Oh those lovely Amsterdam babes...


It came to me in a dream. Just like in Waynes World, there was the weird naked Indian dude, who took me to meet the man himself, Jim Morrison, who then proceeded to offer me a smoke on some of the finest bud I'd ever tasted in my life, something which made me realise I was definitely dreaming. I said through half choking, half smiling:
'Jim, this is some seriously good shit you've got here man..'
'Yes Kris, only the best in heaven.'
'Can I have your dealers phone number?'
'Never mind that Kris. You're bored, mi hombre. You need inspiration.Kris..Kris..man, it's time to do some-thing with your LIFE, you can't just keep dreaming of Japan and it's girls man. It's unproductive.'
So I said:
'Well, what can I do? Where can I go? To be honest I could just do with some more of this looooveely dop--'Jim interrupted me, shouting:
'Let me show you what you need ass-hole!'
Jim did some weird fairy shit with his hands, and in my mind appeared suddenly the illusion of large canals, dudes with funny 'Yorgen frajorgen' accents with funky heel-slapping, yokel accordian music in the background. In focused these amazing blonde Viking goddesses, beckoning, enticing, with sweet smelling weed smoke flowing into my nostrils, taking me into the air and making me fly towards the biggest joint I'd ever seen in my life. In the background I could hear Jim's ghostly voice fading away as I floated in tranquility - 'Goooo tooo Amsterdaaam maaan! They're waaaiting..waaaaiting fooor yooou!'

I woke up in a start 'Oh yes..' I thought 'I will go to Amsterdam...Oh yes..I..will go!' (que evil grin and nod)

Being fairly close to England, Amsterdam's quite a popular destination with us Brits, and you can usually pick up a ticket there by coach for about 40 for a couple of days. People from England go there for the same reason anyone else does, they've heard the rumours about being able to get all the pot you can smoke, the infamous 'Red Light Zone', and the sex-related theme museums. As for me, well, I just wanted to know if it was true what that dude said in Pulp Fiction about them smothering the fries in Mcdonalds with mayonnaise instead of ketchup. Just kidding. Seriously though, I went because friends had bragged about it to me. Some guy was like 'Kris..man, you gotta go, it's like, the prostitutes are like..Playboy models man, you won't believe it. And you can get some pri-hi-mo ganga over there man, none of this backyard shit we get in the UK, like..' - well, my ears pricked up on the Playboy models part, but I don't smoke hash or any of that crap. Not that I wouldn't if I liked it, but the plain truth is that the shit just doesn't work on me. I'm what you call immune-o to getting stoned-o, not that I can't appreciate an atmospheric smoke with some good friends on the occasion though. I'm a freak because I have trouble drinking beer too, I get one taste of the muck in my mouth and I'm hurling chunks. So I have to drink cider and spirits all the time (major drag at Beer Festivals). But anyway..

I guess I caught onto the romantic idea of wandering around the streets of Holland, checking out all the sex shops, hey, maybe even a nightclub or two while I was at it. Personally, I don't fancy English birds much, but anything Scandinavian, well, that's another story..

At my University one day I found an advertisement to go to Amsterdam by coach, which was arriving at 7:00pm on Friday, so I booked a ticket. I couldn't get any buddies to come along, cause they had to study. Well so did I, but I didn't give a shit. Screw studying when you can go travel. Degrees are pretty worthless pieces of paper in my books anyhow, it's what you build up in your private time that's gonna get you that dream job. I think Matt Damon pretty well summed up my feelings towards taught education in Good Will Hunting, when he had a go at that toff dork in the Student Bar, and told him that he was 'wasting 150 grand on an education he coulda got at the local library for a dollar fifty'. So true. Yep, you find out when you get to University that it's what you feared all along. A place fulla teachers who just teach you which books you've gotta read, and repeat what's inside them. You find all the lectures are just sum-ups of whatever's in the manual they gave you at the beginning of the year. I don't know why I expected to find a bunch of geniuses who were gonna open my mind to the farthest regions of Computer Science when I started Uni, because predictably all I got instead were just a bunch of normal guys repeating the shameful memorised shit they said the year before to the previous student robots. If you're a smart guy like me, you take languages too. I wish I could just study Japanese alone, but then again, I feel sorry for the poor losers who do single language degrees and nothing else as later on in life they discover just how many others have the same skill, and have to come to terms with the fact that they don't have any other 'modern' qualifications, and should've just stayed at home jerking off. I see a degree for what it is, a passport to a life of ease. All those guys in their cushy little office jobs claiming that their life is stressful. What? Try doing 12 hour shifts in a potato factory 6 nights a week and you'll soon discover what real stress is all about. I just need a degree to get my ass back to Japan legally, or maybe even back to New York and my lovely Central Park babes. Otherwise I'm stuck in this friggin' retarded country. Not that London's all that bad, but the chicks here in the UK just don't do it for me.

Back to the tale. So, the coach arrived and off I went. I met a nice blonde on the way, but all she went on about was how she was going to smoke her lungs black when she got there. Oh yes, charmed I'm sure. So after catching the ferry from Dover, and somehow managing not to get any sleep for the rest of the journey, I arrived outside the Chinese Boat in Amsterdam around 9:00am Saturday morning. It was cold, I hadn't taken enough clothes, and to be truthful, I was shagged from lack of sleep. And while others had gone off straight to find a YMCA, I'd figured I'd save money buy simply staying out all night, maybe go to a nightclub, and afterwards just find a bench to crash-out on. So you could say I was a little worried about how I was gonna last another 27 hours until the coach came back.

First thing I did was check out the tourist information. Inside was a bunch of other johnny foreigners, a few Yanks and Spaniards, and a really cute Dutch receptionist. Dutch women sure are hot. I took no hesitation in asking directly what I was looking for ' Way to the Sex Museum please?' with a big cheesy smile which was lost on her, as she quite casually gave me the directions. Right, next thing was the hunt for a 7-11. Couldn't find one though and had to settle just for a normal confectionary shop. I was a bit dissapointed to find most of the same sweets as we had in the UK, that wasn't very sporting, but I did try out some Dutch chocolate there. Glad to say it didn't compete with our very own Galaxy bars (then again, nothing does). By the way, if any of you are thinking I'm a lard-ass by cause of my chocolate fetish, let me tell you I that stuff goes right through me, in one hole and out the other, I can eat as much as I like and never get fat, I'm kind of like Superman. I wonder if Superman ever boned Lois Lane in the end and if he did, what kind of super-strength condoms did he use? And while we're on the topic of freak people, whatever happened to that midget from Paradise Island?...

Next, I had to check out the McDonalds. Actually, I can't remember if they used mayonnaise or not, cause actually I just had a burger, and didn't bother with the fries. The thing I discovered that wasn't mentioned in Pulp Fiction was that you have to pay to use the bloody toilets. You go in and there's like, some old lady waiting outside and you're supposed to tip her. Well bollucks to that, I'd guessed what it was what you were supposed to do, so I just played the dumb foreigner, and strolled past quickly, you know, "No hablo inglaise senora" and all that. Worked a charm.

So anyway, I checked out a few touristy places, namely the hash cafes and sex museums, since it was too early to head straight to the hookers. Actually The Sex Museums were bloody interesting, although one of them was a straight-up rip off. The second one was a peach however, full of photographs and detailed artistry of all the sordid sexual acts you can imagine under the sun, usually performed by Lucifer for some strange reason. This was all fine to a point, but I was slightly disturbed by the fact that the place was full of old ladies who would cackle at as high an octave as they could reach every time they saw a pic that shocked them. It's like, Jesus Christ, you're sitting there trying your hardest not to get a perk on, and you're f**king granny is standing right there next to you trying to explain to her mate what the donkey is doing to the blonde in the picture. There ain't no bingo in here girls, bugger off will ya?

Those hash cafes have a great atmosphere I tell ya. As I walked in I took a deep breath..Ahhhh, nothing like good herb to warm the nostrils. It's quite cool because they are literally cafes, the only difference to the ones back in the UK being that you can get some toke to go with your bangers & mash. You have a menu and everything, but get this, because it's somehow illegal to advertise the stuff, you have to press a button to bring up the list of the good stuff. And it is top quality gear, you can tell just by the reek of the shit. Northern Lights, Skunk, Kings Polm, Silver Haze, you name it. They even had that Thai Stix chocolatey-tasting stuff, pre-rolled and everything. As I've said before, I don't really smoke ganja and anyway I didn't have that much cash to blow in Amsterdam, so I got a coffee and just sat by the window watching the tourists and fine Dutch birds strolling past.

As I took a step outside the coffee shop, the cold Netherlands air hit me and I suddenly came to the realisation that I was shattered from lack of sleep. In fact I couldn't see myself succeeding in my plan to stay out all night if I didn't at least get a couple of hours shut-eye, so in the end after half an hours walking around and battling my tiredness, I finally decided to lay down on a public bench and crash. But in the end I realised even that was useless as I shivered my bollucks off to the possible amusement of the Dutch passers-by who were well used to the cold weather. I had to come to another solution, I thought. What else could keep me up all night except for my ex-girlfriend having PMT?...DRUGS!..that was it. Nothing illegal. Just something to keep me on my feet and away from the constant drowsiness. Without much ado, I headed off to one of the little places they call Smart Shops and took a look at some of the pharmaceuticals on offer. Finally, I stepped outside and took a look at what I bought. They were some I pills called Super Caps, and on the back was written 'Super-Caps, a natural drug that is 100% natural derived from the Jamoonga tree in the Amazon --' or some shit. Ahhh whatever, I popped it, and half an hour later I was jumping around like a cat with a fire-cracker up it's ass!!..God damn! this was some powerful shit!. It actually had two major effects, the first one being where you felt as though you were filled with helium, and every time you walked it was like you were walking on some kind of moon with low gravity, and sinking into the street whenever you put your foot down. Actually that was pretty nice. The second side-effect was far more negative but I'll leave it till later on in the story to reveal what that was.

I looked at my watch. 5 o'clock. I'd heard the Red Light Zone didn't really take off until at least 7:00 so I decided that I'd go and cop a few pints first to blow some time. Don't even get me started on Dutch alchohol. The French have got Pernod, the Scots have got Whisky, The Czech's have got Absinth, and what have the Dutch got? some muck called Advocaat. I mean, what is that anyway? f**cking banana milkshake?. In the end I settled for an Irish pub I found that seemed to be run by a couple of expats. It was Happy Hour, so I decided to go for the two-for-one pint deal, and before I knew it I was a little drunk. I'd been talking to the bar-maid about all night clubs that were open and she was in the middle of telling me there was a nice place called Time that was open 'till 7am when I had the Two Pint Piss Calling and excused myself.

It was when I got upstairs and pulled out my tadger that the true evil side-effect of the Super Caps pill revealed itself. For as I unzipped and went to reach for His Holiness I realised I could barely find the bloody thing. With a confused look on my face I dashed into the cubicle for further inspection. Yes, it was true. Super Caps had shrunk my knob down to the size of a monkeynut!!. And not only that, but trying to take a piss was like trying to squeeze out superglue and it came out with this slimy, honey-texture. I could feel myself straining to empty a now full bladder, a bloody mission and a half that took me a good twenty minutes. Well, I thought, so much for having it off with any hookers that night..pffffffff..

The clock struck 6:30 and I heard the voices in my head saying to me. "It's time..It's time my son..go to your fate". Off to the Red-Light Zone it was then, to see the lovely mademoiselles of the night. I don't know why it hadn't occured to me before, but the Red-Light Zone is literally, red. I thought it was just a name, but no, the streets are full of the glass boxes that the girls work, and they do emit, a neon red or pink light, that gives the area a nice smutty feel. I couldn't help but smile as I found out that what my friends back home had told me was completely true, and that was that the Amsterdam Red Light Zone girls are absolutely gorgeous. Some of them are extremely good-looking, and at an almost insultingly cheap price (30-40 quid for most girls) I simply couldn't believe the bargain of the goods that were on offer. There were girls there that wouldn't have looked out of place in a double-page spread in Playboy. And the whole place was absolutely jam-acked with tourists from all over. Japanese and Chinese businessman, European back-packers, big baseball cap wearing Yanks, and naturally, what filth den wouldn't be complete without the intolerable British lagerlout?

One of the things I found amusing was that the Red Light Zone is districted into regions respective of the race and colour of the girls. You've got your Black whore street, Indian whore street, Blonde Scandinavian whore street, Latino whore street, and, oh fat lady sing me a song, the Oriental whore street. Naturally this is the one place I hung around at most, and let me tell you, the girls available were as good as it got. I will never forgive myself for not having the cash to do the dirty with one of them, but I promised myself that day that I would one day be back. It was a good laugh, watching guys who were supposed to be big tough bastards totally shit themselves at the thought of getting a hooker, getting encouragement from their friends but still not having the balls to do anything..

If you happen to be a half-decent looking guy, you get a lot of chicks waving to you as you walk past their boxes. I knew it was just an excuse to try to get some custom, but there was this one hot black chick that seemed to go mental everytime I went by, so much so that I thought she genuinely wanted to talk to me. I shouted at her that I didn't have any bread, but she persisted, and I decided to go to see her at the door. Couldn't hurt to check out what she wanted. Hell, I thought, maybe she wants to give one to me for free even. She was pretty damn cute, and as I got to the door she told me to come inside to her room. As soon as I got inside though, I saw what a velvetty shit-hole of a place she resided in, was, and I guess the red neon just got to me, and made me realise this was no kind of place I'd like to make-out in. The place reeked of the raw sex acts that'd this chick had obviously partaken in, and I felt about as unhorny as I'd ever been in my life. I felt her hands slip into my pockets from behind, and at first I thought was she was trying to grab my balls, but then I heard a jingle and she pulled out a fist full of loose change. It didn't take me long to figure out I was being ripped off, but the truth of it was that I kept the paper money in my jacket pocket anyway, and only about 3 quid in shrapnel. Hell, I couldn't even get a blowjob for the money she took off of me. She asked me why I didn't have enough gilda on me to bang her with, and I told her that it was like I said before - I was broke - and she believed me this time. Anyway, on closer inspection I realised the girl was a bit of a barker and I don't think Id've shagged her in the end even if I'd had the cash. I figured I wasn't going to get my money back, and since I couldn't be fucked to argue with her over 3 quid anyway I didn't want to stay in that dump any longer and so I took off. I'm sure if they'd had black hookers back in Sun Tzu's day he'd have written something about staying the hell away from them in The Art Of War.

It got later and I decided it was about time I wrapped up walking around the Red-Light Zone and headed off to this nightclub the chick in the Irish Bar had told me about, Time. On the way I noticed how tired I'd suddenly become, and how the effects of the Super Caps were wearing off, so I popped another one.

Within

half AN HOUR
I FeLt a bit
LIke Thiiiiiiiiiiiiss..

I walked into a McDonalds and my powers of concentration were so weakened that I remember it taking me literally fifteen minutes to figure out I wanted a cheeseburger. And when I finally did get to the counter I realised I was being served by two homosexual Arab who seemed keen on me, or white guys at least, since I'd just heard one of them translating his friends rather risque camp banter about the guy in front of me to the woman server on the next counter, and as soon as I stepped up his friend launched into another flurry of Arabic that made the server look at me and smile, and I fear to this day the words that passed over his mouth next.

"My friend he say he likes you. He likes your hair. What do you think?"

I looked slowly over at the grinning homosexual Arab and then looked back at the server through my drugged gaze. He awaited in anticipation for my answer. I could see the seconds ticking away on the cheap McDonalds clock on the wall to my left.

"I'll have a Whopper with cheese."
The Arab guy hissed in dissapointment and then concentrated back to the real world.
"No I'm sorry sir this is not Burger King."
Jesus could I not think straight.
"Err..oh shit yeah. Umm, whats it..a Bacon Double Cheeseburger Meal..yeah with fries and coke and all that..and some ketchup and stuff.."
He sorted out my order but when it came to giving him the change I simply could not co-ordinate my thoughts enought to sort English money from Gilda.
"No sir, that is English money."
rustle. "Oh yeah. Here.."
"No sir, again, this is ENGLISH money."
rustle.rustle. "Shit.Right..Here.."
"LISTEN SIR YOU HAVE GOT TO GIVE ME SOME DUTCH CURRENCY THIS IS ENGLISH MONEY!"
.rustle.rustle. "Alright!! Alright!! here you go ya bloody Arabic camel shi.."

Time wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It was okay as far as nightclubs go, but you can find much bigger and better places back home in Blighty. The drinks weren't all that cheap either. I guess the only differences a Dutch club has compared to an English club is the fact that in the Dutch clubs you get cuter girls (who couldn't dance unfortunatly), and a ripe marijuana smell that hits you in the face the second you walk in. The first time I saw some dude roll-up inside I was thinking "That guys got balls to roll up inside a night-club", but that was before I realised what country I was in.

I met some British guy but all he wanted to chat about was football, so in the end I ditched him and started doing my own thing. To be frank I couldn't be bothered to chat up any girls that night, as the truth was I'd run out of SuperCaps and was now going into chilled out mode. I sat next to some Dutch guy who was rolling, and he offered me a spliff in perfect English. How do those guys learn to speak so well?. Anyway he introduced me to some American chick from New York, who had the face of a saint. A St.Bernard unfortunately, but it was fun just chatting to her about the big cities over the other side of the Atlantic. I didn't realise at the time that I'd be macking it out in New York myself just a few months later. But that's another story.

By about 7 I was pretty shattered and the place was starting to get full of weirdos. There were hardly any chicks left, and I got the feeling that a lot of the guys in there were faggots - either that or they were just bloody curious about looking at me because they wouldn't stop staring, so I left.

Walking around a big empty city like Amsterdam at that kind of time in the morning was pretty relaxing, but I was soon bored, and chilly too. The cold wind was really taking it out of me, and I couldn't believe I still had like, another 5 hours to go before the bus came. I was actually starting to feel sick from sleep depravity. I hate that feeling, your stomach twists and turns, and every step seems to get heavier and heavier.

Now, Amsterdam is full of bums just like every other major city in the world, so when I saw some cheaply-dressed, wild-haired guy walking towards me as if he was going to ask me if I'd like to buy a quarter of Rocky, I started averting my eyes, and blanked him when he tried to get my attention.

"Wait" he said, as I walked past, "I just wanted to know..if you had the time on you?"

The guy was Meditteranean or something, I noticed as I turned around. I'd thought he was one of the Morrocan bums that filled up the streets of Amsterdam, but it turned out later that he was just a tourist like me. I gave him the time, and he smiled. I wondered why the hell any other guy would be wondering the streets of Amsterdam at such a time in the morning, so I started a little chit-chat. He told me his name was Gianni - John. I told him I was from England.

"AAhhh..", he said "so you are the native English speaker. So man, teach me some slang, I want to learn some of this funny stuff."

I had nothing better to do so I taught him some of the funnier words for hash, and after laughing a little, we started warming to each-other. He was a typical looking Greek but he thought he was a wop, you know, one hand on a cigarette, hands in the air in over-expression all the time. So, we started asking each-other about what we were doing in Amsterdam and life in general, and he told me some interesting facts about his life back in Greece, how his plan was to get work in Amsterdam as an artist and bring his wife and kid over once he'd settled in. Turned out he'd been all over the world. France, England, America, Japan, you name it. Fucker had even lived in some jungle in Indonesia for three months. Who'd of known that a guy who looked like that would've been anything but a bum all his life.

Before I realised, we'd been chatting for over an hour. John said:
"Kris..you know, you have a very honest face, my friend. I can tell you're a trust-worthy one..Am I not right? You know, honesty is very important in this life, and you've got to be able to rely on people sometimes, no? Even strangers you meet at 8 am in a foreign country. You got those instincts that you need to trust. Is like, we all a different skin colour, and none of us speak to each-other in a proper, er, manner. But you look a man in the eye, you know what he's thinking, am I wrong?. Let's get go a coffee."
Yeah, sometimes you've got to like those emotional Mediterraneans. Full of life and love. Or is that piss and wind? They do my head in because they're so damn loud, but generally I get on a lot better with Meditteraneans than with fellow Brits. Probably because they're all dirty bastards like me. But never mind, on with the tale.
So, off we went to a cafe, for a coffee, he told me that he was actually moving to Amsterdam that day, but had just arrived, so he was in the same shite as me, walking the streets till the shops opened. Then he was gonna find a hotel, buy a phone, and see a friend about getting a house. He suggested we should just hang until my coach came. We talked about all sorts of crap, he told me about his happiest moment, when his wife gave birth to his daughter, everything really. We laughed about the pornographic side of Amsterdam, smoked a few joints together (no point in telling him they didn't work on me), and then after a few hours doing his bits and bobs, it was finally time for me to go catch the coach. By this point I was nearly sick from the lack of sleep. If you don't get much sleep, you find that you literally can't think straight - it took me ages to find my way back to the coach and I kept banging into walls and stuff. When I got inside I crashed like I've never crashed, and slept all the way home..

John just had one last thing to say and I thought this title was good.

Jerry Gianni Springers Final Thought

'My friend..you don't worry about finding the perfect girl at your age, I know that you're worried about not being perfect enough when a nice girl comes into your life, not handsome enough, not charming enough..But I tell you, it's sometimes the bad things about you they like..and the pretty ones..bah, they still just people, you go talk to them like enybody else...And it don't matter if it's blonde, red-hair, Japan girl.. This girl come when you're not looking my friend..and she knock you on your ass with her love inside. Take it easy.'..Real wise guy, John was. Wonder where that chick is? Could be reading this for all I know..

Ahh women, the bane of my life.. Not that I'm as bad as you all think..I mean, I AM a one girl guy, and I definitely can't understand guys that cheat - as far as I'm concerned, you find your one dream chick and then that's it. Unless we're talking dick-cheating here. This is where a guy just bangs another girl cos he's bored - like having an upgraded wank basically -, as opposed to banging another woman who you're in love with. Cheating like that is the worst kind of cheating. When a girl cheats, you know that 90% of the time it's like that, she loves the other dude. Just my 2c there, although I do truly believe that one chick should satisfy one guy for good. You spend the rest of your life grooving together. I'm just saying I can understand guys who dick-cheat though. I do look at other birds when I'm with a woman, but this is just viewing the scenery, and doesn't mean I want to bang them all. It's like this, you have the Da Vinci at home, but you can still appreciate a nice Picasso, or a Monet. And if you ever get bored of having the DaVinci, you don't throw away the picture, you maybe change the frame, or put it under a different light. You know deep down it's an extremely valuable object that you don't want to lose. Anyway enough of my Tesco Value philosophy.

That's that then. Next stop New York. I just have to say I really think Dutch people are cool (esp my bud Dennis who saved this page when he told me he had back up files a while ago when I lost some of the YD files). Their accent when they speak English is so similar to the British that I wonder how the hell they learn to speak English so well. And they're so friendly, very similar to the Japanese in their treatment of foreigners. They're also very laid back, and I saw a lot of mixed-race couples walking the streets during the day. Yeah, I could definitely do 6 months or so taking it easy there over in Amsterdam. At the end of the day though, it's a bit small, and can't compete with the love of my life, Sapporo. But I'll be sure to visit there at least 3 or 4 more times to smoke some good jing-jang-joolie before I get back to Asia.

Till next time then, look after yourselves....aaaaaand eachother .


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