Amsterdam: the home of good shit...
A few years ago, I went with a group of mates on a chap’s weekend to Amsterdam. One of the lads was returning to Seth Efrica, having decided that although his cultural roots in the North East were lovely and all, he was getting a bit fed up of being cold and wet. For his send off, he decided that a weekend of cultural activity in Holland was the order of the day *cough cough*.

So about 12 of us descended on Amsterdam, and proceeded to spend the weekend getting pissed and stoned. A couple of the lads decided to sample a bit more of the local ‘culture’ at closer quarters (not me, I hasten to add, not my cup of tea, plus my libido had well and truly deserted me at that point thanks to being doped up on antidepressants – a particularly unwanted side effect). The declaration from one of the lads that the lady of the night he had serviced was ‘really tight’ had us pissing ourselves for hours afterwards…

Our ‘hotel’ was basic, to say the least, a major problem being that the bathroom bulb had blown immediately on arrival. Despite several requests, no-one at reception bothered to come and replace the bulb, and, being a windowless room, this made basic functions like having a shower and going to the bog a bit problematic. Fortunately, we were in our room to sleep, and not much else – ablutions could be carried out in whatever bar/café we happened to be in at the time.

Somehow, the combination of much alcohol, much dope, and nothing to eat really except pizza, conspired to render me completely shitless over the course of the weekend. Except when it came to being back at the airport, approximately 10 minutes before boarding commenced, and I felt a disquieting cramp in my stomach, followed by what felt like a hoard of angry prisoners trying to make their way to freedom with a particularly large battering ram. I had no choice but to go off in search of the well-appointed airport toilets and lock myself away in a cubicle.

I strained.

I sweated.

I flinched slightly as the cold water splashed me and the turd I had been cultivating came away like a fall of soot from a chimney…

As is somehow always the case, the temptation to have a look was too strong, but I was shocked to discover that I had just given birth to the Lambton Worm, which was now wrapping itself around the u-bend in an attempt to totally fuck up the Amsterdam sewage system. Try as I might, the bastard just wouldn’t flush, and, as much as one of my pet hates is walking into a cubicle to be confronted with someone’s unwanted child, I had no choice but to leave it there, in all its glory, otherwise I’d miss my flight. Even as I tried one more flush, I could feel it mocking me…

So, to anyone who used that cubicle after me, I’m truly sorry. And in the unlikely event that you’re a b3tard, gaz me and I’ll reimburse your therapy fees…
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 2 Apr 2008, 10:52, 2 replies)

"Whisht! Lads, haad yor gobs,
An Aa'll tell ye's aall an aaful story
Whisht! Lads, haad yor gobs,
An' Aa'll tell ye 'boot the worm.

'Top marks for the Lambton ref'
( The magic of chutney Shakes it like an Instagram filter!, Wed 2 Apr 2008, 10:58, closed)

the lambton worm!
i love that story! haven't heard it in years!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Wed 2 Apr 2008, 16:10, closed)