Saturday, July 31, 2010

Dutch Gold

Amsterdam. Quite the delightfully crazy bitch of a city. The craic quota was well and truly through the roof for our week of mischief. It was just me and the Bear for the first four days, with the rest of the twenty-seven strong group arriving for the weekend with the excuse of a birthday loosely holding together the idea of a massive session in ye olde Amsterdam.

Antics included:

* Being generally amazed at the gorgeousness of the canals, narrow streets and the demented angles that all the buildings seem to lean at.

* Trying to decipher what flavour the bright blue ice cream with "smurf" in its name was. We never did figure it out.

* Finding it really quite difficult not to stare at the particularly hot lingerie-clad ladies in the neon-lit windows as we ambled past. And equally difficult not to stare at the rather more robust ladies that take the Sunday morning shift.

* Giggling our way around the Sex Museum, which really just amounts to a badly organised collection of things with naked people on them. Good for a laugh though, and true to form the man on the ticket desk made sure he got a good look at my boobs on the way in. In fairness to them they had some nice cheeky advertising for their 25th anniversary, when the Bear came across this coin in his change at one point:

* Learning a total of five Dutch words. Kangarooballen, slagroom, aardappel, bioscope and winkel. Which mean space hopper, whipped cream, potato, 3D and shop, respectively. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly engaging in any Dutch conversations during my time there.

* Waking up to find that both the Bear and I had been playing host to a mosquito orgy over the course of the night, as our arms and legs became the new Amsterdam hotspot for them to party down at. The tiny winged bastards.

* Cycling in a wobbly and momentarily terrified manner (as I've been cycling in or about four times since I was thirteen) to the Anne Frank House. Whilst queuing, the Bear asked me if I had read the book, to which I replied; "No, but I know the story. Y'know, from the bit with Peter in Family Guy." I kid, of course.

* Screaming our collective tits off on the mental rollercoasters in Walibi World, a former Six Flags park about an hour outside the city. There's nothing quite like being flung upside down and hurtling through a corkscrew bend before breakfast.

* Commandeering the couches by the window in the somewhat crack den-like surroundings of Hill Street Blues, as Deadly Jumper Boy asked me what the story was with my Jessica Fletcher obsession. Seeing as he's as yet unaware of this here blog, this was based solely on my Facebook updates. He doesn't know the HALF of it.

* Fisheye tomfoolery courtesy of the Lomo camera that Santa was nice enough to give me last Christmas. It was my first go with it, so the results aren't exactly spectacular or anything, but it was certainly fun to use.


  1. I once went to the sex museum on mushrooms. Don't go to the sex museum on mushrooms. Trust me on this.

    Your Amsterdam post is fizzy and delicious, unlike its title.

  2. Firstly, I absolutely love the photographs m'dear. Well done you.

    Secondly, I loved your tales of Amsterdam. When Boyfriend and I went to the Sex Museum we did nothing but laugh.

    Thirdly, go somewhere else and write another travel entry. I demand it!

  3. Thanks, lovely ladies!

    Lemur - Duly noted.

    WR - It's quite the gigglefest alright. If some kindly millionaire is willing to fund my overseas adventures, then it's a deal!

  4. fab fab fab pics my sweet x


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