Merry Christmas

It's was a bloody struggle but I finally managed to get this bloody heron (or stork or whatever the hell it is) to wear this hat for enough time to get a picture of it. He kept trying to pick it off with his spindly leg.

Needless to say I got soaked and pretty badly pecked.

Still. Worth it I think.

My new boat. The Tirpitz.

She's a traditional Dutch cheesing schooner. An L-type which as we all know became a new benchmark for this type of wherry. Despite this formidable seafaring pedigree, when I look at her I can't help thinking that she looks a bit, you know, shit.
Do you know what I'm starting to think think?
I think the boat bloke is playing the slippery eel with me. I'm starting to think that none of the boats he's given me so far have been all that waterproof. Could it be so? Nah. I'm sure she's going to provide me with many a bouyant nautical mile. No more soggy sandwiches for me.

L-class cheesing schooner. The mighty Tirpitz.

What's the well dressed Dutch new father wearing?

Look at this bloke!

Only a bloody poncho! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha....wheeze...ha ha ha ha....cough...oh hahhha ha ha ha. I took this picture as secretly as you can when you're laughing your head clean off. Hence the poor framing.

Cheese, booze and cake

The demands of these three festive things have weighed heavily on my shoulders. These three unwise Kings, as I call them, have featured strongly over the past few days and their merry consequences of hangovers and yuletide trips to the tjoilet, have prevented me from blogging. Yes, the traditional Britsish method of celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus by going to the pub and "wetting the baby's head" is alive and well out here, in snowy Amsterdam.

So snowy I'm wondering if I'll be able to get home for Xmas at all. Or will I be eating turkey in Schipol airport? The answer's probably no because in this town you can't buy any food you actually want.

Can't help thinking that the protective features of this brolly are outweighed by its bloody massive wind resistance.

Unless he's using it as a sail. A sort of airbike. Wouldn't put anything past the Dutch.

Shhh. It's secret Amsterdam

Amsterdam is famous for two things and two things only. Oilleballen (literal translation Oily-balls) and illuminated bike racks. That's it. Nothing else.

With Oillieballen, what you're looking at there is a spherical doughnut. They're delicious and the Dutch love nothing better than wrapping their lips round one of their neighbours oily balls. The other thing for which Amsterdam is renowned all over the world, is less well known. Their famous illuminated bike racks. Known locally as Illjuminated Bijke Rjackeeenisljissvanseeergrachtenstrassevijnrack.

Inconveniently, the bikes must be lifted several feet into the air and hooked over two prjongs (prongs) which project either side of a central shaft. A powerful light is mounted atop to shed light on the pitiful spectacle of a stoned idiot trying to lock his crappy bike to one of these hilarious examples of "mad" Dutch thinking.

One of Amsterdam's famous secret illuminated bike racks

2. At one time, loony painter Salvador Dali, lived in Amsterdam. Look, I found his bike on the Groot Bridjge (Literal translation - Great Bridge). No wonder he cut his earhole off.

Salvador Dali's bike.

Shit!

I could weep. The bljoke told me she rode pretty low in the water. For the bridges he told me.

So bloody low, it turns out, that she was swamped by the bow wave from a passing duck. I tried to vent her bilges but as you can see she started listing to starboard quite badly and went down, up there by the Ooonderpjant van de Pipp quay.

Pass me another one! This one's broken.

A visitor's guide to Amsterdam pt1

Hold your horses. This is not a a cultural, what's on and where to go guide to Amsterdam, if that's what your thinking.

No, it's more of a set of observations if you will. A careful anthropological study of the Amsterdam citizenry and their frankly farcical way of going about things. That and just some general, you know, advice.

Dutch accents: Nonsensically, when Dutch people speak English, they pronounce "s" as "sh." I only found this out when I went into a cafe and was invited by the barperson to "sit anywhere!"

I thought, "Bit weird but when in Rome and all that." It was only after an undignified scuffle during which I was severly handicapped by my trousers being round my ankles that I found out the ghastly truth.

So beware of falling into that trap. It's easily done.

Bicycles:When you ride your bike there are a few unspoken "rules of the road" that the Dutch abide by.

1. When cycling, just do whatever the bloody hell you want.

2. When parking your bike, try to find a safe place to park where it won't be an inconvenience to other road users. If you can't spare the 10 goddam seconds it takes to do this seemingly straightforward task, then just hurl the fucking thing on the floor any-old-where you arseing well please. See fig 1, 2 & 3 below.

Fig 1

Fig 2

Fig 3

A few pictures for people who know me and who know people I know

Yu and Andy Edwards.


If you don't know me it won't be that interesting but you might want to just take a minute to marvel at how people like this have responsible jobs in which other, apparently sensible people have somehow gained the impression that these idiots know what they're talking about.
I know. It's mad isn't it?

Lun, Yu, Wendy, Andy Edwards and that's my lovely little face on the far right. We're in a traditional Dutch Tourjist Trjap.

Bloody bollocks.

The HMDS Marjke Skjidmark

Look at this bloody mess. This is the replacement for my 2200.

Her Majesty's Dutch Ship the Marjke Skjidmarke.

As you can from the clean lines and reinforced bulwarks she's a traditional Dutch coaling skiff. She's a tough old, no nonsense, tub who's been working the canals of Northern Holland for the last 150 years. I was particularly pleased with the deckchair you can see up there on the poop deck and I planned to spend many a summer afternoon slumped in it.

She didn't last two minutes.

I can't bring myself to explain what happened but it was a combination of the notorious Amstel Ljock (which is Amstel Lock in English), my trousers, an old mine planted by the resistance during World War Two and, you've guessed it, a stoned old hippie.

The buildings have been drinking

Today you find me analysing Dutch housing stock.

Look at this lot.

I ask you. All slumped against each other like a row of rheumy-eyed drunks the morning after a stag do in Amsterdam's naughty-but-nice, whore's area, the "Red Lamp Distict."

So what does this set of pictures tell us about Dutch housing?

It tells us that Dutch houses are in the advanced stages of what highly qualified city architects call "falling down."

Judging by some of the jaunty angles they've settled into I give the whole of Amsterdam about 4 months before it falls into the canals, because once one of these babies goes, it'll take every last dwelling place taller than a hat with it.

There's a coffee and doobie place on the corner of Sjeentraaassbergeengraachtkjergrachtenstraat and Eeglnteeeirteenbjergenstraaachgrachtstaat that my money's on to be first to go. Not only has highly sensitive, self-levelling architectural measuring equipment found it to be "leaning like an absolute bastard," Dutch town planning expert, Hootje van de Pjooper confirmed it has officially entered the teetering phase. He added "ja she's absholutely gonna falling down like a big shack of shhit. Ha ha ha ha ha."

The entire city, he confirmed, should then simply clatter to the ground like dominoes. Rendering instantly homeless, thousands of mice traditionally seen on the stairs, where on the stairs, there on the stairs, right there, of all Dutch dwellings.

What the Nazi's singularly failed to do during 5 years of the most destructive war in history will be accomplished in about 25 minutes by crappy 14th Century Dutch builders. Or Bjuilders as they would undoubtedly have it. They'd probably been at the waccy baccy.

Some people.