People are always on the hunt for a place to party, a place to have a blast, for it to be a hoot. Maybe, if luck will have it, you manage to make love sideways to the rhythm of Mandy and Stella Artoorhys in Dalston or Metric. But sadly, London can be a bit of a ‘les incompetents’ in this department. It can fail to deliver the goods. We want a sustained but simple performance: great music, cheap drinks that don’t cost an arm and a trip to A&E, and above all: ‘livid gash’ as my Australian-Berliner acquaintance puts it. We wanna vibe and be vibed – it’s a dog eat dog world out there. People also tell me that what I just outlined is delivered by Berlin in a competent manner. So I, Jonny Mitigation and Charles Rotknap, a dear raver of mine, set sail ‘nach Berlin’ one fateful January night. One Terravision bus to Stansted, one ‘Ryan F*****g A’ flight; we cheekily fondled Berlin. If my memory serves me right,it was a Friday morning that we arrived in the vicinity of Kreuzberg, Berlin.

Having settled ourselves into a drengy yet surprisingly comfy ‘hosto’, we hit the sights. We’re jonesing through the usuals, ever so gentile Bundestag (why the haze do you have massive queues manned by sporadic ticket office men?), art exhibitions (where East meets West), historic squats (f*** Greenpeace for wrecking the vibe), massive statutes of Soviet liberators (I have a selfie where I promptly flip them off) and rounding off the afternoon with a generous helping of Curry Wurst. Enough with this hedonistic chauvinism, I say: no more distractions to the storyline. That very evening, we proceed to get lashed on Jager and Juice and hit ‘Lerchen und Eulen’. This is a ‘F*** ME KINDA SIDEWAYS’ establishment that serves the best Moscow Mules and splendid Swiss cigarettes to be enjoyed indoors (Parisienne). All for a measly few Euros. The vibe of the place is mesmerizing, Berliners friendly as ever sporting phenomenally crafted ‘Mutze’s (including myself, minus the Berliner part, but hey, I felt like I was at home). AND you can get a Larry David sandwich: white fish, sabel, capers, onions, and cream cheese. It was as if I got killed in a drive-by Biggie-style, went to heaven Fat Boy Slim-style and back. As we prep to leave ‘Lerchen und Eulen’ for Tresor, I acquaint a striking 18 year old brunette who, thanks to the ensuing conversation and ample amounts of bisexual tension, became vigorously passionate. The culmination of the said interaction was as per usual with me: a humble exchange of business cards. Her name is Sabrina and she sells shower curtain rings by day. Catch of the day. Finally, we made it to Tresor. On the way, I managed to violate some subsections of my parole agreement, because after all, I act like a cop, I look like a cop, heck, I must be a cop! Oh I nearly forgot: we also met Ben Klock in McDonald’s beforehand: a resident techno god who said we would get into Berghain, bare easy. Easy does it. No more dilly-dallying, time to talk Tresor. Where do I start: maybe with the fact that it is a pioneer of the post-89 Berlin scene set in an industrial power station, or that we got a 50% discount for looking berlin-ish? Here’s a top tip: whilst waiting, don’t speak English, don’t talk to people, wear all black, have piercings, maybe a tattoo, hide being lashed well IF you hope to get in. Oh, and best have a hot girl with you, then it should be no problem. And try to look older, at least late 20s. I know, I hate pseudo-rules as much as the next guy. But hey, this is Berlin, so no much choice – this is a calculated loss because what awaits inside is divine and an anti-thesis to the outside’s excesses. The inside of Tresor is spectacular: multiple levels, famous foggy dark tunnels, booming German techno, studded enclaves with fascinating people – everything lit in dim red lights. We get drinks – Mate it Gin – the best mixer possible. We light up. We close our eyes. We dance. It is a trance to be repeated. So much so, that the most dedicated members enter Tresor on Friday night and leave Monday morning just in time for work (did somebody say Mandy?).

It’s electric – but we need to amp the wattage. Charles befriends a fellow raver: so smooth, so Berlin-esque of him. Turns out to our no-surprise, the fellow has 10 euro Mandy. Yes, please. The judgment might be cloudy, the price very low, but we take the skeptical plunge. 40 more minutes of dancing and it hits. And oh my, it hits. The warm fuzzy feeling of loving everyone and everything envelops us, suffocating our inhibitions. We dance manically, clenching our jaws, and filming it with a GoPro – we are like that maniac from Flashdance, that steel town girl, who danced her heart out and danced herself into that place in dancing school. Sure, we tumble a few times like she did – but that does not deter us. We are Maniacs. If even just for tonight. Next phase enters after replenishing our dehydrated bodies: chinning the wag. Discussing Kierkegaard with Carlotta was an experience, talking to Nina about Isaiah Berlin (what a coincidence!) was revolutionary. Mr Rotknap was a hit too although he chose to talk techno, making industry contacts – by that stage he was more aware than me of where we were, who we were. Actually who were we?

God knows. We coasted like this till 8am, savouring every second, hitting an after-party. It was glorious, when the dust settled, to be able to tuck into a Kebab so tasty, I would give it a Michelin star on the spot. Go for Durum rather than Doner: wrap is easier to tackle than a bap. Nap and shower later in the ‘hosto’, we were ready to repeat the experience, but different venues. And we had ample of choice: we went for ‘Mein Haus am See’. This bar is like no others: it proudly displays a sign: ‘Hippies are welcome’. You see, Berlin can have a darker side: with the recent budding of the Hipster culture mixed with remnants of the Beatnik movement, it can be a bit xenophobic. The sign basically says: ‘oi haters, keep accepting that money tourism brings to you, but order these hipsters around into a confined space so they don’t ‘bother’ you anymore’. Vilifying any group of people for any reason is dangerous and abhorrent: treat everyone as an individual. Is it not what ‘hipsterism’ kinda espouses you might say? Ha, I wish but let’s be honest: they are all just facsimiles of each other, fancying Echo Park to be a desert island is crazy talk. I am putting brakes on my belief in ‘radical individualism’ akin to Ayn Rand, so let’s talk venue. It’s brilliant, less personal and more commercial, but still with style and grace. On a persy note, I still prefer ‘Lerchen und Eulen’ – it simply is unmatched. It’s a place that on our very last night before the flight in the morning, Tuesday 2am stays open upon asking the bartender who serves us superb cocktails, talks, shares cigarettes and ‘alcohol knowledge’ (FYI, it is a 24⁄7 place but closes when no customers are there).

Time flies, and we get on the move towards Stattbad, our night’s destination. On the way, we manage to get lost in a pharmaceutical factory of Bayer (this is thanks to our inebriation, not the ‘basically-free’ 24⁄7 Berlin tube system). We never waste an opportunity: we use it to espouse our love for Professor Nutt, calling him affectionately: ‘Hazey Davo’, ‘Queasy Davo’ or ‘Sun, Sex and Suspicious Davo’ to name a few. No one is confused. After a while, we make it to Stattbad: this is a club like no other (seems like a pattern with Berlin). A 50s converted leisure centre, with raves inside the pool, industrial Bauhaus infrastructure, heating rooms etc. This is heavenly – Berlin Boiler Room broadcasts from there. Needless to say, this was a night equally splendid to Tresor, minus that great feeling of loosing your Berlin virginity we had yesterday. My Dad says that what you do first, is usually most beautiful. Tongue in cheek at worst, true at best.

10am and we make it to Berghain. It is something you have to do but there can be no slip-ups. Notoriously amazing, secretive and sexual, it is a sight: old Stasi prison 10 or so floors high that became the world’s greatest techno club. Just a testament to hedonism. I will leave it to the imagination of the readers as to what happened there. One word of advice: know your exits and entries.

Coming back in early hours of morning was fun: filming Jackass-esque challenges whilst downing kebabs after kebabs. I will never forget that morning and the breakfast we had in our ‘hosto’. We slept for a day and a half.

To spare the agony of making this article into a tractate, I shall quickly whirl through the rest of events. That week, we got to see Kater Holzig out on a final night, meet zestful divorcees in Berliner Philharmonic, nip into Poznan, Poland for a friend’s house party, vandalise the Berlin Wall with ironic/iconic Instagrams, see medical history museum with headless babies, get student discounts in Benihana and other unreal malarkey. So what is the moral of this story? Well, Berlin is quite amazing, the best city to be young. And it gets even better in summer: all we did in a week is scratch the surface. Here is what we’re gonna do: if this article appealed to you and wanna join me, Jonny Mitigation, Charles Rotknap and DJ Principal Goodvibes (another dear raver of mine) for a July in Berlin, drop us an email at whydontyoufind [email protected]