Like most significant events in my life, this one began with a solemn goodbye to a cat.
Following this brief conversation she decided to sit on my suitcase for three hours then throw up under the bed - I believe the phrase is 'emotional blackmail'. The guilt, it transpires, got me all the way to Amsterdam, albeit by 4am and with no fucking power in the back of the van.
Still, I read all of the Luke Haines book so thanks for that JWR, you fucking scourge.
The hotel has suicidally dangerous stairs. Here's me outside of it trying to be positive about some shit or other despite wanting to punch a cyclist directly in the mouth ...
... and here are the Jesus Lizard JesusLizarding* the lovely fucking main room of the Paradiso;
if I have infringed copyright, baby, know that I do it with the best intentions.*1
So, that was Amsterdam. I went out for a drink with Mitch, talked for a while about immigration then swore at a fat man in a unitard.
THE BEST THING THAT HAPPENED IN AMSTERDAM was a rock show (odd, that) and running around Vondel park, lapping bikes. Fuck you, slowcoaches.
THE BEST PEOPLE THAT HAPPENED IN AMSTERDAM were (naturally), the Jesus Lizard, Marcel at The Backstage Hotel and Stefan 'It is a bullshit' DeBerg.
* verb - to destroy with furious yet naturally ordained angularity.
*1 reportage. Solely reportage.