It's all gone Fast Show. I've just been patronised to within an inch of my life by a South African sales assistant in Molton Brown. "No sir, you don't want to use that. What you need is this. No offence."
Needless to say, her slick sales patter worked perfectly on me. I left without spending anything, although I do now smell like an tart's party...
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
The Copenhagen Choir
So I've done my first work trip away. A lack of sleep and beer on the company expense account; all in all, quite a success and good fun. There wasn't a lot going on that I didn't expect: too many people fretting over minor points; I work well with late nights and very badly in the morning; beer tastes better after a long day's work; free minibars are brilliant; air conditioning leaves your eyes drier than a desert. The best night out – the last (obviously) – involved everyone in the team embarrassing themselves in the karaoke bar. Not that we all sung, just that some of us (clearly not me) revealed rather too much of their knowledge of Meat Loaf, Britney and Take That lyrics. Still, if you have no shame it doesn't really matter.
The week before that, I was embarrassing myself in Duckie thanks to The Boy. It's all well and good, but going south of the river, with its feral population and smell of decay, is always a worry. And almost two hours home on the night bus just spurs me on further to pay off my debts and be able to afford a cab. Having said that, it was a rare pleasure to have a long night out on less than £20 (expense accounts notwithstanding). I'll try and do the same this Friday when I have a considerably less camp night out at Northern Boy's leaving do in London's Drug (and Tourist)-Addled Camden (home, unsurprisingly, of The Boy).
The further emptiness of my life is shown by the fact that the only other thing I've done in the past couple of weeks is start another season of 11-a-side football, for which I am woefully underprepared and unfit. But we won, so I can get fit before the next match. Meh.
The week before that, I was embarrassing myself in Duckie thanks to The Boy. It's all well and good, but going south of the river, with its feral population and smell of decay, is always a worry. And almost two hours home on the night bus just spurs me on further to pay off my debts and be able to afford a cab. Having said that, it was a rare pleasure to have a long night out on less than £20 (expense accounts notwithstanding). I'll try and do the same this Friday when I have a considerably less camp night out at Northern Boy's leaving do in London's Drug (and Tourist)-Addled Camden (home, unsurprisingly, of The Boy).
The further emptiness of my life is shown by the fact that the only other thing I've done in the past couple of weeks is start another season of 11-a-side football, for which I am woefully underprepared and unfit. But we won, so I can get fit before the next match. Meh.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Sex and drugs and rock and roll (without the sex. And more 'pop' than rock and roll)
It's all so long ago now, but here is a little précis of what I can remember from the trip to Amsterdam. Which, admittedly, isn't much.
Morning, mushrooms and madness
In hindsight, catching a 7am plane wasn't wise. Sure, we had a whole day in Amsterdam, but we were knackered. Thanks to the terror overreaction, sorry – threat – we arrived suitable early and checked in with plenty of time to allow the halfwits to work out exactly what they could and couldn't take as hand luggage. I didn't realise that halfwit would, in fact, be The Boy. First, he pulled some lipsalve from his bag – when it was pointed out that this was covered in the verboten list. Quickly followed by the moisturiser. I'll allow him to pass it all off for being early, but I'm not entirely convinced.
So we arrived in Amsterdam, went to the hotel, dropped our bags off and had a walk around, lunch and all that yadda yadda. We then bought some mushrooms (Philosopher's Stones, for the aficionados) and retired to the hotel for a shower and preparation for the afternoon/evening. I was mildly entertained by the shops on the way to the supermarket – Kwik Fit, Fitness First and Domino's, one after the other. What is this globalisation of which you speak?
And off to Vondel Park for some mind expansion. Of course, the trouble with psychedelics is that it doesn't translate afterwards to the written page (if you want that, try this or this). But, the first two hours were entertaining; the fountain and trees and clouds were diverting. I sat like a slack-jawed yokel staring at things. And then the trip went on. And on. And on. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed it – the hilarity of a young girl having a tantrum (a proper stamping feet, thcreaming until I'm thick one) was too much. But The Boy was having a less good time of it – not enjoying at all, to be fair. It's probably the first time I've been on the 'up' side of a bad trip. And there's not a lot you can do. So we went back to the hotel, and vegged in front of the TV (the BBC): Porridge, a good programme at the best of time, was possibly the funniest thing I'd ever seen. (It seems less so now.)
We didn't do any more hallucinogens for the rest of the trip.
I want to break free
Thursday was much more sedate. We got up at a sensible time. We wandered around town. We stopped for frequent coffees and beers. We smoked a fat one. Later we went out for the evening.
I'm not sure what I was expecting from a sex show. Ping Pong balls, I think. To be honest, I've never seen as bored a bunch of people as those on stage. In fact, the only person who seemed to be having fun was the male stripper, who seemed to be there as a sop to the females in the audience (about 30%, to be fair). As an anthropological study, it was entertaining; as erotica, it failed miserably. And no Ping Pong balls. So that's still on my to-do list.
And onwards to the funky new gay bar. I say funky, but I actually mean camp as you like. The fine selection of music ranged from Elton John and the Spice Girls to musicals to a fine Dutch Eurovision entry with moves that everybody in the bar danced along to. Except for us. Still, I proved I'm still a fine prick tease – almost scarily so. I went to the gents, as you do, and as I turned around afterwards, I found my way blocked by a young man with a glint in his eye. He was so disappointed – and disbelieving for a moment – when I told him he was talking to the only straight man in the place. So we both left the gents, but he held no grudge, and we danced and drunk until the early hours. Upon which he came back to our hotel with us and talked more bollocks. Then he and The Boy took a long time saying goodbye at the front door (and I went to sleep).
Dykes on bikes
And so we did what they do in Rome, or rather Amsterdam, and hired bikes. We took a marathon route (8km out – the same back) to go and see a windmill (we saw two) and have a meal in another village. And we saw a goat sitting on a stick. Oh yes.
He looks innocent, doesn't he. I don't trust him
And boy did my arse hurt after that. And we finished off by going to the Rijksmuseum (drastically reduced in size at present) and the van Gogh museum. What can I say about them? I don't know a lot about art, but both museums were badly lit, and van Gogh was crap at perspective and anything approaching realism. Nice colours, mind.
And so, we ended the evening knackered, and smoked until we slept.
Vice
Not much to say about Saturday. We went home, obviously. And did some proper shopping. And because the Dutch are so tall (and, by God, I felt 'average'), I bought trousers: ones that won't be too short.
All in all, good fun. And something to repeat next year. With more sleep beforehand, and more mushrooms. But without the tiredness beforehand.
Morning, mushrooms and madness
In hindsight, catching a 7am plane wasn't wise. Sure, we had a whole day in Amsterdam, but we were knackered. Thanks to the terror overreaction, sorry – threat – we arrived suitable early and checked in with plenty of time to allow the halfwits to work out exactly what they could and couldn't take as hand luggage. I didn't realise that halfwit would, in fact, be The Boy. First, he pulled some lipsalve from his bag – when it was pointed out that this was covered in the verboten list. Quickly followed by the moisturiser. I'll allow him to pass it all off for being early, but I'm not entirely convinced.
So we arrived in Amsterdam, went to the hotel, dropped our bags off and had a walk around, lunch and all that yadda yadda. We then bought some mushrooms (Philosopher's Stones, for the aficionados) and retired to the hotel for a shower and preparation for the afternoon/evening. I was mildly entertained by the shops on the way to the supermarket – Kwik Fit, Fitness First and Domino's, one after the other. What is this globalisation of which you speak?
And off to Vondel Park for some mind expansion. Of course, the trouble with psychedelics is that it doesn't translate afterwards to the written page (if you want that, try this or this). But, the first two hours were entertaining; the fountain and trees and clouds were diverting. I sat like a slack-jawed yokel staring at things. And then the trip went on. And on. And on. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed it – the hilarity of a young girl having a tantrum (a proper stamping feet, thcreaming until I'm thick one) was too much. But The Boy was having a less good time of it – not enjoying at all, to be fair. It's probably the first time I've been on the 'up' side of a bad trip. And there's not a lot you can do. So we went back to the hotel, and vegged in front of the TV (the BBC): Porridge, a good programme at the best of time, was possibly the funniest thing I'd ever seen. (It seems less so now.)
We didn't do any more hallucinogens for the rest of the trip.
I want to break free
Thursday was much more sedate. We got up at a sensible time. We wandered around town. We stopped for frequent coffees and beers. We smoked a fat one. Later we went out for the evening.
I'm not sure what I was expecting from a sex show. Ping Pong balls, I think. To be honest, I've never seen as bored a bunch of people as those on stage. In fact, the only person who seemed to be having fun was the male stripper, who seemed to be there as a sop to the females in the audience (about 30%, to be fair). As an anthropological study, it was entertaining; as erotica, it failed miserably. And no Ping Pong balls. So that's still on my to-do list.
And onwards to the funky new gay bar. I say funky, but I actually mean camp as you like. The fine selection of music ranged from Elton John and the Spice Girls to musicals to a fine Dutch Eurovision entry with moves that everybody in the bar danced along to. Except for us. Still, I proved I'm still a fine prick tease – almost scarily so. I went to the gents, as you do, and as I turned around afterwards, I found my way blocked by a young man with a glint in his eye. He was so disappointed – and disbelieving for a moment – when I told him he was talking to the only straight man in the place. So we both left the gents, but he held no grudge, and we danced and drunk until the early hours. Upon which he came back to our hotel with us and talked more bollocks. Then he and The Boy took a long time saying goodbye at the front door (and I went to sleep).
Dykes on bikes
And so we did what they do in Rome, or rather Amsterdam, and hired bikes. We took a marathon route (8km out – the same back) to go and see a windmill (we saw two) and have a meal in another village. And we saw a goat sitting on a stick. Oh yes.
He looks innocent, doesn't he. I don't trust him
And boy did my arse hurt after that. And we finished off by going to the Rijksmuseum (drastically reduced in size at present) and the van Gogh museum. What can I say about them? I don't know a lot about art, but both museums were badly lit, and van Gogh was crap at perspective and anything approaching realism. Nice colours, mind.
And so, we ended the evening knackered, and smoked until we slept.
Vice
Not much to say about Saturday. We went home, obviously. And did some proper shopping. And because the Dutch are so tall (and, by God, I felt 'average'), I bought trousers: ones that won't be too short.
All in all, good fun. And something to repeat next year. With more sleep beforehand, and more mushrooms. But without the tiredness beforehand.
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