My post on fandom a couple of weeks ago was very much coloured by the fact that I’m not part of a fan community. I thought that this would give me an objective outside view of the world. All it really did was provide a barricade behind which I could lob brickbats and snarks without fear of blowback. That’s unfair to a lot of people, and nudges me dangerously close to the kind of snobbish commentary that drives me to fizzing spasms of rage when it’s directed at something I happen to like.
I’ve decided to offer a right to reply to a friend and writer who is deeply involved in fandom. WDW runs a very well respected blog on one of the more interesting A-listers on the scene, Jake Gyllenhaal. She knows the highs and lows of being a fan, and I’m delighted to offer her a slot on X&HT in order to set me straight.
Replace "Ron Paul" with "Fabio Capello", and you have a large majority of British male Twitterers
Fandom is an ugly, messy, partisan, tribal business. Pledging allegiance to a team, sport, film, TV show, actor or band is tantamount to drawing a magic circle around oneself, and becoming involved in the fan network wrapped about your chosen totem of desire can invoke all kinds of trouble.
I’m no football fan, as readers of my most recent posts should now be well aware. But I know fandom in all it’s perverse glory, and observers of human behaviour have a petri dish seething with activity to enjoy. I’ve become interested in the way the fans, most specifically the England fans, are acting during the World Cup – or rather, how they’re being told to behave and how they’re taking that advice.
The flags are everywhere. That simple red cross on white has become a unifying banner under which lesser tribes can unite for a few weeks. Notice how a lot of the England flags in the stadiums of South Africa will have local team names emblazoned across the middle (I saw a Reading one the other day, which gave me a bright shock of recognition) making the point that there are many tribes gathering under the one flag. Old enemies will set aside their grievances for a while in order to do all they can to aid the common good. It all starts to look almost medieval – the face paint, the battle horns, the war-chants. It’s the old SF saw of war being subsumed into sport, with corporations as the only true winner. Makes me want to watch Rollerball again. (The good one. The James Caan one.)
And then there’s the whole ENGLAND EXPECTS bit. Churchill, Shakespeare and Blake all have their finest words and phrases mashed up as rancid headline fodder. Wayne Rooney is wrapped in a flag and plastered over the front page of the Sun on the day of the England-Algeria game. The headline declares “OUR FINEST HOUR.” The fans are given to EXPECT GREAT THINGS, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The sad fact that our team has not lived up to expectations for forty-four years is glossed-over, hand-waved away. This time, it’ll be different.
Which is, to my mind, a lot like the Star Trek franchise. Endlessly fussed and fossicked over, each new iteration and re-invention held up as the one, the return to greatness, forget all that other rubbish, remember 1966, here we go, make it so. The fans dress like their idols, wear all the shirts, put on the face-paint (admittedly, for Star Trek fans this is a bit more complex than two red slashes on a white ground) and, somewhere in the back of their minds, get ready for disappointment.
Ah, the '66 kit. CLASSIC.
I guess the JJ Abrams Star Trek reboot is then akin to England winning the World Cup. People didn’t quite know how to react when it turned out to be quite good. It was almost a shock to be confronted with something that didn’t look tired and old. Delight was mixed in with genuine surprise.
We can therefore compare the reaction to England’s performance against Algeria to a crowd who, instead of seeing the Abrams Trek, were confronted with an episode of season three of Voyager. Lame, uncertain, confused and above all BORING.
Rooney’s reaction to the boos that rang out around the pitch at the end of the nil-nil draw say a lot about the England Expects attitude, and how easy it is for an exalted figure to face the wrath of his foes. England Expects cuts both ways. We are couched to see our team as conquering heroes, incapable of defeat. When we are instead presented with a fumbling and inadequate display, we are unlikely to be in the mood to listen to excuses about climate, the kind of ball that’s being used, or the distractions of thousands of trumpets honking in B-flat. These are all actually perfectly legitimate reasons for poor performance, and for all they get paid, the England players are not superhuman. However they have been led to expect unwavering and above all uncritical support, especially during international matches. The press, the management, the PR, all geared towards making them feel unbeatable. They are not here to empathise with fans who have sacrificed an awful lot to be with their team in South Africa this summer. As far as the team is concerned, the fans are simply there, as they are always there, and their role in the game is to cheer. If they don’t – well, things start to fall apart.
The discovery that the object of your adoration is not only human, but not a very nice human is one that most fans will encounter at some point. Whether it be a brusque refusal for an autograph, or acting counter to the way the fan thinks that you should, the actors, sportspersons and musicians on which so much adulation is stacked are in constant danger of royally pissing off a chunk of their following. When they do, they seem surprised and a little hurt. It simply isn’t done for the fans to show disappointment. This comes out of a profound misunderstanding of the whole relationship. The fans do not know the star. The star cannot know the fans. They are involved in a parasitic relationship, fulfilling a need rather than entering into any kind of deeper understanding of each other. Not that either side would encourage it. That would defeat the object of the agreement. The gods need their worshippers as much as the worshippers need their gods.
Aaaany excuse.
The internet has, of course, intensified the whole scenario. Fans can now talk to each other, organising and gathering into communities as rich and diverse as their focus is narrow and intense. Many tribes and viewpoints under one banner, each putting aside their individual differences. For a while, at least, until someone says something they shouldn’t and the battle lines get drawn up. Occasionally the object of devotion will appear. This would be akin to royalty strolling into a tavern for a tankard with the proles. It’s all very exciting, but doesn’t feel llke a genuine gesture of kinship. It’s like drinking with the Prince Of Wales. It would get real uncomfortable real fast. It’s a rare celebrity that has the ability to communicate with their fans directly and without corporate bullshit. Amanda Palmer springs to mind, and probably Wil Wheaton (although he’s carved out a name for hisself above and beyond the whole Star Trek thing, becoming a bona fide geek celeb). But these guys use the connection as much as it uses them, building a fan base and therefore cashflow out of this open relationship. Amanda especially works ferociously hard at this, building a career out of guerilla gigs and selling her records online.
The mainstream, and footballers in particular, don’t do it at all. They have no need. The huge online footie communities rage and conspire as usual, but have the ability to vent their frustrations in a direct and vocal means at their objects of devotion, every Saturday at grounds around the country. Football chants are the most immediate and to-the-minute way for fans to communicate how they feel straight at the players, at full volume. Any gaffe, affair or poor run of play will be met with incisive commentary and vicious humour. You simply won’t get any of that on the Twilight boards. Whether the footballers get a lot of what’s being said is another question.
Fandom, then, is an abusive relationship in which both sides are using each other, lashing out and making up in equal part, yelling at each other without really understanding what the other side has to say. At the same time it’s a focus for kinship, friendship, creativity and community. The boards are places where you can be unafraid of your likes, your urges. They are places where you can discover that you are not only not alone, but there are thousands if not millions of people around the world who think like you, like the same bands, and have the same picture on their wall or as a computer desktop. Fandom is, was, and always shall be, regardless of the figure that is praised.
I’ve used a lot of phrases like “worship”, “devotion” and “idol”, and it’s deliberate. The parallels between religion and fandom are strong. They both focus on unknowable, fantastic creatures who move in rarified circles beyond and above those of the people that follow them. They promise much, and rarely deliver. But no matter how badly or indifferently they are treated, the fans will always be there, always loyal, always devoted.
Up until England get knocked out tomorrow, anyway…
(And look, while we’re on the subject. The phrase Come On, England has a comma in it. Otherwise, it’s an exhortation to ejaculate on a field in Kent. It’s the LANGUAGE, people! Let’s use it like we know it!)
Me, every single time I'm confronted with a football.
In 2006, I made my position absolutely clear about the World Cup. I wasn’t interested. I was aggressively uninterested. I actually walked away from a couple of conversations when they started to vector in towards discussions of Beckham’s metatarsals. I posted a big sign on the door of my suite at work, a long screed in florid prose. I considered myself the geek equivalent of Martin Luther, birthing a new and radical third way through my protest.
The end result was pretty much what you’d expect. People thought that I’d either flipped out, or that this was the first sign of a new anti-football policy at the lab. My sign seemed a little too official for it’s own good. I was approached by several colleagues, concerned that this was the thin edge of a wedge that would cut internet privileges and outside phone calls. I tried to explain that this was my way of protesting about the pervasive nature of the game, and the way it just got into everything. I was told to get a grip, find a spine and stop whining. This was for one month every four years, after all.
My arguments withered on dry ground. I gave up, took down my sign, and in a gesture of goodwill donated a pound to the office sweepstakes. Taking myself down a peg. A little monetary sacrifice.
I drew Italy, and won £50.
A lesser person would have crowed and flaunted this, celebrating the victory of the geek over the footy-loving majority. But I’d made enough of an arsehole of myself by then. I quietly donated the cash to Sport Relief, and walked away from the whole experience, treating it as a lesson learnt. I had been a passive-aggressive jerk, and I got what I deserved.
Consequently, I’m staying quiet this year. I nod and smile at the work conversations on the state of the teams before gently steering them back towards a subject in which I have an opinion. I embrace the cheap beer and grub offers, and remember to stay away from the pubs with the big screen tellys (actually, this is a rule of thumb that works well at all times of year for me).
The World Cup becomes a month-long retreat for people like me. It’s a time to catch up on your reading, on those DVDs you always meant to watch but are still on the shelf in their cellophane. It’s a time to write, to think, to keep the telly off. The choices offered by the mainstream media seem to be either the footie or the chick-flick/reality show equivalent. I do not identify as a World Cup Widow, I’m afraid.
That’s fine, though. I’m happy to be ignored. It just gives me more time to watch, and think, and write.
Coming up: football, fandom and why sports geeks are still geeks.
Busy week, is all. Tell you what, let me tell you a little story.
A guy saves up a small fortune to fulfill his girlfriend’s desire to go on a long cruise. The day before they’re supposed to set sail, she tells him that she’s been cheating on him for the last six months and it’s over between them and she’s moving out.
Well, figures the guy, the tickets are non-refundable. Even though I hate cruises, I might as well go, maybe I’ll meet someone.
About three days into the cruise, the vessel strikes a piece of giant coral which somehow knocks a hole in the hull. Everyone drowns but the guy, who manages to wash ashore on a deserted island.
Months go by. Day by day he learns more about the island: what to eat, which plants are poisonous and which plants are useful, when the best time to catch the fish is, etc. He spends his evenings on the beach watching the sunset, and if it’s an ultimately lonely life, he feels like, for the first time ever, he’s been given the opportunity for honest self-reflection, and he finds that somewhat rewarding.
One night, as he’s watching the sun set, he sees a ship in the distance. Using the tools he’s constructed while on the island, he fires off a flare. As the boat comes closer he starts to think about how much he’s changed in his time alone, and how difficult it might be to return to society. As all this goes through his head, the boat strikes the same piece of giant coral that his own boat struck so many months ago. Every passenger drowns, except one who washes ashore on the island.
Amazingly, it’s Scarlett Johannsen.
She’s beat up as hell, but the guy already knows all the healing properties of the fauna on the island. Slowly but steadily he nurses her back to health, until she’s fully recovered. As the months go by, nature takes its course, and they become intimate with each other. The first flush of new love is so strong that they often talk about how lucky they are to be all alone in this beautiful remote paradise.
One night, as they’re sitting by fire, finishing dinner, the guy looks up at Scarlett, somewhat sheepishly.
“Red,” he says, “I’m going to ask you to do something for me. It’s very important to me, but I understand if it might make you feel strange or uncomfortable and you don’t want to do it.”
“Are you kidding?” she responds. “You saved my life. Everything I’ve done since I’ve been here has been completely of my own volition. I love the life we’ve built together. There’s nothing you could ask me that I’d say no to.”
The guy pulls out a fake moustache he’s fashioned from palm fronds and the fur of one of the island’s rodents.
“Could you every now and then put this moustache on?” he asks shyly.
Scarlett’s a little apprehensive, but after everything she’s just said, she feels like she owes it to him. She takes it and sticks it on her upper lip.
“One other thing,” says the guy.
“Okay…” says Scarlett.
“Could I every now and then call you Dave?”
Now she’s starting to get a little freaked out, but it’s just the two of them on the island, and what’s she going to do? She grudgingly nods.
The guy lets out a huge sigh of satisfaction, and looks straight at her.
“Dave,” he says, “you’re not gonna believe who I’m fucking.”
via Alex Balk, who did all the heavy lifting. Normal service will be resumed yaddayaddayadda.
I have a certain hind-brain, illogical attraction to the new Renault Megane. No idea where it came from. I hadn’t been a fan of the marque since they did that weird thing with the boot that turned it into a shelf, and ran advertising that claimed that made it sexy. To my mind butt-heavy is good, but not in cars.
But there was something about the Megane that gave me pause. And it’s only today that I’ve sussed what that something might be.
I loves me a bit of old school Doctor Who on a weekend morning, especially when Tom Baker lurches on screen and gives me that classic wide, wild-eyed grin. I watched a few stories back to back recently, cherry-picked from different points in the run, and something struck me (TLC, persuading me to do the hoovering, but that’s another story). In each, the companions served a specific and carefully maintained position. Sarah Jane, Harry, Leela, Adric, Tegan and Nyssa were on the show to ask questions and get themselves into trouble. Maybe hold up a hatch while the Doctor went at whatever was inside with the old sonic screwdriver. That was pretty much it.
Compare and contrast this with the companions in the new shiny version. Frequently the show will be about these characters. We will find out about their home life and their love life. We’ll meet their family. If you’re Martha Jones, you’ll get your own theme tune.
More importantly, they are on an equal footing with the Doctor. They will become part of the solution to the problem of the week. They can no longer be seen as bumblers or screamers. Sometimes, they will save the day after the Doctor has given up. Rose Tyler, I’m looking at you and your bonding with the Tardis here.
And then there’s the sex. The days when the Doctor would have entirely chaste relationships with the ever-changing panoply of pultrichude that swanned through the Tardis control room are long gone. He either falls for his companion, or the companion falls for him, hard. Martha’s unrequited pash for the Doctor became a defining part of her time on the show.
Oh, you lanky ginger sexpot.
So let’s look at Amy Pond. A girl who grew up with an image of the man in the box that gradually twisted and mutated, developing a crush which turned into – something else. I have no idea exactly what it is Amy feels for the Doctor, but it sure as hell ain’t healthy. In the new series, Bow-Tie Doctor (I’m sorry, but the easiest way to refer to them is by costume. Long Scarf Doctor. Dandy Doctor. Cricketing Doctor. Which makes Christopher Eccleston Leather Doctor, and there’s an image that’ll be with me for days) has to struggle with a companion that has developed some very strange ideas about the nature of love. Dropping everything to run away the day before your wedding with a figure you built childhood shrines to is not normal behaviour.
The love triangle that’s emerged as Amy’s fiancee Rory has joined the crew brings Doctor Who closer to soap opera than it’s ever been. The most recent episode, Amy’s Choice, in which she’s forced to choose between which of “her boys” survives is genuinely new territory for telly Who, and it’s telling that no punches are pulled in the acting or writing. The villainous Dream Lord is played by Toby Jones, one of the finest actors of our generation. It’s written by Simon Nye, a new name to Who but an enormously respected name in the industry, and a man who can track the path of the dysfunctional heart with more sytle and aplomb than most. This is hardly the Doctor Who of memory and archive.
You can track this change in direction to Doctor Who’s most interesting period – that 15 year chunk when there was no televised Who at all. The franchise lived on in audio dramas and books, and explored new and strange directions, unencumbered by budgetary constraints or duff special effects. The lives of the supporting cast could be explored at whim. The main players in TV Who nowadays, Russell T, current show-runner Steven Moffat and writers like Paul Cornell all come out of this explosion in creativity, and their influence is clear. It was a time of tacitly endorsed fanfic, with all the strangeness and charm that comes out of that arena. These were new stories told by writers that had no agenda other than a love of the show, and a wish to see it done right. And of course, the sexual tension that’s now a part of the show is a big feature of the fanfic scene.
While I’m on the subject of sex and Who, I found the whole furore about Amy Pond being a “sexed-up companion” to be Daily Fail over-reaction. Not only was Moffat veeery careful with the definition of Amy’s day job – kissagram, not strippergram – but there was an almost deliberate blindness to the fact that feamle companions have always been eye candy in the show. Consider Louise Jameson in her torn chamois leather.Peri Brown in her bikini. Wendy Padbury in the skin-tight sparkly catsuit. THAT picture of Katy Manning. Something for the dads, although that ignores the fact that boys of a certain age would also discover that funny feeling in their tummy while watching supposedly innoculous Saturday afternoon telly. I know I did.
The companions are key to the success of the new Doctor, not just because they are avatars for the watching audience. Their role has changed, and they are now interesting and involving characters with their own motivations and needs. You would never see Sarah Jane Smith throwing herself at the Doctor the way that Amy does, largely because she was never written to be anything more than the standard bit of fluff. I never really thought the episode where she and Rose bumped up against each other rang true, because I never really saw her having those kind of feelings for the Doctor. Or indeed any real feelings whatsoever. The focus of the show was simply not on her. She screamed, asked questions, and got loomed at by a tall bloke in spray-painted bubblewrap. That was it. Curiously, it’s only in her starring role in kid’s show The Sarah Jane Adventures that she comes across as a grown-up with feelings and responsibilities. Once again, the show-runners of Who always understood that you could sneak adult stuff into kids shows as long as you were ever so slightly subtle. Look at Moffat’s Press Gang – to my mind still one of the best TV shows out there. No-one could ever accuse that show of lazy writing or characterisation.
Doctor Who has expanded it’s remit. It’s a central part of the BBC schedules, which is exceedingly sweet to fans like me who could always see the charm in the wonky sets and air of slight silliness, and could enjoy the stories and writing. The fact that Who is now so very writer-driven, despite the Mill’s endearingly cheap special effects, is the reason it’s doing so well. It’s never been a cold show, and wears it’s faith in humanity boldly and without irony. By turning the focus a little away from the ancient alien in the blue box, and towards the boys and girls who share his life however briefly, that faith and warmth have only become more obvious.
But you do have to wonder about what’s going on with The Doctor and Captain Jack…
Well done, you! You increased your majority by a good few thousand, and with Martin Salter out of the picture, this makes Reading a fully Tory town. You must be really pleased. It’s a vindication of your sterling work as a local MP. It must be. Cos it’s got nothing to do with the policies under which you campaigned.
It must be amazing to be part of the parliamentary process at a time when it’s going through the most profound shift in half a century, with the chance of even more profound reform coming up. It was truly astonishing to see David Cameron on the steps of No. 10 with Nick Clegg as his deputy, and downright fall-off-the-sofa stunning to see the list of what they’d agreed to as a framework for future co-operation. The Repeal Act alone takes most of the issues I’ve written to you about over the past couple of years and fixes them in one fell swoop.
But there’s more, and as I read through the policy changes and announcements, I feel more hopeful than I have done in a long time. There’s balance here, the feel of a proper partnership. We have a cabinet that contains almost a third of all Lib Dem MPs, and although I’m disappointed not to see Vince Cable as the Chancellor, I can understand the reasoning. He’ll be kicking arse and taking prisoners in the banking sector soon enough. I’m a bit worried at a junior figure like George Osbourne taking on such a massively important job, but it’s not like he won’t be getting the Vincester to check his sums, after all. I know it’s not fair, but I saw this on Twitter and laughed, by the way:
“George: Vince, can you check these figures for me?
Yeah, sure, there’s still some things in the new agreement that make me wince. The cap on non-EU economic migrants is likely to come up and bite the government in the bum when the NHS can’t get hold of the skilled staff they need from overseas anymore. As for the limits on the application of EU Working Time Directive – we already work longer hours in the UK than in any other country in Europe. Control on working hours is necessary legislation, and vital for the work/life balance that’s critical for everyone in these stressful times. But for the most part, I see policies that will help this country to become a fairer place.
So, what do you think of it all? I know it’s not ideal for you, but then let’s face it, I don’t think this is a situation that any of us voted for, or expected. We’re in genuinely new territory now (although our European partners must be viewing the freaked reaction to the changes with some bemusement. After all, on the continent, coalitions are the norm and you don’t se gloomy pronouncements of economic and social meltdown on a daily basis there. But then they don’t have the Daily Mail, I suppose.)
So, Rob. I’m kind of pleased to see you back. It’s good to have a familiar face here in this unfamiliar territory in which we find ourselves. I’m looking forward to writing to you again. I hope you’re looking forward to hearing from me. We’ve been through too much together to let a little thing like the restructuring of British politics stand in the way of an amicable relationship.
The last time I was in Amsterdam was a bit of a blur. It was for a conference/trade show, and I made the most of it. In fact, more than the most of it. One enduring memory is of wandering around the waterfront in a vicious rainstorm, completely lost, trying to make sense of a map that was starting to dissolve in the deluge. At five in the morning. Blind drunk. Not my proudest moment.
Visiting the city again with TLC, as I’d promised her years ago, was always going to be a different experience. We promised each other culture, and sophistication, and the occasional beer. And that was exactly what we got.
Our approach to a city is always the same. We’re walkers, preferring to pace out the bounds of our territory. It’s the best way to see cities like Amsterdam, which is particularly strong on both architecture and street art. The layout of the city is particularly good for this kind of flaneury. It’s built like a web, or half a dart board. It’s highly conducive to unfocussed rambling.
The bulls eye of the town is Centraal Station, a cheap and easy 20 minute train ride from Schipol Airport. From here you can pick up trams, buses or taxis to pretty much anywhere in town. I can seriously recommend the smartcards that give you unlimited access to all the public transport options – ideal for those moments when you’ve walked yourself to a standstill.
For a place that prides itself on it’s friendliness towards the pedestrian, Amsterdam can be treacherous towards the unwary walker. The aforementioned trams are everywhere, and they sneak up on you. They’re electric, and quiet. A real contrast to the thumping, shrieking gallumphers we rode in San Francisco.
Bloomin' typical
Then there are the bicycles. Boy, are there ever bicycles. Here’s a challenge for you. Take a few photos in Amsterdam, and try not to have a bike in any of them. It’s an impossible task. Bikes are chained to every railing, lamp-post and hydrant. And everyone rides them. They’re a cheap, simple and universal way of getting around Amsterdam and they absolutely have the right of way. Frame a lovely shot by the canal and I can guarantee that someone on a bike will spin through just as you hit the shutter.
They’re not pretty, either. People ride boneshakers here, and they’ve frequently been modified in ways that Heath Robinson would applaud. Carriers have been adapted from old crates, wine boxes, shopping baskets. Some machines have extended front forks with big boxes in them that tote everything from the week’s shopping to pets and children. Occasionally, the brave and foolhardy fit these contraptions with two-stroke engines. At least you can hear those coming. TLC and I were both nearly mown down by speeding bikes. It would have been our fault, too.
But the remarkable thing is how matter-of-fact people are on cycles in Amsterdam. No-one wears lycra and hi-vis. Hardly anyone wears a helmet. Everyone’s in their normal, everyday clothes and they rattle along without a care. Even the girls in the high heels and the tight, short skirts. The ones I definitely didn’t notice. It’s refreshing and cheering to see a whole town cycle in the same way that I do – without flash or attention, treating it as a cheap and easy way to get around. No need for special clothing or ugly fashion. Just get on and go.
That'll be thirty euros.
We were in town for National Museum Weekend, a chance to see some of Holland’s extraordinary cultural heritage for cheap or free. We discovered a little too late that the two museums that we specifically wanted to visit were not participating in the promotion. Not cool, really. It’s telling that one of the few capitals that allows free and unrestricted access to it’s treasures is London. I won’t be so blase about popping into the National for a lunchtime amble after reflecting on the thick end of €60 that we paid to see the two collections.
The Rijksmuseum has even more of a brass neck for opting out of the free weekend when you consider that the majority of the building is closed for refurbishment until 2015. This means that you’re paying full price for a limited look of what is on offer. I should be fuming. But the fact is that the curators have been very clever, and have put on show a beautifully compact version of the full range. For your money you get a concentrated burst of the best that the Dutch masters had to offer. All the Rembrandts that I wanted to see were there, and displayed at their best. I didn’t walk out feeling cheated, which is a testament to the carefully considered choices that have been made. In fact, in it’s current form I can heartily recommend it. Just try and get a discount if you can.
We took the advice of the excellent Time Out Amsterdam guide, which pointed out that the best time to hit the busy museums was towards the end of the day. This gave us plenty of time to stroll as we liked through the streets, across the bridges and down the canals of this most labyrinthine of cities.
I said earlier that Amsterdam is weblike in layout. In practice, this means that if you’re not careful, a canal path that you think is leading you north-south can be leading you west-east instead. It’s easy to get lost in the maze of streets in the old centre, and we did. But somehow, it’s ok. Getting away from an accepted plan or route often means you find things you wouldn’t be looking for. We tripped over the cool shopping district of Nine Streets entirely by accident, and blundered across the amazing art design shop Droog while looking for something else which has completely slipped my mind. For the most part, we were content to mosey, or amble, or stroll, soaking up the atmosphere, gaping at the astonishing architecture that seemed to be around every corner, and finding mind-boggling examples of street art proudly displayed in places which would have British councils sending little men out with buckets of whitewash.
Did we indulge? Well, depends what you mean. We ate and drank royally, which is hard not to do in a town so stuffed with bars and cafes. If you’re on foot, it makes sense to take plenty of rest breaks. I love the Dutch way with coffee, short and strong without being an espresso. And of course, beer is a passion. The trick is not to drink in the English way, in pints. It’s prohibitively expensive. A large Heineken will set you back four and a half euros. Best to stick to halves, and savour the flavour of the stronger, more esoteric brews. I’m rather partial to Chimay, which packs an 8% punch and is not designed to be sloshed back like mouthwash. The point is to sit, linger, chat and observe. Once you get that slower pace into your head, everything else makes sense.
So, did we indulge? Well, no. We’re not smokers, hate smoky rooms, and wouldn’t know where to start in a coffeeshop. We had too much to do and see to waste a day getting baked. I know I sound like a prude but, sorry, not really interested.
As for the other side of Amsterdam – it’s everywhere and nowhere. The newsagents all have hardcore porn openly on sale, but then that’s the same all over the continent. I still remember a French school trip where Color Climax books were racked with the comics. Now that’s a way to spin a 14-year-old’s head off his shoulders. But unless you know where to look, or you wander down certain alleyways, you’re unlikely to see much smut.
The funny moment for me was approaching the Ould Kerk, Amsterdam’s equivalent to St Paul’s, only to be waved at by girls in glass-fronted stalls in the courtyards behind the massive old building. It’s like putting booths up in Paternoster Square. It’s that mix of the sacred and profane that makes Amsterdam such a great place to visit. It’s relaxed and uptight all at once, deeply religious and wildly secular. And it’s as tolerant a town as any I’ve ever seen. We had a brilliant, if exhausting time. Am I glad I went to Amsterdam?
A few recommendations. We stayed a little out of town, on the Vondelpark, and more by luck than judgment ended up a two minute walk away from one of the main tram routes into town. This is a good thing, and means that we ate at more local-style bars than the touristy joints.
We tended to breakfast at Brasserie de Joffers, on the Willemsbergweg at Cornelus Schuystraat. It has high white ceilings, and a calm, easy air about it that smooths you into the day. Further down Willemsbergweg, Bar Gruter is a tiny ramshackle place with bags of charm and a good line in strong Belgian beer. In town, Locaal ‘t Loosje is right by the Ould Kirk, and a cool place to rest your head after being confronted by women of negotiable virtue. Prinsengrach is one of the prettier canals, and we were lucky to get seats at Cafe Prins on Prinsengrach. Their croquettes are delish.
The shopping streets around there are part of the Nine Streets district, and there are plenty of design gems. If you’re really into that kind of thing, Droog on Staalstraat is as much an art gallery as a shop, and filled with good and strange pieces.
The Labbits wish you well.
Speaking of which, Outland, heading back towards Centraal Station on Zeedijk, has a brilliant range of urban art and collectibles. I picked up a couple of incarnations of my spirit animal, that help sustain my inner life and make me smile. But Amsterdam is so full of sights and experiences that my recommendations only serve to show you the things I enjoyed. Everyone has their own inner Amsterdam. You should find out what that is for yourself.
(All pics have been taken from Clare68’s Flickrstream. Check the rest out here. Leave comments. She loves getting comments.)
When I was a teenager, a couple of friends and I used to jump on a train and head over to the bright lights of Clacton-On-Sea if we had a sunny school holiday with nothing better to do. It was a good place to get away from the parental units for a day, and generally misbehave. We’d hit the arcades, egg each other on into buying cheap lagers from the Spar on the esplanade, and try and desperately fail to talk to girls.
One event we always managed to fit into our itinerary was a visit to the Alhambra. This was a shabby cinema/theatre, tucked away in a side street. It had a bit of a reputation for showing obscure horror and sci-fi, and my friends and I made a habit of checking out what was on.
But if we were lucky, we would be in town while the management of the Alhambra made one of their regular attempts to pick up some of the spill-over crowd from whoever was playing at the pier theatre (Bobby Davro normally, if memory serves.)
Now. The management of the Alhambra had some strange ideas as to what constituted good live entertainment. Downright … bizarre ideas. Which was why me and my mates were always enthused when we crossed into Harold Road from the Marine Parade, to see signs up announcing the triumphant return of the Amazing Derek.
The Amazing Derek’s shows were short, sharp, and to the point. They were free to get in (the management made money off the concessions stand. We certainly ate our bodyweight in Revels whenever we pitched up) and lasted no more than ten minutes. It was closer to a sideshow in a fair than any proper theatrical venture. None the less, we scampered up, bought our chocs and settled down in the worn red velvet seating for the show.
The Rocky theme would blare out of rattling speakers, and Derek would stride out on stage. He was a short, wide man with a curious ruff of ginger hair nestling round the base of his skull. He wore a red silk dressing gown. On the back, wonky gold lettering proclaimed “THE AMAZING DEREK NOBODY DOES IT BETTOR”. The crowd, well, the three teenage boys in the front row, went nuts.
His stunning assistant, whose name I never did find out, then stepped daintily onto the stage. As daintily as you could do when you were dragging a heavy wooden sawhorse, anyway. She placed this in front of Derek. Then she dug in a hidden pocket of her costume (way too small and tight for a woman of her effusive dimensions, but she had our undivided attention while she struggled with her bustier) and after much drama and groaning of tortured fabric, produced a blue sateen bag. With much ceremony, she took three walnuts out of this bag and placed them carefully on the sawhorse in a line.
She withdrew. The lights dimmed a little.
Derek slipped his robe off.
I could describe the explosions of ginger hair that blazed over his chest and back. I could describe the taut firmness of a belly that had clearly made good friends with the Hofmeister Bear a long time ago. But really, all anyone was looking at when Derek disrobed was his gigantic penis. He was enormous. I mean, jaw-droppingly huge. His cock was as thick and wide as a police truncheon. It swung gently from side to side as Derek paraded across the stage, making sure the whole audience got a really good look at it.
Inevitably, this was the point where there were walkouts. We always stayed. We knew what was coming.
Derek positioned himself in front of the sawhorse, and grasped his manhood firmly. Then he lifted, and swung. CRACK. The walnut on the left shattered. Derek swung again. CRACK. There went the walnut on the right. CRACK. The walnut in the middle, sending nut-shards all over the delighted teenage boys in the front row. He stood back, to let us admire his feat of strength and dexterity, and then the curtains came across again. We would be on out feet by then, applauding wildly, but he never came out for an encore. We didn’t really need it. The act was perfect just as it was.
Last summer, I was at a loose end on a day off, and quite out of nowhere decided to visit Clacton. Have a wander around, have an ice cream, watch the sea. An aimless, nostalgic kind of a day.
Quite by chance, I found my route led me back along Marine Parade to Harold Road. I smiled, and thought I’d take a look and see if the Alhambra was still there.
It was. Not only that, but a faded banner outside declared “!!!TODAY LIVE IN PERRSON THE AMAZING DEREK!!!”
It couldn’t be, could it? I had to find out. Entrance was 50p, a concession to straitened times. The spotty girl at the concession stand seemed uninterested in my stories of past visits, and had no idea if this was really the same Derek. I slipped into the cool dark interior of the auditorium. The seats were a little more worn, but just as I remembered, and the seat I always took in the front row was free.
As I sat, the Rocky theme crackled out and the curtains opened. The Amazing Derek strode out on stage. He was a little plumper, and the ginger ruff had gone white. But it was clearly the same man I had seen twenty-five years earlier. The assistant, also the same, dragged out the sawhorse. I could hear her costune complaining from the immense strain it was under. But now she ducked back into the wings, bringing out a Tesco carrier bag. Out of this, and with great ceremony, she produced three coconuts, which she placed with the same care on the sawhorse.
She withdrew. the lights dimmed a little.
Derek slipped his robe off.
The ginger explosion had gone white, the belly had a bit of a sag to it. But Derek’s cock was as long and thick as ever. The damn thing could have qualified as an offensive weapon.
He took up position, and grasped his manhood firmly. Then he lifted, and swung. BAM. The coconut on the right exploded in a shower of white flesh and juice. BAM. The one on the left did the same. BAM. The coconut in the middle burst into pieces. I was picking coconut out of my hair all the way home. It was extraordinary. He stepped back, and the curtains fell.
I couldn’t help myself. I snuck backstage, and introduced myself as a lifelong fan. Derek was charming and polite. His voice was Essex gravel, but he was intelligent and erudite, if a little amazed that anyone would have remembered him. His stunning assistant Charmaine, his wife of thirty-seven years, made us all tea.
“I’ve got to ask,” I said eventually. “When I was a kid, it was walnuts. What made you upgrade? I mean, it makes for a better show, but what made you think of it?”
Derek smiled, and dug in the single pocket of his robe, producing a small pair of glasses which he perched on the tip of his nose.
“Thing is,” he said, “my eyesight’s not what it used to be.”
The last time I was in Amsterdam was a bit of a blur. It was for a conference/trade show, and I made the most of it. In fact, more than the most of it. One enduring memory is of wandering around the waterfront in a vicious rainstorm, completely lost, trying to make sense of a map that was starting to dissolve in the deluge. At five in the morning. Blind drunk. Not my proudest moment.
I said earlier that Amsterdam is weblike in layout. In practice, this means that if you’re not careful, a canal path that you think is leading you north-south can be leading you west-east instead. It’s easy to get lost in the maze of streets in the old centre, and we did. But somehow, it’s ok. Getting away from an accepted plan or route often means you find things you wouldn’t be looking for. We tripped over the cool shopping district of Nine Streets entirely by accident, and blundered across the amazing art design shop Droog while looking for something else which has completely slipped my mind. For the most part, we were content to mosey, or amble, or stroll, soaking up the atmosphere, gaping at the astonishing architecture that seemed to be around every corner, and finding mind-boggling examples of street art proudly displayed in places which would have British councils sending little men out with buckets of whitewash.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 
