Nothing (much) To Report

I couldn’t help but notice that my posts seems to be about one or more of the following:

• Drinking
• Sex
• Going abroad

So, I thought I would prove to you, the public on the interweb and myself that I can write coherantly about other stuff. Here goes.

I became an aunty on the 10th August and what a jolly weird experience it was too. Just finding out that my sister was pregnant was like a “that’s it – your childhood is over” kinda moment. She’s only 3 years older than me, and the thought of having a child in 3 years time scares the pants off me (and then hastily back on again). I was sad that it would mean she’d have to be very grown up and sensible from now on. I thought we’d never have just simple sister moments again, and that she’d always be gurgling to or talking about the imminent new arrival. Yes, I know…how selfish of me, I am hanging my head in shame as I write this.

Seeing her 9 months pregnant, it still didn’t really sink in that there was actually a BABY in there. Finally getting the call of my Mum that she’d had the baby and had been taken into the big nasty hospital instead of the nice local one brought out an auntyness in me I didn’t expect. I rushed there with Mum to go and see if she was OK and if there was anything we could do and nothing could prepare me for what I saw there – that wasn’t my sister!

The traumatic “birthing experience” had really knocked her for six, and I had no idea what to say to her or even if she really wanted us there. She didn’t even look like herself, more like an injured animal left on the side of the road. Toby (the baby) was lovely and very snoozy which was just aswell as I don’t cope well when they start crying.

Seeing him last Sunday was really odd – he’s stopped looking all newborn like now. He looks like a *proper* baby with chubby cheeks and has even started smiling (when he’s not hungry and screaming). And I needn’t have worried about her turning into some baby-obsessed thing. We went out without the baby and got lost somewhere in the car and it was just like old times – horray!

So yeah, being an aunty isn’t all that bad. When he’s a bit older I’ll be plying him with blue panda pop and fizzy cola bottles before handing him back to her. hehehehe.

Last Saturday night, I was, rather predictably in a pub somewhere in the Cotswolds. I remember it being in the middle of nowhere, as it took bloody ages to get there, but even so, there was no excuse for what I found on the wall of the ladies toilet:

FFS! Someone has spent hours of their time, doing a cross-stitch of a toilet, to be put…in a toilet. Who on earth would do something like that?

The mind boggles.

 -moosh

…I’m on a posting-roll!

 OK – painfully aware that I’m a terrible waffler when it comes to writing blogs, I will try to very quickly finish my Amsterdam ramblings. The emphasis should be on the word try.

The RAI, for those not in the know – it’s a big conference/exhibition thingy on the outskirts of the Dam. Trying to get there to meet someone *cough* at this place proved as difficult as getting on tram number 9. First thing in the morning I had to find a chemist to buy some deodourant (sp?) as I bloody left mine at home. After minimal wanderings, I found one selling one tube of the stuff and so I snapped it up,  making sure I said a cheery “good morning!” in Dutch to the shop keeper. So I was a little miffed to be replied to in French. Oh well. Another 1/2 hour of wandering and waving at by dustbin men (everyone is just so friendly there!) I stumbled across the underground station that I needed to get to the RAI. When I do get there, I realise that I didn’t ask this person exactly where to meet, and it becomes quite obvious that the exhibition thing is fookin huge and full of shiny things which distract me terribly. But, using my usual method of navigation I find the person I’m looking for in, Oh, well under 1/2 hour! Well done me.

Tapvreugd, is the name of a really smashing bar somewhere near Waterlooplein. The bar keeper is (again) a lovely Dutch man, really knowledgable about the stuff in his bar, and let me try some of his blue vodka. He also lets the cycling bar of Amsterdam stop to use his toilets, which means you get to see aload of blokes pedalling a bar past the window a number of times. Always amusing. This bar is so great, that after going to Coco’s Outback, we made the cheerful chappy and his bike-taxi thing take us to this bar at 1am without knowing the name, or the street it was on. I did feel very guilty about taking a bike taxi, but the man really was very nice and didn’t seem at all like he was enslaved to do this. In fact, he says he has to concentrate on being a bike taxi so much because otherwise he just defaults into party mode because of Amsterdam being one big knees up.

Next – Anal beads. There, I think I have your attention now. Yes – I had my first “go” with anal beads in the Dam. To be fair, I wasn’t sure quite what to expect but after some sound advice from the shop keeper I decided to give them a try. Just going into the sex shop filled me with unexpected school girl giggles, I did try not to be so British but I just couldn’t help it. Much as I’d have liked to have gone straight in, look the shopkeeper in the eye and ask all about anal beads in an adult manner I first went around the shop sniggering about “6 speed reaming technology”. I needn’t have worried, the shop keeper was very friendly and not at all embarrased about explaining about the subtle differences with anal and normal lube. God bless the Dutch and their liberal attitudes! I’ll leave the actual application of the anal beads for another post

Coco’s Outback is an Australian bar near, errrr, Rembrantplein (I think) and it is very cool. We grabbed some food there Saturday night and it was surprisingly nice and freshly cooked – this is despite their catchphrase “lousy food and warm beer”! You can even have kangaroo burgers there, and get a good frowning on by moosh. A few beers and cocktails later, the DJ really turns up the sounds and everyone starts dancing pretty much anywhere there’s a space. This is where, on the dance floor, us girlies met the pole dancers from essex. We couldn’t help but notice that they could _really_ dance, and not just the wiggling around a handbag syle. So, in my slightly squiffy state, I had to approach them and commend them on their dancing. It only occured to me later that they might not have been English, but they were so friendly and we were amalgamated into their dancing circle and spent the rest of the night jibbering and stumblling around. There was much hugging and waving when it came time to say goodbye- those girls could really party!

Now, it may seem to you from my impression of the Dam that it was all just one long orgy. And you’d be right. Even in the quietness of my hotel room, I was minding my own business – putting my make up on near the window…when I notice, out of the corner of my eye a naked man a few floors down. A rather gorgeous naked man. Woo yay I think. Trying (unsucessfully) to avert my eyes, I also notice that he’s actually sprawled on his bed with a box of tissues next to him and that he is *cough* engaged in quite a marathon wanking session. Surprised at myself for finding this quite so erotic and completely unable to stop watching, I’m drawn closer to the window to get a better view of this Adonis. Part of me wondered whether he knew I was watching, part of me didn’t care – perhaps he does this quite alot or maybe he’s just Dutch and being very liberal about fancying a quick hand shandy with the doors open. I don’t know – all I knew was that I was very turned on and perhaps I have a slight incline towards dogging.

Moving swiftly along (yes I did get to see the vinegar strokes, for those interested).

I didn’t think my morning could get any better, but then I had a “moment” in Dam square. It was about 11.30 am, I was completely alone but sat amongst all the other people chillling by the big statue when I just had such an overwhelming feeling of peace and ok-ness. I’ve had a couple of these moments in life, but none for a number of years – it was just a sense that everything in the world, for me, was absolutely correct. No plagueing doubt, no thoughts of work or shit like that – just rightness. And it felt good.

So, it just kinda felt right that the next thing to do would be to go into one of the many hash cafes. I should say that I used to be quite a stoner a few years ago, so I thought a trip down memory lane might be just the ticket. I bought a couple of hash cakes, and thinking that they probably haven’t got much in – ate both of them. Mistake number one. The next hour passed by swimmingly and it was then that I realised that perhaps, things had got alot softer and prettier outside. This wasn’t so great, as I had to go back to the RAI to meet for lunch. I floated back there and wandered around the stands, for much longer than the 1/2 hour it took to find it the first time and arrived with a big cheesey grin on my face. I thought, it’s ok moosh, you can do this. We went for lunch in some Italian place and it just went very surreal, and I soon thought that perhaps being on a different plane of exisitance might not be very appropriate here Somehow, I finished the meal and floated back off to the underground station. Waiting for the train, it became obvious (to me) that the escalator was in fact playing quite a jungle beat. It was infectious. It was all I could do just to tap my feet, when what I wanted to do was dance. Not seeing anyone else dancing, I satisfied myself with bit of head bobbing.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur and I’m hoping didn’t involve dribbling or staring at shiny things. I did go back to Waterlooplein to try and find my favourite bar, but it had completely and utterly disappeared! Baaaah! I knew I had the right street, and there was even a bar-shaped kinda whole where the bar was – but it had just vanished (or just had some great shutters, I worked out later. *ahem*) Somehow I managed to pack my suitcase and take a shower which made me feel much less trippy, as I had to leave at 8pm to get the train back to Schipol.

I felt really sad to leave the Dam, and promised myself that I’d go back again and not leave it 9 years. Schipol airport at 10pm on a Sunday just added to my misery, as would any airport that is going to take you home and make you go back to work. The only thing that really made me wake up was realising the police presence at Coventry airport as you go through passport control. I was still a bit mashed at this point and even though had nothing on me, became paranoid after the encounter with the Dover Customs and Excise people. Thankfully they didn’t have any dogs with them, and just ignored all the red-eyed loonies stumbling and giggling past them. I did meet up with the couple from Glasgow again in the luggage hall, and I’d swear that they were stoned too – but then you generally do when you’re a bit spacey yourself.

The end. (Thankfully)

-moosh

I’ve been away with some nuns (don’t ask) for the past few days, and thought that it was about time I wrote some more about lovely Amsterdam before it all just flies out of my  head.

OK, so Coventry Airport for a starter for 10. For people more used to Heathrow, I know exactly what you will be thinking when you turn onto an industrial estate with a couple of porta-cabins at the end of it – you’ll be thinking “where the hell is the airport”?

Putting this aside, and the fact that they don’t really have a cafe and bar (like their website says – a little old lady with some sandwiches and cans of beer doesn’t constitiute a cafe bar in my books) it really is a smashing little airport. The only people in the “departure lounge” are the people who are going on your flight…because there’s only one flight an hour or so. We also were all boarded and pushed back way on time, no queueing on the tarmac either. I could get used to this kinda thing!

The flight itself was the usual cheap and cheerful airline thing – buy your own drinks and whatnot. I opted for more wine and got chatting to a very friendly couple from Glasgow who, it turned out were also going to go back on the same flight as me. How very nice. Jabbering away, the flight passed so quickly and the next thing I knew, we had touched down at Schipol.

Now…Schipol has changed a huge amount since I was last there (about 1994 – eeeek) and you have to walk for bloody miles through the departure lounge (yeah, weird ennit?) to get your luggage. Eventually I got through and tried to buy a ticket for the train to Centraal Station from one of the machines in the luggagey bit. This would have been great if I’d had a few more Euro coins (didn’t take notes) or if it actually took UK chip and pin cards (it didn’t). So I had to go find some real person to buy a ticket off and then trundle down to catch the train. There was one waiting (lovely lovely, not like UK trains I thought) and within 15 minutes I was there! It was unfortunate that I had to spend those 15 minutes listening to pissed up Brits on the train talking shite very loudly – I tried very hard to not look at all English at this point, feeling ashamed of my nation abroad.

The first breaths of fresh air when I stepped outside the station were fantastic. I love the smells of “abroad”. It was about 10.30pm by this point and the atmosphere in the Dam was one of smashing non-threateningness that you definately wouldn’t get wandering around outside King’s Cross with a suitcase looking lost. Even I must admit now to a bit of trundling about wondering where to buy tickets from. The internet can prepare you for many things, like which bloody Tram to get on – but it can’t tell you where to trundle off to to buy tickets when everywhere’s closed (for future reference, you can just buy the damn things on the buses or trams)

I found myself trundling towards the underground, because I thought there might be more ticket machines there (there was) and a very helpful little man who told me I’d be better off getting a night bus instead of tram number 9. I duly did this, forsaking tram number 9 and queued up with some very local Dutch people for this bus. Thinking “I can do this!” I sat on the bus, hoping that one of the bus stops would match a name on my map. *cough* they didn’t. In fact it soon became clear that we were bloody miles from the centre. I plucked up the courage to ask the last passenger on the bus in my best dutch – “how to get here?” (with much pointing). She replied in English – speak to the driver. He of course laughed at my predicament and when we came to the end of the line got out of his cab, rolled a cigarrette and chatted in that very friendly Dutch way about why I’m in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.

He promised to tell me where to get off the bus and showed me his map my 20 minute walk to the hotel. He’d been driving for 26 years, and I couldn’t help but tell him that I’m not really used to buses as the last bus to my house is usually about 6pm on any given night – this really made him laugh and consider a driving job in England

Aaaaaaaanyway, I eventually made it to the hotel. I think it was nearing midnight at that point, and I of course discovered the next day that tram number 9 stops right outside the hotel.

 Bugger it. But I like to justify these (frequent) getting lost episodes by thinking that life is all about the journey, not the destination. And I wouldn’t have met the nicest bus driver in Amsterdam if I’d just got on the tram.

- moosh

At the risk of turning into a travel review website – I just wanted to say a big bloody well done to the Dutch for having Amsterdam, and more importantly – putting it within a 45 minute flight from where I live

I’ve been to Holland about 5 times now, and the last time I’d been to the Dam was in about 1996. I’d completely forgotten what a fab place it is, and began to wonder why exactly it was that I didn’t live there. I really should.

I’m going to put a list here to remind myself to put my pictures and ramblings up about Amsterdam later:

• Coventry Airport – every industrial estate should have one
• The nicest bus driver in Amsterdam
• The hotel
• RAI
• Tapvreugd near Waterlooplein
• Anal-specific lubrications – a shop keeper’s review
• Anal beads
• Coco’s Outback & the pole dancers from Essex
• A guilty ride from a very cheerful chappy at 1am
• Possibly the best morning ever
• Free peep show
• A very strange lunch
• Going home again

When my head is back to normal again after the very strange lunch, I really will get around to posting some more. For now, I’m just going to sit at my desk and try and look like I’m working…

 -moosh