One of the great things about Amsterdam is that you just never know. Seriously. You never do. Even the most mundane, simple, or otherwise generic situation can evolve (or in all likelihood escalate) into something very, very different that what you anticipated.

Case in point: Club Royalty off the Leidseplein.

One night during our recent trip, Steve and I were wandering aimlessly about town trying to find live music. You would think that a party town like Amsterdam would have tons of live bands gigging nightly to packed houses …. You’d be wrong. It was a Saturday night at about 10pm and we simply could not find a club with a live band. Now, I’m not counting the weird two man band in the horse trailer pulled by a golf cart that stopped every two hundred yards so that a skinny Dutch kid could do an awful karaoke version of Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills”. Oh yeah, that really happened … but it still doesn’t count.

We were prepared to give up the hunt and just get to the business of drinking without provocation when just out of earshot we heard the strains of what could only be a live drum kit and a slightly out of tune guitar. “A band!” we screamed, “an honest to goodness band!” and we scurried off toward the sound. It was coming from a very dark, very modern looking place called Club Royalty. We paid the doorman, went inside, and there, on the stage, was a band called Mongo or Mondo … something like that.

Okay, this is where it gets weird. The band was fun – a Dutch cover band doing passable versions of U2 and Lenny Kravitz songs – but apart from the band and the staff …. Steve and I were the only people in the place. Not weird you say? Well, dig this …. Big bar, four bartenders on duty, three doormen, two bar backs, and a host of additional people … all for …. me and Steve. Further, there was an upstairs with an additional four staffers. Still, just me and Steve and our glasses of Heineken … which we could get refilled by any number of people at the raise of an eyebrow. It was the best service … ever!

An hour passes … then two. We watch the band (still just us), and notice even more people reporting for work! At this rate there was about a 6 to one staff to patron ratio meaning that Steve and I could easily walk from one end of the empty bar to the other on the heads of bar employees without ever touching the carpet. We were stunned. The band played on and eventually announced there last song. It was a rousing AC/DC cover that met with the hearty applause that only four hands can make. Then it happened …

At exactly midnight the bar was full. I don’t necessarily remember people coming in … I just remember being one of two people in the room and then, in the blink of a bleary eye, there were two or three hundred people taking up every available square inch of space. I’m not complaining – we had fun and met some very interesting folks. We even came dangerously close to a full on bar fight with some older gents who seemed to be dressed for an “Insurance Salesman of the Year” banquet. Even stranger, now it cost 25 cents to pee … and from a female Men’s Room attendant who looked like she had borrowed Lindsey Lohan’s liver for the weekend.

The band never went back on – so no one but Steve and I actually saw them – instead a DJ playing 80s dance records took over – but the place remained balls to the walls packed until 4am. Needless to say, it became harder to get a beer when there weren’t eighteen people serving the two of us. Ah, but we managed to drink until we were asked not to, and since it was Steve’s birthday … plenty of ill advised tequila was involved.

As is always the case, the story gets weirder and darker and involves one of us doing our part to strengthen international relations in a way the UN can only dream of … but I’ll leave that story for braver souls to tell …

Suffice to say that Amsterdam always delivers … just not always on time.

Many moons have passed since the completion of the 2006 World Drinking Tour and not one single post? Is it shame that keeps the faithful from imparting their tales? Perhaps … but as one without shame, allow me to cast the first stone.

It was rendezvous day. The day that our Belgium contingent would board their train and join Steve and myself in Amsterdam. The plan was to meet at 7:30 (pm) at the Café Belgique and then … game on.

Me and Steve? Well, we’d been in Amsterdam for a few days already and were starting to feel the effects of having done very bad things … lightly peppered with the pain that comes from knowing you still have bad things left to do. We had awakened – or better yet – “come to” at about 2pm and were walking to get some coffee. We were far too traumatized for a scone but secure in the knowledge that we’d bounce back by 7:30 and be ready to drink anew.

At roughly 2:15 we passed through the alley where the spectacular beer bar, In De Wildeman, is located. As fate would have it, I turned, looked, and saw Skippy walking into the Wildeman just as we passed. He hadn’t seen me yet. I turned to Steve and said,

“Hey, that was Skippy … they must be early … we should go have drink with him.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

(more…)

Some of the recent stories have talked about the catch phrases of past participants of the World Drinking Tour. Indeed, if you are not a regular participant, the best way to be remembered is to have a good catch phrase that defines your existence.

For Lance it was clearly, “We could drink another Belgian beer, or we could go watch some bloke shaggin’ a bird.” For him, that was more than a catch phrase, it was a life motto.

For Martin G, it was “I work for a small company, and I don’t have an expense account.” Maybe not such a great catch phrase, but you always knew you’d be picking up the tab.

And I’m sure I’ll think of some others, but this got me thinking about the catch phrases of some of our regular tour participants.

Keef is a complex individual, and it is tough for a single catch phrase to define him. But he does have a few catch phrases that stand out in my memory …

“I slept in that bunker one night.” – An off-hand comment as we drove past the golf course on our way to my first visit to the Skimmington Castle pub.

“All I’ve got to say is that I’ve got nothing to say.” – Keef is rarely a man of few words, much less the same few words repeated over and over again. However, he must have said this to me about 50 times as we wandered the streets of Amsterdam, hoping that I would be able to recall the way back to our hotel.

“All the time you’re drinking, you’re saving money.” – This was Keef extolling the financial advantages of drinking at the cafe across the street from the Westvleteren monastery. In fact, if you haven’t already, you should sign up for his next financial planning seminar.

“One pint is too many, and ten pints is too few.” – Classic sage advice from Keef on what would happen if we popped ’round the Skim for a drink.

“I think I’ll order another Hurricane, so I can catch up to you all.” – Definitely Keef’s greatest weakness … if you started drinking before he arrived, he’ll insist on trying to catch up. But 3 Hurricanes in the span of an hour at Pat O’Brien’s in New Orleans was an ill-advised plan.

As I think about the other regular tour participants, I can see that we’ve got work to do in establishing catch phrases. Here are a few, that probably only the regulars will understand … see if you can match up the catch phrase with the participant to which it belongs …

“I’m stuffed and exhausted.” (Definitely better if an American says this one, as it could mean something a little different to a Brit.)

“Jeg snakker norsh veldig bra!”

“I have over 5 million years of marketing experience.”

Yeah, these others aren’t quite good enough to qualify as a catch phrase. And if you want to be a character, you need a catch phrase. Ponder this thought as we gather in 7 days time…

Ah, Croydon.

Some people say that the best thing to ever come out of Croydon is the A23. But I can’t find it in my heart to glorify an exit route from this fine city.

Indeed, many people across the southeast of England poke fun at Croydon, looking down on it with condescension. Yet, all of these people have a Croydon story, a Croydon experience that they are waiting to share with you, if only you ask. It may be a repressed memory, and you may need to put them under hypnosis in order to get them to talk about it, but their Croydon story is there waiting.

Ever since the walls came down, and East Croydon was reunited with West Croydon, there has been a renaissance spirit uniting all Croydonians. (It may be interesting to note that while there are areas of Croydon still known as East Croydon, West Croydon and South Croydon, there is officially no North Croydon. That is because London is actually North Croydon, renamed after a bitter civil war in 1649.)

But I’ll never forget my first visit to Croydon. I believe it was before the walls came down, and I spent a week in East Croydon.

The trip started off on a bit of a surreal note, as colleagues took me to visit the Commonwealth Secretariat, which was a customer of ours. The Commonwealth Secretariat is like a mini-United Nations, comprised of all of the nations that are still considered to be a part of what was once the Great British Empire … and is now known as the British Commonwealth … an organisation that continues exists primarily so that the Commonwealth Games can be held, so that England has at least an outside chance of winning some type of international sporting event, since they don’t stand a chance playing against real countries.

Anyway, we were invited to a monthly pot-luck dinner/social event that was put on for Commonwealth employees. It was an interesting experience, and an enjoyable evening drinking them out of their supply of duty free Castle Lager at 50 pence each. The Canadian bartender did finally figure out that we wre not the new US delegation to the Commonwealth, but not before we had exhausted his supply of Castle (insert evil laugh here).

Declaring our international drinking mission a success, we returned to Croydon, and upon arriving at East Croydon station decided that there was still time to facilitate several more drinks.

So, we popped into a Croydon local. It was a nice summer’s evening, with several picnic tables outside of a particular pub. Keef, Frenchy and I sat down, and took turns walking back into the pub to get the next round.

After several rounds, an odd little man stumbled up to our table and babbled “You’re not going to let me in there, are you?”

“What?”

“You’re bouncers right? And you’re not going to let me in there, are you?”

“You can do whatever you like.”

“You don’t like me ’cause I’m from the norf. You’re not going to let me in there.”

“Whatever. If you don’t want to go in the pub, you don’t have to.”

And the little man disappeared into the pub.

About 15 minutes later, he returned to our table. “You don’t like me ’cause I’m from the norf. I could rip your heart out, right where you’re standing.”

We look up at him wondering what this guy is talking about.

“You don’t like me ’cause I’m from the norf. I could rip your heart out, right where you’re standing.”

“Um … excuse me, but we’re sitting down.”

“You don’t like me ’cause I’m from the norf.”

At that point, Keef stands up, and we realize that this little man is less than 4 feet tall … and about half the size overall, compared to Keith’s 6 foot plus frame. Maybe he did think we were standing up all along. Keef gives him a push … and the little man runs off into a waiting car and quickly drives away.

Just a typical night out in Croydon.

Ah, but don’t ask me about Croydon. If you really want to learn more about Croydon, you should check out the Croydon Film Commission web site at http://www.croydonfilmcommission.com. There you will learn about Croydon’s “mini-Manhattan skyline”, it’s world renowned reputation as a “mecca for shopping and entertainment”.

Whenever I have a spare moment, you’ll find me with my web browser pointing to the Croydon Film Commission home page, continually hitting refresh so that I will be presented with a new “Croydon Film Fact”. Like this one … “Fact 114: Bill Murray was chased around Croydon in The Man Who Knew Too Much” … in fact, I believe the man chasing him kept screaming, “You don’t like me ’cause I’m from the norf!”

In Sleepless in Sevilla, I talked about going out drinking all night before catching a morning flight. And that reminded me of another story about flying with a hangover.

Everyone knows that the secret to avoiding a hangover after a long night’s drinking is to take two Advils (ibuprofen) and a glass of water before going to bed. After a particularly lengthy session, you might need to follow-up with another two Advil in the morning or in the middle of the night, as needed.

Armed with this knowledge, and a big bottle of Advil (or my bubble gum dispenser full of Advil, which I always take with me when I travel), it’s been a long time since I had one of those truly nasty hangovers that I remember from my younger days.

But even with the Advil, that doesn’t mean that you’re going to feel 100% the next day.

The Skimmington Castle in Reigate is a great place to visit the night before a flight to the states. It’s about a 10 quid taxi ride each way from London Gatwick airport, and relatively convenient if you stay at one of the airport hotels. But still, I don’t recommend an early morning flight the next day … noon is a bit more manageable.

Anyway, one morning, after a night on the cider at “the Skim“, I was boarding a British Airways flight back to the US. I was a fairly regular traveller, and I knew the routine.

I made my way to my assigned seat and sat down next to someone that had the worst body odor that I had ever encountered. (Well, maybe it was the second worst. There was another flight from London to Johannesburg on South African Airways where I was seated next to a most malodorous fellow. Back then, they still allowed smoking on those flights … so combine body odor with cigarette smoke on a 12 hour flight … and you can bet the air sickness bags were deployed. It was kind of like the scene of the pie eating contest in “Stand By Me”, except for the fact that none of the vomiting was projectile.)

Let’s see … where was I?

People were still boarding the plane, and I tried to block out the odor, but I couldn’t. (My mind wandered back to that flight to Johannesburg, and I made sure that an ample stock of air sickness bags were at the ready.)

After a few more minutes passed, I knew I had to do something. I got up and walked to the back of the plane. I handed my boarding stub to a flight attendant and said, “I know this is a full flight. But I am sitting next to someone with the worst body odor that I have ever encountered in my life. And I need to find somewhere else to sit. I don’t care if it’s a middle seat, I don’t care where the seat is … next to the toilets has got to be even better than where I’m at.”

The flight attendant told me that indeed the flight was very full, but he would see what he could do. I went back to my seat.

A few minutes later, a different flight attendant approached me and said “Sir, we’ve found another seat for you, if you would still like to relocate.” I quickly grabbed my carry-on and said thank you.

As we walked forward, my hopes rose a bit, thinking maybe it was my lucky day, and I was going to score an upgrade out of the process.

Alas, we stopped in the next section of economy, and the flight attendant pointed me to a row of 3 empty seats in middle section of the plane. She explained, “These seats are reserved as crew rest seats. We will not be using them today. So after take off, if you like, you can pull the arm rests up, stretch out across the seats, and pull this curtain around the seats for some privacy.”

“Thank you,” I managed … as I looked up and pondered the bit about pulling the curtain around the seats. I was well familiar with the trick of finding an empty row of 3 seats (or better yet, 4 on a 747), and putting up the arm rests to lay down and sleep during the flight. I was lucky enough to be on a relatively empty flight from Hong Kong to Vancouver one time when I discovered that secret. And since that time, for overnight flights from the US to Europe, I would always wait until near the last to board, asking the gate agent if they could find me a row of 3 seats to stretch out in during the flight. Even on fuller flights, there would often be an unused row in the back that was available, and my luck was pretty good with this approach. But this curtain bit was a new one to me.

A few more minutes passed, and another flight attendant came up and approached me. I assume this was a more senior flight attendant, probably either the one in charge of this particular cabin, or the cabin services director for the plane. She repeated pretty much the same thing that I had been told before when I was led to these seats. “These seats are reserved as crew rest seats. We will not be using them today. So after take off, if you like, you can pull the arm rests up, stretch out across the seats, and pull this curtain around the seats for some privacy.”

Again, I said “Thank you,” and thought about what a strange experience this was.

A few more minutes pass, and another flight attendant escorts another passenger to my row, and sits him at the other end of my 3 seat block. So much for stretching out and taking a nap today I thought.

Less than a minute later, another flight attendant approaches the chap at the other end of my 3 seat block and tells him, “Sir, I’m sorry, but these are crew rest seats. I know that my colleague told you that you could move here, but we have to keep these seats free. So, you’re going to have to return to your original seat.”

After escorting the other passenger back to his other seat, that flight attendant returns, leans over and tells me “These seats are reserved as crew rest seats. We will not be using them today. So after take off, if you like, you can pull the arm rests up, stretch out across the seats, and pull this curtain around the seats for some privacy.”

“Alright, thanks,” I manage to say out loud. But in my head, I’m starting to wonder if actually I’m the one with the body odor problem. It was a long night on the cider at the Skim, but I had managed a shower that morning … didn’t I?

The flight takes off, and before long, I was moving the seat arm rests up and stretching out across the seats to take a nap. As I lay there, before nodding off, I looked up at the curtain, but thought it was just too weird for me to pull the curtain around my seats. As I drifted in and out of consciousness before falling asleep for a good 5 or 6 hours, at some point I noticed that the curtain had been pulled around the seats for me.

It was a great flight. Thank you British Airways. I wish I could reserve similar flight accomodations for every flight that I take after a night at the Skim.

The countdown continues. Only 10 days remain before the World Drinking Tour crew descend on Brussels and Amsterdam.

We understand that both cities have been alerted, and are in the final stages of preparation.

The secret tunnels of the Gollem in Amsterdam have been replenished with a supply of Westvleteren 12 (we hope anyway).

The Delrium Cafe in Brussels has an extra supply of restroom cleaning solvent in case Keef decides to give the Kasteel Blond another try. (I’m convinced that this instance was a bad bottle, as I was there when Keef drank 10 of these one evening in Popperinge … matching me drink for drink as I enjoyed the Westmalle Tripel. I’ll never forget the end of that particular evening when Keef remarked to me how glad he was that he was drinking something light and not trying to match me on the Westmalle Tripel. And I remember then explaning to him how the Kasteel, even the Blond, was an 11% beer, while the Westmalle Tripel was only around 9%.)

As the date draws near, we await the answers to many of life’s great questions (and the side betting action) …

Who will be the first to fall asleep in public? Where will it occur?

Who will be the first to chunder? Where will it occur? (My money is on me, as I’ve jinxed myself by mentioning the Keef episode above.) Will they order another drink afterward, or call it a night?

Can anyone make it to the 4am closing time at the Delirium for 3 consecutive nights?

Is Arjan still the bartender at Cafe Belgique? (And if he is, will we still remember his name when we finally arrive, or will we ask him all over again?)