Ich Bin Ein Berliner
The time I was almost arrested in Germany for having too much drip.
There are a few countries in the world where you simply don’t fuck about.
Whether it’s buying weed in Kuala Lumpur or wearing booty shorts in Saudi Arabia, anyone with sense knows to keep their head down and not rock the boat.
Germany is one such place.
Today I’m sharing a short story from my younger years, when I almost ended up arrested — and possibly on a no-fly list — for possession of a deadly weapon in the EU’s favourite rule-abiding country.
I’d just finished college and decided to pursue something artistic. Not knowing exactly what to specialise in, I enrolled in a year-long course at the University of the West of England called Art Foundation.
It let me flirt with multiple forms of art; photography, fine art, sculpture, metalwork, and graphic design. A smorgasbord of creativity to sample, helping me figure out which flavour I wanted to commit to for a three-year degree.
As you can imagine, a course like that attracted every kind of creative oddball imaginable — bright-eyed, bushy-tailed kids with their whole lives ahead of them. It was an awesome time. I made great friends, one of whom was John (I wrote about him earlier this year). But the highlight, without question, was our class trip to Berlin.
Thirty of us packed onto an EasyJet flight from Bristol, landing in das Mutterland just a couple of hours later and checking into the legendary Generator Hostel; accommodation that doubled as a nightclub come sundown.
Perfect.
The week flew by without incident. Contrary to my earlier statement, I did actually keep my head down and avoided rocking any boats.
I have stories where I didn’t — like the time I did buy weed in Kuala Lumpur, or when I confronted a pickpocket in Spain — but those are for another time.
For now, I was just a 19-year-old lad in Berlin with his mates, doing everything right… yet still almost ruining it all.
There were plenty of standout moments from that trip. One was the creepy middle-aged magician who took a liking to literally every girl in the hostel. He’d wander the bar area with a pack of mini-Jägermeisters, dishing them out before aggressively hitting on anyone who’d take one.
Despite claiming he was “in town for shows,” we never once saw him perform. Every evening he was just loitering with his little army of herbal liqueurs, ready to pounce.
Being broke students, we naturally took full advantage. The girls would flirt with him just enough to get his booze, then bolt the second his back was turned.
He soon caught on and redirected his efforts elsewhere, but not before shouting across the bar one night, “No! You guys just take my alcohol and run away!”
If it wasn’t the magician keeping things weird, it was us.
After a night out, dorm assignments became a free-for-all — whoever found an empty bed first claimed it. One night I crashed in a bottom bunk next to Annie, a girl I had a hopeless crush on. She had a boyfriend (a notorious knob), but that didn’t stop me trying.
We were slurring through a 4am conversation when she suddenly reached into her bag and pulled out a condom. Holding it between two fingers, a seductive smile on her face.
I couldn’t believe it.
She gently peeled the foil apart, removed the latex sheath, and looked me dead in the eye.
Here we go, boys.
Then, in one cruel twist, she unfurled the condom over her hand — and kept going until it reached her elbow.
“Look! It fits my whole arm!” she laughed.
I’d been bamboozled.
She pulled it so tight the end snapped. We both laughed — though mine was more “hiding the pain” than joy. I rolled over and went to sleep.
The next morning, karma delivered swift justice: she’d forgotten to take the elastic ring off her wrist, and her hand had ballooned overnight.
Serves you right, Annie.
But it all came to a head on our final day — our very last hour, in fact. We were checked in at the airport, waiting to board.
Everyone was wrecked after a week of partying and sightseeing. The mood was mellow but still buzzing with the restless energy of a group of 19-year-olds abroad.
I’d set my hand luggage down next to some friends and gone for a quick walk to stretch my legs. I passed a mate along the way.
“Did you hear your name over the speaker?” he asked.
“No?”
“I could’ve sworn they called it.”
“Hahaha, shut up mate. You’re not fooling me.”
He wasn’t. Or so I thought.
A few minutes later, back with the group, another friend leaned over. “Sam, they’ve called your name on the speakers. I think you need to go see someone.”
“Yeah yeah, good try. Rich already tried that one,” I said, grinning.
“No, seriously. They’ve called it a few times.”
I wasn’t buying it. It wasn’t even a good prank — what was the punchline? Watching me fumble through broken German with a bored employee? Please. We were a bunch of creatives, surely they can do better than that.
The loudspeaker crackled, announcing boarding. We joined the queue. When I reached the front, the attendant scanned my passport — then frowned.
“There’s something wrong. You need to go to security,” she said.
Now I was confused. And suddenly not so cocky.
“I told you they called your name,” said one of my mates as I turned back, pale.
“Fuck. Where’s security?!”
No one knew.
Panic started to set in. Everyone else was boarding. I didn’t even speak German.
After asking a few staff members, I was finally ushered towards a grey door in the wall. A guard pointed me through and stayed behind.
The corridor was cold and sterile. At the end was another door. I stepped through into a windowless room where three uniformed guards stood behind a metal table. My bag lay on top like a cadaver in a morgue.
“Do you have anyzing to tell us, Zamuel?” one of them asked sternly, accent thick.
“Uh… nein?”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know what’s happening. I’m sorry.”
“Ve called your name multiple times. Vhy did you not come?”
“Oh. I thought my friends were playing a prank. I didn’t even hear —”
“DO YOU HAVE CONTRABAND IN YOUR BAG?!” he cut me off sharply.
“What? No! Of course not!”
“ZEN HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN ZIS?!”
He spun a monitor around. An x-ray of my bag glowed on the screen. A red square framed a large, metal knuckle duster.
For a split second, I imagined spending the rest of my life in a German prison, explaining to my cellmate that I was arrested for accessorising.
Then I burst out laughing.
“YOU ZINK ZIS IS FUNNY?!” the female guard snapped, breaking her silence.
“Sorry, it’s just — that’s not real. It’s a belt buckle,” I said.
“A vhat?”
“A belt buckle.” I gestured along my waistline. “Belt!”
She pointed at my bag. “Take it out. Now.”
I rummaged through my stuff and pulled out the offending item — a black leather belt with an aluminium replica of a knuckle duster attached to the end. A cheap skateboard brand logo was etched across the middle.
They snatched it from me, tried putting their fingers through the “holes,” and quickly realised they couldn’t — because it was a fucking belt buckle made from one piece of cheap metal.
“OK,” one of them said flatly. “You may board your flight.”
I legged it back to the gate, where the same attendant waved me through.
As I stepped onto the plane, my class erupted in cheers and laughter. The other seventy passengers looked less impressed after being held up for so long.
I took my seat and told everyone what happened — to more laughter, of course.
We made it back to the UK safe and sound, luggage intact, and with definitive confirmation that the Germans have no sense of fashion.
A fashion crime