People; what a bunch of bastards (part 1).
Newsflash! People annoy me. Actually that's an understatement - humanity annoys me. And so on my trip, as I came across a larger portion of humanity than what I'm normally used to, I got annoyed. Quite a lot. There was the general annoyance at idiots who try to barge into the toilet even though the lock shows red (universal code for LOCKED! SOMEONE INSIDE! WAIT PATIENTLY!), or the lazy bastards who use the lift to get to floors 1 and -1 (disabled and older folk excluded of course, I'm not a monster). However, there was also the more specific annoyance - aimed at one person or a small and defined group of people (loud Americans cooking in the hostel kitchen for instance).
Sometimes my anger is justified, sometimes it's unexplained. But it's always there, screaming at people in my head.
I started writing this while I was in London and found it now, two weeks after my return. I hadn't realised I wrote so much, but alas, there are many people in the world and they all need to be dealt with. So I'll split this into two parts - Amsterdam and London (just the last week as the first two were dominated by the Spanish duo from hell).
Enjoy?
Here's an idea - say you want to practice some tennis, but oh no! The gods have bestowed you with a shitty personality and an even worse face, and thus you have no friends. You could practice by hitting a ball against a wall or use one of those machines that hurl balls at you at a speed of extremely-dangerous-miles-an-hour, but no no no, that would be boring. You want to be original and trendy in your lonely tennis frenzy. What you need is the Tennis Ball Boomerang (not the official name I presume, but that's what I like to call it) and I know where you can get one. Just next to Leidsplein tram station, in front of The Bulldog Coffeeshop stands a guy whose sole purpose in life is hitting a tennis ball that's attached by string to his racket, so it keeps coming back and he hits it again and it bounces back and he hits it again... you get the point. I'd go there in the morning to get some money from the cash point and he'd be there. I'd come back at around 1pm for lunch and he'd still be hitting away. At 7pm I'd start looking for a place that would supply me with dinner (yes, I hung around there a lot ok? It was my comfort zone. It had food. I was on my own ok??) and surely enough, there he was, still hitting that ball with all the determination of an athlete trying to break a world record. The next day it would start all over again.
There was always another guy with him. A side-kick or maybe just a slightly disabled relative who wasn't allowed to actually use the contraption, so instead would have a racket lying on the floor in front of him and would gently kick the ball around for 8-10 hours a day.
Surely a human mind cannot bare that kind of existence. Those two must be either deluded or so thick that they're not even aware of who they are or the fact that they're out on the street making human contact. If they don't throw themselves over one of Amsterdam's bridges at some point it would be a wonder. And a loss for humanity. No one ever stopped to look at them for more than 3 mili-seconds and I never witnessed anyone opting to buy one of those revolutionary 'ball attached to racket by string' devices. Maybe because you could make it at home in less than 4 minutes, or maybe because it's a shitty idea being badly promoted and annoying pedestrians by hogging a huge part of the pavement which they desperately need to avoid deranged bicycle riders.
Ahh, the bicycle riders. The morbidly snobbish bike riders with their 'oh I'm so much better than you' pasty blonde European faces. I bet you only eat organic fair trade vegetables that were caressed by angles and shipped on unicorns to reduce carbon emission, you wanking pratts.
At first I thought 'oh how lovely, they're all on bicycles, what a fantastic way to not only save our planet but have a great workout as well, hurrah!'. But if you get in their way then God have mercy on your soul (well, not God as he doesn’t exist, let's say Stephen Fry. Who definitely exists. I saw him. He is God-like). There's literally no greater foul in Amsterdam than getting in the way of a bike. You could slaughter a baby giraffe and tape yourself having sex with its whipped cream covered corpse and you wouldn't get the looks of disgust and contempt you would get if you happened to be walking across what you innocently considered a pavement.
It's a good thing I left Holland when I did. A few more days, maybe hours, with those patronising twats and I would've rented a car and started running down every cyclist in sight. And they'd all be severely hurt or killed because of the lack of safety equipment. The fools.
(twincy, this bit obviously does not apply to you and your loved ones. Going on the back of your bike was rather fun. And yes, I'm a total hypocrite.)
A person I did like in Amsterdam was Julian. Julian, the tour guide. Julian, the adorable Australian tour guide... Julian took me (along with about 20 others) on a guided tour of the Red Lights District and he was brilliant. Apart from being very easy on the eye, he was funny and delivered the "tell some history about prostitution-make joke about his own incompetence or his willy being too small-chuckle in embarrassment and go 'ANYWAY...'" routine perfectly. He had great comedic timing and a brilliant cheery-upy vibe that created a great atmosphere.
One dark cloud threatened to ruin the night though and it came in the shape of a short American woman who kept talking for the sake of being heard. I hate those people. Making inane comments about the most mundane things, giggling at every "blueish" thing that's being said as if they're a 14 year old catholic school girl. If you can't act like an adult in front of a window shop that sells condoms in the shapes of Big Ben, a tiger and Homer Simpson then you shouldn't be allowed into Amsterdam. Nothing wrong with a bit of a chuckle and a smirk when you're first presented with the unusual sight, but after standing in front of it for five minutes you should be able to contain yourself. I won't try to describe her reaction when he explained the things girls do with bananas at the "Banana Bar". It was... I don't even... Yeah.
Sometimes my anger is justified, sometimes it's unexplained. But it's always there, screaming at people in my head.
I started writing this while I was in London and found it now, two weeks after my return. I hadn't realised I wrote so much, but alas, there are many people in the world and they all need to be dealt with. So I'll split this into two parts - Amsterdam and London (just the last week as the first two were dominated by the Spanish duo from hell).
Enjoy?
Here's an idea - say you want to practice some tennis, but oh no! The gods have bestowed you with a shitty personality and an even worse face, and thus you have no friends. You could practice by hitting a ball against a wall or use one of those machines that hurl balls at you at a speed of extremely-dangerous-miles-an-hour, but no no no, that would be boring. You want to be original and trendy in your lonely tennis frenzy. What you need is the Tennis Ball Boomerang (not the official name I presume, but that's what I like to call it) and I know where you can get one. Just next to Leidsplein tram station, in front of The Bulldog Coffeeshop stands a guy whose sole purpose in life is hitting a tennis ball that's attached by string to his racket, so it keeps coming back and he hits it again and it bounces back and he hits it again... you get the point. I'd go there in the morning to get some money from the cash point and he'd be there. I'd come back at around 1pm for lunch and he'd still be hitting away. At 7pm I'd start looking for a place that would supply me with dinner (yes, I hung around there a lot ok? It was my comfort zone. It had food. I was on my own ok??) and surely enough, there he was, still hitting that ball with all the determination of an athlete trying to break a world record. The next day it would start all over again.
There was always another guy with him. A side-kick or maybe just a slightly disabled relative who wasn't allowed to actually use the contraption, so instead would have a racket lying on the floor in front of him and would gently kick the ball around for 8-10 hours a day.
Surely a human mind cannot bare that kind of existence. Those two must be either deluded or so thick that they're not even aware of who they are or the fact that they're out on the street making human contact. If they don't throw themselves over one of Amsterdam's bridges at some point it would be a wonder. And a loss for humanity. No one ever stopped to look at them for more than 3 mili-seconds and I never witnessed anyone opting to buy one of those revolutionary 'ball attached to racket by string' devices. Maybe because you could make it at home in less than 4 minutes, or maybe because it's a shitty idea being badly promoted and annoying pedestrians by hogging a huge part of the pavement which they desperately need to avoid deranged bicycle riders.
Ahh, the bicycle riders. The morbidly snobbish bike riders with their 'oh I'm so much better than you' pasty blonde European faces. I bet you only eat organic fair trade vegetables that were caressed by angles and shipped on unicorns to reduce carbon emission, you wanking pratts.
At first I thought 'oh how lovely, they're all on bicycles, what a fantastic way to not only save our planet but have a great workout as well, hurrah!'. But if you get in their way then God have mercy on your soul (well, not God as he doesn’t exist, let's say Stephen Fry. Who definitely exists. I saw him. He is God-like). There's literally no greater foul in Amsterdam than getting in the way of a bike. You could slaughter a baby giraffe and tape yourself having sex with its whipped cream covered corpse and you wouldn't get the looks of disgust and contempt you would get if you happened to be walking across what you innocently considered a pavement.
It's a good thing I left Holland when I did. A few more days, maybe hours, with those patronising twats and I would've rented a car and started running down every cyclist in sight. And they'd all be severely hurt or killed because of the lack of safety equipment. The fools.
(twincy, this bit obviously does not apply to you and your loved ones. Going on the back of your bike was rather fun. And yes, I'm a total hypocrite.)
A person I did like in Amsterdam was Julian. Julian, the tour guide. Julian, the adorable Australian tour guide... Julian took me (along with about 20 others) on a guided tour of the Red Lights District and he was brilliant. Apart from being very easy on the eye, he was funny and delivered the "tell some history about prostitution-make joke about his own incompetence or his willy being too small-chuckle in embarrassment and go 'ANYWAY...'" routine perfectly. He had great comedic timing and a brilliant cheery-upy vibe that created a great atmosphere.
One dark cloud threatened to ruin the night though and it came in the shape of a short American woman who kept talking for the sake of being heard. I hate those people. Making inane comments about the most mundane things, giggling at every "blueish" thing that's being said as if they're a 14 year old catholic school girl. If you can't act like an adult in front of a window shop that sells condoms in the shapes of Big Ben, a tiger and Homer Simpson then you shouldn't be allowed into Amsterdam. Nothing wrong with a bit of a chuckle and a smirk when you're first presented with the unusual sight, but after standing in front of it for five minutes you should be able to contain yourself. I won't try to describe her reaction when he explained the things girls do with bananas at the "Banana Bar". It was... I don't even... Yeah.