The thing about kniepers is that you are almost crashing someone’s front lounge. Everyone in them knows each other, all are locals. It’s a sort of neighbourhood Das Cheers, though smaller, and without the Ted Dansen smug oneliners. Mind you, there are some crap haircuts.

In this kneiper, pronounced knei-per, they are all friends, seemingly. Same age, same style, slightly liberal – OK, I’ll say it, probably lesbians. Yes, definitely lesbians. In fact, they admit as much by snogging by the bar. Not that it matters one jot, you understand. Bravo!

The Pinter is a sort of gallery, too, with some photography students displaying pictures of bald models and big dogs sitting in derelict ramshackle homes. It’s all rather good, actually, largely ‘cos you wouldn’t see it in Marks and Spencers – mind you, the fashion snappers may end up working for Marks one day. “We’d like to shoot a lingerie catalogue, for middle-aged women, possibly featuring big hunting dogs, and bald models on threadbare chaise longues, in ramshackle homes – what do you think? Can you help?”

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Maria is a congenial soul. She speaks perfect English but as with all Germans who speak near-perfect English they apologise for their supposedly limited language skill. Damn right honey, I want you to sprechensie in Chaucerian stroke Geordie dialect, and don’t forget plenty of “thous” and “why aye mans”.

She tells me where to drink, where to eat, where to avoid, where to buy a bike, where to have a good time. The young locals chip in too, in between viewing Herr Schmidt’s holiday snaps from Bangladesh. Each one chips in, after apologising for their limited English just before spouting their brilliant, nee unlimited English.

If these Germans popped into my local I too would apolgise for my limited German and repeat time after time, Die haus ist rot, ich bin enie fenster, das ist ein feuerzeug. Great if you want a red house or a light, or you thi you are a window, but not too handy otherwise.

Six beers late, I crawl back the three yards home.

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Kersten or the staff won’t be there for my arrival – nice-  so they arrange to leave the key in the kneiper (corner pub) next door, called The Pinter. Ingenious cost-cutting because the pub opens late. It’s a recurring theme, the Germans are a tad – how shall we say this without seeming rude – thrifty, which in such cash-strapped times is rather refreshing, heartwarming, and perhaps even shaming on us Brits.

I stroll in at 9pm and am immediately welcomed as Herr Bryan. Must be the backpack. I’m handed a key by Maria, the short blonde-haired barmaid. I order a beer, the ubiqitous and rather disruptive Berliner pils. Four beers later and I’m ready to check out the room, thanks to an ingenious map from Kersten and instructions on how and when to check out. Bedroom 3, my bedroom, is 15ft across the shared lounge, which is 5ft from the front door, I’ll recognise it, apparently, by the big number 3 on it. Zwei Zimmer! There it is, there i is. Halleluah!

What’s more, although there’s no instructions on how to turn the key, the key works like a dream. As do the shared toilets, and the shared shower. Washed, shaved, refreshed I walk the 3.5 metres back to the knieper and a jolly good chat with Maria.

The knieper has an alternative air about it. The staff and locals are having a BBQ on the pavement outside; they offer me some sausage. I’ve already eaten “Pfifferlingrahmsupper mitt speck-zweibel-furfeln“. Ah, cream of chanterelle soup with bacon and mushroom, the knieper shouts as one. OK, they didn’t say that, but if they did it would have been awesome

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