The Berlin Bart Club meet in a restaurant in Charlottenburg, West Berlin, one Friday every month. A few beers, a couple of heated debates and a lot of furious bell-ringing later they reach consensus on their schedule for the coming month. At the end of every meeting, they bang with their fists on tables and shout, “Bart Wichs, Bart Wichs, Bart Wichs,” That just means moustache wax, but as this is Europe, the home of the double entendre, it can also be a reference to a very special part of the female anaotomy. So, it’s no surprise that when they shout it particularly loud they clear the bar of all lady folk.
The club is small but bursting with world champions, including Karl-Heinz – Steve’s long lost German dad – who’s been crowned three times.
In Germany there are specialist moustache stylists who work as bonsai surgeons and bomb disposal experts during low season. The Berlin Bart Club aren’t into stylists; they do their own hair using everything from spray to sugar water to baking bowls.
