What a load of bankers

I like Munich, but Munich hates me. Let me explain.

First of all, it’s taken nearly a week and about 50 telephone calls to find a place to live. This, apparently, is not unusual.

However, the place I found – which vastly exceeds my price range – demands a cash deposit of 1000 Euros and I, with my debit card, can only withdraw 300 pounds per day. Not a problem you might think, just go to the bank with your passport and hey presto. Well, you’d be wrong.

While Barclays bank claimed on the phone that I would be able to withdraw up to 1000 pounds from Deutsche Bank, the people at DB told me this was not true. Having spent most of the morning on the phone to Barclays, I was spitting with rage by this time and threw a minor wobbly in the foyer of Deutsche Bank.

Cue horrified stares from Germans, who are generally unprepared to question the rules, no matter how flagrantly stupid those rules may be.

So I turned to the exiles friend, Western Union, who allowed me to spend half an hour filling out an online money transfer form, before telling me right at the end that you cannot transfer money to yourself. All of which means my poor father has had to be mobilised to trawl London for Western Union agents so that he can make a transfer for me.

But what could I have done if I hadn’t had my parents to fall back on? Well, sweet F.A. it appears. The combined forces of two of the world’s biggest banks and a global money transfer network are unable to help me transfer cash between Europe’s largest economies.

Frankly, in the digital age, I find that ridiculous.

Gerd ist geil

Last night i was at Munich's Gasteig, to see former Chancellor of Germany Gerhard Schroeder speak.

He was launching his new book, 'Entscheidungen' (Decisions) and answering questions posed by my new employer, and ready wit, Hans-Werner Kilz, editor of the Sueddeutsche Zeitung.

The venue itself is a monstrosity, comparable with the National Theatre on London's South Bank, but without the spectacular surroundings to distract the eye from its concrete-clad functionality.

The talk, on the other hand, was enlightening. Not because Herr Schroeder said anything particularly fresh, but because i hadn't realised how charming he is.

Modest and unassuming, he had the crowd eating out of his hand as he flitted between light-hearted, self-deprecating humour and heartfelt ideological soliloquies.

I had to wonder how a man who seems so much more genuine than Tony Blair was unable to convince the German people to go along with his social reforms.

One of the reasons he gave for that was somewhat unusual. The electorate, he suggested, had been too politically ignorant to back him, too selfish to sacrifice temporary stability for gradual progress.

And there you have the difference between politics, even society, in Britain and Germany. In Britain we expect our politicians to treat us with respect, even though some may think of us privately with contempt. This stems from our culture of politeness, of saying what we feel ought to be said, rather than what we think.

In Germany by contrast, i have met very few people who dress up their opinions in niceties and caveats. What we in Britain think of as impolite, passes as directness, even honesty. That's why a politician like Schroeder is able to say exactly what he thinks without fear of becoming a popular hate figure.

Perhaps if we were able to engender a culture of straight talking in British politics, our statesmen would be seen as approachable and trustworthy. Instead, they are seen as distant, either preaching from on high or ignoring the electorate. They are almost universally mistrusted, even more so than us journalists.

In short, Blair would have done well to take a leaf out of Schroeder's book during one of their many meetings.

Perhaps then he might have been remembered as the progressive reformer he has, in part, been, rather than as the disingenous spin-merchant that many Brits believe him to be.

Tottenham Hotspur 2 - Chelsea 1 (Yes, really)

I've been waiting for this moment since i began supporting Spurs, a good 16 years ago.

After the best 90 minutes i've seen all season, Tottenham repayed the loyal and vocal support of their fans with a performance that was a combination of simple gumption from grafters like Dawson and King (who surely merits a go in the England starting line-up), and some technical brilliance from the likes of Berbatov, Keane and Aaron Lennon.

Finally, the hackle-raising smugness with which commentators invariably quote statistics about Tottenham's form against Chelsea can be banished to the past where it belongs.

I'm not saying we were much the better side, and Terry's second yellow card looked harsh to me, unless he said something particularly offensive.

But the boys have been grinding out results recently and they deserved to be the side who ended this unenviable and frankly embarrassing Chelsea hoodoo. So huge congratulations to everyone at Tottenham, and here's hoping this is the beginning of a slow climb towards a Champions League place.

Yours,

RD - Head of Propaganda at White Hart Lane

p.s. And Arsenal were beaten by West Ham. Apparently these things come in threes, so i'm expecting to be visited in my slightly dingy hotel room by a bevy of nubile young Anglophile German girls.

Welcome to Munich

I've just arrived in Munich, ready and raring to go for six weeks at the Sueddeutsche Zeitung.

On the first night, i took a look at the sights and as the evening wore on and i got bored i thought i'd go for a beer.

My attempt to find a place 'known for a regular clientele of cynical journalists' failed, so i stopped into a small pub and sat down. The first person i noticed was a man sitting at the bar, sporting a bald head, moustache and leather trousers.

But that doesn't seem unusual in Germany, and leather trousers are particularly en vogue round here. So i sat at the bar and started reading my paper.

My eyes browsed over the wall...there was a heart-shaped valentine's card that said (in German) 'To my lovely boy' or something along those lines...then there was a photo collage with a joke about arses i didn't understand. Christina Aguilera was playing on the jukebox and Cher was next up.

It struck me as odd that no-one in the photos, and indeed the bar, was female. I put it down to South German machismo and went back to my paper. But as i read Simon Hoggart, i became painfully aware of leather boy to my left looking at me. Probably just intrigued by my English paper, i guessed.

More regulars, men - some leather-clad, came in and sat around me, trapping me, like a lamb in a barrel of wolves, in a circle of big butch German men. They began making jokes that i couldn't quite understand, and eyeing me strangely. Realisation dawned.

Now i'm no homophobe, but i've seen a lot of horror movies and being leered at by enormous locals is not my cup of beer. So i finished my drink and stood up to leave.

At which point the mouth-breather on my right accused me of running off because he'd sat down next to me at the bar. I mumbled something like 'Not in the least mate. Don't be silly.' And legged it.

Why does this sort of thing always happen to me?