Hoo-eee! Boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs. Just got back from this year's outing to Oktoberfest. Boy, have I got breasts on the brain! And I'm gay, yet. I shudder (or jiggle) to think what effect it must have on a straight man's mind.
Thought not. The boobs are just too splendid. On the udder hand, traditional German male costume, the famous Lederhosen, do nothing for a fellow's pectoral gifts.
These meaty calves belong to a friend, whom we ran into on Wies'n. I can never look at him the same way in long pants, ever again.
What do you call a hundred-acre party devoted to beer, where women flaunt their breasts, many of them going the full monty? It's a bloke's paradise.
Today, it was supposed to be a bloke's paradise, for blokeage of every persuasion. I planned our 2008 Oktoberfest expedition around Gay Day, the first Sunday.
Trash-glam Lederhosen in the window of a boutique on the swanky Maximillianstraße.
The Hacker-Pschorr Bräuros'l tent is Gay Grand Central. Thousands of the herrliche und queerliche congregate. Many of them get up to a few other -ates. "It's like Sodom and Gomorrah in there," warned a colleague who knew of such things, "and there isn't much Gomorrah."
Aye, it's a brave straight lad that wears a skirt to Oktoberfest on Gay Day.
(At least, I think these lads are straight. They acted straight.
I mean, how many gay guys are straight-acting?)
I tried to get reservations at the Bräuros'l, months in advance. Not much luck for the likes of a newcomer. Most tents offer private reservations to existing customers first, and tables for the first Sunday are tightly held. Many benefactors auction their tables for gay charites.
The boi polloi need to queue up from about 7 am., because by nine, the Überfullt (over full) signs come out. Those plucky lads at PinkTrashTravels braved Munich's early morning autumn weather to secure a spot inside. They link to a video of the day.
Hmmm. The scene looks fun, but not exactly a temple of Sodom. Perhaps there was some actual gayness that I didn't notice. Maybe I just haven't got to the page in the manual where they explain secret gay-type signals, or something.
Gloating gays on the balcony, pouting poofs at the front door.
(Of course, we can't be sure that anyone in this picture is gay, remember.)
(Of course, we can't be sure that anyone in this picture is gay, remember.)
If the meadow were any queerer than usual, it was tough to pick. Some of the bands did numbers in costume or drag, as a token gesture. We saw only one display of overt man-lust, a late-night snog at a schnapps stand, between the two gentlemen below. Schnapps causes homosexuality, if ingested in large enough quantities.
This fellow's shirt says it all. The outlook for sixty-nine was, indeed grim.
Unless you were straight. The sheer volume of beer-fuelled straight horniness swamps any attempt to queer things up. So, here's a picture of a proper Bavarian meat-and-potatoes pash to bring us back to business.
Poor old Master Right wasn't feeling well, so I celebrated in exclusively heterosexual company again this year, albeit gay-friendly to the point of vicarious pride. There was the ever-game Zurika and her hubby, the dry-humoured BeamMeUp. Buddy and recently transplanted San Franciscan Miss de Young. Two long-standing friends from Australia; high-school chum Sonia McMahon, along with her husband, my old law school pal Lord Denning. (I introduced them, as you might guess) And me.
This is an anonymous blog, so everyone needs a witty nickname. But this year, none of us committed the sort of atrocious faux pas that needs to be hidden by anonymity. Why? Seasoned Wies'ners that we were, we started with a breakfast of alcohol-free beer.
It arrives with a warning label around the handle, here modelled on BeamMeUp's thumb. A neighbour of ours, who works in global sales for one of the breweries, hipped us to this trick; he gives the Kellnerin a secret signal to plant him with a softie while the hard stuff helps his customers' resistance melt away.
Everyone followed this rule except Lord Denning. Like many inexpeienced Oktoberfesters, he didn't realise quite how much beer a Maß contained, and didn't know how strong it was. He downed a full Maß in a few quick gulps, and had the pleasure of quietly getting drunk from the inside.
Naturally, that made the rest of us high-order party-poopers. Bavarian Minister-Präsident Günther Beckstein, in an attempt to score some populist street-cred, remarked to the press that having a couple of Maß at Oktoberfest was a doddle. One even might drive home safely, he added. The Bavarian police scolded their commander-in-chief; he retracted the statement.
He does look a bit hung over.
Knowing the attitude of the police to Beckstein's comment, it came as no surprise to see someone offering a breathalyser service at a couple Euros a pop.
The idea had little to do with public safety, though. You earned a certificate so you could boast how drunk you got. Here, Stefan could confirm, with pride, that he was almost four-and-a-half times over the legal limit. I suspect he cheated, by taking a swig just before he blew.
Like last year, we started at the Hippodrome, to do some star-spotting. Once again, we came up a cropper. We had high hopes, because the big celebrity news on the meadow concerned plans for Boris "Boom-Boom" Becker's first big outing with his new fiance.
Munich has a love-hate relationship with this prominent Herzog Park resident. The gossip columns tittilate readers with tales of his indiscretions.
Most notable was an anonymous bonk in a restaurant broom cupboard. A pregnancy ensued, the responsibility for which Becker tried to deny, at first. He retracted when the papers showed pics of the child, with clear evidence of his quite robust genes.
Someone had taken a pot shot at his photo on the wall of the Sekt Bar. The gentleman standing next to me remarked that Boris has always needed a good, strong coach.
Boris found a steadying influence in Sandy Meyer-Wöldman, the 24-year-old daughter of his late manager. Munich approves. The article below says that the couple's Oktoberfest outing showed Boris "in a new role...that of a perfect gentleman." Alas, we came a little early in the day, and missed it.
The headline reads "Sandy's First Love-Litre"
We moved on to lunch at the Weinzelt. A good practice learned last year was to eat a substantial late lunch at one of the gourmet tents. That puts some food in your belly as the sun goes over the yard-arm, and the serious drinking kicks in. The Weinzelt food is drink-friendly, as you can see.
The lady in the green skirt has a rather nice pair of dumplings.
May we return to boobs, for a minute? This little snapshot is a favourite of mine; it rather reminds me of a Breughel painting. Here, a dextrous cad has just removed his girlfriend's bra from underneath her top. You can see him standing in the back row, with the woman at his feet. Her mild objections seem to have been overcome by the sheer silliness of the situation. Her guy tossed the bra in the air, and it landed at the table next door. A middle-aged drunk decided he should try it on. It will be remembered as one of those things that seemed funny at the time.
You may need to embiggen the shot to get the greatest effect. Notice the gent in the top right hand corner, shaking his head, obviously under the influence of too much good taste.
Of course, it didn't take too long to get drunk and start seeing double. Time to go home.
There was only one other stop on the way out. Lord Denning is a bit of a roller-coaster fan, and he had to take a drunken ride in typical Oktoberfest style.
Eck, indeed.
* Dirndl-Boob Deep™ is registered trademark of Zurika World Enterprises, LLC. All Rights Reserved and stuff. Zurika posted extensively about Oktoberfest, including our day out. I have shamelessly stolen several of her links and many of her jokes, with gratitude, and in full knowledge that I owe her a beer.
