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Archived from the original on 30 May Retrieved 2 April Archived from the original on 1 August Bournemouth Echo. Aldershot News. Archived from the original on 4 July Retrieved 24 January Wrea Green : Milo Books. ISBN Zulus: A Football Hooligan Gang. Blackpool Gazette. Retrieved 23 November Milo Books Ltd.

Football, Violence and Social Identity. Suicide Squad: The story of a hooligan firm. PIG Publishing. London : Headline Books. BBC News. Retrieved 4 April Archived from the original on 4 October Retrieved 2 October Yorkshire Post. Huddersfield Daily. Archived from the original on 20 April Retrieved 15 March ISBN X.

The Mammoth Book of Football Hooligans. Retrieved 13 August MIG Down. Pennant Books Ltd. Retrieved 10 September Milo Books. Empire Publications Ltd. Telegraph Media Group. Retrieved 29 April John Blake Publishing. London : Nebula.

The Brick: A Hooligan's Story. Retrieved 16 January The Red Barmy Army Firm. London: Milo Books. Retrieved 16 March Retrieved 22 December Retrieved 21 July Retrieved 3 April Lancashire Evening Post. Retrieved 18 January Flying with the Owls Crime Squad. London: John Blake. Archived from the original on 21 September Retrieved 11 March Daily Mirror.

Clacton Gazette. Archived from the original on 12 December Retrieved 25 May Retrieved 1 January Sunderland Echo. Retrieved 9 August Swindon Advertiser. Archived from the original on 30 September Retrieved 14 February Retrieved 3 March Retrieved 30 September The Sunday Mirror. Archived from the original on 7 October Watford observer. Blake Publishing. Even at the SEZ, which was a government establishment, I got 40 marks.

The subcultural scenes were not so separated in the GDR. That was more real in the East than the West. It was a normal development to go from punk to skinhead. In the East, a lot of punks were sent to prison or the army. They came for me at When I got back, a lot of my buddies were already skinheads.

It was just a question of: are you a skinhead or a punk? My parents thought I was gay. That was extremely important for every Ossi. In fact, we looked like gay poppers. Those, and then pink pleated pants, striped shirts and an enormous popper hairdo. People freaked out. And after the game, they got beat up by us to boot. But in those cases, it was almostalways consensual violence. Of course, that was also construed for us politically. By outsiders. The good thing about football was that we could move freely.

We could assert ourselves there. We looked like proper little boys with polo shirts and snazzy jeans, and the police, after all, were expecting rakish thugs. Still, I sometimes went with Johnnie and Arne. We went to Dresden for the game and got dressed up nice — white clothes and leather ties — then stood in the sea of black-and-yellow-clad idiots with their flags, scarves and hats. The BFC fans hated their team. But they liked that they always won. There were the Stasi people conscripted to cheer, dance and keep up spirits.

And there were the bad boys — usually, the children of those sitting in the stands on the other side. Anal riot. We were 17, and it was about breaking taboos. We wanted to discredit this masculine sport, football, with this homoerotic flirtation. We were, in any case, always very sarcastic and really enjoyed provoking. They came from different circumstances.

The Anal Boys were a distinct section. We knew a lot of them from the disco. Some were really disturbed. But we had similar taste in music. And everything that was a bit out of line inevitably crossed paths.

A bit like in a small town. The common enemy was the straighty and the square. It was a really brutal society.

A punch in the head was run of the mill. Family men would beat up teenagers for having weird hairstyles. You had to defend yourself against that. You started refusing to take any shit from the police, maybe even thrashing someone from the Stasi. Football games were where things really exploded.

Everyone came together there: drunks, police, Stasi, frustrated teenagers. The country was a rat cage…with 16 million rats. I slammed down a flight of stairs at the train station and landed directly on my knee. I wore a Paul Der Hooligan for half a year.

In the East, they were heavy as tables. Afterwards, I restrained myself a bit and slowly pulled back, though the BFC always remained my team. At most, the people from the security agencies were allowed to do it. If you were capable of doing a kick, you were immediately considered invincible. We were just present. But when some cooperative farm boy from the country felt he had to make a name for himself, it hurt.

Actually, though, all this violence was annoying. It could happen so quickly. Fortunately, I belonged to a crew that was relatively respected. Johnnie and Arne already had a reputation. They were BFC hooligans. They always protected me. The music welded us together.

Every time I opened my mouth, I was no longer Wolle, but a Saxon. No matter where I went. At some point, I got sick of it. Through breakdancing, I met an extraordinary number of people and got respect for the first time. It was fantastic to put one over on all those guys that had bullied me so much a few years earlier.

I listened to African-American music. Electronic music. And I dressed well. I was a motherfucking popper. In the East, that was the job where you could earn the most money. After work, my buddies and I went straight to the clubs. I was usually the youngest. When you worked in gastronomy, you tended to know the bouncer, and you never had to wait in line or pay. I made good money. I had a beer stand downstairs at Alex-Treff where all the breakers hung out.

Gastronomy in the East was like printing money. A good doctor had something like 2, marks a month. We had more. I experienced the last two. It was hard to get into the others. They were extremely hip, really. Alex-Treff was full of foreigners and odd birds. No one kept to the rule — technically, only 40 percent of the music was allowed to come from the West. But there, they only played western music. I listened to The Cure and some gothic stuff, but also a lot of electronic music.

They were like a kind of sound system. They brought everything themselves — equipment, lighting. Two were especially good, Tute and Velox. A strange place. Then you had to hope that the bouncer remembered you. Nothing happened without bribes. The diplomat kids went there. A few actors, pushers and then the people who made sure things got going. I was one of the latter. I could dance well, always had pretty girls with me and got along with the diplomat kids.

Syrian agents coupled off with Stasi prostitutes. A whole lot of scum cavorted there. True, we were there all the time — but more due to lack of alternatives. They made real money there. To get in, you had to bribe the bouncer. They really cleaned up at every position — at the bar, at the door, at the toilets. The rest was a nightmare; normal clubs were awful. And the announcements between songs drove you crazy. I had everything cued up to the right spot. I bugged the diskothekers until they let me play.

At some point, I started bringing my turntable. When I was finally allowed to get going, I could watch as the dance floor got emptier and emptier. They had a lot of events, relatively speaking. By day, school children from the neighborhood were looked after there. At night, the chairs were moved aside and the diskothekers came. They brought their own equipment.

When I was 14, I soldered cables and helped set up for one. They were called Tarantel. It was offered by the Station for Young Engineers and Natural Scientists, a kind of special interest club for recreational activities. The course ran two months. I would have had to become a state-certified disk jockey.

There were classifications — A, B, C. They determined the salaries. The higher your classification, the more you earned. You nourished and cultivated it. I bought everything I could get my hands on, especially hip-hop. Back then, it was still called rap. If you knew about music, you were definitely cool.

And if you made an effort, you could get a lot of stuff. They licensed records from the West and released them as records from the East.

You could get them for cheap, around 23 ostmarks. The run was huge of course. My mom worked on the management floor there. I knew a few people in the Department of Culture through my breakdancing past. At the beginning, I earned miserably. It was a real back-breaking job. I even cried sometimes because it was so exhausting. But it was worth it. I wanted to organize parties. I only knew it from Westbam. We had the diskothekers, and that was a completely different principle of entertainment.

Had the Wall not come down, I would have tried to run away to become a DJ. Every day, we came up with new ways of getting out. From the roof, you could see the cars, the Springer publishing house. Sometimes it smelled of chocolate — when the wind blew favorably, it blew the smells of the sweets factory in Britz over to us.

You could also go up to the roof. There, you could see the border strip and over into the West. Whenever we had visitors, we went up there. For me, it was always like looking at the moon. What should I think about it? And why is the system forcing me not to ask that question? But when I wanted to join the Party, it was reluctant to take me. Not every asshole could be in the Party, after all.

They wanted it a bit more elite. Which first of all means totally streamlined. But thanks to my parents, I was aware that not every socialist comes into the world without a spine. I grew up in a relatively intellectual household. There were always discussions; they really went at it in the living room.

A continuing political dialogue. I thought socialism could be reformed. We knew there was the Stasi. There were a lot of things I considered stupid, but I thought that like a doctor, you could fiddle around a bit, and it will work out. We told them we were from West Berlin and had lost everything. We had to fill out forms — where we worked and so on. The Stasi people picked us up at the Mokka-Milch-Eisbar. The western authorities got me a lawyer.

Vogel — he was the man for exit matters. On August 13th, I got out of jail. On December 13th,I was allowed to leave. When I, an ordinary citizen of socialist conviction, set out for my advanced secondary school in the morning to work towards my final exams, people were waiting at the door.

There were operational procedures. Because I was somehow involved with youth culture, carefully circumscribed, and with people who were problematic, but who I liked a lot. It was clear they had it in for me. If you could prove you lived off your savings, that was OK, but no one my age could do that.

So I needed a job. At the end ofI was able to leave with my girlfriend. Before leaving, I organized a few punk shows at Zionskirche and other locations. Two were from West Berlin. Everything illegal, of course. Die Vision was also there. They were state authorized. A village cop put his neck on the line and approved the concert, but there were Stasi sitting in the anteroom.

All three bands had to wear the same blue baseball cap that Geyer always wore so it looked like the same band was playing the whole time. More the feeling that now you had one more friend in the West. I kept in touch with Arne. We were lucky enough to have a phone. Otherwise, you simply accepted the separation. It was an intense time. There were no finalities, just ongoing change. Common term for the East German mark. West Germany. I was one of the first from the East to come.

I knew no one and missed my crew. My first job was as a floor assistant in a casino. You clean ashtrays, look for which table needs money. Sometimes also card check or baccarat service. Then I was a waiter. I got 2, marks for six hours of work. That was a lot. I could buy everything. Rent was only marks, after all. How can you stand it? I always saw them lose everything, after all.

Go out with hanging heads. In the West, I hit the streets and tried virtually everything — from the washed-up nightclubs on Kudamm to the moldiest punk spots.

I was at a UK Subs concert at Madhouse and watched the whole show on a movie screen, sitting in a theater seat one level up, thinking the whole time how shitty it was. You could tell from the crowd that punk in the West had been dead at least five years.

The DJ booth was glassed-in and looked like an liter aquarium. Nor were there any slipmats. Mixing meant hard cuts. I was always excited as hell and once, in my excitement, I stopped the record entirely. Every now and then, I could wheedle 50 marks out of the boss to buy records at WOM. I bought whatever imports they had. In the afternoon, I had to play the new records for him in the club. He stood on the dance floor and tried to dance to them.

One time, he came raging into the DJ aquarium, and we had punch-up. At Metropol, at Dschungel, at Loft — nothing going on. Still, I got a DJ job within seconds, even before I started university.

The one cancelled the other out anyway. After high school, I more or less studied art in Amsterdam — and had my first club experiences. The Roxy was super hip. There were masses of deckedout, half-naked queens who rubbed themselves in oil, writhed on the floor and danced to police sirens. One year later, I went to Berlin. The city seemed gray and faceless. At first, I worked the cash register at WOM. They always played a half hour of punk, then a half hour of hip-hop.

The old head bangers took the dance floor for the one; the somewhat cooler people for the other. Everyone cool, leaning against the wall with a beer. I was always chatted up for speed. People thought I was a dealer because I was fit. Jens Mahlstedt was DJing. First soul, then house. He played long passages that were really well-mixed.

A raw music, a little unfinished, clumsy, but also soulful and a direct invitation to dance. It really ignited me. When I left in the morning, I stopped at a Turkish place for tripe soup. I was all riled up by the experience.

The local residents eventually put an end to that. Too loud. Then a few DJ friends and I decided to make our own club. Using a brewery loan, we installed a floating floor and built fill walls and noise barriers.

It was very hip. My roommates took me with them. It was a very small club with a tiny dance floor. I was totally flabbergasted. Shortly thereafter, he asked if I wanted to work at Turbine.

It was a huge accolade, of course. Later, I was at the door. Inside, they wondered why no one was coming. The people who worked there were a cross-section of all music genres.

It was unusual for a club to be so eclectic. It was because of Motte. Berlin was basically a rock town, after all.

We printed the flyer with a nine-point dot-matrix printer. It was the size of a business card with a couple smileys on it. Entry was five marks, including a free drink. I promoted the party at various levels. First I started an Acid Party. Then I announced a panel discussion — parents discussing the effects of acid. I announced that in a classified ad in Zitty. He did crazy things all the time.

Even how he dressed himself. Dyed hair, unusual pants. As long as it was in-your-face. In his kitchen, he always conducted strange experiments with food. He put lots of little pieces of sausage and cheese in jars and watched how quickly they spoiled. He always wanted to do research. Everything was an experiment for him. The dance floor was small, but boundaries dissolved in the fog.

You got lost in the space. We stood in smiley t-shirts, hidden behind glass blocks. You could lift up one of them and look onto the dance floor through a small slit. Maybe the occasional flicker or silhouette. The people never knew if it was a tape playing or three DJs at the same time. There was no communication between DJ and crowd. Motte went to the bar from time to time and watched and waved.

More brandishing of arms. A few whistles could also be heard. It was clear this was the new thing. It abolished everything that you knew from before. A new sound. A new style.

Totally electronic. No more song structures. Everything was new. It was a Nick Cave show. Achim was extremely surprised to see me, and just said that they were doing something totally different now, something for young people, something Anne-Clarklike, and I should come by. I was often there for a beer.

I thought it might have something to do with the new music. None of my friends wanted to come — all Led Zeppelin fans. I was too, actually, but I was totally bored with the music that surrounded me. Joy Division: dead. With house, I knew at the first beat: this is it. That came to me from A Guy Called Gerald.

You had to know which door. You had to knock, then go down through a hatch to the basement. She always fantasized about what was happening there in Kreuzberg, who was DJing or where the Ufo would land if they had a party somewhere. But she never gave the address. Everything dark. Sandra Molzahn was sitting at the cash box behind a shop window.

I was very shy. She could very well tell me to scram. But I got in, acted as though I knew my way around — and walked straight past the hole in the ground that was the entrance. Sandra called from behind. You have to go down it. I felt like a little boy. I went down the ladder. It was pitch dark Paul Der Hooligan full of fog. Every now and then, strobe lights flashed across the room. One Paul Der Hooligan was totally piled up to the ceiling with garbage.

Some strand things hung from the ceiling, swiping across your face and glowing psychedelically in the neon light. When you came out, you looked like a construction worker. The taller people were always hitting their heads. When a Baby Ford track came on, I went there and danced. A trestle table served as a bar. It was hot DJing there. The atmosphere was always good, even when just a few people came. But it was something of a secret club. It was totally different than going to a disco.

Electrifying and thrilling. Not least because the music was totally new and unique. Everything was in the process of emerging. A small private club full of music lovers. Not on a stage. At eye level. It had something so awesomely democratic at its core. Knowing the DJ was considered a privilege. The DJs put on a record, then danced themselves.

Nor were there any safety standards. When it rained, we had to pump water from the basement and heat it dry. His parents were always there, his mom dancing the whole time.

Kid Paul had already prepared his set. There was something special about it. He was so young. It was pretty extraordinary to see a kid playing this music.

He had a lot of fans, especially girls. He was 13, I was As a result, you had quite a lot of time to creatively live out your quirks and eccentricities. InI organized a festival at SO It was called Atonal.

We wanted to break entrenched listening habits and show something new in image and sound. A ton of bands with great names played: Malaria! When the Neubauten took the stage, they immediately started to drill through the back wall. Sparks flew, and the guy who ran SO36 and was selling beer cans up front started running around like mad.

I was sitting backstage and suddenly, a drill came through the wall right next to me. One year later, we had Psychic TV there. Genesis P-Orridge was already sporting a bald head with a braid and arrived like a cult leader with eight people in tow who looked like Hare Krishnas.

During the performance, they showed a movie where an anaconda eats a rabbit. Then in Berlin, I was the Factory Records representative. Later on, the early house and techno stuff was similarly radical for me. Bands like Throbbing Gristle seemed to be using everything from a toaster to a blender to make music. The important thing was that it sounded interesting and was your own thing. You could simply join in.

I experimented a lot, recording radio static, then playing it alongside records or recording it back and forth with two tape recorders. I had a Roland drum machine that I let run for hours, playing sequences on the piano to it. I loved the repetition. It always had something euphoric for me.

We all wore winklepickers and loden jackets and even had a record deal with Polydor. I listened to the tape exhaustively on my Walkman.

It had things like D Train and Peech Boys. It was proto-house. The straight machine beat I was hearing fascinated me. The tape was really well mixed, and I tried to analyze it.

How many records are playing right now? Where does one track end and the next begin? Which elements belong to which record? When is something added? When is something removed? I had no idea about everything you could do with two turntables. Sequences that proceed along a four-four beat. This restlessness that I felt in myself, I also had to feel in the music. One DJ he played was called Paco. At one point, I could edit with pinpoint accuracy.

Then I did the rounds of the Kreuzberg bars selling the cassettes. I pieced together my tapes using modest means: a record player and a tape recorder. You could use the pause button to cut tracks together; it was almost like edits.

You could even create staccato effects like with a sampler. I always had some with me. Musically, it was soul, funk, post-punk. That worked. My apartment cost Deutsche Mark. The Job Center tried to get me a job, but I always refused, using all sorts of strategies. I was very interested in club music or disco, as it was called back then.

Especially when the experimental and danceable met. I found the contingence between punk and hip-hop exciting. We loved Chic and Michael Jackson without qualification. It was totally unusual, after all, for homos and heteros to party together. Metropol was supposed to be the Studio 54 of Berlin — there were giant disco balls, something like two meters [80 inches] in diameter, and these balls were beamed with lasers.

Back then, it all looked like Star Wars, as though fluorescent tubes were flying through the air. A UFO hung over the dance floor in front, emitting bubbles and glitter. You can compare it to Early Christianity. There was the Jewish temple in the center, and the Greeks who wanted to be part of it were allowed to walk around outside. At Metropol, the gays were in the corners — really hardcore with leather and chains.

The trippy kids from the Berlin suburbs were at the front. Or maybe they just thought it was all wonderful, like I did the first time I got in at 17, standing there in a Hawaiian shirt among all these men in chains.

It smelled of poppers, the new beat dropped, and everyone shouted out loud. The energy, the subculture, the hardcore thing, the menace — it was wicked. Instead, there was Hi-NRG, a music that appealed especially to gay men. It was also the time of New Wave and New Romantic. The club was mixed when it came to sexual orientation. You could wear whatever you wanted, even make-up if you felt like it. At home, there was a lot of fighting; I lived in a youth institution for a bit.

Early on, I took care to spend as little time at home as possible. There were always young punks and New Wavers hanging around. At night, I snuck out the window. In West Berlin, nobody ever asked how old I was. At the underground spots, nobody cared. They danced swanlike choreographies with dayglo fans and were armed to the eyebrows with poppers. It had a little something of voguing and rave about it. They stood in rows of four.

Hans, Leo, Tamazs and Lutz were the most prominent. The first three died of AIDS. The leather gays were in the corner, and on the other side of the dance floor, the New Wave kids.

I wrote it down in Der Neger, an avant-garde journal based in Frankfurt. I wrote that the new electronic music would be created by the DJs. He was already mixing, though the mixes were really short, and individual passages were extended using two copies of the same record.

In hip-hop, they did it so they could rap over it. But I did it to create a new minimalist dance style. It was the thing back then that came closest to the later techno culture. An endless repetition of a specific line with an up-tempo beat. These were facets. There were moments where you could already hear this idea — all I really need is a beat, a strobe and screaming people.

But sometimes, Modern Talking was also played at Metropol. People just did this three-steps-to-thefront, three-steps-to-the-back dance. In the dance context, EBM was totally occupied by this scene. Unlike in Hi-NRG, there was no freaking out on the dance floor, no excess.

Still, I often hitchhiked to concerts in West Germany. There was no longer anything fiery. The freshness was gone, the spontaneity. I was frustrated. More and more people slipped into a kind of drug swamp.

The booze flowed in torrents. Dark rock. My musical taste was different. That was a dirty word, after all. The music playing there sounded to me like synthesizer hatred. I had the shock of my life when I came back to Berlin, totally excited about hip-hop, which was everywhere in the States.

All I could think was: what happened? Sisters Of Mercy was the only thing playing in the erstwhile Neubauten orbit. Everything was bleak and depressing.

The whole scene was basically on speed back then. It was rumored that the yellow crystals were smuggled from the GDR to get the Kreuzberg anarchists going. You can almost see Halber Mensch, the Neubauten album that came out at the time, as documentary.

And the industrial people were whacked out on heroine, listening to Johnny Cash. For them, music was less something for dancing and more something for suffering, a soundtrack of feeling misunderstood. The zeitgeist was Nick Cave and Blixa Bargeld; they were heroes and idols. In general, I felt too small, too soft, too odd and too uncool for Berlin when I moved there from Nuremberg in They played chart trash meant ironically. They played terrible funk and bad soul-pop.

There was no trace left of the avant-garde. There was a GI disco at Adenauerplatz. I liked to go there because the music was extremely good, and I always loved to dance. It was a little journey to another world. I was in a serious crisis. We were taking a break from the Atonal festival, and I had no apartment, no nothing. It was freezing, and I always had to haul coal up from the basement. I went in, and we got to talking. At some point, she told me she was leaving. I could have the store — for Deutsche Mark.

It was a kind of Dada club. On Saturdays, an eccentric intelligentsia met there to discuss crazy things. Fisch — phone, mail, rooms, electricity. But Mrs. Fisch was always out of reach. In principle, it was supposed to be a reeducation camp: from consumer to producer.

I moderated and motivated people to participate. It was fantastic. They took the stage, usually very shy at first, and everyone clapped. One woman reported on her wardrobe — where the individual pieces came from, how expensive they were and so on. Between the individual speakers, there was always some music, then the applause started up again and so on and so forth until eleven pm.

Everything was self-made. We were inquisitive, playful and very peaceful, like in an ashram. At some point, we started throwing acid house parties in the basement. He always wanted to punch me out because I was a popper, with a quiff and everything. I was punk. We met because of Alexanderplatz. It was so big, there was space for everyone without offending territorial claims. The people who hung around there had no connection to other scenes. They came alone or in pairs. At night, we went to the same clubs.

Inevitably, you become closer. We were both into Kraftwerk and Afrika Bambaataa. I liked rap too, but electro funk much more. For a breaker, that was the best. I was the camp disco guy, and he gave a sort of breakdance course. It arrived at nearly the same time as it did in the West. The movie played a very decisive role. Breakdance was sold as a revolutionary anti-imperialistic culture. The first unofficial GDR breakdance championship was held in the spring of I placed third.

I was also a breaker, but never part of a crew. I just danced with a few friends. We would clear away the carpet in the living room at home and bust some moves. I knew Wolle by sight; pretty much all the breakers hung out at Alexanderplatz. You had to show what you were capable of. Compared to the punks, the breakers were usually left alone. We looked like poppers, after all. We danced at the disco and in the streets. It was a bit of a subculture. It was accompanied by the music I liked.

I liked this space-age aesthetic. It was a space-age-futuristic-sci-fi world. For me, the starting point was a report I saw about the airport disco in Frankfurt. How these poppers — the guys with stand-up collars, the girls with popper hair — did a robot dance to Kraftwerk. It looked so great. I started practicing it in front of the mirror. When electro funk came on in the disco, I lead the way, red as a lobster and pretty jittery. Wolle was basically our breakdance nemesis.

We battled a few times at Alexanderplatz. Wolle was good. I was better on the ground. But we had to practice. Every day.

I just imitated and tried to impress girls standing nearby with the suggestion of movement. I was more responsible for ensuring that all the money coming in from breakdancing really got to Wolle and, respectively, to us. We walked around with nunchuks made of broomsticks and were chronically underestimated because of our baby faces. It was not welcome. The police could turn a blind eye, but usually they said something. If you had bad luck, they took your tape recorder.

We played with the fact that the whole thing was being watched. You could always recognize the Stasi informants and undercover cops by their hairstyles and wrist bags as they stood there totally inconspicuous.

It got funny when we simulated violence. We would stage fights with diplomat kids, and the undercovers would come out of their holes like rats and chase after us. When they caught us, our friends would show their red diplomatic IDs and threaten the civil servants with a future regulating traffic. There are unfortunately no aggrieved parties.

The police, for example. But what could they do? We were only dancing. Even if they sensed that with our dancing, we were expressing a desire for something different than what was available in the GDR. The diplomat kids provided fresh music. Sometimes they even brought a boombox. We got 40 ostmarks per appearance.

One time, we received a tidy marks — the monthly salary of an apprentice — for five minutes of dancing. We even had a manager and travelled throughout the GDR. We were wearing these sort of BMX caps, which were airbrushed out. Also, he always played songs through to the end so that other DJs could record them. He took us with him a lot. No idea how he dealt with the payment.

According to the regulations for artists, we were allowed to get 2. We had no classification, after all, no official license to perform. But he just did it somehow. Even at the SEZ, which was a government establishment, I got 40 marks. The subcultural scenes were not so separated in the GDR. That was more real in the East than the West. It was a normal development to go from punk to skinhead.

In the East, a lot of punks were sent Paul Der Hooligan prison or the army. They came for me at When I got back, a lot of my buddies were already skinheads. It was just a question of: are you a skinhead or a punk? My parents thought I was gay. That was extremely important for every Ossi. In fact, we looked like gay poppers. Those, and then pink pleated pants, striped shirts and an enormous popper hairdo. People freaked out.

And after the game, they got beat up by us to boot. But in those cases, it was almostalways consensual violence. Of course, that was also construed for us politically.

By outsiders. The good thing about football was that we could move freely. We could assert ourselves there. We looked like proper little boys with polo shirts and snazzy jeans, and the police, after all, were expecting rakish thugs.

Still, I sometimes went with Johnnie and Arne. We went to Dresden for the game and got dressed up nice — white clothes and leather ties — then stood in the sea of black-and-yellow-clad idiots with their flags, scarves and hats.

The BFC fans hated their team. But they liked that they always won. There were the Stasi people conscripted to cheer, dance and keep up spirits. And there were the bad boys — usually, the children of those sitting in the stands on the other side. Anal riot. We were 17, and it was about breaking taboos. We wanted to discredit this masculine sport, football, with this homoerotic flirtation.

We were, in any case, always very sarcastic and really enjoyed provoking. They came from different circumstances. The Anal Boys were a distinct section. We knew a lot of them from the disco.

Some were really disturbed. But we had similar taste in music. And everything that was a bit out of line inevitably crossed paths. A bit like in a small town. The common enemy was the straighty and the square. It was a really brutal society. A punch in the head was run of the mill. Family men would beat up teenagers for having weird hairstyles. You had to defend yourself against that. You started refusing to take any shit from the police, maybe even thrashing someone from the Stasi. Football games were where things really exploded.

Everyone came together there: drunks, police, Stasi, frustrated teenagers. The country was a rat cage…with 16 million rats. I slammed down a flight of stairs at the train station and landed directly on my knee.

I wore a cast for half a year. In the East, they were heavy as tables. Afterwards, I restrained myself a bit and slowly pulled back, though the BFC always remained my team.

At most, the people from the security agencies were allowed to do it. If you were capable of doing a kick, you were immediately considered invincible. We were just present. But when some cooperative farm boy from the country felt he had to make a name for himself, it hurt. Actually, though, all this violence was annoying. It could happen so quickly. Fortunately, I belonged to a crew that was relatively respected.

Johnnie and Arne already had a reputation. They were BFC hooligans. They always protected me. The music welded us together. Every time I opened my mouth, I was no longer Wolle, but a Saxon. No matter where I went. At some point, I got sick of it. Through breakdancing, I met an extraordinary number of people and got respect for the first time. It was fantastic to put one over on all those guys that had bullied me so much a few years earlier.

I listened to African-American music. Electronic music. And I dressed well. I was a motherfucking popper. In the East, that was the job where you could earn the most money. After work, my buddies and I went straight to the clubs. I was usually the youngest.

When you worked in gastronomy, you tended to know the bouncer, and you never had to wait in line or pay. I made good money. I had a beer stand downstairs at Alex-Treff where all the breakers hung out. Gastronomy in the East was like printing money. A good doctor had something like 2, marks a month.

We had more. I experienced the last two. It was hard to get into the others. They were extremely hip, really. Alex-Treff was full of foreigners and odd birds. No one kept to the rule — technically, only 40 percent of the music was allowed to come from the West.

But there, they only played western music. I listened to The Cure and some gothic stuff, but also a lot of electronic music. They were like a kind of sound system. They brought everything themselves — equipment, lighting.

Two were especially good, Tute and Velox. A strange place. Then you had to hope that the bouncer remembered you. Nothing happened without bribes. The diplomat kids went there. A few actors, pushers and then the people who made sure things got going. I was one of the latter. I could dance well, always had pretty girls with me and got along with the diplomat kids. Syrian agents coupled off with Stasi prostitutes. A whole lot of scum cavorted there. True, we were there all the time — but more due to lack of alternatives.

They made real money there. To get in, you had to bribe the bouncer. They really cleaned up at every position — at the bar, at the door, at the toilets. The rest was a nightmare; normal clubs were awful. And the announcements between songs drove you crazy. I had everything cued up to the right spot. I bugged the diskothekers until they let me play.

At some point, I started bringing my turntable. When I was finally allowed to get going, I could watch as the dance floor got emptier and emptier. They had a lot of events, relatively speaking.

By day, school children from the neighborhood were looked after there. At night, the chairs were moved aside and the diskothekers came. They brought their own equipment. When I was 14, I soldered cables and helped set up for one. They were called Tarantel.

It was offered by the Station for Young Engineers and Natural Scientists, a kind of special interest club for recreational activities. The course ran two months. I would have had to become a state-certified disk jockey.

There were classifications — A, B, C. They determined the salaries. The higher your classification, the more you earned. You nourished and cultivated it. I bought everything I could get my hands on, especially hip-hop. Back then, it was still called rap. If you knew about music, you were definitely cool. And if you made an effort, you Paul Der Hooligan get a lot of stuff. They licensed records from the West and released them as records from the East.

You could get them for cheap, around 23 ostmarks. The run was huge of course. My mom worked on the management floor there.


How I Need You - Bad Boys Blue - More Bad Boys Best (Vinyl, LP), Surfer Girl - The Four Freshmen With Stan Kenton And His Orchestra - Live At Butler University (CD,, Die Kuh - Various - Wir Warten Auf Die Lindenstraße (Cassette), Return Of Django - Various - 100 Hits Reggae (CD), The Jamfs Are Coming - The Oscar Peterson Trio - Another Day (Vinyl, LP, Album), Stephen Ackles - I Aint No Different Than You (CD, Album), Where You Are - Various - Orkus Presents The Best Of 2002 (CD), Incubator - Ventenner - Dead Reflections (CDr, Album), Live At The Nightmare Party - Various - History Of Rotterdam Hardcore Volume 5 (CD), Scream, My Shallow - black tape for a blue girl - With A Million Tear-Stained Memories (CD), I Got Tha (Faith VIP), Tha Shiznit - Snoop Doggy Dogg* - Doggystyle (Cassette, Album)