Driving on the wrong side of the road out of Berlin in a rented Volkswagen Polo and I've felt more comfortable with my hands in a prickle bush. Remembering to change gear with my right arm is harder than a left-handed wank. Occasionally I get the tyres caught in a tramline and grind down the road, but mostly I don't hit any of the other cars on the road. I'm sweating fuck-loads because I can't seem to initiate auto-pilot. Get high at a service station, get lost in Hannover, feel hungover on da autobahn, have a shit at a German mall, cross the border into the Netherlands, admire the lack of geographical relief, think about pretty brunette girls riding bicycles with dresses on, swap seats in the car, get some shit directions from Matthew Peter Somerville.
Laker navigates seamlessly through the labyrinth of one-way roads, tram-lines, gear changes and general road etiquette. Arrive at Matt's and smoke two of his pre-rolled spliffs. Read his spazticated email to Nick Clegg and set up a bed on the floor. Matthew mentions that he does 'occasionally smoke marijuana' but does not use this fact to excuse his spelling mistakes. Maybe we go out and get some fastfood this night too.
Get up to eat some waffles and try to take the rental car back to Hertz or Avis. Walk through Vondel Park, go to a coffee shop with flashing lights to play pool. The streets afterwards are delicious with strawberry cream tarts, quaint barges floating downstream, magical alleyways, tunnels and bridges. There are Turkish kebab stores with elephant legs swirling around on sweaty sticks, grey women on bicycles swearing like a witch. A red light means a fuck without a fight.
We stumble in and out of civilization, occasionally engaging with other members just to buy rizlas, ice-cream smoothies or to give ourselves a comforting sense of alienation. The man in a boutique gives us a line of herbal speed that smells like cinnamon and tells us how to attract pretty girls with a toilet. The man in the Ajax shirt lurching over the bridge chucking half-empty cans of beer at families in boats tells us to 'FUCK OFF'. The tall girl with yellow hair, yellow eye make up and yellow bikini tells us 'to come in for some fun'. In bed at night we all wish that deep down, we wanted to sleep with a prostitute.
Buildings that look grey and industrial like Sheffield or Plymouth by day are illuminated vibrantly purple pink orange and turquoise at night. They now remind of Shang-hai or the great coral reef. It does not seem necessary for the sky to harbour stars because the whole town feels like a fairy tale; innocent fantasy replaced with gluttonous debauchery.
The tastebuds here, like a pulsating clitoris, need constant stimulation. Your stomach becomes a hole that needs filling. 'Twenny euros extra for anal'.
Lost. One night we decide to gatecrash a houseparty untill it becomes apparent that it is infact a family barbecue, complete with nappy changing and beer sans alcohol. To move the evening along we decide to follow some girls for a bit. Turns out they don't know where they are going either. We push them down a steep hill with steps at the bottom in a shopping trolley. Waiting ages for a bus it dawns on us that they are not running this late on a national holiday. We walk in a direction. Find ourselves stood outside a pub blazing in the rain, drinking tins of Lidl branded beer, cheering loutishly at a plasma television that has Fulham beating Wolfsburg on it through an open doorway. The warmth of the wooden fireplace eludes us. Dutch people with money and wives start to notice us they scowl in our direction.
Later on a field with electronic music coming from a stage. Matt sees his boss in a coffee shop and she leaves. The electricity has been turned off on the stage. The taxi man has dropped us off prematurely and we are eating poor quality kebabs.
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