Beware getting high in German service stations
After a week of psychedelic pleasures at a music festival in Eastern Europe, my friends and myself are driving through Europe back towards Britain. We’re driving along the autobahn through the night so that we don’t miss the ferry back across the Channel, but at around midnight we decide it’s time for bed. We stop at a service station, and park as far away from the petrol station as we can. Having put up the tent on a strip of grass next to the tarmac, we persuade ourselves that a spliff will help us sleep. So we get back in the car, but almost as soon as we’ve started hotboxing it, there seem to be a lot of police sirens shooting up and down the autobahn. Thankfully there aren’t any bearing down on us, but almost immediately the paranoia has set in.
My friend looks out of the window, and a hundred meters down the car park he sees a man wearing nothing but a pair of boots. A car pulls up to him, he gets in, and the car drives away. That was a little unsettling, but soon enough we’re happily talking nonsense to each other.
Five minutes later, my friend sees another man, again wearing nothing but boots, clamber out from the bushes. He runs across the car park, gets into a car, and the car drives away. Now we’re spooked. Just how many naked men are there here?
Five minutes after that, another man appears, this time on my side of the car. He gets our attention by flashing a torch at us, then he points it at his private parts and proceeds to, ahem, stimulate them. I utter the words I hope never to repeat: “Oh my fucking God, he’s wanking at us!” My friends scream and shout in horror and cover their eyes. I, however, feel that I have to look at him. In my brain-addled state, I am convinced that if I close my eyes, he will run towards us. After what feels like an eternity, the man disappears and leaves us somewhat shell-shocked. For perhaps half an hour we sit there almost silently, terrified that there is worse to come. We’re absolutely exhausted, but none of us dares to leave the safety of the car for the tent. So we try to get some sleep in the car.
The next morning we laugh at the hilarious absurdity of the night’s experience. And I came out of it with a story I’ll probably tell my grandchildren. But there’s an important moral here: if you’re going to get high in a German service station, make sure it isn’t a dogging site first.