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AMSTERDAM DIARY: The Midnight Rambler (Please Let Me Introduce Myself'; Whose Movie Is This?;
Psychedelic City; I Think Therefore I Amsterdam; A Glass Act; Lust For . . . ; Heavy Weather)
LETTERS COLUMN | ADVICE COLUMN: Ask Auntie Edith | Go to Contents | Go To Next Page (20)
a cloaked and hooded
figure flits from
shadow to shadow.
You can see him
jump the garden
wall but only when
he's stealing underwear
from clothes lines.
It must be . . . . .
TheMidnight
Rambler
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Dear Reader,
Just a Just a short note to ask why
you haven’t written to us recently?
Have we offended you (already!) or
something? Or are you just too lazy?
Don’t you think we worry about you,
alone in the big city? If only you
would think of us as we think of you
we could all go back to being a
normal dysfunctional family. Still,
enough of these rebukes.
IfIf you are interested, your father
has finally got rid of his awful rash;
it made vacuuming his thighs so
difficult and messy. But that is all in
the past now (or, possibly, in the
vacuum bag).
IfThere doesn’t seem to be much
news from here but that is the way
with drab lives.
IfDid I tell you that auntie Edith
finished knitting herself an extens-
ion to her bungalow. It looked quite
nice if a bit stripey but she was very
proud of it. She had a party to show it
off -- you know what she is like.
However, that night it rained. And
now all she has got is a garden shed.
How we laughed.
IfSo, that’s all our news. How about
some news from you?
IfWe hope you are eating enough,
changing your underwear regularly
and are not consorting with too many
women of easy virtue. Please try not
to smoke too much of that LSD stuff,
you know you have a weak chest.
IfDaddy sends his love and asks if
you would like his rash ointment?
IfPlease try to let us know how you
are getting along. Just a short letter
telling us how you are would be
enough. I don’t know what we have
done that you treat us this way.
Lots of love,
PS: Daddy says I should remind you
that long boring letters like this one
are liable to be edited.
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ASK
AUNTIE
EDITH
Got a problem in your life? A
relationship situation you can't
handle? A dripping tap? Confused
about that knitting pattern?
Then ask Auntie Edith
Dear Auntie Edith,
HowHow do you get to be an
agony aunt? I have always want-
ed to help people deal with life's
little problems and am sure that I
have the qualifications, know-
ledge and experience to make a
worthwhile contribution. But how
do I start?
Yours sincerely,
Agonised, Epsom
Auntie Edith replies,
Dear Agonised of Epsom,
HowThere is nothing like knitting to
take your mind off the frustrations
of not achieving your ambitions. So
get those needles clicking. So far as
becoming an agony aunt is concern-
ed, it certainly helps if you are
related by birth to the editor (maybe
you could bear his child). As an alter-
native to having sex with someone
you find physically revolting you
could try offering some kind of bribe. If you follow my advice about knitti-
ng, before too long you would be in a
position to tempt any editor with an
enticing selection of hand-crafted
knitwear that might sway his
judgement in your favour. I know
many an editor who would sell his
grandmother for a chunky knit
cardigan.
SoSo far as having the qualifications,
knowledge and experience, I doubt
that anyone has watched as many
episodes of Neighbours, Coronation
Street and those wonderful
Australian soaps (I wonder what
happened to that nice Rolf Harris
after he ascended that Stairway to
Heaven?) as I have.
SoThe best advice I can give you is
persevere with the knitting. Con-
quering chain stitch will solve many
of your problems.
SoNext!
Dear Auntie Edith,
HowMy husband is a transvestite
who enjoys dressing up in my
clothes. How can I be sure that
he does not attract attention
when we are out together?
Yours sincerely,
Bruce, Sidcup
Auntie Edith replies,
Dear Bruce of Sidcup,
HowThe first rule of cross-dressing is
not to get too furious. The second
rule is no sequins. To avoid public
disgrace always ensure that the
clothes your husband wishes to wear
are not the ones you are currently
wearing as two people crammed into
one set of clothes always attracts
attention. My best recommendation
is that you knit your hubby a nice
bolero or cardy in, say, pink angora.
That will certainly take your mind
off any public censure when you go
out together.
SoNext!
Dear Auntie Edith,
HowHow do I hang wallpaper?
Tacky, Catford
Dear Tacky of Catford,
HowNo Wallpaper should be well
hung (much like Jimi Hendrix). The
best advice I can give you is get a
professional to do the cutting and
pasting while you go out somewhere
nice and do a bit of knitting.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Dear Celibate of Amsterdam,
HowNo No space to print your long,
turgid and pathetic letter and such
self-pity is unlikely to endear you to
the fairer sex. You asked for advice
on begging for sex. My advice is:
don't! Begging never goes down well
with the ladies. They prefer a little
charm and sophistication but as you
clearly possess neither of these qual-
ities you might find it better to try
knitting them something nice.
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Our Amsterdam diarist offers some reflections on the City of Dreams
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LPLEASE LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF
ItIt doesn't matter how long you've lived in Amsterdam, you'll always be an
outsider. You might speak the language like a local but it is only non-
locals who will think so. The locals will pull you up on even the slightest
mispronunciation. But you've got to give them credit for their linguistic
abilities; it is no mean feat to be able to tell someone how much some-
thing costs in 18 different languages. The best you'll ever get is to be
regarded as a professional tourist. But that is okay. Being treated like a
leper with BO creates a little distance, a lack of involvement, that makes
observing this recognisable but extremely strange -- even alien --
society an entertaining and educational experience. Being an outsider
gives one a view that 'insiders' simply cannot have. Which, as they say
on The Fast Show, 'is nice.'
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LWHOSE MOVIE IS THIS?
ItStanding on the Damrak watching a whacked-out crazy trying to jump a
puddle I turn to the person standing next to me and say: "I not sure if this
is a dream I am having or if I am taking part in some kind of movie." He
looks at me blankly and replies in flawless German. Oh, well, there you
go. This is, after all, Amsterdam. We are part of a crowd of maybe 50
people standing watching one of the Damrak's unshaven try to get over
this puddle. Not a big puddle, just an itsy bitsy smear of water on the edge
of the bike path. The spectacle is both sad and very, very funny. The
jumpee (he never did make it across) has one of those muscular/neuro-
logical things that makes the limbs flutter and gives a singular springiness
to the step as if there is music in the air. His sense of balance is extrem-
ely compromised and his legs have half a mind of their own. He stands
swaying, gazing intently at the puddle for two or three minutes before he
attempts a jump. If anyone passes him by at speed at any distance he
falls over backwards. Not exactly falls, more kind of sits. If a tram goes by
(behind him) the same thing happens. If anyone approaches him, the
same. If the wind blows, ditto. It is total slapstick. Classic stuff. After
psyching out the puddle for a few minutes he starts to get into position.
The puddle is on the inside edge of the bike lane and there is a very slight
incline to be ascended before the jump can be attempted. Taking hold of
his right leg he moves it forward a few inches and stands swaying. Then
very slowly and deliberately he grasps his left leg and shuffles that
forward. As he does so, his centre of balance changes and, opps! He sits
for a minute or two and then gets to his feet and repeats the performance.
After a few tries he has gathered a crowd that most street performers
would die for. But he doesn't realise. This is not a performance, it is for
real. He just has this thing he has to do. Finally, two Dutch girls put us all to
shame by talking to him and calling an ambulance. Surreal.
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LPSYCHEDELIC CITY
ItSo much about Amsterdam seems to serve the eyes of stoned people.
This is an extremely beautiful city laid out like a waterlogged maze.
Amazing. Although the architecture is wonderful, it is the water and the
sky that make the city such a visual treat. Riding home at night on the
tram, on every canal there is a lightshow. It is just glorious. And Amster-
dam has the most amazing skies (trippers' skies, as we call them)
full of cloud shapes that conjure mythical beasts and landscapes, holes
that glow, rich colours and dramatic contrasts. It is a big sky, too. It is the
full cinemascope version that stretches from wall to wall. There is no
need to be stoned to conjure whole movies out the sky but it helps.
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LI THINK THEREFORE I AMSTERDAM
ItWhen the editor of Coffeehouse Culture is doing his sticht about Amster-
dam being a higher level of society, one of the things he says is that this is
a thinking city. And it is true. Although in Amsterdam there are an immense number of brain dead imbeciles who wouldn't recognise a thought if it hit them between the eyes, this is a thinking society. Okay, so it is not perfect but it is better. One reflection of this thinking society is the way in which Amsterdammers take care of their environment. Not long after I had moved here, I went to a computer exhibition at the RAI (yes, you're absolutely right, I do have a row of different coloured pens protrud-
ing from the breast pocket of my anorak). I had been told to come out of the metro, turn left, walk to the end of the building on my left and take another left turn and there would be the main entrance. Presumably because they were not allowed to give them out of the forecourt, just before the final left turn there were some guys handing out those ubiquitous computer recruitment flyers that no one ever wants but everyone takes and discards as soon as possible. I tried to avoid them but no. As I do not like to offend people who force unwanted bits of paper on me and am a conscientious citizen who puts his rubbish in a bin I held on to the flyer until I was round the corner. Apparently there were a lot of people looking for computer jobs in Amsterdam for there were no discarded leaflets littering the ground as there would have been in London. As I rounded the corner I understood why. There, in a bin, were all the discarded flyers. The bin was packed to overflowing with them but it was not overflowing. Indeed, there was not one discarded leaflet on the ground. I added mine to the bin. On the whole it is the same throughout the whole of Amsterdam. Although it is fairly subtle it is clearly there.
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LA GLASS ACT
ItAlthough this year Amsterdam came a poor second or third or fourth to
Paris, Sydney and London, usually it has great fireworks on New Year's
Eve and, randomly, on every evening throughout the whole of December
and half of January. The place to go on New Year's Eve is Nieuwe Markt,
right next to the Chinese quarter, but there are fireworks everywhere. The
Chinese sell them and they let off the best and biggest in an effort to burn
down their shops. I have never heard such sustained and percussive
fireworks. They explode and explode and explode. Nieuwe Markt was not
so good this year. The fireworks were nice but nothing sensational.
Everybody was drinking champagne bought from street vendors wheeling
around supermarket trolleys. But, for some unaccountable reason, when
the boozers had finished their bottles, they celebrated their good vibes for
the new millennium by throwing the empties at the floor. As a
consequence, by 12.30 the streets were covered with broken glass
which was extremely hazardous if you happened to be pissed on
champagne and fell down in the scum. It was unpleasant to say the least.
But that is what booze does to you. Me, I left two roaches and a sliver of
trainer.
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LLUST FOR ....
ItI've never understood those blues about 'big thighed women.' Fattening
frogs for snakes, that I understand, but big thighed women? Surely what
we all want, blues singers as well as the rest of us, are slim. lithe, grace-
ful and gorgeous women. Who, apart from people with big torsos, need
big thighs? Maybe that is why when that sensible coterie of blues singers
emigrated from the States to Europe, they all ended up in Paris. Parisians,
as we all know, have inordinately large thighs and buttocks due to an
excessively oily diet and their unfettered greed. Amsterdam would not
have done at all. For here the vast majority of the women are slim thighed
and tight buttocked. American visitors to Amsterdam tend to be partic-
ularly knocked out by the lithesome beauty of the city's womenfolk. But, of
course, Americans have never seen a slim thigh. As we all know the word
'slim' has been deleted from the American dictionary so that fat people
feel a little better about themselves. Unfortunately, the pert buttocks
match the pert attitudes of their owners. So no touching. The reason, of
course, is all that bike riding. Young Amsterdammers can be seen belting
down the bike lanes before they can walk and are said to be super-glued
to the saddles soon after birth. So strong is the tradition of bike riding in
Amsterdam that many pregnant women have tiny bicycles surgically
implanted into the womb a few months before birth so that the foetus can
practice changing gears.
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LHEAVY WEATHER
ItWhen I was still an occasional visitor, I managed to build up a substantial
collection of umbrellas bought in Amsterdam. I thought I was just unlucky
with the weather but I have since found out that I was actually quite lucky.
It rains a lot here; often and hard. That, however, is only half of it. You
haven't lived until you have experienced Amsterdam's perverse corrupt-
ion of snow. There'sno snow quite like it. Snow as we all know is
manufactured by Walt Disney from fairies' hair. It is light and fluffy and
does not use lacquer. It glides gently down from a faecal yellow sky and
forms Christmas cards. Not in Amsterdam, it doesn't. Here it hurtles
down from the sky with an evil glint in its eye. This, my dears, is snow with
attitude. In fact, it is not snow but a cross between snow and hail (hey,
let's call it 'snail' because it feels like someone is pelting you with
molluscs). Have you ever seen snow bounce? No? Then come to
Amsterdam. And it settles (when it has finished bouncing). Well it is rather
more frozen than normal snow. When it is down, it looks quite nice but
that is just an illusion designed to entice you out of your front door. Once
you are out there and it has your feet firmly in its grip, watch out for frost-
bite. As you walk, which is difficult when you can't feel your feet, it is like
stepping on angels teeth. If the allusion is unpleasant , the experience is
very unpleasant. Crunch, crunch, curruuunnnch. But looking on the bright
side (not that there is much bright around from October to April) at least
the weather isn't boring. There is nothing quite so tedious as sunshine,
sunshine, sunshine. When I lived in LA I got so I just couldn't face another
pair of Bermuda shorts. By the time I had finished I had been through the
'One Ray At a Time' Sunblock Anonymous programme three times and
still couldn't look at a sun bronzed buttock in the face without reaching for
the Ambre Solaire, crashing onto a sunbed and ordering a Tequila Sun-
rise, heavy on the ice. I finally had to leave the boredom of Los Angeles
and its weather when my whole body turned into a giant melanoma.
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