Wednesday, 6 April 2011

I was near the De Wallen district in Amsterdam in a bar called The Queen's Head. I walked in with C who was wearing an ankle length peach gingham dress and I was wearing a white t shirt with narrow blue stripes on the bottom half, and black levis jeans and brown brogues. And I'd had the sides and back of my head shaved to a number 2 before I'd left England and so my quiff looked pretty fucking cool.
So I walked in and a drag queen shouted down the microphone at my expense, 'He looks like a fucking Jean Paul Gualtier ad!'
So I died a little inside at the attention and sat in a corner while C ordered our drinks. And when I say I died a little inside; really it made my night but I obviously kept my emotionless face in case anyone there thought I might possibly be approachable.
So we drank our drinks and walked downstairs where we sat on a couch and smoked while two men kissed furiously opposite us. The little one (there's always a little one) was straddling the big one who was sat down. And their hands never left eachother and even though it was repulsive C and I couldn't stop watching and finished our cigarettes without saying a word.

We walked down to our hotel and stopped at a club on the way. 3 or 4 drinks were finished during which a chinese girl asked me to make out with her  and an italian boy named Feliciano kissed me on the cheek and 3 boys took off their shirt and danced on the bar, and a man from South Africa told me he'd been mugged and then bought me a drink.

And it was pretty much the same the next night, except we were with an English girl called Rose who we'd met and she called me 'darling' all night while sipping gin.

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