Day Twenty - Munich

Or München, if we're concerned with semantics. München has far more echoism; as the Baverians certainly know how to eat. And drink.

The last time I came here the 2006 World Cup was in full flow. I went to the Allianz Arena to see Germany take on Sweeden and I am not ashamed to say that, at least for one gloriously treacherous day, I was an honorary Germany supporter.

I make no apologies for this. Speaking to an Irish ex-pat this evening confirmed by incling that German's outperform the English in almost every sphere. The one possible exception being humour.

"Nothing troublesome ever happens in this town," beams Morris, a graphic designer who followed a woman over here six years ago and sees no reason to go back to Ireland. "If there are a group of Germans following you, the most they're gonna get you with is shouts of "Bad example!". If they do want trouble, just cross the street on a red man sign and they'll wait until it turns green to chase you," he said.

They have better beer. This is non negotiable. I sat in the English Garden (more on that to come) with a stein (one litre of fresh Helles lager) and certainly didn't feel the need to fight my neighbour - the carry from the bar had worn out my biceps.

They have better culture, classically speaking of course. Think Kant, Nietzsche, Schoepenhauer, Marx and Engels etc. Then think Beethoven, Strauss, Wagner, Brahms, Bach and Handel. These are to name but a few. They have 100 nobel prize winners, second only to the US.

I shall relent, before my father cuts me clean out the will but you get the point. In England the beer garden and kiosk culture would be unsustainable. There would be fights, breakages and petty disputes galore. But not in die Motherland.

I arrive at Munich Hauptbahnhof insanely early and bang on time (thanks German efficiency) and after a badly needed shower at the hostel set off for a stroll, the streets still empty as the lemon sun begins to spread its light.

The cathedral, which I've been in before, never ceases to amaze me, particularly its 'devil footstep'. The story goes that when the church was completed, the devil wandered in for a nosy. Where he has standing, the sight of the footstep, was a unique position in the church as from there on windows at all are visible. The devil apparently muttered some jibe about there not being much use for a building with no windows before a no-doubt slightly embarrassed altar boy pointed out that, yes Your Evilness, there are in fact many windows and if you'd be so kind as to take one step forward, you'll see them.

Annoyed by his rashness and stupity, the devil stamped his foot and left in a huff. The diva.

As it was a glorious day I went for a walk in the English Garden, one of Europe's largest urban green spaces. It's beautiful, with shaded walkways of dappled light intersecting rolling green pastures dotted with, er, lots of naked people.

Apparently it's the rule rather than the exception to srip off entirely to sunbath in the Garden and this proved emphatically the case as I walked through, averting my gaze from leathery tanned men doing naked lunges next to piles of meticulously folded clothes.

I even saw a naked man riding a bike. This, I thought was brilliant because it must have been done for pure pleasure. You do not ride a bike in the nim to get from A to B, there is no reason for doing it, just sheer, unadulterated pleasure. If an alien landed on earth and asked my to explain the meaning of "leisure" I would point him in the direction of the tanned cowhide on wheels. Then advise him not to use the bike afterwards.

I trawl the area around the Hauptbahnhof in a vain search for the Charity shield match. Bloddy Setanta. Even places advertising the game didn't have a subscription. I watched the Olympics, but it wasn't the same, even if USA vs China basketball was probably a far better game.

I eat alone (boo hoo) at a small beerhall down a secluded alley and drink beer from a pewter-topped tankard under the shadows of a weepong willow. That should be something Göetherian to rouse the soul, but I find myself at a loss.

I always considered myself relatively at ease in my own company (God knows I spent enough days at home watching Diagnosis Murder reruns) but it's harder in a big city. I don't feelin inclined to communicate with the scores of drunken, high-fiving Americans ("Yo man, it's like Europe, we can do whatever we want?") so I climb into a stuffy bunkbed and listen to them through the paper-thin drywall instead as I try to sleep. The lesser of two evils, I think.