Day 1 – Amsterdam
Fuck. So I woke up this morning so excited to climb onto my flight this evening that I totally and utterly and completely forgot that I had a live radio gig to do this morning.
Any normal fucking person with an opportunity to sit in studio with two DJs and discuss anything from my book (yay for free promotion!), to Strocs (Croc Strops. They exist. Let’s all mass vomit together on three,) wouldn’t forget to go into studio.
I arrived an hour late and did a 1.5 hour slot with these girls and had an absolute slice. I wanna do it more often, talk shit across radio waves. Like the rest of the planet. And I arrived late. What a stupid bitch I am.
Anyway, so we arrived at OR Tambo, backpacks a-swinging, and then get told – I’m not fucking kidding here – ‘KLM is overbooked.’
“Listen fucker. I’ve seen this movie, I wrote the letter. Don’t start. Or I’ll rip your head off.”
We got on – only just – and on arrival in Amsterdam, they’d lost our bags.
Of course they had though.
Dove by this stage was shouting at Peas for jinxing our flights.
Turns out the dozy wanker had sent our bags straight to Berlin – so for 24 hours, I strolled around The Amsterdammager in a XXL white t-shirt the airline had given us. As a ‘Sorry for sending your bags to Texas, here have a t-shirt.’
So we looked like true style icons, strolling the streets of Amsterdam in search for the perfect coffeeshop, in shirts we were swimming in. Dove said we should smear the shirts in horse dung and Fedex them to the guy at the KLM counter with a little note:
‘Here’s a little present from us, do please enjoy.
PS: Where are our fucking clothes?’
We’re staying with one of Dove’s mates in a typical Dutch-style house, with a three storey staircase that rises up at an 85 degree angle. Not good when you come home completely goofed out of your skull. Merely saying.
After considerable down-time, we found ourselves in the Vodfone shop sorting out Dove’s sim card, where I decided that one of the sales guys was, in fact, quite fucken delicious.
I was picking up a cellphone sales guy.
He wore a uniform and his name was something unpronounceable, even to someone who orally coughs up phlegm saying ‘Hendrik Potgieter Straat’ on the irregular occasion I find myself lost in Roodepoort.
He offered to join us at a coffeeshop after his shift and I battered my eyelashes and asked him what his starter packs were like.
Smooth.
Tapeworm smooth.
Dove dragged me out of there – what a mate – thank heavens for better judgement because seriously – and we ended up at a bar singing karaoke with a bunch of Germans and Yobs.
We sang to the entire bar, and my song of choice was Usher’s Make Love In This Club. The stag parties seemed to enjoy it, judging from the shooters they were throwing our way. Or they were trying to make it stop, hoping we’d pass out. More likely.
The German stag party then followed us to a live sex show at about 2:00am. This is my fourth time in The Dam, and I’m sheepish to admit I’ve never seen live stage copulation.
Sacrilege.
Twas high time – pun intended - now that I had a mate with me who was a Virgin Amsterdammer.
Dude. Basically, they give you drinks tickets and a bunch of free lollycocks – penises you suck on – novel – whack you in a chair overlooking a stage, and basically ogle at live acts of fornication.
I can safely say – because I was checking – nobody was turned on. (Except for the cantankerous old geezer in the corner maybe).
Whadareyougonnado? We were all just kind of awestruck and giggling. It’s such a bizarre vibe, like a movie. It’s really just like watching porn.
They do various scenes, and we were fortunate? Timely? In lieu of? enough to view this special line-up for the evening:
1) A bachelor on his stag night being pulled up onto the stage to be spanked with a whip, and then having a black penis strapped onto his head with which a lady then proceeded to, um, fuck, basically.
2) A whole lot of anal.
3) A whole lot of positions
4) A whole lot of 69ers. And 89ers and triple 4ers. (You gotta see the latter to believe it)
Yep, that’s about it really. We got absolutely sock-jockeyed. Whose gonna waste free drinks when you’re paying euros/gold?
Pity about the snacks though.
Then I think – I think – because details are sketchy at this point – we hit a club and walked around a bit after a taxi dropped us off at the wrong place. It must’ve been good, because the next morning felt like a hairy goat’s scrotum had implanted itself in my mouth.
But back to the cultural stuff, amongst the haze of soft drugs and sex that Dutch people seem to embrace with an extra special embracage. If you will.
Culture = museums. So we did the sex museum, because the Anne Frank House just doesn’t cut it. I’ve been to both before, but I thought Dove had better straddle the giant penis herself – everyone has a picture taken on the ginormous pecker – and now she at least has something to tell her grandkids.
‘Get your shit together and stop giggling,’ she says. ‘Wait. Those two must be the third most stoned people in Amsterdam, after the other guy we saw dry humping a wall, and er, him. Over there.’
Dog’s balls. Walking around in XXL white t-shirts courtesy of KLM – Royal Dutch Fuck Up Airlines – made it extra special.
And so to Berlin. With no bags. We travel real light.
