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FEATURE SERIES: Mr Filth's House of Sleaze | DIARY COLUMN: The Midnight Rambler -- Balloon
Bonanza
; Ritual Humiliation; Ga-Ga-Blah-Blah Land; Blindman's Buff; Parentalisis
INSPIRATIONALS
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Dirty jokes? Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Know what I mean, Guv? Filth like you’ve never seen before. Disguusting and lewd. Filthy and immoral. Tacky but titillating. Know what I mean?

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SNEAKY, SNEAKY, PEEKY, PEEKY,
FREAKY, FREAKY
RESTRAINING ORDER IN FORCE



AMSTERDAM'S SAMUEL PEEPS

BALLOON BONANZA

mFor the second year running and for the third time in all, I made it to the Balloon Party this year.

. . .
,.
oin us as we cross to the other side of the tracks. We are heading into the darker reaches of town, where the alleys are dim and the streets are really thick. The buildings are old, crumbling, stained, blistered and pockmarked. Many windows are boarded up but light flickers through the gaps in the boards. Those that are not boarded are mostly unwashed and uncurtained, lit with a red light bulb or by the flickering light of candles. There are billboards, sodden and peeling, for products long since withdrawn from the shops and posters -- many with strips torn from them -- for events that happened months ago. The strips torn from the posters litter the sidewalk and the rubbish is banked up by the houses -- a profusion of polystyrene, plastic, paper and dead cats. The shadows hang deeply around the edges of vision and the misty rain shrouds a miasma of sinister suggestions. Neon flickers and the street lamps create cones of orange light in which everything looks leprous. Figures stand in the dark doorways,
. Taking place at the famed Paradiso a few days before New Years Eve, the Balloon Party is an annual event that is almost legendary among the decadents and dillettante of Amsterdam. So called because high above everyone's heads there are balloons filled with helium each containing a joint that, throughout the evening, slowly drift down into the crowd provoking pockets of rugby scrum-type brawling on the dance floor, the Balloon Parties are events that should, at least,
,. lean against the lamp posts and gather in groups on the corners muttering in some strange underworld dialect. In the distance there is an echoing cackle of bawdy laughter. And suddenly the sounds are all around. In the further distance the sound of a piano playing lowdown blues, a scream, a baby crying, the chink of glass on glass, another scream, the hiss and buzz of whispered conversation comes from the shadows and beneath it all is the suggestion of wailing and a heartfelt sobbing. At first just single words and short phrases -- ‘goats,’ ‘sailor,’ ‘big boy,’ ‘good time,’ -- and then whole sentences struggle their way out of the noise. “Hello, big boy,” says a voice from a shadowy doorway. “Wanna come back to my place for a gggoooddd tttiiiimmme?” There is a rattle of jewellery and the rustle of lurex on lurex. On the periphery of vision there is the glow of a cigarette in a dark doorway. But then it is gone and so are we. But the offers continue: “Hello sailor, looking for bit of fun?” “Hey stud, want me to blow your brains out of your ears?” “Com’on big boy, I’ll do it right here.” But soon the female voices are replaced by male ones offering something more acceptable -- refreshment and relaxation. At least, that it is what seems to be being offered. For only two words reach our ears: ‘coke’ and ‘ease.’
...Ah, here we are at the corner. Turn right by the prostitute in the gold lurex miniskirt, the instructions had said. And it is the third door on the right. The green door.
...We press the bell. There is the quick step of stilletto heels on linoleum and the click of the catch. The door opens a crack and a shaft of mean yellow light cuts across the porch. Standing in the gap is a short balding man in his early fifties. He has a thin mustache and rheumy eyes. His pink shirt is stretched across a paunch and the toenails peeping from the black slingback high heeled sandals have flaking red varnish on them.
...Welcome, welcome. Come on in. No doubt you’d like to slip into something a little more comfortable. I know I would. I thought I might wear the red satin basque, a lurex posing pouch and some white schoolgirl kneesocks. And how about you?”
...But, no. Tempting as basques are, we are here for one reason and one reason alone -- to tap into Mr Filth’s fund of dirty jokes. So here goes:

...A lady goes into a hardware shop and asks for a hinge. The man at the counter gets one and asks, "do you want a screw for that hinge?" "No," the lady replies, "but I'll blow you for that toaster."

••••••••••••••••••

...A man is in a hotel lobby. He wants to ask the clerk a question. As he turns to go to the front desk, he accidentally bumps into a woman beside him and as he does, his elbow goes into her breast. They are both startled and he says, "Ma'am, if your heart is as soft as your breast, I know you'll forgive me." She replies, "if your penis is as hard as your elbow, I'm in room 1221."

••••••••••••••••••

...Pierre, a brave French fighter pilot, takes his girlfriend, Marie, out for a pleasant little picnic by the River Seine. It's a beautiful day and love is in the air. Marie leans over to Pierre and says: 'Pierre, kiss me!' Our hero grabs a bottle of Merlot and splashes it on Marie's lips. 'What are you doing, Pierre?', says the startled Marie. 'I am Pierre the fighter pilot! When I have red meat, I like to have red wine! She smiles and they start kissing. When things began to heat up a little, Marie says, 'Pierre, kiss me lower.' Our hero tears her blouse open, grabs a bottle of Chardonnay and starts pouring it all over her breasts. 'Pierre! What are you doing?', asks the bewildered Marie. 'I am Pierre the fighter pilot! When I have white meat, I like to have white wine! 'They resume their passionate interlude and things really steam up. Marie leans close to his ear and whispers, 'Pierre, kiss me lower!' Our hero rips off her underwear, grabs a bottle of Cognac and pours it in her lap. He then strikes a match and lights it on fire. Marie shrieks and dives into the river. Standing waist deep, Marie throws her arms upwards and screams furiously, 'PIERRE, WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?' Our hero stands up, defiantly, and says, 'I am Pierre the fighter pilot! When I go down, I go down in flames!'

••••••••••••••••••

...A guy walks into a bar with a pet alligator by his side. He puts the alligator up on the bar. He turns to the astonished patrons. "I'll make you a deal. I'll open this alligator's mouth and place my genitals inside. Then the gator will close his mouth for one minute. He'll then open his mouth and I'll remove my unit unscathed. In return for witnessing this spectacle, each of you will buy me a drink." The crowd murmured their approval. The man stood up on the bar,dropped his trousers and placed his privates in the alligator's open mouth. The gator closed his mouth as the crowd gasped. After a minute, the man grabbed a beer bottle and rapped the alligator hard on the top of its head. The gator opened his mouth and the man removed his genitals unscathed as promised. The crowd cheered and the first of his free drinks were delivered. The man stood up again and made another offer. "I'll pay anyone $100 who's willing to give it a try". A hush fell over the crowd. After a while, a hand went up in the back of the bar. A woman timidly spoke up. "I'll try, but you have to promise not to hit me on the head with the beer bottle."

••••••••••••••••••

...Bill worked in a pickle factory. He had been employed there for a number of years when he came home one day to confess to his wife that he had a terrible compulsion. He had an urge to stick his penis into the pickle slicer. His wife suggested that he should see a sex therapist to talk about it, but Bill indicated that he'd be too embarrassed. He vowed to overcome the compulsion on his own. One day a few weeks later, Bill came home absolutely ashen. His wife could see at once that something was seriously wrong.
..."What's wrong, Bill?" she asked.
..."Do you remember that I told you how I had this tremendous urge to put my penis into the pickle slicer?"
..."Oh, Bill, you didn't."
..."Yes ,I did."
..."My God, Bill, what happened?"
..."I got fired."
..."Oh no, Bill. So, what happened with the pickleslicer?"
..."Oh...she got fired too."

••••••••••••••••••

...A man was visiting his wife in hospital where she has been in a coma for several years. On this visit he decides to rub her left breast instead of just talking to her. On doing this she lets out a sigh. The man runs out and tells the doctor who says this is a good sign and suggests he should try rubbing her right breast to see if there is any reaction. The man goes in and rubs her right breast and this brings a moan. From this, the doctor suggests that the man should go in and try oral sex, saying he will wait outside as it is a personal act and he doesn't want the man to be embarrassed. The man goes in then comes out about five minutes later, white as a sheet and tells the doctor his wife is dead. The doctor asks what happened to which the man replies: "She choked."

••••••••••••••••••

...A little old lady went into the Bank of Canada one day, carrying a bag of money. She insisted that she must speak with the president of the bank to open a savings account because, "It's a lot of money!"
...After much humming and hawing, the bank staff finally ushered her into the president's office (the customer is always right!) The bank president asked her how much she would like to deposit. She replied, "$165,000!" and dumped the cash out of her bag onto his desk.
...The president was, of course, curious as to how she came by all this cash, so he asked her, "Ma'am, I'm surprised you're carrying so much cash around. Where did you get this money?"
...The old lady replied, "I make bets." ...The president then asked, "Bets? What kind of bets?"
...The old woman said, "well, for example, I'll bet you $25,000 that your balls are square."
..."Ha!" laughed the president, "That's a stupid bet. You can never win that kind of bet!"
...The old lady challenged, "So, would you like to take my bet?"
..."Sure," said the president, "I'll bet $25,000 that my balls are not square!"
..."The little old lady than said, "Okay, but since there is a lot of money involved, may I bring my lawyer with me tomorrow at 10:00 A.M. as a witness?"
..."Sure!" replied the confident president.
...That night, the president got very nervous about the bet and spent a long time in front of a mirror checking his balls, turning from side to side, again and again. He thoroughly checked them out until he was sure that there was absolutely no way his balls were square and that he would win the bet.
...The next morning, at precisely 10:00 A.M., the little old lady appeared with her lawyer at the president's office.
..."She introduced the lawyer to the president and repeated the bet" "$25,000 says the president's balls are square!"
...The president agreed with the bet again and the old lady asked him to drop his pants so they could all see.
The president complied. The little old lady peered closely at his balls and then asked if she could feel them.
..."Well, okay," said the president, "$25,000 is a lot of money, so I guess you should be absolutely sure."
...Just then, he noticed that the lawyer was quietly banging his head against the wall.
..."The president asked the old lady, "What the hell's the matter with your lawyer?" She replied, "Nothing, except I bet him $100,000 that at 10:00 A.M. today, I'd have the Bank of Canada's president's balls in my hand."

••••••••••••••••••

...God says to Adam, "I have some good news and some bad news, what do you want to hear first?"
...Adam says, "Tell me the good news first."
...God says, "I'm going to give you a penis and a brain.You'll derive from these, great pleasure and great intellect."
...Adam replies, "Wonderful! But what's the bad news?"

 TOP OF COLUMN

, ,.
...God says, "I'm only going to give you enough of a blood supply to work one at a time."

••••••••••••••••••

...A businessman boards a flight and is lucky enough to be seated next to an absolutely gorgeous woman. They exchange brief hellos and he notices she is reading a manual about sexual statistics. He asks her about it and she replies, "This is a very interesting book about sexual statistics. It identifies that American Indians have the longest average penis and Polish men have the biggest average diameter. By the way, my name is Jill. What's yours?" He coolly replies, "Tonto Kawalski, nice to meet you.”

••••••••••••••••••

...A man goes to a fancy dress party wearing only his Y-Fronts "What are you?" asks the man at the door who's introducing the guests over the PA System "I'm a premature ejaculat-ion," replies the bloke. "I can't say that over the mike," says the doorman, "the town Mayor and the local Vicar are inside, you'll have to tone it down a bit." "Well just tell everyone I've come in my pants!"

••••••••••••••••••

...A reverend decided it was time he taught his daughters about the birds and the bees. So he dropped his trousers and pointed at his generative member and asked his first daughter, "do you know what this is?" She replies, "That's your cock." Shocked he scorns her, "You foul mouth hussy! Go rinse your mouth out with soap!" He then faces his second daughter and asks, "do you know what this is?" She replies, "That's your dick." Again he is outraged, "Be gone, you daughter of jezebel! Go stick your tongue in boiling vinegar!" He then faces his third daughter and asks, "do you know what this is?" She replies, "I have NO idea." Delighted he says, "Oh my chaste darling, my little innocent darling, that is my penis." To which she responded, "You call that a penis?!"

••••••••••••••••••

...Pinocchio was receiving complaints from his girlfriend about consummating their passions. "Every time we make love", she said, "I get splinters." So he went back to his maker, Gepetto the carpenter, to ask his advice. "Sandpaper, my boy, that's what you need," was the carpenter's response. A couple of weeks later the carpenter met Pinocchio. "How are you getting on with your girlfriend now?" he asked. "Who needs girls?" replied Pinocchio.

••••••••••••••••••

...A priest decides to take a walk to the pier near his church. He looks around and finally stops to watch a fisherman load his boat. The fisherman notices, and asks the priest if he would like to join him for a couple of hours. The priest agrees. The fisherman asks if the priest has ever fished before, to which the priest says no. He baits the hook for him and says, "Give it a shot father". After a few minutes, the priest hooks a big fish and struggles to get it in the boat. The fisherman says "Whoa, look at that fucker!" Priest: "Uh, please sir, can you mind your language?"
... Thinking quickly, the fisherman says: "I'm sorry father, but that's what this fish is called - a fucker!"
...Priest: "Oh, I'm sorry - I didn't know."
...After the trip, the priest brings the fish to the church and spots the bishop.
...Priest: "Look at this big fucker."
...Bishop: "Please, mind your language, this is a house of God."
...Priest: "No, you don't understand, that's what this fish is called. And I caught it. I caught this fucker.
...Bishop: "Hmmm, You know, I could clean this fucker and we could have it for dinner". So the Bishop takes the fish and cleans it, and brings it to the head mother.
...Bishop: "Could you cook this fucker for dinner tonight?"
...Head Mother: "My lord, what language!"
...Bishop: "No, sister, that's what the fish is called - a fucker! Father caught it, I cleaned it, and we'd like you to cook it."
...Head Mother: "Hmmm, Yes, I'll cook that fucker tonight."
...Well, the Pope stops by for dinner with the three of them, and they all think the fish is great. He asks where they got it.
...Priest: "I caught the fucker!"
...Bishop: "And I cleaned the fucker!"
...Head Mother: "And I cooked the fucker!"
..."The Pope stares at them for a minute with a steely gaze, but then lets out a huge fart, takes off his hat, puts his feet up on the table, lights up a spliff, pours himself a large whiskey and says, "You know, you cunts are alright.”

••••••••••••••••••

...On the day of their 50th anniversary the reminiscing wife finds the negligee she wore on their wedding night and puts it on. She goes to her husband and says "Honey, do you remember this?"
...He looks up at her and says, "Yes dear, I do. You wore that same negligee the night we were married."
...She says, "Yes, that's right. Do you remember what you said to me that night?"
...He nods and says, "Yes dear, I still remember."
..."Well, what was it?" she asks.
..."He responds, "Well honey, as I remember, I said, 'Oh baby, I'm going to suck the life out of those big tits and screw your brains out'."
...She giggles and says, "Yes honey, that's it. That's exactly what you said. So, now it's 50 years later, I'm in the same negligee I wore that night. What do you have to say tonight?"
...Again he looks up at her and looks her up and down and replies, "Mission accomplished."

••••••••••••••••••

...A man goes into a pub, and the barmaid asks what he wants. “I want to bury my face in your cleavage and lick the sweat from between your breasts,” he says.
..."You dirty git,' shouts the barmaid, 'get out before I fetch my husband.”
...The man apologises and promises not to repeat his gaffe. The barmaid accepts this and asks him again what he wants. “I want to pull your pants down, spread yoghurt between the cheeks of your arse and lick it all off,” he says.
..."You dirty filthy pervert. You're banned. Get out,”' she storms.
...Again, the man apologises and swears never ever to do it again.
..."One more chance,” says the barmaid. “Now - what do you want?”
..."I want to turn you upside down, fill your pussy with Guinness, and then drink every last drop.”
...The barmaid is furious at this personal intrusion, and runs upstairs to fetch her husband, who's sitting quietly watching the telly.
..."What's up, lov?" he asks.
..."There's a man in the bar who wants to put his head between my breasts and lick the sweat off'," she says.
..."I'll kill him. Where is he?” storms the husband.
..."Then he said he wanted to pour yoghurt down between my arse cheeks and lick it off,” she screams.
..."Right. He's dead,”' says the husband, reaching for a cricket bat.
..."Then he said he wanted to turn me upside down, fill my pussy with Guinness and then drink it all,” she cries.
..."The husband puts down his bat and returns to his armchair, and switches the telly back on.
..."Aren't you going to do something about it?” she cries hysterically.
..."Look, love - I'm not messing with someone who can drink 12 pints of Guinness.”

••••••••••••••••••

...A Sydney Wild Animal Park had acquired a very rare species of gorilla. Within a few weeks, the female gorilla became very horny, and difficult to handle. Upon examination, the park veterinarian determined the problem. The gorilla was on heat. To make matters worse, there were no male gorillas of the species available. While reflecting on their problem, the park management noticed Ed, a Kiwi, responsible for cleaning the animals' cages.
...Ed, like most Kiwis, had little sense, but possessed ample ability to satisfy a female of ANY species. So, the park administrators thought they might have a solution. Ed was approached with a proposition. Would he be willing to have sex with the gorilla for $500?
...Ed showed some interest, but said he would have to think the matter over carefully. The following day, Ed announced that he would accept their offer, but only under three conditions.
..."First," he said, "I don't want to have to kiss her."
..."Secondly, you must never tell anyone about this."
...The park administration quickly agreed to these conditions, so they asked what was his third condition.
"Well," said Ed, "You gotta give me another week to come up with the $500."

••••••••••••••••••

...There was a guy sunbathing in the nude. He saw a little girl coming toward him, so he covered himself with the newspaper he was reading. The girl came up to him and asked, "What do you have under the newspaper?" Thinking quickly, the guy replied, "A bird." The girl walked away, and the guy fell asleep. When he woke up, he was in a hospital in tremendous pain. The police asked him what happened. The guy says, "I don't know. I was lying on the beach, this little girl asked me a question, I guess I dozed off, and the next thing I know is I'm here." The police went to the beach, found the girl, and asked her, "What did you do to that naked fellow?" After a pause, the girl replied, "To him? Nothing. I was playing with his bird and it spat on me, so I broke its neck, cracked its eggs, and set its nest on fire!"

••••••••••••••••••

...His reputation confirmed as the Potentate of Porn and the Soveriegn of Sleaze, Mr Filth seems to drift off. Suddenly he rises.
...Well I don't know about you,” he says, opening a tall cupboard. On the inside of the cupboard door there is a rack containing a selection of canes, riding crops, paddles and straps. “But I have people to do and things to see.” He selects a riding crop and tests it on his hand. He winces and two tears trickle down his cheeks but he smiles sinisterly.
...I think, dear reader, we had best make our exit before things get nasty. But we’ll be back, Mr Filth, we’ll be back.

PLAIN TEXTTOP OF PAGE

. be experienced.
mIf you can get hold of a ticket, that is. For the Balloon Party is very much an 'insider's' event and the tickets are very tightly controlled. The parties are organised by the Balloon Company, which is based at Ruigoord, an artistic community half way between Amsterdam and Haarlem. And, like Ruigoord itself, the Balloon Parties are one of the best kept secrets in Amsterdam.
mBut that is hardly surprising. The parties are fun events for a fairly hip crowd (but they let me in, anyway) and the wrong sort of people always create the wrong sort of vibe. And, as they may have discovered this year, if there are too many people at the parties the atmosphere is far less congenial.
mThe real secret, however, is Ruigoord. It is a little known (comparatively) gem in the crown of the alternative culture. It is a shame that so few non-Amsterdammers ever get to know about it. For it is a magical place full of figures from myth and legend. Minstrels and jesters, bards and prophets, elves and fairies, wizards and wanderers. In Amsterdam, the reputation that Ruigoord possesses is a high calibre/low profile one. Although it is seen as one of the last bastions of the hippy years and of the squatting generation, it is as an evocation of the vibrant artistic impulse that was at the core of those times that Ruigoord's real reputation rests.
mThat and, of course, their great parties. The Balloon Party is the biggest but they organise lots of others. Traditionally, their big bash is around the summer solstice and people come from far and wide to camp out in tepees and tents, to skinny dip by day in the grey meer and dance by night in the old church and under the starry starry sky. In fact, every solstice was a good excuse for a big bash. And between there were monthly full moon parties. But -- notice the past tense -- not even the summer solstice party remains in its original form. The parties, however, still go on. They are just called something different. Twice a month there is a Dance Night or something similar and between there are Global Music Nights. The live music at both is, in my experience, excellent and the DJ'd drum 'n' bass and trance is . . . . well . . . okay if all you need is a beat. The Global Music Nights have not been going long and tend not to be very crowded -- crowded enough for a self-conscious person like me to dance but with enough space to move like a total spaz without knocking anyone unconscious. The Dance Nights are much more crowded but there is still room to dance. And at both, the vibe, the atmosphere, the warmth and unobtrusive friendliness, is overwhelming.
mIt is almost thirty years ago that the village of Ruigoord, just to the west of Amsterdam, was squatted by hippies, artists and free-thinkers. They established a very cool community based around a village church that provided a performance art venue and was an excellent place to hold parties. Set on the edge of rural Holland, the village was surrounded by some beautiful countryside. That, however, has long since been stripped away and replaced by a harbour development. With the harbour claiming more and more space, much of the village has been bulldozed and many of the inhabitants have been evicted but the church remains. To a certain extent it has always been the heart of Ruigoord and it remains a symbol of both the community and ethos.
mBut it is the ethos more than the community, that endures. But that is enough.
mThe atmosphere at the parties is really good and to maintain that, tickets, as I said, for all the Ruigoord events are tightly controlled. But it is the Balloon Party tickets that are hardest to get hold of. They have to be pre-booked through the Ruigoord web site and then picked up at the Supermarkt coffeeshop in the west of Amsterdam against a code number and proof of identity. (And next year, honest guys, we're going to do it the way you would like us to do it -- through the web site.) Indeed, the Ruigoord party organisers would seem to prefer all the tickets organised through their web site. And, it would seem, many tickets are. But many -- like us -- just pay on the door.
mIt is an honour to attend their parties, to be a part of such a noble venture. Even to know about Ruigoord is a special thing. And it is important that such great ideas, such high purposes (and we all know that there is no higher purpose than a good party) and such attitudes do not go unlauded.

RITUAL HUMILIATION

mAs a stranger in a strange land, I am forever on the outside of Dutch culture and, therefore, in a constant state of cultural assimilation. ('Cultural assimilation' is what culture shock becomes when it grows up and stops wetting the bed.) We wish it was integration rather than assimilation but . . . . I am trying to reach some understanding of the Dutch psyche. Honest to gawd. But it is hard. Watching TV is always a good way to get into the psyche of a particular nationality. Or, at least, into the psyche of the people who produce TV programmes. So that is what I do. I have noticed an interesting trend on Dutch television recently -- ritual humiliation. For all I know it may not be just Dutch TV, but I can't speak about TV in other countries. Certainly, the trend here is towards ritual humiliation in the most public of arenas. In its most mild-mannered form, it is there in Big Brother (which, by the way, like the speed camera, is one of those useful Dutch inventions.) It gets more sinister, however, when several ill-equipped, unprepared and psychologically unsound plonkers are left on a desert island to live out their Lord of the Flies fantasies. Or two account-ants, a bank teller, an estate agent and an environmentalist are coerced into a synchronised vomiting extravanganza after eating something I would not like to even think about. Or when a group of librarians is airlifted into forests of Borneo and left to live off the land with only a fruit knife, a packet of Elastoplast, two travel sickness pills and a video camera between them.
mIt is strange, isn't it? What is it that leads people not only to allow themselves to be set up to look like fools, villains, weaklings and all-round screw-ups but actually volunteer for it? Is the irresistible lure of fame, fame at any price, that irresistible? I used to think it took a lot of courage to do those awful commercials for Kelloggs Cornflakes. But this is way more perverse than that. Do they think that in some way it is going to enhance their prestige to be seen to lose bladder control when confronted by a tank full of eels? Do they actually think they are going to eat out on such stories as 'the bungie jump and the brown vapour trail' or the day I ate the slugs right from off the patio?
mStrange. I mean screwing up in public?

GA-GA-BLAH-BLAH LAND

mIt really is amazing what absol-ute crap people talk.This, of course, is not just a problem in Amsterdam but in other places as well.
mThe French, in particular, are famous for the high level of rubbish that emerges from between their palsied lips. But in
Amsterdam the problem is complicated and exacerbated by the fact that so many people occupy a completely different reality to anything I recognise.
Wandering the purple plains and paisley pastures of their own little worlds, their eyes glaze over and gaze at some distant horizon, their mouths fall slackly open and their brains pack their bags and take a holiday. Then you know it is time for Ga-Ga-Blah-Blah. Normal conversation, that vibrant and dynamic exchange of ideas and wisdom, ceases. Ga-Ga-Blah-Blah. The words still emerge from between their lips but it is all Ga-Ga-Blah-Blah. Time to go and peek in some windows.

BLINDMAN'S BLUFF

mBut it wasn't. This is Amster-dam you know. About town with the stand-up comedian who was pretending to be an editorial assistant of this august (to December) publication, the Rambler happened to be walking near the Stopera -- the ugly opera house they couldn't stopera, hence the name -- in Waterloo-plein. Not far from the Stopera's notorious leaking sculpture, there is a large circular fountain with a small stepped wall around it. It was delightful on that bright and sunny day to see a blind boy of about 20, complete with white cane, walking on the wall while his guide man (it now being considered demeaming to can-ines for them to provide services to disabled people when there is a waiting list of disabled dogs in need of their servcies) held his hand and encouraged him. It was clearly a new experience for the blind boy and the delight on his face brought tears to even the calcified eyes of the Rambler. The thumbs-up sign I gave him seemed to go unnoticed.

PARENTALISIS

mChancing out of the house in daylight hours early on one summer's evening, I was amazed to find the outside world peopled by fathers doing their fatherly thing with kids of all ages. Being from England, where fatherhood is being able to remember that there are small people living in the house that should not be treated as things to sit on, I was impress-ed by this genuine display of parental responsibility. It is, of course, difficult for English fathers to play with their offspring when all children in England are provided by the State with a Mary Poppins until they can learn to release the proffered popout and are then sent off to a prominent public school (which is what the English call the most select and expensive private schools -- it is irony, doncha know) for a character building flogging and a bit of buggery. It does them nothing but good but, somehow, the Dutch do seem (again) to have got it right.

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