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The Russian army is not what it was. To gauge the scale of decline, visit Check-point Charlie, the barrier where Berlin’s split between capitalism and communism was once most evident. On the west side stood American GIs; on the east Soviet guards. These days, with Germany reunited, street vendors sell kitsch memorabilia of the East’s Moscow-backed regime. A regular soldier’s headwear costs E20. I’m not impressed, so the Turkish stallholder upgrades his offer to a field marshal’s cap for E25. Never was promotion so easy. Little bits of concrete are priced at E15. ‘What are these?’ I inquire. ‘Berlin Wall,’ replies the seller. Quite possibly, they are from a wall somewhere in Berlin. Equally, he could have picked them up on a building site in Ankara. I settle for a ‘medal’ with an imprint of Russia’s greatest general, Georgy Zhukov. Having saved first Moscow from the Nazis and then Stalingrad, Zhukov drove his Red Army all the way to Berlin. Price of medal? E5.
On a section of what’s left of the Berlin Wall, running along Niederkirchner-strasse, someone has sprayed: MADNESS. I wonder if the graffiti artist is a fan of the 1970s ska revival band, led by Suggs McPherson? Unlikely. Perhaps it’s a reference to the nearby Topography of Terror exhibition? Possibly. Hang on, I’ve got it. This is crystal-ball stuff: a comment of exquisite prescience on the lunacy of Zinedine Zidane.
One of my favourite movie performances is Joel Grey’s in Cabaret, playing a camp-as-coffee compère. The film is set in the decadence of 1930s Berlin. As the Nazis are tightening their grip on Germany, Grey invites his customers to ‘leave your troubles outside …in here life is beautiful’. The venue for Cabaret is the KitKat Club, and guess what? It still exists. For purposes of research, I’m compelled to go there. Until, that is, I check out the website. No longer a haunt where the likes of Liza Minnelli would strut her stuff, KitKat is strictly for sado-masochists, boasting a dresscode of ‘Fetish, latex, kinky, glamour, costume and elegant evening dresses. No regular street wear and no underwear (we’re not a swinger club)’. It’s seems that I’ve forgotten my gimp mask and studded dog collar, so we settle instead for some pasta and two bottles of Sicilian red at the pizzeria.
Sitting in the departure lounge at Berlin airport, feeling slightly old-fashioned after a night on the aforementioned vino collapso, I spot a vaguely familiar face. But something’s wrong. Where his eyes used to be, there are two crimson golf balls. Clearly in need of industrial-strength coffee and an illegal quantity of Ibuprofen, this chap is Adrian Chiles, stalwart of the BBC’s World Cup coverage, who’s been, er, carousing after the tournament’s dramatic finale. Adrian supports two teams, because he’s half English and half Croatian. ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘You get twice the fun.’ The brace of red spheres sticking out of his head swivel menacingly in my direction. ‘Twice the misery, mate. They both got knocked out.’ He has a point.
Jeff Randall is the Daily Telegraph’s editor-at-large.
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