Jackson’s) credentials were clearly impeccable so then there were three.

   After breakfast, we went on a walking tour of Munich. I managed to switch tours four times before I got really bored with the inside of churches and headed off toute seule, and a good job too as the glockenspiel in Mariaplatz only goes off four times a day and I got to enjoy the entire spectacle whilst those that stayed with the Teutonic tour guides were still examining church number twenty. Later it was back to the beer fest. One of the tents had a huge working model above it of an ox on a spit being turned by a fraulein with cantilevered bosoms that extended when she bent forwards. Obviously it was ox for dinner.  There were eight of us there and we ordered the spread for six and there was still way too much even if I did do my best and went back for fourth helpings. Still I needed to leave some room for the beer.

   It was probably as well that we left the Oktoberfest after three days whilst I still (arguably) had a few brain cells left and on Thursday (I think, it was all something of an alcoholic haze) we all took the train up to Berlin.  To our surprise, we were met at the station by various German beard clubs with flags and trumpets and the inevitable photographers. Back at the hotel, we met Mike and Mary Solomons and had dinner in the hotel restaurant. It is perhaps worth mentioning that a delegation from Alaska, who are clearly desperate to have a 2009 world championships held there, bought a round of drinks for the entire restaurant.   (I was on the red wine by then having drunk three months worth of beer in the previous three days.)

   Then next morning I found Steve and Keri and outside was Rodders drinking a bucket of some obscure German alcoholic fluorescent lime-green concoction that he was trying to inflict upon anyone that came within range.  I then climbed aboard beardy Olsen’s bus for a tour of Berlin but (and this was something of a recurrent theme) wandered off and got lost 10 minutes after the first stop. I pottered about Berlin for a while and had a passable lunch in the revolving restaurant at the top of the TV tower with a couple of Swiss that I got chatting to in the queue. I was also incredibly lucky that the mad doc had given me a card with the name of the hotel on it. I would have been completely stuffed otherwise. As it was, the worst thing that happened to me during the entire trip was accidentally spraying shaving foam all over myself under the impression that it was deodorant.

   There was a welcoming speech that evening.  It started late and went on for ages and Ted and Rodders slunk out in the middle to get Alf from the airport, and next day was the day of the world championships.

   For the championships most people were in fancy dress. I was in the English category and had brought with me a ten quid felt stovepipe hat, a Halloween cloak and a sprongy thing that sprung open to become a cane. These, in conjunction with my normal tux, I was hoping would convey the essence of the sort of villainous Edwardian cove that would as soon tie a defenceless damsel to the railway lines as not. Rodders was simply wearing a union jack waistcoat and a huge badge that said in German ‘I’m only here for the beer’. Ted was in his, now famous, Fu Manchu outfit, Steve in cricketing whites, Mike Solomons was in his red toastmasters outfit, Jackson was a sort of mad hatter (thought he vehemently denies it) with a multi-pronged moustache and Alf was just in his best blazer, having wisely eschewed Solomons’ advice and removed the bombing of Berlin medal first for political reasons. The magnificent seven were all set and the judging began. Steve was the first Englishman ever to win the English moustache category and Ted won the Fu Manchu class. It would be nice to report that I did not come absolutely last in my category; it would also (however) be completely inaccurate.  None the less it was a great haul for the Handlebar Club, the headlines in the local paper the next day being ‘Germany wins 14 of the 17 beard categories’, Toot being the only American to bag a first.

  On the Sunday (well I think it was Sunday) there was a meeting of the World Beard and Moustache Association where Ted resigned as president of the world and Bruce ‘whiskers’ Roe was handed the poisoned chalice. It was a tied vote as to where to hold the 2009 world championships between Alaska and Liechtenstein. It is all hugely political, the German beard federation having decided unilaterally that future world championships will be held in Germany and poor old Whiskers has quite a job ahead of him to untangle the pickle that everything is in. The whole meeting took about five hours (although it did not seem like it as thankfully beer was served at the tables) after which the only course of action was to get drunk. After the meeting we went to a pizza place and Keri (bless her little heart) noticed a bearded Italian eating all alone and invited him to the table we were at. He spoke no English or German but kept up a solid outpouring of Italian, which no one understood, throughout the entire meal and seemed to take great offence if anyone did not give him their undivided attention. After dinner, as a personal favour to Mr and Mrs Whiskers, I and a couple of others went back to their room and assisted them with the disposal of a couple of bottles of red wine that they did not wish to take back with them. Under the circumstances I thought it was the least I could do.

   The following day all the competitors were invited up on the stage at the Brandenburg gate to be involved in the reunification celebrations, which was quite an honour. After that I went and visited the reported highlights of the tour from which I had become detached a few days previously such as the holocaust memorial and the check point Charlie museum then popped back to the gate where I had a few more drinks with Beardy, Dali and the mad doc before heading back to the hotel. I walked so much that I ended up with a blister on my foot. This was the day after the club chiropodist had headed back as well.  Oh well, ‘C’est la vie’ as they say in Germany.

   It is not every day you see a tiger riding a horse. Tuesday was our last day there and our flight (a £10 special from EasyJet) did not leave until 9 in the evening so after saying goodbye to everyone Ted, the hippy and myself went to the circus. We then picked our stuff up at the hotel, which had kindly allowed us to leave it there and headed off to the airport and (for me at least) the thought of sleeping in a bed that you could not use as a surrogate ironing board. The flight was late leaving and it was obvious that we were going to miss the last train to Sedman towers but the splendid Stella had somehow got wind of our late departure (which the pilot was at pains to explain was all the fault of the French) and met us at the airport. What a sight for sore feet she was I can tell you.

  All in all it was a wonderful week. I would like to thank Beardy Olsen for all his hard work and the Bosch for organising a hugely enjoyable event. I made many new friends and would not have missed it for the world. Roll on Brighton 2007. As an afterthought I have still not received a sufficient bribe from Ted for keeping stum about the contents of his passport so I would also like to thank Edward Cecil Sedman (ex president of the world) for being such convivial company throughout the trip as well.