Perched on the Landwehrkanal, housed on wooden jetties by the canal in Kreuzberg, cloistered in a series of wooden huts, bounded by willow trees, and filled with seen-better-days sofas, benches and chairs uner a flowing canopy, Freischwimmer represents a Berlin gem. Part nightclub, part drinking den, part hedonist mecca, the haunt is well worth a visit, not least for the shenanigans it displays, sometimes all day but mostly all night.

One visit, one Sunday afternoon, afforded views of two friends apparently stomach-pumping their mate, splayed on the floor, seemingly unconscious due to “over-indulgence” the night before. It was 2pm, and the party was still pumping, literally. Those still dancing, and the bar staff, treated the event as if part of normal proceedings.

This Thursday night, the party is in full swing, albeit more bass-thumping than stomach-pumping, and getting busier even as the dawn light threatens yet another encore at 3,30am.

Techno is the music of choice here, as it is all over Berlin, and the wooden shack which hosts the bar is mobbed, with people spilling out onto the jetty.

There’s a fair few disco refugees here, some of whom are going long into the night, not least a small French guy smoking a joint,  rather pissed and chatting up all the girls. Nearby, stands, nay sways, a tall, smartly dressed fellah in a jacket and jeans, with longish hair, who is, how shall we say, twatted.

This man, let’s call him Roger, is on a mission to score some company but his chat-up tactics need, how do we put this diplomatically, some minor modifications. He stands, tilting in the middle of the party, eyeing up “prey”.

When he sees a single girl, he swoops, spraying people and drinks before him until he prangs up to his quarry. He then looks them in the eye, leans in to whisper some sort of sweet nothing and then squeezes their breast.

Lucy, mein freund, double-takes. “Did you see that,” she says, incredulous.

Ten minutes later and Roger swoops again. “Look, he’s at it again, to that other girl, that’s so wrong … it’s, well, it’s just wrong.”

Lucy’s not wrong. This time Roger has chosen a girl wo has just broken off from snogging her boyfriend. Roger needs a slap, but somewhat bizzarely, in this famously laid-back, anything goes, liberal city, none of the girls, or boyfriends, seem to get angry. Vergiss es (”forget it”) is as strong as it gets. Mind you, that could be verpiss dich (piss off). It definitely wasn’t ich liebe dich.

If this was England, either the bouncers would have thrown him out, or a people’s committee of outraged women would dunk him in the canal. At the very least, Roger would be slapped or kneed in the groin. Worse, glassed! Here, at Fleischwimmer, it’s taken in das stride.

There’s no bouncers in Berlin bars. No one seems to cause trouble. the Germans are a civilised lot. The first stage in a minor altercatio is not a fist in the face or a quick windmll through the dancefloor.

Helga, who, somewhat bizarrely given the name, is Irish, appeas to be his next victim. She talks to Roger and is then “squeezed”. She shimmies back, as if to say, “Sachte [easy tiger].” He tries it again, and she pushes him away, albeit still courteously.

Helga is a tad ripe herself, imbibing no doubt on the seriously loaded cocktails (such as the Hemingway, which tastes like a sour cherry bomb, so don’t try it), and sits down, explaining that she knows Roger and that he is essentially harmless. “He’s just a bit too German, they can all get a bit like that, German men. You know, a bit forward … You know, a bit touchy-feely.”

Touchy-feely? More like gropey-gropey.

Helga came here for a month last summer, partied herself rigid, and is back for a further three months indiscipline this time round. She’s a lecturer from Dublin and gets all summer off.

Roger, the letcherer from Berlin, plonks himself down and tries yet again. Helga, a little more embarrassed, slaps him on the shoulder and he moves away, smiling. “He’s harmless, really. He’s quite famous in Berlin, actually.”(Oh, well that’s OK then. Here, have a handful of my man breast Rodge!)

Famous for what, Lucy inquires, groping? “No, partying,” retorts Helga, earnestly.

Ten minutes later, after performin a circt of the club, Roger plonks himself down yet again, shaking his head as if at a Bon Jovi gig. He moves in to try again but Helga is one step ahead this time, and cuts him off.

“Roger … WILL … YOU … FUCK … OFF…!”

Roger takes the hint, and stumbles away.

“My God,” exclaims Helga, head in hands. “I can’t believe I slept with that remedial.”

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Getting your bearings betwen East and West Berlin is a tad tricky; just when you think you are in the old East, admiring or mocking all the old grim GDR soviet architecure, you realise you are in the West.

Now that little remains of the Wall, it’s path being too difficult to spot, erased by construction of roads, parks and buildings, the only true way to tell east from west is the traffic lights: old East Berlin boasts a rather natty set of walk/don’t walk signs – a green man in a homburg or trilby, not goosestepping, per se, but doing a strident powerwalk, and delivering a rather pungent upper-cut; or a red man, splayed like Jesus on the cross, albeit this christ-like figure is donning a homburg. It almost shouts: “Don’t walk, or we’ll nail you up, paint you red and make you wear a stiff felt hat with a pinch down the middle.”

This is a homburg, as immortalised by the cold figures Adenauer and Brandt!

The picture above shows a coolish bar – ampelmand-stand.de – in the Hackescher Markt, near the Spree, under the arches, exploring the theme. Sooner or later, we reckon traffic lights will become the tourist symbol of Berlin although the green man deckchair design here has Mr Homburg walking a different way to the real sign. Actually, he seems to us to be walking the right way, whereas the right GDR sign almost powerwalks the wrong way – a bit like the regime itself, powerwalkign to oblivion, thankfully.

The old West Berlin lights are the more ubiquitous European variety, a slim androgynous figure, almost skanking or moonwalking. A tad dull, really.

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Prenzlauer Berg on trendy Kastianenalle – a boulevard of kitsch designer shops, boutiques, cafes, bars and pizzerias – doesn’t wake till at least 10, when most kaffes slowly open their doors, agonisingly slowly when you are busting for a coffee. It gives the impression that everyone is still asleep until at least 11, when the freelance rush hour starts. There is another rush hour of sorts going on – a steady stream of bikes heading into Mitte, mums and kids on the school run.

But it’s a school run with a difference, en velo. Children are packed int an assortment of ferrying devices: a saddle and foot shelves welded on the crossbar; bikes with kinder saddles over the back wheel; bikes with covered trailers towed behind; or the supposedly de rigeur new Dutch import – a wooden box at the front, bigger than an old market porter’s bike, welded to the front, a sort of mobile playground for kids, big enough to carry three or four under-5s.

Rise at 8am and the traffic is all mamas und papas, taking kids to the kindergarten. I say kindergarten because Pramslauer Berg seems to have a preponderance of kids under 5. Few, if any, are older.

“It’s all down to the trendy web and designer types who moved here in their 20s, about 10 years ago,” says Matilda, the waitress at one coffee shop that does open at 8am. “They grew up, got girlfriends, got married, and had kids. Now Penslauer Berg has so many kids under 5 it’s unreal.

“Prenzlauer lost its edge.”

She is being kind. Prenzlauer Berg is one big playground, for kids; teeming with teething tots or toddling toddlers. A Sunday here is like strolling along the nursery slopes in the Alps. Never mind the uneven or cobbled pavements, the trams, the bikes, the cars – it’s kids you need to avoid.

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