Saturday 24th September
Being in Amsterdam is like living inside a bubble. It’s a diverse
city of canals, cycles and “coffee” shops with exotic blends that customers
smoke rather than sip. Whilst in the city we took time to catch up with fellow
Bath chem-enger Matt and his girlfriend Kat who had recently moved to the area.
Unlike us, here was a man who has life well and truly on track. Living in
Amsterdam with his girlfriend, holding a dream job with Shell and owning a sun
terrace that overlooks the nearby canal. By contrast the three of us were about
to be unemployed, living at home with our parents and fretting over an
appropriate duvet tog rating for the incoming winter. Nevertheless, we had a
lovely lunch and for the first time we had the opportunity to divulge all our
stories to non-ralliers we had known before the trip.
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| Some familiar faces |
As the darkness descended upon the city we were reminded of
what a rare place Amsterdam becomes. Just observing the obscenities in and
around the city centre is just as if not more laughable than partaking in some
of the alcohol infused titillation on show. Whether you’re bobbing along the
streets of Magaluf dressed as a smurf or getting a bum tattoo of Where’s Wally
in Kavos, you can count on us Brits to spread our boozy vulgarities to wherever
a Thomson holiday brochure will take us, and Amsterdam is no different. We set
off towards the city centre to soak up the atmosphere and wallow in the some of
the most jaw-achingly hilarious scenes we’d ever seen in our lives.
To really get a taste for Amsterdam’s vibrant nightlife we
decided to hit up the world-renowned petting zoo that is the Red Light District
to see what all the fuss was about. It certainly entertained us in a
gob-smacked kind of way. Stood at its epicentre you are surrounded by four
sides of scantily clad women, transvestites and Homo sapiens of an unclear
gender stood behind red windows as if they were fine furniture on display. It’s
like visiting a pet rescue shelter if all the dogs were simultaneously on heat.
A sight to see, but not to stare.
The tone for the evening was set early on when we stumbled
upon a gaggle of cheery Brits excitedly waiting outside one particular window
for their mate to reappear. To our surprise/horror, an 85 year-old granddad
emerged from behind the curtain to a standing ovation from the baying mob and
proceeded to salute them like royalty. There are no words.
As we continued to wander around it soon became clear this
was a Brit stag do stomping ground. We saw teenage mutant ninja turtles, fox
hunters and our personal favourite, Princess Leia being followed around by a
dishevelled and weary looking group of wookies. But it wasn’t just Wayne and
the lads from Clacton-on-Sea enjoying themselves, the hens were at it too. One
group of ladies all wore pink wigs and matching T-shirts with crude alluring
names like Sexy Suzy, Kinky Kirsty and Tasty Tracy written across their backs.
I don’t know why they do it to themselves.
But for shear hilarity, the best stag do of the night had
to go to the groom forced to wear a school uniform, a scraggly blond wig and
large wooden clogs placed on the wrong feet. Clearly lubricated with far too
many beers, he sidled over to Tasty Tracy and the gang announcing the words
“ello ladiez” whilst mid-gurn. With no sign of reciprocation from the far from
appealing females, the rejected clog-wearing groom conceded defeat and slowly
tottered back to his jeering mates. Watching on in hysterics, it’s an image we
will never forget.
Despite the rowdy crowds of over-excited pissheads spilling
out onto the streets there are at least some locals trying to make a living. As
we strolled along the district’s main walkway we were met by one of the most surreal
sights of the evening. Sandwiched between a pair of gyrating window dancers
stood a builder fixing one door’s luminescent red light, oblivious to all the
debauchery going on around him. Others trying to make a living are the sex show
reps stood on the door trying to entice unsuspecting punters inside to watch
unspeakably degrading acts.
Our favourite was a gaunt looking gangly man dressed in an over-sized pinstripe suit with a roasted peanut for a head. Wearing that same baggy two-piece your mum bought you as pageboy when you were eight years old, he had that resigned look etched across his face. Without even affording us eye contact as we walked past he voiced “showtime, come on in boyssss”, to which we just fell about laughing. For the next ten minutes we hung around outside the Moulin Rouge sex club just so we could hear our new best mate’s famous persuasive tagline.
Our favourite was a gaunt looking gangly man dressed in an over-sized pinstripe suit with a roasted peanut for a head. Wearing that same baggy two-piece your mum bought you as pageboy when you were eight years old, he had that resigned look etched across his face. Without even affording us eye contact as we walked past he voiced “showtime, come on in boyssss”, to which we just fell about laughing. For the next ten minutes we hung around outside the Moulin Rouge sex club just so we could hear our new best mate’s famous persuasive tagline.
When we reached the far end of the district, we came across
a sleeping man pissing in such a perfect arc that it was keeping him upright
like a third leg. With that we decided we’d seen enough and after 4 hours of
walking up and down the exact same streets, it was time to head back. A night
of belly-aching laughter that we won’t forget in a hurry.
Saturday night in Amsterdam is certainly a unique experience of male predation and intemperance, but it doesn’t come without its entertainment value. It’s the kind of place Donald Trump would hold his inauguration if he had his own way.
Saturday night in Amsterdam is certainly a unique experience of male predation and intemperance, but it doesn’t come without its entertainment value. It’s the kind of place Donald Trump would hold his inauguration if he had his own way.
Posted by: Rich