Hamburg #3 - Palpitations, Poor Decisions & A Dutch Detour

 

I think it’s Friday, or is it Saturday, or wacaday? today. Woke up feeling pretty fucking weird. Heart racing. Palpitations. A genuine moment of “Am I having a stroke? Or a heart attack? Or both?”

I lay motionless in my hotel bed in Hamburg, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing and wondering if this was it. Spoiler: it wasn’t. It passed after a couple of hours, but it was enough to shake me. I blamed it on the 4 or 5 coffee liqueur shots I had at some dodgy pub last night. Not grown-up. Not funny. And certainly not clever — well, it might’ve been last night. Today, it was just grim.

After two solid days of excess, my body was politely suggesting I might want to calm the hell down. But life had other plans — we were flying to Amsterdam. Oh dear.

Truthfully, lying there all palpitated and panicking, all I wanted was to go home, crawl under a blanket, and drink herbal tea. But you don’t abandon the lads mid-tour. The show must — and will — go on.

And Amsterdam? It was a blast.

We didn’t do the stereotypical tourist stuff — no weed, no window shopping in the red light district. We just did what we seem to do best: drank, walked around aimlessly, and spent a fucking fortune. Every bar, every round, every bite of food felt like a robbery. Amsterdam is a beautiful city — and she knows it. And she charges accordingly.

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Saturday – Cold, Fucked, and Full of Regret

3rd December 2022

I woke up in what can only be described as a hovel. My hotel room, somewhere along a dirty canal, was freezing cold, dark, and depressingly damp. My throat was sore, my mouth was dry, and I’m fairly certain my drunken snoring had led to an elongated uvula — that dangly bit at the back of your throat — making swallowing uncomfortable and life generally unpleasant. It felt like someone had replaced it with Anne Frank's diary.

At some point in the night, I’d stuck an electric heater on the bedside table, switched it on, and fell asleep with it glowing next to my pillow. Genuinely lucky I didn’t burn the whole canal-side building to the ground, with everyone in it. Stupid boy.

As for Amsterdam — it was a bridge too far after the chaos of Hamburg. My body was done. My brain was mush. My wallet was empty.

Steve and Carlos, in a moment of clarity (or defeat), decided to head to the airport four hours early because they were — and I quote — "cold and fucked."

That left Tim, Mic and me to wander around this overcrowded city being cold and fucked. It was too busy, too chilly, and we were too hungover to enjoy it properly. Amsterdam, we love you, but next time, maybe after a detox retreat.

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Was so glad to be home, tucking into a post-holiday biryani and vowed to maybe not drink for a month. Or a week. Or... well, let’s not make promises.

Hamburg #2 - Bobble Hats, Anti-Fascists & Warm Wine

Let’s be honest — there was no Thursday morning. Unless, of course, you count being ushered out of a smoky bar at 6am by a bartender who clearly had more patience than we deserved.

We slowly resurrected ourselves, one by one, zombie-like, from the comfort of hotel duvets. The St. Pauli Hotel had done its job: kept us warm and close to the action — and apparently not far from the river either. After wobbling down a series of narrow, graffiti-tagged stone steps behind the Reeperbahn, Carlos, Steve and I made it to the waterfront, where the brisk air slapped the fog out of our heads.

The river, by the way, is the Elbe, Hamburg’s great working waterway. It was grey, moody, and industrial — much like how we felt, and how we like our music (some of us). Still, there was a kind of beauty to it, especially in the stillness of the morning mist (or was that just our hangovers clearing?).

We wandered along the riverside promenade and eventually found salvation in the most unlikely of places: a McDonald's, where hot coffee became a lifeline. We had one round... then another. Gradually, Tim and Michael trickled in, both looking like they'd had a near-death experience — which, after last night, might not be far off.

With caffeine pumping through our veins, we headed to a proper Hamburg institution: the Millerntor-Stadion, home of the cult football club FC St. Pauli. Unfortunately, no match during our visit — their last game had been a 2–0 win against Holstein Kiel a couple of weeks ago, just before the World Cup break. Still, we soaked up the atmosphere of the place and had a good nose around the club shop. I couldn’t resist buying a St. Pauli bobble hat. I can never have too many hats — especially ones with meaning.

Because this club isn't just about football — it's a movement. FC St. Pauli fans are famous for their anti-fascist, anti-racist, and pro-LGBTQ+ stance. Their stadium is covered in rainbow flags, skull-and-crossbones emblems, and banners calling out injustice. It’s punk, it’s proud, and it felt good to support a club with that kind of heart.

From there, we wandered toward one of the coolest hidden gems of the city — the Alter Elbtunnel (Old Elbe Tunnel), completed in 1911. The tunnel snakes beneath the Elbe River, linking the Landungsbrücken piers to the industrial docks on the other side. We descended via a clunky lift, walked the entire tiled passageway under the river, took a look at not much on the other side (let’s be honest), then headed back through the echoing space. Still, it was a cool, surreal experience — like something out of a noir film.

We kept things gentle for the rest of the afternoon. But let's be real: it was only a matter of time before the hair of the dog came barking. And bark it did — straight back into the smoky, late-night bars of Hamburg. This time, we found ourselves in a lively pub full of locals watching Germany crash out of the World Cup, having drawn 1–1 with South Korea. The mood? Quiet rage and disbelief, especially as Japan beat Spain in the other group game. For a moment, our Welsh hearts felt a flicker of shared pain, but only a moment,and only a flicker.

Later, as the evening deepened and inhibitions faded, we took a curious stroll down the Reeperbahn, Hamburg's notorious red-light district. It's equal parts fascinating, seedy, and hilarious — and yes, we had a giggle gawping at the windows of the “working girls,” neon glowing through fogged glass like another scene out of Blade Runner.

We ended the night on a far more wholesome note at the St. Pauli Christmas Market, also known as “Santa Pauli.” Leave it to the Germans to combine festive cheer with saucy humour — this market had everything: mulled wine, bratwurst, Christmas lights, techno DJs, and even cheeky adult-themed Christmas stalls. Naturally, we embraced it all.

We sipped on Glühwein (German mulled wine — sweet, spiced, and very boozy), browsed overpriced trinkets we didn’t need, and spent way too much on food. But it was December, it was Christmas, and it was Hamburg. That’s what you do.

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Coming up next: Will Friday be a quiet one? Probably not.