Recently I had a friend to stay. In the 1980s I had stayed with him in Kitzbuhel where I learned to ski. The last time I was there was in the mid-1990s when I took a fund manager to visit Austrian companies. Sounds a bit obscure but they do have companies in Austria and a stock exchange. Said fund manager of Low Countries extraction managed money for a British insurance company and I once visited him in his offices. He was wearing something closely akin to a waiter’s uniform and he was getting some very peculiar looks from his ever-so conservative colleagues. Luckily he left his waiter’s uniform at home on the Austrian trip.
Travelling across the Tyrol we stayed one night in Kitzbuhel. It being the height of Summer we dined outside on one of Kitzbuhel’s picturesque wide pavements and most probably ate schnitzels because yes, South Australians, schnitzels were invented there or somewhere near there and not in Woodville. Having finished dinner, Wolter, for that was not his name, decided he would like champagne so out came the company credit card again. A glass into the champagne, Wolter started chatting to a local fraulein probably no more than 20 years old. Somehow I was spare to the conversation, as in a spare appendage at a wedding, so I told Wolter I would go to the bar across the way and for him to join me when finished.
The bar in question was The Londoner, which is something of an institution in Kitzbuhel and traditionally has an Australian landlord. Nothing seemed to have changed since I was last there and I soon got into conversation with the landlord. Five minutes later Wolter entered with the Fraulein and the half-full bottle of champagne in tow. The landlord justifiably took immediate umbrage using liberal amounts of Anglo-Saxon invective. Luckily cash was still king in the backwoods of Austria and the landlord was quickly placated as I threw a handful of shilling notes at him. A few minutes later Wolter said he is just going outside for a while and left with the fraulein. I can only assume she was going to show him the local topography.
A short while later Wolter and the fraulein were back. To me all seemed well with the world, until soon after, when a short, middle-aged and very angry man entered the bar, walked up to the fraulein and started shouting. Clearly a man with a paternal interest I could see this could get ugly and as the pandemonium started I left quickly for the Gents. Somehow the back door was unlocked and I made my escape from The Londoner. I walked around the block to get a view of the front door of The Londoner and poked my head gingerly round the corner. By now Wolter, the landlord, the fraulein and her father were in the street and they had been joined by two policemen, who were with some difficulty restraining the father. There was much shouting and screaming from just about everyone.
With the policemen partly in control of the situation I guessed it was safe to show my face and I approached the melee. Wolter was looking a little shame-faced. Trying not to feel somewhat pimpish I asked Wolter what was going on while giving the impression I had not seen the start of the incident. He rightly enquired where the hell I had been and I tried to give a convincing explanation that I had been in the Gents and had gone out the back to look at the handsome stonework.
A convincing explanation was not difficult as if you could promote Austrian shares you could promote anything. Wolter however gave me a look that suggested that he was not entirely convinced. Undeterred, I blathered on regardless about the likely geological origin of the stone and the finer details of stone pointing with a liberal dose of lime in the mortar. As I was just getting into my stride, Wolter’s eyes indicated the dull glaze that occurs when brokers are spinning an all too familiar line. Discerning I had done just enough to placate him I looked quickly over to the increasingly noisy melee and decided we could leave undetected. With that we made good our exit.