NederFles

Afscheid

Week 116 – Exit Visa

So to the last week of my Nederish incarceration. Mary came out to visit for my last week on the Sunday, and on the Monday we went to 's-Hertogenbosch, a walled city hidden beneath which is a canal network called the Binnendieze that once spanned 22 kilometers. In recent years this network was used as a somewhat open sewer until it fell into disrepair, however what remains of it has been renovated and there are now guided subterraneous boat trips through it, which are really fascinating. Also in the city is Sint Jans kathedraal, which is a fabulous edifice filled with ornate workings. If you are ever in the Netherlands, I implore you to go and visit – it’s a truly splendid day out.

On the Tuesday we went to Meppel, about half-an-hour from Zwartsluis. A bus journey there requires changing buses halfway, but this is no matter because we can buy tickets for the whole journey at a mere two Euros each. Coming back, on the other hand, seems rather more complex:
"Twee naar Zwartsluis, alstublieft."
"Flar be laar be laar be laar."
"Het spijt me, Engels."
My Nederish is still embarassingly weak, but I can’t see the point of expanding my knowledge of it at this late stage.
"That is not possible. I can't sell you a ticket for that journey from here."
"But this is where we want to go from."
Obvious, I thought, but worth stating nonetheless.
"Ja, you can buy tickets from there to here but not the other way around."
Right. This left me kinda stumped.
"Why not?"
"Because it's a different province. They can sell you tickets to get here, but we don't have those tickets."
"So how do I get back?"
"Well, you have to buy a strippenkaart and then for six strips and 80 cents each you can get to where you change, then buy more tickets from there."
Now, this ain't a lot of money, but it strikes me as being pretty bloody stupid, so I smile my dumbest smile (I have a whole range of these which I've been practicing for years) and just wait.
"I tell you what," he says, "I'll take you to where you change for free, then you can buy tickets there."
"Oh, dank u wel, meneer."
So we get to the change point, I thank the driver profusely, we switch buses, I profer my Euros and the next driver tells me that he has no tickets left, so today we ride for free. This makes absolutely no sense to me, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna argue 'cause we seem to have got a full days travel for less than the price of a packet of ship's peanuts. Don't you just love integrated transport systems?

My last three days in the office were bitter-sweet, as I tried to complete the job I was working on (actually working the Friday afternoon despite completing my required hours by midday) whilst bidding farewell to increasing numbers of my colleagues who were departing for their holidays before I left –this is particularly notable because one designer actually came in on the Wednesday and then left for his holidays at ten o’clock in the morning. Dutch logic. On the Friday afternoon, I was rather surprised to get a second presentation. I had already used my previous book-token to purchase ‘Visions of the Netherlands’, a rather splendid pictorial guide to all the parts of the country I saw and all the parts I never got to, but I am now also the proud owner of a pair of fluffy carpet-slippers shaped like giant clogs, and a large framed composite photograph, compiled by Sjoerd, which captured many of the notable moments from my time with Grontmij and included a great many of those who I had the pleasure of working with, which was truly wonderful. Most of us then went on to the Grand Café Lubeck, a bar much favoured by Stuart and I, where our hosts presented me with a bottle of Berenburg (used as chasers by the natives, but actually quite a sweet and refined drink on its own) and Frank, (the manager of Mamma’s, where Stuart and I have been getting our lunches for the last year) also joined us and gave me two bottles of Mama Africa’s Zulu Sauces as a going away present. I was quite overwhelmed, I can tell you. Later in the evening Dewi and Jayson (my English ex-pat mate from Amsterdam) showed up and we progressed into Zwolle main, where there was a festival in progress and we all got merrily sozzled.

So to the Saturday of my departure. Had Mary and I been departing on the Thursday or the Friday, we would have been totally stymied, thanks to the no-fly security response to the total absence of terrorist activities earlier in the week; on the Saturday, however, things worked in our favour since, there being no hand-luggage allowed, the weight restriction on hold-luggage had been lifted. It’s quite amazing how much one acquires in two years, so this actually saved me a small fortune in excess weight charges, and after a delay of just one hour (which isn’t especially atypical at the best of times), we were in the air – looking through the porthole and waving goodbye to the land which had been my home for two years, two months, two weeks and two days. Alright, and another couple of days, but who’s counting?

Of course, Eggbert remains a captive of an ever-expanding team of hostage holders, and his exploits will continue to be posted on Kipnap! at http://kipnap.blogspot.com/. He has recently been up some more mountains, out to China, into deepest France and is currently somewhere in Italy, I believe.

I, meanwhile, have had an experience which I will remember forever, and have made some good friends who I will never forget.

Anyway, many thanks to everyone who kept reading and replying all the time I’ve been out here – if it looks like there’s sufficient interest in my return to Blighty, and if I can find anything to write about, then I may sequel this on blogspot with The Blight of Fles at http://theblightoffles.blogspot.com/.

Left from Zwartsluis.

Trust the Dutch to take meals-on-wheels to the next extreme. (The legend on the side of the van says 'Dutch Blower', although I suppose it is possible that its occupants fit air-conditioning systems for a living).

Kids paddle-surfing outside my apartment.

More 's-Hertogenbosch.

's-Hertogenbosch central.

More waterway.

The view up into someone's house from the waterway - skirts are probably not a favoured item of clothing in 's-Hertogenbosch.

...

By appointment, apparently.

The light at the end of the tunnel.

Dutch humour.

...

The deepest depths.

The city above.

Tunneler vision.

Tunnel vision.

The spiders long ago abandoned these strongholds.

Pot-holing for lightweights.

...

Not all of the waterways are covered.

Into the open.

And looping back in.

Outside 's-Hertogenbosch

The city defences are a little behind the times.

Into the darkness.

The boats carry twelve persons each, running several tours simultaneously, and are full all day.

Deeper.

The waterways form a network beneath the city.

Statuette.

Rooftop gardens.

Beneath the houses.

Into the tunnels.

Under the city.

Breathtaking.

Ornate.

No organ jokes, please.

Intricate windows.

More cathedral shots.

Sint Jans kathedraal

's-Hertogenboschers, before they got the hang of basic breeding principles.

Week 115 – Sweet Sorrow

Well, shortly after my expression of displeasure at the way things were going here, with regard to being marginalised and isolated, I got a telephone call regarding a job I had almost forgotten interviewing for (well over a year ago), which offered the enticements of a position with an established company in the UK which will offer me some really valuable experience on a flagship project using the latest systems. Oh yeah, and shedloads (according to this spell-checker, at least) more money.

Oddly enough, once they knew I was leaving, suddenly my colleagues found that they needed me. There is a major project for which somebody made a sizeable time/resourcing miscalculation, which could result in a €50,000 fine being imposed on Grontmij, so for a week Stuart and I were putting in four hours of overtime every night and working the weekend as well. In a heatwave. When the air-conditioning was broken. On the Saturday, it was such a beautiful day that I decided to cycle to the office in only a shirt and jeans. Well, the morning was beautiful. By mid-afternoon we were in the centre of a thunderstorm that forced us to remain in the office until nine o’clock, when we were able to swiftly break for a local bar, where we were once again trapped until 4am. The sacrifices we make to get projects complete, people just don’t understand.

Then, the following week, overtime was cancelled. The week after that, it was restored and then withdrawn again so quickly that no actual work was done. It seems that a few of our ‘colleagues’ resented the additional money we were getting for working longer hours, which they themselves refused to do (there is very much a culture of doing the hours rather than the job, here). Personally, I’ve just got the whole euphoric kick of knowing that, whatever happens, it’s not my responsibility. I’ve tried to explain the concept of prioritisation before, but now I’m leaving. It’s a real shame, because I hate walking away from jobs unfinished, but sometimes you’ve just got to accept the way that things go.

Speaking of air-conditioning failure, it seems odd that my colleagues still seem to think that shirts are good for two days – I don’t know what that’s about, my shirts are barely good for two hours in this humidity. How can any warm-blooded creature not sweat in these conditions? I switched on a fan and it got switched off again: ostensibly because of the mindless, repetitive noise. This in an office where Slam FM (the radio station with only thirty records, all the same) is played all day. I have tried to make a case that any ‘music’ playing at 120 bpm must agitate air molecules and thus cause the temperature in the building to rise, but nobody seemed to believe me. Party Squad and Ali B are two recent plagues which convince me that the Earth can’t plunge into the heart of the Sun soon enough, whilst the inane whistling on Bob Sinclair’s ‘Love Generation’ just finish it off for me. Oh, and anyone who talks about House artistes or Dance classics needs a full cerebral-cortex service. I’m listening to Toto, INXS, Dire Straits, Massive Attack and Clannad, and I’ve bought some really big, really powerful headphones, just to be on the safe side.

Meanwhile, the laptop which the company lent me gave up the ghost a couple of weeks ago. I spoke to our resident IT guru, who took it apart and looked at it (with some distaste), before binning it. He was amazed it had kept going for as long as it did. I am now able to stay in touch with the outside world thanks only to Fons’ father, Jan, who has lent me his laptop for the remainder of my time here.

Further frustrations in the office, as Pro Rail came back to us with a request to move a signal in the middle of nowhere by one centimetre, on a drawing which isn’t to scale – this from a company who supply us with engineering drawings on which they have missed glaring errors like points which don’t exist and duplicate drawing numbers.

The reconciliation of any of my questions in the office are not assisted by Andries being dyslexic and Martin being colour blind – this in an industry where colours and letter sequences can be crucial for safety. It took four engineers fifteen minutes to deduce that ‘remome’, which is not a word in English or Nederish, might mean remove, and that the green signal was actually marked blue, for removal, over yellow, which is the checking colour. Fortunately, I have a large wad of bubble-wrap on my desk (which was recovered from some recent packaging – the bubble-wrap, I mean, not the desk), against which I am able to bang my head repeatedly quite hard without causing myself any actual injury. Eventually, the bubbles will all burst, but I’m hoping they hold out another week.

Into my last three weeks in the country, and my landlord and his family went on holiday for a fortnight. They’d been gone for a few days when I tried to run laundry but, after the cycle had completed, the machine wouldn't open and the dial was in the wrong place. I tried to run it again over the end sequence, and the same fault recurred. Again the next morning, followed by a loud bang and no power. At this point I noticed that the water hose had been disconnected from the supply. Apparently, this is what my landlord decided to do before he went on holiday. Magic!

My hair is now even shorter than it was before, because it seems almost impossible to translate French Crop into Dutch, and so I now have a Dutch Crop, which looks almost military and merely serves to highlight that most of my hair is now deserting me in droves.

As I am departing in August, the holiday season, many people will be on holiday when I leave. This has led to a lot of colleagues coming up to me and saying that they won’t see me again but good luck and so forth. It’s actually quite emotional, at least for me – I guess I hadn’t realised just how attached I’d become to these people until it came to parting. I have had a great time over here: meeting the people, experiencing the culture, tasting the food (listen, some exaggeration is inevitable) and seeing the sights. I have also made some very good friends with whom I hope to stay in touch with for years.

Thursday night and the boss (who won’t be here for my last week) took the remnants of the office not yet on holiday for my farewell drinks. Particularly notable in this regard was the curious situation whereby most of my colleagues had to stay late in order to go for a drink after work.

After leaving the Grand Café Lubeck (so called to differentiate itself from the no-other bars in the vicinity), a few of us went on for a meal in Aangenaam (which means pleasant, pleasantly surprised or pleased to meet you - because, in the same way that schoolkids in the eighties used to have to share text books, many meanings here have to share one word). This was actually quite disturbing because they had an open kitchen. In the UK, an open kitchen is meant to reassure customers that everything is conducted in a healthy and hygienic environment. I don’t want to talk about the effect it had on me, but I’m really glad I didn’t have the ice-cream.

Yesterday was Martin’s last day before he left for his holidays, so I had my presentation a week early and was given a book token and a bottle of Graanjenever, which is a peculiarly Dutch drink with the additional properties of being able to strip paint or run a tractor engine. I assured everyone that every time I had a drink I would think of them, just as now every time I think of them I have a drink.

Well, Mary is coming out to join me for my last week here, and I’m taking a couple of days off so I that I can take her around all the bits of the Netherlands that I’ve been meaning to see. There will hopefully be one more update from me and then that’ll be the lot. Expect more news of the chicken.

Live from Zwartsluis.

Week 109 – Streets of Shame

Well, I’m now into the third year of my tour of duty in the Netherlands, and I'm starting to get a little homesick.

My venture to Amsterdam on Queen’s Day was quite an eye-opener - a chance to see what the city is like when the streets run with urine and pulse to hip-hop, while people sell their unwanted junk and over-priced drinks are sold in plastic cups. Having said which, the natives obviously seemed to like it. There were techno street-parties all over the place, and everybody was wearing orange: orange clothes, orange wigs, orange hair (but not ginger: they have some standards), and orange body-paint. This obsession is now being repeated for the world cup (which, let’s face it, is just about a load of blokes kicking a ball about) to the extent that the entire village is decked with flags and bunting – one house has been completely covered in orange tarpaulin – and there is orange beer available in many drinking establishments, and orange cake, and orange biscuits: I tell ya, this isn’t somewhere you want to be if you have a sensitive stomach.

A few weeks ago, I went out with a couple of friends for a couple of drinks, and we popped into this eatery for a light meal. We all asked for lamb shoarma (my companions were Dutch, so I know that there can have been no misunderstanding here) but when it arrived, I seemed to have chicken. I initially assumed that perhaps my senses were befuddled or confused, so I asked my friends what they’d got, and they had also received chicken. Naturally, I signalled the waiter and asked why we seemed to have chicken when we’d asked for lamb, to which he replied that the chicken had been ready. Now, this rather threw me. I realised that one of us wasn’t making any sense, but I found this exchange so surreal that I thought it might have been me, so I just said “fine” and let it go. My companions merely commented that they’d had worse service elsewhere in the past and kept eating like there was nothing out of the ordinary. Frankly, I felt so out of my depth with the whole scenario that I didn’t know how to react, so I finished my food (which was quite good, but completely not what I’d wanted) and kept drinking in the hope that I might find some sense or meaning in the beer (it hasn’t ever worked yet, but I've never been a quitter). What really shocked me was that everyone around me just so failed to react that I can no longer tell if the world is strange or if perhaps this is normal and it’s me that’s odd.

So to Blighty for a long weekend, as Hemelvaartsdag (Ascension Day) is a Bank Holiday for the Neds, on a Thursday, and so the office was also closed on Friday. The airport was packed out, people pushing all over the place, and the woman in front of me commented that one thing she hated was the way everybody jostled for position and pushed in all the time. A nearby grinning imbecile laughed and said that, in the Netherlands, getting in front of the person in front of you was considered a sport. He went quiet when I told him that shooting was also a legitimate sport.

The nightmarish element of the job has become even more apparent because the Dutch don't produce a separate contact analysis schedule, preferring to reference different relay racks and positions within the actual circuitry. Those of you who work in this industry may have some idea of what that makes designs look like, but for the rest of you: imagine a visual migraine in black and white, or trying to read the FTSE index through a kaleidoscope. In fact, the more I look at the standards, systems and procedures over here, and the whole seat-of-the-pants way things are done, the more the whole thing seems scarily reminiscent of the way the UK signalling industry might have been in late 1988, just before Clapham. Whatever, I can happily absolve myself of any responsibility for this since, in a remarkable display of team-building spirit, Stuart and I have had all our privileges with regard to the system removed, so we can no longer create or amend cells or templates. No adequate explanation for this was given but, needless to say, motivation levels do tend to drop when this sort of thing goes on.

Summer is well and truly upon us, and once again the river is buzzing with life. Of course, it’s been quite a while since this was last the case, so I’ve been sitting with the windows wide-open, and now I've got so many insect bites on my chest that I might easily be mistaken for The Man With the Golden Gun.

A couple more linguistic observations: it seems that the phrase 'Naar werk!' means both 'To work!' and 'Horrible work!', which is quite appropriate; and, wierdly, the Nederish word for ‘gloves’ is ‘handschoenen’ – literally, shoes for hands. Of course. As a certain Austrian film star turned politician might have said, “Alta la Vista, Babel”.

Anyway, that’s about it for the time being. Live from Zwartsluis.

Kipnap!

A new weblog has been created, to chart the adventures of Eggbert.

See http://kipnap.blogspot.com/.

Zwartsluis water controls

This is just a lovely looking place to live

Back-yard farm

A dove cote near Meppel

Street art in the red light district

A funfair outside the palace

Van Gogh Museum

More canal

Dutch humour?

Flags

The Rijks Museum

You're not my father!

The clue is in the picture

Where am I?

Constructed hillside

Flags

Sketching

Music in the park

Amsterdam boating

Bicycles by the canal

No prizes for guessing

Week 101 – Room 101

So to week 101 in the Netherlands, which might almost be the Room 101 of the world. Into my own personal Room 101 has finally gone my pony-tail (for the second time) because, at thirty-six, I had to admit that it had started to look like a desperate attempt to hang-on to a youth long-since past; and so I’ve chosen to return to a French crop (or should that be a Freedom crop?), which at least keeps my fringe moderately close to my face.

My last but one venture back home was, once again, delayed; which is of no consequence in itself except that it gave me the opportunity to meet an upcoming artist called Mike, who used to work in airport security and was able to confirm to me what I had always suspected: that, when a plane is going to be late, the airports like to break the news gently, first announcing a thirty minute delay, then increasing it incrementally (despite knowing the true figure from the outset), so that, by the time the total delay is revealed, the passengers have no fight (and very little flight, for that matter) left in them. My other theory - that flights were held-up until passengers had spent a target figure in Duty Free - is apparently groundless, but I still have my suspicions.

Looking after my health is once more on the agenda: the last time Fons and I cycled the 44 km to work and back (22km each way, we’re not stupid) in 2005 was on December the thirteenth, rather unwisely given the conditions; equally unwisely, the first such venture of 2006 on March the twenty-second, but the weather has now improved substantially, and we are making the effort once or twice a week. I intend to get back to the gym any month now.

Friday the seventh of March presented an opportunity for Stuart, Hendrick and myself to travel to the RUI at Amsterdam to visit the Intertraffic trade exhibition, partially as an opportunity for me to catch-up with my BRI agent, Mike, and his latest business venture (One2See, www.one2seedp.co.uk, which is actually very impressive), but mainly for the lure of free beers (one might be forgiven for seeing a pattern emerging here). The exhibition was particularly notable because of the interesting promotional techniques employed. To illustrate: there was a naked woman wandering through the stands wearing only a loincloth and body-paint, with the words ‘Follow Me’ painted on her back. We never found out was she was promoting, because we made the quite reasonable (it seemed to us) premise that it might just have been a rather audacious mugging technique, but this is, of course, the Netherlands, so traditional concepts of normality often fall far short of experience.

Mention of abductions brings me rather neatly to a recent foray by the British contingent into the world of kipnapping (sic): Egbert de Haan, one of our colleagues in the office whose name fairly unfortunately translates literally as Egbert the Cock (and hence begs the whole chicken/Eg question), brought a stuffed toy representing the male of the chicken (kip) species into the office, and said doll, when squeezed, emitted a cry of cock-a-doodle-doo, three times. After barely a fortnight of this far-too-frequent irritation, Stuart and I decided that we’d had enough and, one evening, whilst working late, swiped it. Various photographs (to be posted later) have been sent anonymously to Egbert, illustrating the holding of the chicken by masked (though fairly recognisable) men in various bars, on trains, in Amsterdam, outside a branch of KFC and up a mountain in North Wales (not my doing – Stuart’s one of these outdoor types). A ransom demand of Rebecca Loos and one hundred chocolate eggs has been presented (listen, this is the Netherlands: it took us two days to think of anything worth asking for that they had) and, since the ransom remains undelivered, the hapless chicken has now ended up in the offices of one of our competitors (revealing more at this juncture might be unwise, but suffice to say that this represents a substantial blow to Grontmij office morale).

A few weeks back, there was a Grontmij function of some description called Meeting Point, in De Bild, which gave all of the various divisions of the engineering part of the company an opportunity to get together and find out exactly what it is that each other does (rail, traffic management, technology solutions and various other off-shoots). Also featured were an opportunity to sample some more excellent Indonesian food (which we don’t seem to have in Blighty yet, but really ought to because it’s very, very good), a chair massage (fabulous, for reasons which I’m going to keep to myself), and a Tarot reading (in which my past and present were related to me with almost uncanny inaccuracy). Stuart and I were given a lift to the meeting by Cornelus, whose services we secured by the simple offer of a free lunch and, during one breather in the agenda of the day, the three ventured outside for what must have been one of the most abortive games of football ever staged – none of us having the least skill or any interest in the game but, you know, there was a ball. The day ended with speeches and presentations from the hosts, which were made in Nederish but which led to the revelation that there is no translation for customer service – they actually had to break into English in order to mention it! After this period, the free beers became available and Stuart, predictably, pulled – he’s like a dog, sometimes, I tell you: we’re seriously considering getting him a leash. Upon leaving, we were presented with a commemorative bag of goodies which contained a Thermos flask (I have no idea why), a Grontmij mug and a somewhat premature Easter egg – which I was forced to eat myself, because there is no way that it would ever have survived the aeroplane journey home. I also met the top guy from the company, which was a little unnerving because he asked me what I thought about everything. Given that I wasn’t expecting this, I was forced to resort to honesty. Fortunately, I actually was very impressed, since the whole event was actually quite interesting and rather well done, and I can’t think of anywhere else that I’ve ever worked which tried to instil such a sense of family amongst its employees. I only hope I made a good impression.

So back to the office, and we are currently working on another major level-crossings project, and consequently we encounter a lot of street names, many of which are almost comic in their absurdity. Particularly worthy of mention is Rijksstraatweg, which translates as Kingdom Street Road. I tell you, some nations just shouldn’t be trusted with a language on their own.

Also, recently, I was given a frightening insight into the Nederish working philosophy, as I was recently instructed that often it is more important to do the job quickly than it is to get it right or to do it well. It’s only lucky that there were no sharp or heavy implements within reach when these words were uttered. To give you some clue of the level of organisation, signalling standards (such as they are) are contained in a collection of severely dated and alarmingly unmaintained folders which are sorted by colour code. Unfortunately, this being the Nederlands, they are colour coded orange. All of them. The absurdity of this seems to be lost on my colleagues, but I hardly expect anything else anymore.

One notable feature of the office which I may not have mentioned previously is the Ned propensity for hanging calendars (or Venn diagrams, as I like to call them – “Venn is de appointment?”, “Venn is your birthday?”) all over the place, despite their common failure to change the month on them (time has no meaning…). I am able to hold my own in this regard thanks to Penny (an ex-colleague from WSL), who sent me a wonderful calendar which features lots of photos from the West country, and gives me a little of the flavour of home in my day.

Meanwhile, a new alarm/security system has being fitted in the office, which means that every morning, without fail, I enter a building which is already screaming even before my arrival. Part of the problem is that, annoyed by having to use pass-keys every time they move from one area of the building to another, some members of staff have been attempting to bypass the security system by using sellotape and bits of wire to circumvent the locking mechanisms, with predictable results. This is supposedly the behaviour of functioning adults, but then, this is the rail industry.

More recent health service observations, as Barbi went into hospital for an operation (the details of which can comfortably be skipped over - unlike the six hour delay on the actual process). Before surgery, she was administered with a pill to calm her nerves and supposedly produce a euphoric state, but she reported that this was completely ineffective – however, given that euphoria to a typical Dutchie can be best construed as a cheese sandwich, the threshold for an alochtoon would naturally be far higher than Nederish drugs might be expected to achieve. Anyway, once the anaesthesia wore off and she awakened, after the operation, she complained of a great deal of pain, and was given paracetamol. I kid you not. Predictably, this was a long way from being sufficient (because suffering is not a natural state for warm-blooded humans), but it took a further two hours of complaining before she was finally given morphine. Suddenly the NHS looks like a utopian model.

On the social scene, a recent visit by the Amsterdam Expats to the Hard Rock Cafe gave us an opportunity to pay substantially over the odds for what can best be described as mediocre fare – indeed, this point was driven home when two of our number popped-out between courses, ostensibly to put further monies in a parking meter, and never returned. No, we couldn’t believe it either. They hadn’t even come by car.

Easter in the Nederlands brings rise to traditions which I hadn’t noticed before: Good Friday, curiously, isn’t a bank holiday, despite having the obvious religious significance, and yet the Monday after Easter Sunday, which has no import whatsoever, is. The reasoning behind this only becomes clear once it is realised that the Neds eat boiled eggs on Easter Sunday: lots and lots of boiled eggs – they have competitions. Sharing any kind of enclosed space with them the day after that simply doesn’t bear thinking about.

Not much else to report, except that my attempts to musically enlighten the hip-hop listeners of the office has continued futilely with Ultravox (the Midge Ure period, naturally), although I have gained some ground with The Amateur Transplants, a duo of London doctors who have recorded a superb album of song parodies about medical training, the NHS and life in London which is available at www.amateurtransplants.com and is raising an admirable amount of money for cancer research. The songs are incredibly clever and funny, but also potentially hugely offensive, so those of fragile sensibilities should definitely make a point of buying it, but probably not actually listen to it.

Anyway, this weekend I’m off to Amsterdam to check out the delights of Queen’s Day - a major event in the Ned calendar which I have thus far avoided, but which is taken very seriously by the natives - so hopefully there will be more to report in my next missive. Live from Zwartsluis.