by Peter Löcke //
I am late. Far too late for a Christmas or New Year's address. That's why this column will just be a chilly Santa Claus speech. It wasn't due to my motivation. I had already created a document in mid-December in which I wanted to look back unctuously on the past year and look forward meaningfully to the new one. But this pathetic feeling just wouldn't happen. Instead, there was a constant shaking of the head, an inner emptiness, a feeling of bewilderment, sometimes even amusement at the daily madness. At some point, I let it go. At some point I forgot the title of the document and where I saved it. I just searched in vain. File not found.
What thoughts and feelings did I have, if not pathos? Cognitive dissonance. This term from social psychology best sums up my mood, as cognitive dissonance is defined as an unpleasant state of mind that arises when a person has incompatible feelings and observations. Contradictions, in other words. Things that simply don't fit together. One reason was the many speeches and addresses at the turn of the year. Who hasn't yet? Who wants to again?
Steinmeier at Christmas, Scholz at the turn of the year. The content of the speeches has been sufficiently dissected on other platforms. There has been little discussion of the form, the HOW. This soporific, monotonous singsong from the mouths of both the German chancellor and the German president. You wish for Prince Valium and you get Prince Valium. Even in the unlikely event that the respective speechwriters had a better day - nobody would buy Steinmeier and Scholz's wisdom, empathy, euphoria, enthusiasm and drive. Or would you buy a CD on which Dieter Bohlen interprets songs by Sinatra or Tom Waits? At least the backdrop was right. That's not always the case. See Christine Lambrecht.
Thanks to smartphones and social media, every politician can deliver their personal sermon to the people at the turn of the year. Our Minister of Defense thought so too. And spoke contemplative New Year's words while there was senseless New Year's noise in the background. The people's soul is boiling, even the mainstream is outraged. I only felt deep pity. After the helicopter ride with her son on her lap, doesn't the lady have an advisor to protect Lambrecht from Lambrecht? I'm applying to be one.
Dear Minister of Defense. If you want to issue a public warning about global warming in the near future, don't do it freezing in a summer dress at the North Pole. That won't work. Unless you have a small polar bear in your arms and are standing on a melting ice floe. Then you can.
Now finally to my actual, timely and brief St. Nicholas address on cognitive dissonance. Where did I feel this most of all? While watching the World Darts Championship at Alexandra Palace in London. The royals used to dine and dance here. In recent weeks, the people and the bear have been drinking and dancing in the so-called Ally Pally. What an atmosphere. A loud, politically incorrect Bunch. Partying, drinking, bawling, sweating. The actual darts stars on stage did not at all correspond to the ideal of beauty of an Olympian from Greek mythology. Tattooed up to their armpits, with trained raccoon bellies instead of washboard abs. A deliberately unhealthy diet. But each gladiator had their own stage name and their own warm-up music. That's how drama works. That's how marketing works, dear Tina, dear Frank-Walter and dear Olaf. Then the people will cheer at the double out instead of giggling at the double whammy.
It's not for everyone. And not every woman's cup of tea anyway. Nevertheless, I liked it. Lovely because it wasn't socially distanced at all. What a superspreader event in our clinically sterile society, where everything seems to be sanctioned, controlled, neutered, epilated and full-body shaved. That was it for my St. Nicholas speech. Almost.
The World Darts Championships reminded me of the chalkboard days of my youth. Throwing darts at a non-electronic target in the garden shed. Right next to the board was a slate board on which the scores were written down with a piece of chalk. As the alcohol level rose, the hit rate dropped, as did the simplest arithmetic skills. There was a lot of laughter. It was politically incorrect. It always remained peaceful. It was nice. So I went in search of the disk, blackboard and co. in dusty cellars. What can I tell you? Arrow not found.
And not the rest either. But my old poetry album from school days. On page three was a prescient criticism of the speeches by Steinmeier, Scholz and Lambrecht. There is nothing good unless you do it. A linguistic arrow that hits the bull's eye. Bull's eye!
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4 Responses
Pig bristles. The good old dartboard was made of pig bristles! I had one of those when I was twenty. Then it was on loan, for decades, to friends who cleaned out the cellar last year and came across my good piece, so it came back to me. I actually had no use for it. Now it has one, at least to be immortalized here to please one of the club authors. Or to make them jealous, depending on the case ,-)
Incidentally, much later, when the targets had long been electronic, my sister-in-law began to turn darts into an intense, sporty hobby. Naturally, she competed in pubs in the greater region, including the corresponding atmosphere. She later switched to playing bass. The atmosphere is often the same as before. Before she became a mother, she worked as a chef in pubs for a long time. She remained loyal to the industry, not only as a hobby, but also professionally, where she later joined a medium-sized company. Incidentally, she has a degree in mathematics. In Peter Löcke's words, the best example of "not every woman". I'll try to remember that 🙂
Of course I couldn't miss the Lamprecht video yesterday. I had the spontaneous impulse to cut a small video miniature from it for my little YouTube channel. But I didn't have the time or the necessity, because Lamprecht is all too easy a victim for even the media and political mainstream to pounce on. Nevertheless, it immediately inspired me to make a little rhyme that could also be a rhyme about the German politics of the past three years:
The cabaret
doesn't have it nice:
Because real satire
strives under grease
completely audacious
towards new peaks!
After this brief summary of the past, here is my pictorial outlook on the new, taken from a find on another alternative channel, refined just a little to be able to show it to the curious and make it available:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1vm40dcOozZnlkaV8O8T-60Ar-XRMr0eZ/view
Just as three years ago I slowly began to feel a sense of unease, for some time now I have had the feeling that it will come down to "us" in 2023. And that is in the small war of socially and personally entrenched fronts. It seems to me that things are already starting to unravel a little and are on the move. So let's keep our ears to the ground!
Best wishes to all clubbers!
Thank you very much, Mr. Löcke,
Now I've finally understood what this dart sport is all about. We used to play it ad nauseam, I had one of those discs where the darts got stuck in protruding plastic cups if you hit them halfway. Then a magnetic arrow and only much later a "real" one. But it didn't matter at all, it was fun and more important than being able to calculate the score was to work out whether another round was needed or whether it would be better to make a quick procession to the drinks shop first.
I still admire the fattest pig in our group without envy, he threw his arrows like a young Eros, I was happy to have at least shot into no man's land.
But, to get to the seriousness of the subject: I was not a person in responsible politics, and it would have been highly unlikely that someone would have filmed me babbling at Christmas and that this would even have found its way onto "quality radio".
Pig bristles. The good old dartboard was made of pig bristles! I had one of those when I was twenty. Then it was on loan, for decades, to friends who cleaned out the cellar last year and came across my good piece, so it came back to me. I actually had no use for it. Now it has one, at least to be immortalized here to please one of the club authors. Or to make them jealous, depending on the case ,-)
Incidentally, much later, when the targets had long been electronic, my sister-in-law began to turn darts into an intense, sporty hobby. Naturally, she competed in pubs in the greater region, including the corresponding atmosphere. She later switched to playing bass. The atmosphere is often the same as before. Before she became a mother, she worked as a chef in pubs for a long time. She remained loyal to the industry, not only as a hobby, but also professionally, where she later joined a medium-sized company. Incidentally, she has a degree in mathematics. In Peter Löcke's words, the best example of "not every woman". I'll try to remember that 🙂
Of course I couldn't miss the Lamprecht video yesterday. I had the spontaneous impulse to cut a small video miniature from it for my little YouTube channel. But I didn't have the time or the necessity, because Lamprecht is all too easy a victim for even the media and political mainstream to pounce on. Nevertheless, it immediately inspired me to make a little rhyme that could also be a rhyme about the German politics of the past three years:
The cabaret
doesn't have it nice:
Because real satire
strives as if under grease
completely audacious
towards new peaks!
After this brief summary of the past, here is my pictorial outlook on the new, taken from a find on another alternative channel, refined just a little to be able to show it to the curious and make it available:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1vm40dcOozZnlkaV8O8T-60Ar-XRMr0eZ/view
Just as three years ago I slowly began to feel a sense of unease, for some time now I have had the feeling that it will come down to "us" in 2023. And that is in the small war of socially and personally entrenched fronts. It seems to me that things are already starting to unravel a little and are on the move. So let's keep our ears to the ground!
Best wishes to all clubbers!
What an excellent speech, thank you very much.