I’m from Germany and I watched how you people behave on nights out

Why do all the guys think they’re Prince Harry?

When foreign students like me move to the United Kingdom, they have been prepared for intellectual conversations, but a night out with English students (not just the ones who study Jane Eyre) can lead to tons of confusion.


Germans like me have it hard. No-one outside of Germany, Switzerland and Austria can make sense of my umlauts. Most Germans feel they have to learn at least one second language. English is usually the first choice.

To bring my English skills to a high level, my teachers bombarded me with piles of grammar worksheets and vocabulary tests. Language holidays, English camps, private lessons…My parents were willing to splash major cash for their little pumpkin to make sure that she would be able to start career in the world’s modern metropolis.

Finally, after years of drill, when I finally decided to enjoy higher education in the mother country of English language, I was ready to have a thrilling political conversation with the Queen herself during afternoon tea (complete with crumpets).

To my surprise I ended up with a drunken Prince Harry wannabe, and this is  not what an international student is prepared for.


I am sitting on a green sprinkled carpet floor (why do all English houses consist of green sprinked carpet floor?) with a pint glass of sweet cider in my hand. On the other side of the room Harry (May it be Prince Harry, Harry Styles or any other Harry) and his mates are having their pre-drinks to prepare themselves for a night out.

During our walk to the bus stop the guys are still talking about their “sick” time last night. Let’s just hope they won’t get sick tonight, I’m really not up for a cab full of puke.

In the bus Harry is desperately looking for his “Baccy”, whom I have never met before but it seems like Harry is really into her.

At the next stop the guys are staggering out of the bus, yelling a loud “cheers” to the bus driver. Wow, these boys already see alcohol everywhere.  With a polite “thank you” I try to avoid the embarrassment.

We are entering a big, grubby pub. The guys go straight forward to the bar. They all order a pint of ale and being in a tipsy and courageous mood, I follow up. Now I am the one who is yelling “cheers” to everybody. At least I know when to make appropriate use of it.

With a big draught I am trying to down my first ale, just to spit the brew out straight away. This is disgusting. No Ale for me. Please can someone bring me a German beer?

I stealthily dump my brown drink into the closest flower pot and order a sweet berry cider instead. A long-legged blond girl is passing the group of boys who are all gawping awkwardly at her impressive backside.  “She’s proper peng, 20 quid for the one who scores her” Harry shouts. I don’t even want to understand that.

Harry pulls some “piff” out of his jacket which looks suspiciously like an illegal substance. The joint is making its round and earns some “dank’s” and “sick’s”. The only one who is feeling sick is apparently me.

On our way home Harry triumphantly shouts that he found his “baccy” while holding a back of tobacco in the air. Thank God, Harry is still solo! Maybe I can score him tonight and have some afternoon tea with him tomorrow.