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.

Bloody hell.

Been either working or drunk or eating too much cheese to post anything. I will be though my friends, I will be. And I've sunk another boat. Would you believe it? If I hadn't been standing waist deep in the Ljeeenstraatgrachtensjleeeefkreeeizen van de Pyp canal I wouldn't have believed it. But I was.

I've only gone and pranged the new tub.

I got a new tub after I holed the previous when I drove her into a submerged bong attempting the infamous Ljaanbeertaarljeergsaaaniereeergraacht van der Deewartleejlieerberger bridge.

The new one was an S -Class. Yeah you heard me. The 2200. So you can imagine how keen I was to get my hands on her gunwhales. Anyway. I weighed anchor at her berth outside our flat and got her wedged in the canal attempting a three-point turn. It turns out she was precisely the same length as the width of the canal. Some stoned old hippie at the helm of a traditional Dutch Faaart barge making 6 knots, rammed her amidships and unfortunately she turned turtle and went under.

Bloody hippies. Or hjippies as the Dutch would probably have it. Wjankers.

My S-class 2200 after my boating accident.

I'm getting a new one tomorrow. Avast behind!

Bicycles and Boats.

We found out that the appartment comes supplied with one bicycle and one boat. You know, for transportation services. Above is Yu about to wobble off to see Andy "Beardy" Edwards and Wendy "The Sprout" Sproit.

He's wearing his Mao Tse Tung hat and an alpaca scarf from his recent sojourn in South America (where, incidentally, his mate Jason was overwhelmed by a intestinal urge, several days into the Inca trail. An urge who's needs far outweighed any notions of decorum and propriety. You know where I'm going with this, don't you. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. He did a big poo on Machu Pichu. Jason is now known the length and breadth of the Andes as The Inca Stinker).

Anyhoo. Yu got the bike and I got the boat. Alas driving a boat is not "like riding a bike" and tragedy struck on my maiden voyage. Two minutes out of port and I found myself suddenly holed below the water line. My first thought, naturally enough, was that I'd been torpedoed by a duck but no, the explanation was more Amsterdamesque. I'd only gone and driven the old tub into a sunken bong abandoned by some hippie after a night on the old Waccy Baccy.

Bloody hippies.

Anyway, they're providing a new boat tomorrow, so I'll be able to get to work via the canal system. Shiver me timbers and hoist the mainsail if it ain't so!

Me hearties.

Well I never.

I like a good swear as much as the next man but I draw the line at displaying the kind of effing and blinding on the sides of buildings that seems run-of-the mill here in Amsterdam. Whatever next I ask myself.
Next they'll be selling cannabis bold as brass in cafes or something and/or section off an entire area of the city in which ladies sit in the window semi-naked, beckoning at passers by.......hang on a bloody moment!

Bloody hell it's a free for all over here.

Amshterdam

I'm in Amshterdam, home of the clog, Edam cheese, the tulip and, annoyingly, the Dutch bloody idiot on a bicycle. I haven't blogged for a while because sadly I have gone back to work. When I get my arse into gear I'll be on it more. Or not. Who knows?

This is the view from outside my appartment.

Shuper.

Bloody computer.

My bloody computer broke. Now it's fixed.
Me and Yu are off to Amsterdam for a month to work, do crazy Dutch accents and dance the merry hornpipe.

Look at this big nosed idiot!

I took a picture of this old stone set in the wall in Herbal Hill and made it into a T-shirt several months ago. Yesterday I went for Sunday lunch at The Coach and Horses just round the corner from there, with my silly friend Dan and his Mrs + two children. I was wearing my wonderous t-shirt so I got Dan to take a pic of me with his swanky iMobilephone. Et voila! Here it is.
Unfortunately it gives the impression that I've got a bit of a massive conk. Which I haven't. In reality it's a little button nose.




In other news I have to leave my flat. The landlord's sold it round my ears. I have a month to find a new pad but that's OK. It's exciting to change where I lay my head.
I know one thing though. It must be within a hop, skip and a jump and a puke of The Calthorpe on Gray's Inn Road. In my opinion, London's best pub. In almost everyone else's opinion therefore, crap.

Ducks All England Synchronised Arses Championship 2010

Here's the favourites. Really showing those feathered bot bots.

Oh that's marvellous stuff...those feathered bum cakes are really on show...well done girls.....

Oh no! Look carefully and you'll see one of the feathered bottoms is perfectly poised in the air and the other one (on the left) is bobbing about on the surface of the water like a champagne cork. They'll be marked down for that. Probably an air pocket in the beak or perhaps a mistimed foot flap. As so often happens.

The views of a short distance runner

Occasionally I go for a run from my flat in Farringdon and down Regent's Canal from Islington (or Islingtwat as I call it) to Victoria Park. And, of course, back again. It's about 6 miles. In summer it's a really nice run except for all the other people out on the towpath for a stroll or the cyclists out on the towpath for a hurtle. It's less crowded now it's getting colder so it's less bloody annoying to be on. These are the sort of views one can see when one does this run. Assuming:

1. You've avoided falling into the canal (trickier than it looks).

2. You aren't beating a cyclist to death for ringing his/her stupid bell and, wrongly as it turns out, assuming that the little pinging noise temporarily makes no else exist. Helmeted bell pinging wankers.

e) Fish (long story).

vii) A photographer hasn't suddenly darted in front of you and then, after you've saved her life by stopping so suddenly your knee bursts and your hair hurts, tutting. Well I'm sorry, madam, for exercising my legal right to go for a sedate run down the canal. How could I have been so selfish to not be psychic enough to realise you were going to do something unbelievably stupid, you daft bint.

Honestly. Some people. Here's the pics.

The lake at Victoria Park

An ad for Ron's Eel and Shell fish shop. I feel a T-shirt coming on. There's some really poor typography going on here. Go on. Click on the pic and see how difficult the copy is to read. I looked into this ad and found out it was art directed by Englebert Humperstink. So that explains it.

This is a drinking fountain. No really. It is. A massive bloody drinking fountain.

(I like the idea of public drinking fountains but I'd always be worried about miscreants rubbing their bottoms on the nozzles.)

A building.

Fashion's Winter Season - A 10 step "how to" guide

Getting hold of this season's must haves can be a distressing time for the Generation X male, of which I consider myself, a splendid example.
Shops are full of assistants asking complicated questions and saying "hello" to you. And shops are full to the brim with lady shoppers doing that strange, vacant, oblivious thing they do when any common sense they might have had, is rendered impotent by the all enveloping prospect of buying things. It's like they're possessed or something.
They stand in an aisle cheerfully blocking it while they examine two identical garments, they dart alarmingly into your path when they spot something "to die for" in their peripheral vision, they veer from side to side as they are, in turn, attracted by a new thing on one side, then another new thing on the other side, they stand on the left of the down escalator (their brains are so full of happiness at the important thought of purchasing new things, they cannot remember that there actually are other people on the planet).

But don't worry my friends. Here is an indispensible guide to shopping. Throughout the process try to give women a wide berth to allow for abrupt stops and sudden, unannounced changes of direction. Try to avoid eye contact. Don't try things on. (Why would you ? You should just be buying replacements for the stuff you brought last year, identical except without holes or toothpaste dribbles down the front). Same colour, same size. It's not rocket science.

1. Look in your cupboard or chest of dawers or on the bedroom floor. Note the sizes of the garments you wish to replace. Don't write it down. You'll be needing to forget this important detail later on.

2. Go to Uniqlo.

3. Try to locate the stuff you want from outside the shop.

4. Try to remember the location of the garments you require. Like Robocop targeting villains.

5. Go in.

6. Walk straight to the target locations.

7. Pick up what you want in the sizes that you bought it in last year (or the year before) if you can remember. If you can't remember take off all the clothes you are wearing and look at the labels. Or simply buy L and hope for the best.

8. Go to till.

9. Pay the lady.

10. Leave.

This is what I did yesterday. Here it is. Jumper (x2). Pant (x 2pr). T-shirt (x2). All in nice bland grey, white or black. £52. Voila. All shopping for the Winter 2010 Season done in 8 mins flat.

Shop 'til you stop, me boys! (Should take no more than 10 mins).
Then drink. Drink like you've never drunk before. Why? Because you're worth it.

My staycation to India.

Today you are surprised to see me immersing myself in Indian ways, cultures and traditions.
But I know what you're thinking. A staycation? To India? Eh?

Andy you've either a hipster doofus, a shitter or a knobhead.
Ha ha ha ha. Actually I simply went to the Diwali celebrations in Trafalgar Square in London, Paris.


There were bands of children who did traditional screeching into the microphone. This was followed by some more children doing some caterwauling.


I wandered round taking a few shots while I looked for the beer tent. Well reader, I was wandering for a bloody long time. Why? There was no arseing beer tent.

I ask you. What kind of celebration doesn't involve a few relaxing straighteners?
I'll tell you.

Diwali.

No wonder these two below look a bit glum.

Hey, we all feel a bit feel a bit like this sometimes, even on Diwali but I'm sure it's nothing a couple of pints of refreshing lager or a Blue Wkd wouldn't sort out.

Take note Diwali organisers.


Below:
The Rawalpindi Shriekers peform their traditional bellowing.

I've fixed my bike.

There was a problem with the brakes. The tension in the cable wasn't quite right. It was about 2.73 pounds per sq inch out. What it needed was some fine adjustment with a micro-calibrated torque wrench to get it just right. Unfortunately I didn't have one so I had to improvise.

All fixed.

My noo camera

One bloke taking a picture of Great Paul's Cathedral and another bloke taking a picture of a lift shaft. I shit you not.

My teddy from when I was a little boy. He looked after me then, so I'm looking after him now.

Great Paul's Cathedral reflected in that temple to mammon. That's right, the shopping centre. A comment on today's secular, consumer society? No. I was just pissing about.

Great Paul's Cathedral. Nice dome.

Today you unearth me lurking in the streets of old London town. Lurk, lurk. Like that.

But don't worry I haven't gone temporarily insane, terminally cretinous or, you know, turned into a big fucking idiot. No. I'm trying out my new camera. I had a terriffic hangover though so I didn't stay out long.

I'd been out to a leaving do the previous night you see. If the truth be known I felt pretty good when I got up but went rapidly downhill until I started to feel really ill. I had to go home before I sicked up on a tourist. I lay on the sofa but in the end I had to take myself to bed. Now, I know you will probably pooh pooh this theory but I didn't drink anymore than I normally do and I'd lined my stomach before I went out, so I'm putting this one down to a dodgy pint.

There is simply no other explanation for it. None. NONE!

I was drinking Heineken (known as Heinequeen for it's gay amount of alcohol) for heaven's sake. Fosters, is my usual quaffing beer of choice due to it's almost complete lack of alcohol. Indeed I sometimes think it is nothing more than light brown, fizzy, horse piss. It certainly tastes like that. And that is why it is known to all as "Foster's. The weakest of all lagers."

I rode home from the pub on my bicycle. I have resolved to fix the brakes. At the moment the application of either front or back brake has absolutely no effect on my velocity. They merely content themselves with making a reassuring, though misleading, braking noise.

I'm Underriver

Not , my friends, what you'd be saying if you'd just carelessly driven your bicycle off of a bridge. No.
In reality Underriver is a small village in Kent. A misnomer if ever I read one because most of it seemed to be located 20,000 ft above sea level. How do I know this? Because I bloody walked to it. From sea level. Yes. I bloody did.

Today you discover me taking a 6 1/2 mile stroll round Underriver. In the rain. With Denise and a terrifically over excited Mungo.






The scores was thus.

Actual distance covered, taking into account some wandering off the path:


Andy: 6 1/2 miles.
Denise: 6 1/2 miles.
Mungo: 27 miles.



Amount of rain absorbed by clothing and hair:


Andy: 2.6 litres.
Denise: 2 litres
Mungo: 12 gallons (per hairy ear)



Rabbits caught:


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 0



Pheasants chased at Mach 2:


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 3



No. of times bony head bounced off fencing at Mach 2:


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 2



Poos :


Andy: 0
Denise: 0
Mungo: 3



No. of rabbit holes thoroughly examined:


Andy: 1
Denise: 0
Mungo: 1,777,324



Words spoken:


Andy: 204.3 (interrupted)
Denise: 3,000,766
Mungo: 0






Expletives deployed (especially the f word):
Andy: 204.3
Denise: 12
Mungo: 0

Bloomsbury Art Festival

This weekend you bump into me at The Bloomsbury Art Festival. Not all weekend you understand, I just went on Sunday and had a wander round. A person can only appreciate so much art before it just starts to get annoying.

Especially when it takes the form of a load of paper birds hanging from a tree that people write their names on. Eh? I don't get it. But then I don't get wheelie cases so...you know...maybe I just don't get stuff.

Much better was this tree in Bunswick Square with armchairs, sofas, chairs and the like hanging from the branches. Very popular as you can see from the wonderous picture.

But the best thing was a tour of the old graveyard behind Mecklenburgh Square now called St. George's Gardens. Oliver Cromwell's grand daughter is buried there and the first ever body snatch recorded, was from a grave here in 1777. There's also a brilliant gravestone with a skull and crossbones carved in it. I want one like that when I'm dead. I'll try and get a picture of it with my new camera.

What's that you say? Have I got a new camera? Why, yes I have. None of thes pics are from it but the next lot should be.

He also told us that when Oliver Cromwell died he was buried in a lead coffin in Westminster Abbey. Three years later the Roundheads (snigger) were ousted by The Royalists and a King was put back on the throne. They had Cromwell's body dug up, they put it in the cellar of The Old Red Lion pub on High Holborn before taking it away and cutting its head off. Ha ha ha ha ha. Those crazy Royalists. Royal idiots I call 'em.

Anyway, I'm often to be found drinking in The Old Red Lion with my mate Denise and sometimes Yu.

I thought the beer tasted a bit funny.

Nero's (cont.)

Last week I saw celebrity bellend, Peter Andre in my favourite Nero's up on Theobaldy Road.
What do you think of them apples?

Time travel

Today you find me in the vibrant commuter town of Tonbridge in Kent. Home to a magnificent Norman castle, no decent pubs, my alma mater, quite a lot of fat people and my youth. You see, I have travelled to see dear old Ma Brittain who still lives in the house I grew up in.

She has two projects on the go at the moment. And taking into account that she is 75 years old and , though spritely, unarguably a "little old lady," much of the physical labour falls to me and my brother. My mother is in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision and worrying.

The first project is to bring order to the garden. Over the last 10 years the garden has been allowed to grow "as nature intended." ie uncontrollably, very quickly, fucking untidily and without a thought as to what colours go with what...errmmm....other colours. Or as my mother puts it, "It's a got a bit out of hand."

An understatement of the highest order. A whole new ecosystem has developed and several new species have evolved, the most interesting of which is a tree whose branches have dug their way into next door's garage. It has seemingly evolved a way to photosynthesise using car fumes, old paint tins, blunt saws, mouse droppings and jars of screws.

I killed it.

That'll teach it which way's up. The project has, through repition, gained the name Project Look At That Garden, It's Gone Fucking Batshit. Not pithy, I grant you, but accurate.

The second project is emptying the attic of 44 years of accumulated stuff. This project is entitled Project Loft-be-Clear. It just is.

This project is proving easier than the garden one because 75% of the shit up there belongs to my brother and his wife's. So it's a simple matter of moving a load of stuff he's forgotten he even had, from my mother's attic to his attic, where he can forget he even has it from the comfort of his own house. Easy.

This time Mum was in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision, worrying and gazing silently at pictures of herself when she was a little girl.



I found these old model aeroplanes up there. They fell into two groups.
Group 1 was old broken ones that I had fully assembled in my childhood.
Group 2 were those sad ones who's assembly exactly coincided with my transition from innocent child to awkward, hormonal, angst ridden, priapic, wanker, who was too cool (too solipsistic more like) to build model aeroplanes. They remain partially assembled.

I also found loads of old stuff of my father's which was very interesting and realised that by travelling to Tonbridge I had actually travelled in time as well.

A new world

Today I travelled to a new world. Well for me anyway. The world of tattoos. Went to Exmouth Market and had one stabbed onto my back.

Lots of people have asked me what having a tattoo feels like. Well the process involves having a needle stabbed repeatedly into your skin by an Australian man named Miles, so if you can imagine having a needle stabbed repeatedly into your skin then that's what it's like.

When I die I shall insist that that section of skin is removed and made into a lampshade. Then I shall bequeth it to one of my stupid friends. In doing so I will , literally, light up their lives as I undoubtedly did when I was alive. Undoubtedly.