So tomorrow is the last day of 2014, and it’s time to gear up for all of the ‘new year, new me’ statuses. I know I might seem a bit down on the old status writers at present but positivity never made for a good read in my experience.
Anyway, tomorrow marks New Year’s Eve, a time for spending extortionate amounts of money on champers and getting bevvied up to ring in 2015, and it’s set to be pretty sweet. Being from a small city where everyone does the same thing week in week out in the same places, I’ve been used to standing around outside on NYE, waiting for a mis-timed countdown to let us all know it’s time to hug and smooch anyone and everyone in sight, to then realise that it is, in fact, still only 11.57.
Now, although it might seem like I’m on a New Year’s downer, I’m actually a big fan of NYE celebrations, and plan on drinking a shitload of shandies tomorrow and dancing my way into 2015 with bells on. I try and make a thing of getting some plans in place for New Year’s, and was lucky enough to ring in 2012 in the ganja capital of Europe.
Amsterdam’s mint init. A flight from Leeds to Schipol takes less time than a train to Sheffield; you can be out of your front door and into a coffee shop within the hour. My trip to Amsterdam over New Year’s came about after one particularly gin fuelled evening in my uni halls resulted in the booking of two return tickets. Unfortunately (or perhaps very fortunately) for us, we’d lost the power of mathematics by the time we booked, and so we accidentally ended up booking no less than a six-day stint.
Having been a little wazzled at the booking time, we perhaps didn’t take into account that I was a poor student and couldn’t afford five nights in 5* luxury. Indeed, I couldn’t afford to spend five nights anywhere but the most budget hostel we could find – we figured that’s all part of the European experience anyway.
So we arrived looking less than bright eyed, and about five pints deep in lager, on the morning of December 27th, locating our hostel after an hour’s shite navigation (and zero help from the Dutch). The first person we came across was ‘Mike from Manc’ who was ‘at it on his own’ (genuine quote not ripped out of The Inbetweeners) for his bday. Poor Mike had taken one too many shrooms at this point and headed off for nap while we took to the streets.
I’ll not bore you with tales of what to do in Amsterdam, ‘cause I know it’s not exactly a rare and exotic holiday location. We spent the days leading up to NYE hijacking college tours and sourcing out the best (legal) bud we could find, thinking we were Snoop Dogg and Wiz Khalifa (I am 100% Wiz).
NYE was the day that held particular surprises for us, as we set out in search of the Red Light District, and some good clean hilarity. Now, I know that the poor gals of the Red Light District are rumoured to have a pretty hard time of it, but as a young stoned tourist that didn’t particularly cross my mind at this point (sorry).
So off we went in search of the sights, and as we entered the area we were clotheslined by a young Dutch gent, who ushered us into a sex show with the promise of many lols and a comment that we had ‘Nische titties by the way’; such a charmer. Well, we certainly were not prepared for the delights that lay within, which I’m afraid you’ll have to see for yourself to believe. The real highlight of our New Year’s Eve came towards the end of the show, when a young performer (for want of a better word) asked for volunteers, and my (slightly inebriated) pal shot our hands up in a Hunger Games ‘I volunteer as tribute’ gesture. Nightmare.
Well there we were up on the stage at this sex show. You know when you take a look around you and you really wonder just how you ended up on a stage in a sex show in Amsterdam on NYE? Yeah, it’s a moment of enlightenment. So this lady(?) lined her five
victims volunteers up at the back, and told us in a thick Dutch accent that we were going to do a dance followed by a ‘supreez’; queue awkward bopping around the stage to Kevin Lyttle’s Turn Me On.
When the time came for the ‘supreez’ we were all rounded up and I ended up four volunteers away from my poor friend, who found herself at the end of the line (Karma lives, people). Our entertainer went on to whip off her barely-there G string, pluck a banana as though from thin air, peel the thing and place it between her legs, suggesting that a less-than-impressed me take a bite.
Now, I took a look at the banana, and I took a look at my friend all the way at the other end of the line, and I saw an opportunity for much hilarity. As much as it was the most revolting experience of my time on planet earth, I leaned forward and took a bite of said banana, managing to maintain a safe distance from our mate. My poor friend was unfortunately not so lucky. By the time the banana had reached her at the other end of the queue, it had been munched down by the other volunteers, and so when she went in for the bite, she was dangerously close. At this point, our entertainer’s anklet got caught in my friend’s hair, who was stuck in said compromising position for a whole two minutes while I untangled her (which can be a very long time when you’re between the legs of a sex performer).
I think in that moment she would’ve traded places with Mike from Manc, who spent his NYE tripping balls in our hostel room after a few too many narcotics.
It’s safe to say she had a very happy New Year, and a nice boost of potassium from all that banana. Let’s hope there’s more of the same to come tomorrow night. Have a good’un!