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The task of booking tickets and whatnot(as you can see I have only the vaguest grasp of what may have been involved
with this issue) was left to Hoolers as he is comfortable with
credit cards and numbers and telephone and other devices
of the man which leave me in a
quivering sobbing soiled mess. "I have soiled myself", I would quote when faced with
dealing with the consequences, "how embarrassing!". You see children, I used humour to quell the pitying/sickened
atmosphere created by my poor bowel control and social inadequacies.
Oh happy days!
Departure day arrived. I was thrilled that our flight was in late afternoon as this allowed me to call down to the dole office
and sign on, before jetting off and spending YOUR tax
dollars on joyously legal drugs and zany antics (for this was the plan).
Hurray!
Joining forces with my symbiot, we proceeded to some venue on Sullivans Quay to secure some forms which meant that
if bad things happened - remember mescal was on this trip - They would not refuse to give us medical treatment.
"I am issuing a point blank refusal", I could hear the Dutch duty nurse say, while the lads giggled at her pronounciation of
the word 'issuing' and played baseball with my dismembered leg. Therefore I was somewhat determined to get these forms,
feeling that without them the chances of us requiring the little dears would increase expo baby!!!
Mrs Hoolers trundled along in a wheeled unit to tranport us to the airport. I panicked
briefly before reminding myself that
the car did not in fact require wings as Mrs Hoolers
was not at that time a pilot and we would be getting to the dam by
alternative means.
That said had we suddenly alighted from the quays I would have been only mildly surprised.
Who amongst
us knows what to expect from the parents of our contemporaries? It is and
shall always be a source of potential surprises.
The airport itself threw up some incidents. Hoolers had interacted with his old lade -
never wise - the result of which being
that she laboured under the belief that kay mescal would be bringing her bouncing baby paul to the airport. Mrs H chose
to remain until her arrival. She was unaware that Paul was taking an alternative route to amsterdam, choosing to spend some
time in caledonia prior to hooking up with his adoring posse in the flatland. Modesty prevents me from detailing goodly pauls
motives. Suffice to say they were filthy. (He was screwing a black old doll! I swear to god).
It was left to dan to explain in diplomatic fashion the situation to Mrs H whilst Jack
Charlton and I watched from afar in a
mixture of amusement (Charlton) and stoic immobility due to being made of bronze (me). Or something like that.
Flight delayed, we eventually took off. Some time later we were in a different place.
It is called Schipol and is the main
airport of Amsterdam. Situated a few miles from the
city, it is an airport wot has planes and stuff. You do the math. We
ditched our
non-emotional baggage and trammed it into the city. Super!
The next 3-4 hours are hazy. Our first move was to arrive on the doorstep of the flying
pig - this was done without much
difficulty. It was to be the only venue in the city
we located with ease. They told us fuck off, so we darted about 10 yards
accross the street
to purchase drugs. This done I skinned up what can loosely (I use the term advisedly)
be termed a joint.
At that time my skinning up skills were very poor as opposed to the
occasional adequecy I strive for these days. We
began to smoke. I could tell early doors
that it was doing unusual things to my man mind but figured I would smoke through
these
concerns. Error.
Some minutes later I found myself lying on a blissfully cool street. An Italian gentleman -
for I could tell from his hair, skin
colour and his designer sunglasses though I could not hear his words - was asking after my health. I thanked him for his
concern and assured him I was feeling better. Well, thats what my brain told me to do, my actions I cannot state as I was
just recovering from having conked out after one joint. The shame lives on *blub*. Lack of sleep! No food!
Fine, I've got nothing. I argue that it was one of only three blips however.
More time passed and I discovered that my concerned Italian friend was none other than a highly amused hoolers. My
brain and my eyes had a brief battle, the main topic of debate "But he's not Italian! Sunglasses?!". I quickly dismissed such
concerns. I allowed myself to recover. We eventually located easy everything internet cafe, where spent an uncomfortable
evening, our mission being to stay up all night and arrive at the pig anew the next morning.