AMSTERDAM SUCKS

A TRUE TALE OF SEX, COFFEE, AND MARKET RESEARCH

Ever been curious about Amsterdam, otherwise known as Europe’s Sin City? Ever wished

that you could walk amongst the beautiful canals and houses? Ever been curious about the

Red Light District and all that goes on there? Well now you can read it for yourself, in

"Amsterdam Sucks." Spread over a period of three years, this book takes you to the sleaze of

the Red Light District, the seedy hotels and bad restaurants, the horror of being homeless,

and explains the boredom of doing market research as a job. Here we see Adrian Lee, a

struggling musician, baring his inner soul, and to report to us his living out of his erotic

fantasies and to share them with the world. Be warned though dear reader, this is not your

average traveller's tale…this is the true story of sex, coffee, and market research!

Chapter 1, April 2008, Amsterdam.

"I think I've really screwed up here." I've no home anymore and no bed for tonight. Whereas

before I at least had a roof over my head every night, this time I haven't. What money I have is

running out, mainly down to me spending it on my sex addiction, and having a totally crap job,

which hardly pays anything. I can't access a bed in the hostel, as they have been fully booked.

I have a bed booked for the forthcoming morning, but that is nine hours away. The idea of me

having a sofa that I was told I could sleep on tonight has been cancelled due to Mark not

answering the door, for reasons I don't know.

"I know......I'll phone Magdalena." Even though it is 1 a.m., she may well still be up, giving it's a

Friday. I phoned. No answer. I phoned again. Still no answer. I don't know where I am, or

which tram to get back to the hostel. I will have to get a taxi. Fortunately I see one, waiting

round the corner.

Shelter Jordaan please, down Bloemstraat. I get back to the hostel but I have to pass the

time outside. I walk to sit down on a bench just around the corner from the hostel. The

coldness now is running up my legs to my groin. I'm going to have to sit on this bench for

another eight hours...no....I will wander down the street and go to the local cafe, which is still

open.

2 a.m. The amount of caffeine that I'm having a day, including what I'm drinking now, still isn't

keeping me awake. I'm so tired. I will walk back to the bench that I was sitting on. The icy glow

of the moonlight is lighting up the canals and the houses. I'm so cold. I watch some ducks

swim by. It is so quiet that you can actually hear the noise on the water made by the ducks. I

also hear some party-goers in the distance, cheering and yelling, as they go home. I look up at

the starry night sky, and the 17th century houses around me. What happened to the

Amsterdam dream I had in 2005? Well I had rushed into things. I was very naive. It takes

months or even years to properly move to another country. And also having a lot of money

helps.

3 a.m. The coldness is really kicking in. I'm going back to the hostel to get my winter coat. I

have another seven hours to wait before my bed is ready.

2005.

So sick was I of Britain. So sick was I of the yob culture, the yob TV, yobs getting drunk, and

the general unpleasant feel that I saw and heard around me in Britain. It has always been

there of course, but ever since the beginning of the millennium, there have been tons of TV

channels needing to fill up time, by putting on reality shows and programmes about projectile

vomiting on a Saturday night. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, when I was a child, whatever

nastiness that was out there in the world, you had a good chance of coming home and

avoiding it, and going into escapism. UK television in the 1970s to the ‘90s, was well known to

be the best in the world. There was far less television and much better programmes, [apart

from the casual racism in certain ones]. Mind you, today, nothing beats Sherlock, "Have I

Got News For You, New Tricks," anything on BBC 4, and anything with Paul Merton.

For example in the ‘80s, BBC 1 started off every day with breakfast television, news, closed

down in the afternoon, apart from Ceefax, then children's television, the news, Wogan chat

show, then maybe a documentary, or the major USA soap opera like Dallas or Dynasty,

then a film, and then TV closed down for the night. Or on ITV, they would have what was

called Night Time, which was for people working nights shifts [or unemployed people]. Now

we have twenty-four hour news which means you get to see more people killed in the shit

twenty-four hours a day, reality shows, reality gross-out shows, with twenty-four hour footage

on outer channels, usually with no-hopers wanting to be famous for no good reason. Channel

time is filled by showing the same losers asleep, or having rows, or ex-celebrities having to do

stupid tasks in the jungle, hosted by two Geordie wankers. And if you miss any episode, you

can get a repeat of any of this crap on the internet, or television, anytime you want. Even

though the invention of the internet is a wonderful and useful creation, unfortunately it has a

yin to its yang. It has given a voice to every shitty individual imaginable. People will say "Well

don't look at it." But unfortunately, what with the dozens of TV channels I have on my digital

free-view box [which you have to have now due to analogue being wiped out], these same no-

hopers are all over the channels. Road Rage Britain, Criminal Britain, "Projectile Vomit

Teens In Ibiza Britain," endless hospital programmes, and so on. As I said, these people have

always been around, but we didn't have to know about them when we got home every night.

Also I wanted to get away from the habit of where, if you were invited out by a lady, it had to

be in either the roughest pub, or grottiest club in town. And of course, it wouldn't be a great

night for this lady unless she practised out her projectile vomiting, or having her brains fried on

ecstasy. Of course there is a lot more to Britain than that, and lots of good things happening

with lots of good people….but I wanted a change. And in 2005, I couldn't see much good

around me at that time. Don't get me wrong, I'm not leaving Britain just because of the state of

the television. I'm sure Dutch TV isn't great either [Big Brother started in Holland after all]. It's

just I wanted to get away from Britain [although I still have much fondness for Weston-Super-

Mare and Bournemouth, where I spent two of the happiest years of my life as a child in the

1980s, and in St. Ives where my mother and I would go on holiday each year. When I lived in

Weston and Bournemouth, I had tons of friends and went to someone's birthday party nearly

every week. When you are a child, time seems longer, and the future is really only what is

going to happen in the next five minutes. I also have fond memories of holidays to St. Ives,

with the beautiful blue Atlantic ocean, and nice beaches and cafes. So I’m not completely anti-

Britain].

Some people say to me, that if I am tired with the local drug scene that is around us all in

Britain, moving to Holland isn't going to make much difference. But I disagree. As I write this,

one of today's newspapers says that Britain has the worst drug problem in Europe. Sure there

is a drug scene in Holland, but's it's the tourists who do it mainly, not so much the Dutch.

I had been planning since 2001 to move away, firstly to America. When I was a child, 90% of

everything I adored was American. The cartoons, the movies. Ghostbusters, The A team,

"Transformers, Batman," these were the things I loved [and still do, as I'm still a big kid]. And

if I were to go to America, it would have to be to Los Angeles, with the rest of the filth. I had

planned, that when I moved to Los Angeles, I was going to stay in a place called the Banana

Bungalow, up in the Hollywood hills, and look for work. When I visited the American Embassy

off Grosvenor Square in 2005, I first made the mistake of going round the back of the

Embassy, trying to get in, not knowing it was the back, and a load of men with machine guns

came running out, wanting to know what I was doing. Probably the most excitement they had

had all day. When I was directed to the right door, I was told that I had to make an

appointment before I could see anyone. As far as I can remember, I was sent documents from

the Embassy on how to start, but something inside me was saying "Screw America, there is

the whole of Europe to discover." Also, I would have found it very difficult to get off at LAX

airport with only 300 dollars in my pocket and expect to start a new life. And from what I

gather, Los Angeles has hardly any public transport, and I don't drive, so that was no good.

Not to mention the fact that one has to be super rich to move to America in the first place. But

where in Europe would suit me the most? My mother and I thought of Oslo in Norway, as in

2004 I had had a holiday there to visit a friend of mine from college, who was half Norwegian.

Oslo was beautiful, and seemed really friendly. It was the summer of 2004 that I went there,

and it was really hot, with a sparkling ocean by the harbour, tons of trees and wooden houses

on the outskirts and chocolate box houses in the centre. When I got to Oslo, I was met by my

friend, who we will call Stef, and he had invited me to stay there. We went back to where he

was renting. I was going to be sleeping in the living room. Stef had arranged it that two

friends that he knew [from the film school that they were all attending], would meet us both at

his house. I was introduced to them, and we all went across the road, and visited a so-called

English style pub. It was really nice, mainly because it didn't have any English people in there,

just a few quiet Norwegians. One of the friends of Stef had brought along a Rod Stewart CD

that he was longing to hear, and he asked the man behind the bar if he could put it on his CD

player. We slowly enjoyed our drinks while Rod Stewart murdered each song. The pub was

open till 1 a.m. As the night went on, I noticed that Stef was rather quiet, and not making

much conversation with the rest of us. But I didn't think too much about it.

The next day was the day that Stef and I were to be visiting his cousin, as it was her

birthday. Now I am someone who isn't really a party person, but I was looking forward to it all

the same. There might be some nice Norwegian ladies turning up. But Stef soon told me that

his granny was going to be there as well. OK, nothing too wild then. As Stef and I went to

wait at the bus stop, I noticed that he was in rather a grumpy mood.

What have you got your cousin for her birthday? I asked Stef. What? mumbled Stef in

a grumpy tone.

What have you got her? I said again.

Oh shit, said Stef, and he left me at the bus stop while he went back up the high street to

get a present. OK, that's not a great start, I thought. After twenty minutes, he eventually

came back with a chocolate bar and a birthday card. Wasn't much of a present. When the bus

finally came, we drove up to a suburb of Oslo, again surrounded by trees and lovely wooden

houses. We made our way there, and I was greeted by the family. Unfortunately, because I

was with Stef and looked quite young, I had to sit with Stef, his cousin and little kids, who

were also family. All the conversation was in Norwegian, so I automatically felt left out. Stef

gave the present to his cousin, who didn't seem very impressed, [hardly surprising], and she

laughed with the kiddies at his attempts at Norwegian that he had written in the card, which

seemed a bit rude of her if you ask me. But then it was a pretty crappy present.

As the party dragged on, the food was brought out, which happened to be a ton of what

seemed like a dozen type of prawn and shrimps, along with a ton of bread and butter. As

"Stef" was hardly talking to me, and his family not talking to me much either, he was having

the piss taken out of him, because of his attempts at Norwegian again, and I entertained

myself by indulging in the million types of prawn spread out. They were very tasty, although it

was like biting into a mouthful of salt each time. But they were delicious. Stef's grandmother

approached the top end of the table to where we were all sitting. She said something in

Norwegian to me.

Sorry? I said.

Everything OK? she asked.

Yes thanks, I said, while tucking into my prawns and bread.

Do you speak Norwegian? she asked.

No, only English, I said.

I got the impression that she realised that I was a bit left out, and I think she made this clear to

"Stef." But it was OK. I enjoyed my prawns, but left a few: what I didn't know is that it is very

bad manners in Norway to leave any food as this goes back to the days of rationing in the war.

If Stef had any type of brain he would have told me this.

The prawns were soon followed by birthday cake and coffee which were nice. Then Stef

and I said our good-byes. It had all been very civilised.

You enjoy that? I asked Stef.

Yes, he mumbled. Did you? he asked.

Yes thank you, I replied. We went back into town. We went to a pub. I asked Stef if there

were any good brothels around here.

There are, he said, but why go to a brothel when we can go to a club?

We can go to a club if you want, but I hate clubs, I replied. Stef proceeded to tell me that

there were a couple of brothels down the road near-by.

Is prostitution legal here? I asked.

It isn't really, but the police turn a blind eye to it, said Stef [whether that is true or not, I

don’t know]. We finished our drinks and went to the street where these brothels were. There

were gangs of working ladies all sitting outside, waiting for tricks. I approached one gang, and

one lady I fancied with great cleavage.

We are all on strike! she said.

Strike?! I said.

Yes, because over there, there are other women taking our clients.

I looked across the road and saw a gang of black prostitutes all huddled together. Stef and I

walked back up the road again to see who was still on offer. We approached another lady

standing on her own, looking quite nervous, but gave me a smile.

Hello, how much? I asked.

1000 krona, she said, 1000 krona being 100 pounds.

Oh, too much, I said. We walked back down again and we approached a couple of

Romanians sitting by themselves.

How much? I asked one Romanian.

500 krona, she said. That was a bit better I thought.

OK that's fine, I said. Where do we go? I asked.

Across the road, she said.

The prostitute that I didn't choose was eyeing up Stef, and seemed to like him. Stef then

seemed to have a change of heart about not wanting to go with a prostitute, and started

begging me for money and that I would be paid back this Friday. I said no. Which in all

fairness, was mean of me. I should have paid for him as well. Stef and I agreed that we

would meet afterwards in the pub down at the end of the road. I went off with my new chosen

companion, skipping down the road, my arm around her and her arm around me, and we went

into a block of flats. There was a middle-aged man, balding with a white beard and red face,

going into the flats with one of the black prostitutes. He looked very ashamed. I, on the other

hand, was loving every minute of it. We got to our room, and the Romanian switched on the

light by the bed. The room was seedy, as was the situation, and I loved it. I undressed and got

onto the bed. I lay there with a giant stiffy, and the Romanian put a condom on me and sucked

me. Then I got on top of her. I lifted up her legs, and stuffed myself into her, all the while the

prostitute was making all sorts of thankful noises. We proceeded to have sex, and the

Romanian seemed to be enjoying it, with her eyes closed and mouth parted, licking her lips.

Any time that I made a sound that I was about to cum, she would take her hand away from her

vagina, and hold me with a SHHHH! preventing me from orgasm.

Oh I like you, I like you, she whispered as she masturbated, with my penis inside her. This

was good sex and I came inside her. With lots of groaning and gasping, I lifted myself off her,

and got dressed. When we got up, the Romanian asked me to come and see her again.

I'm sorry, I said, but I'm only here on holiday. We got dressed, and left the building, with

me heading for the pub and the Romanian walking back to her spot. I overtook her and said a

final goodbye to her. When I reached the pub, there was Stef at the bar having a drink.

Hello ‘Stef,’ I said.

Hello, said Stef rather begrudgingly. He was still in a sulk.

Was it good? he asked.

Yes thanks, I said. Do you want to go for dinner now or go to a club? It was quite late

now, about 9.30 p.m.

Let’s go to a club, said Stef. We walked up the road, to where there were a few clubs

open. We chose one. The bouncers at the door asked me if I had any identification on me as I

looked under 18 [I was 25!]. I told them that I was 25 and they let me and Stef in. Stef by

now, was quite drunk. I went and sat at the back of the club on a sofa, and Stef was

introducing himself to ladies sitting at a table. He sat down. I bought myself a drink and sat

watching the people on the dance floor.

After a few minutes, a whole great gang of men jumped on someone and prepared to beat

the living shit out of whoever was unlucky to be that person. For a moment I thought it was

"Stef getting himself into trouble. But no. I saw Stef," who by now was very drunk, dancing

the best he could with a lady that he had picked up. He had a great soppy smile on his face,

which can only be attributed to having a great deal of alcohol in his system. He didn't even

notice that there was a major disruption going on a few feet away from him, and carried on

dancing. When the dancing stopped, Stef and the lady that he was with, both came and sat

with me. I got talking to the lady, and we chatted about who I was and what I was doing in

Oslo.

Is he your friend? asked the lady.

"Yes I'm afraid he is, I said. I'm visiting him from England. He seems to be very drunk."

The night wore on, with me talking to a few women. They all had perfect English. But Stef

wasn't done yet. He started to aggravate someone - a little guy who seemed to be taking an

interest in the woman that Stef had been dancing with. The confrontation went outside, and I

was trying to end the situation by taking Stef home, but he was having none of it. All the

while that Stef and this other dude were arguing over this lady, she stepped away from in-

between them and gave me a kiss goodnight. This seemed to end the confrontation, and I

dragged Stef home. I was really pissed off with him, and I started having a real go at him as

we walked. Stef nearly said hello to the Great Maker In The Sky, because he stumbled into a

moving car. The occupier got out, extremely pissed off and I had to apologise to her. As the

lady finished making her anger known to me and Stef, Stef said "OK, next time I'll read it in

the book," his speech all going into one, as he was so drunk. He then seemed to get great

pleasure from taking photos of me, and giggling all at the same time. I was soon starting to

realise, that I had come over to visit a complete dead-beat.

When we finally got home, Stef put his head in his hands and then slowly went to bed. Had

I paid for Stef taking a tart off to bed, the night might have seemed a bit better and he might

not have come off so desperate and obvious. I suppose that was my fault.

The week went on, what with Stef being rather grumpy about things.

Sorry about last night, he mumbled to me. This day we were to be going to the cinema.

There was a film on called Justine, made in 1968, based on the book by the Marquis de

Sade. It was hilarious, what with Jack Palance playing one of the perverted monks, that keep

Justine prisoner. I really enjoyed it, and thanked Stef for introducing it to me. Much of the

time on this holiday was walking around with Stef, who seemed to be permanently in a bad

mood. If we were not walking around we were at home, and in my living area, I watched the

film Kids with Chloe Sevigny, an actress that I fancy.

Friday came, and this was to be a night where Stef was going to invite a few friends over,

including a few women. This interested me greatly, and I was looking forward to speaking to

someone who wasn't Stef, as he was still sulking. His friends from film school turned up, as

did four women. All fluent in English of course. I was introduced to the four of them, and one of

the ladies there, was amazing I thought. She was called Becky, and seemed like a real hippy,

with shaggy dress and dreadlocks. She was so cute, I wanted to eat her up. She reminded me

of 1960s’ and ‘70s’ actress Linda Hayden. Becky was half American and she started telling me

that her father lived in Seattle. She told me how dangerous Seattle had become, what with a

few young people being kidnapped off the street and so on. Stef and his friends carried on

chatting, as the women and I moved out onto the balcony. It was a lovely warm night, and we

could hear passers-by down below on the street. One of the women took delight on trying to

spit on them, which I thought was in bad taste. But I was determined to get to know Becky. We

were completely on the same wave-length. I’ve met the lady I want to be with, I thought.

There was only one problem though. She seemed to be getting very tired and her eyes were

drooping. This was because [I found out later] she had been smoking giant spliffs and drinking

wine. Eventually, she passed out in front of us, and later on, even though I didn't see it, she

vomited all over the bathroom. So I guessed that there would not be any third-leg-action

tonight, and the girls and guys made their way home. And there is not really much more to say

about my trip to Oslo, apart from Stef not talking to me much, and because of the mess

made in the toilet by the lady I liked, Stef and I ended up with a case of scabies. Either it was

the mess made in the bathroom, or dirty furniture, I don’t know. But when I was back in

England I had to get lotion to get rid of it. But not concentrating on this, Oslo is an extremely

beautiful city but expensive. Coffee in Oslo, was 33 Krona, [£3.30] and that was 2004. God

knows what it costs now. And a McDonald's cost 80 Krona [£8.00]. Oslo park was packed full

of nice gentle people and teenagers playing guitar and so on. I hate crowds most of the time,

but this crowd I liked. So Oslo seemed like the number one place to move to. Unfortunately

though, I found out that I would have to speak Norwegian as well to get work, which was fair

enough, but I have never been good at foreign languages. And my Norwegian was rubbish.

So where could I get some English speaking work in the EU? I was interested in places like

Germany, Denmark, Sweden and Holland. There was a time that I would frequently visit a

particular café in town, and I got to know a lady that was Swedish. We discussed the

difference between England and Sweden, and she told me that she liked England a lot more. I

asked her why, and it turned out that she likes to party, and that Sweden is so boring.

"Why is it boring?" I asked.

"Well there is nothing to do, apart from go shopping, drink coffee and sit in the park," she

replied.

This to me, sounded like Heaven. But my mum suggested living in Amsterdam as she had

loved it so much. She would visit a childhood friend, whose daughter had a house right on the

Prinsengracht canal. I liked the idea a lot. Amsterdam was known for being dirty minded. But I

didn't want to go just for that. It would be a good place [especially in Holland] to try and start

an artistic career. I had done music and media at college, and in the late ‘90s, I used to stay

behind after classes to record my own music, with me playing the drums, guitar, bass,

keyboard and singing. I found writing comedy songs very easy to do, and I started to let my

friends hear them. Eventually there was a demand for my music, and I even sold a few tapes.

To try to reach my dream of becoming a musician, I sent away 130 demo tapes in 2000, and

only two companies responded. The ones in London sort of promised me the world, but

nothing really came of it, so I decided to take things into my own hands and became self-

employed. When I left college in 2002, I recorded a CD and starred in my own music video,

with me having written everything, playing all the instruments and doing my own storyboard for

the video. I even started my own independent record label, called Angel Liquid. I became

self-employed and spent my time battling with bank managers, trying to get a loan to start

things off. I found that bank managers are highly unfriendly, when you are asking them for

help. In fact, most organizations that deal with lending money, seem to be highly unfriendly

and unhelpful, when being asked for help…apart from the Prince’s Trust, who were a lot

easier to deal with, but I still couldn’t get a loan from them to start off my record company. One

official, who was the boss of one of these companies, took one look at my CD cover and said

to me, that if he presented this to the official board of directors, whose decision it is to help me

or not, they would find me completely mad. So again, no money from there, so I scrimped

and saved what money I could to record my music video and CD in 2002 and 2003. The CD

turned out to be a bit super-crap, and the video took two days to film. It was a video where I

played a doctor, seducing a police woman at the beginning, getting