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Please drink responsibly. It’s not that unreasonable a request is it? But within the context of an Oktoberfest in a shed behind the Kings Hall the only real answer you can give is a curt ‘Nein!’ followed by a slap to the face with a pair of leather gloves.

For you see, last night myself and several co-enablers bussed it down to leafy Balmoral and proceeded to fire German beer by the litre down our collective necks, whilst bashing steins together (or off the table, when there were no other steins) ‘yeeeooo’ing and speaking in war movie German.

Because, like the Germans themselves, the 2nd annual Belfast Oktoberfest is far from subtle. From the crude posters to the website that appears to have been designed by Paulaner addled chimps with half an hours worth of tuition it’s clear that any pretence of sophistication has been thrown out the window, alongside any gains that the woman’s lib movement might have made over the past century.

On arrival we were greeted by the chief Fraulein and had the rules explained to us. Tokens would be purchased at the front of the building, where they could be exchanged for a litre stein of your beer of choice. No compromise here – litres or nothing. Within the hall you take your seat at the benches, and a bar-maiden would take your order, and provide table service.

The bar-maidens, while easy on the eye were not an advertisement for teutonic efficiency. In fact there was not a single member of the master race amongst them. So much so, that I was roundly scolded when trying to place an order at the bar. Three seconds later tokens had exchanged hands and we were on our way to boozy oblivion.

How long does it take 2 late twenty-something liberals to start barking like a stereotypical wehrmacht officer in such an environment? Roughly a tenth of a stein. Before long the air was full of curt ‘schnells’, und ‘raus’es, as well as declarations to any passing Englanders that yes, their war was over. Shamefully our conversation made ‘Allo ‘Allo seem as authentic and well researched as Downfall.

In our defence at our own personal Nuremburg, we might claim that we were merely following orders, as well as claiming a great deal of provocation; the barstaff rocking out a particularly fine set of Stahlhelmen and the imported band introducing songs with the likes of ‘This was Der Fuhrer’s favourite, and ‘this is the theme to The Great Escape – how that happened I’ll never know.”

Then the vaguely martial music came to an end, and Pete ‘opening of an envelope’ Snodden took to the stage to announce that most Prussian of activities – the Rocky Horrorshow Dance-off. Yes, for far longer than it should have the beery bonhomie of the beerhall was transformed into the wedding from hell as he encouraged the bar-maidens to ‘show ‘em how it’s done.” Cringeingly the bar-maidens (average age, of I’d say about 19) didn’t know the dance moves and moved vaguely about.

Still, their choreography was up there with Nijiniski’s compared to that of the hapless drinkers plucked from the audience. The eventual winner seized the prize (which, to be fair, I can’t recall – some beer themed tat, I’m sure) through  the unusual move of kicking his shoe in the air and failing to catch it. He was later thrown out for drunkenness. Then came the Blues Brothers Tribute Band. Who were very good. Of course, by then the beer had taken it’s toll, so hacks were swiftly ordered and bedways was very much bestways.

Would I go back? Well I was offered the chance to return later on in the week, but feared that the beery good times of a mid-week session would turn into a fully fledged riot come weekend, so I declined. But next year? Jah I say, but miss out the Time Warp.