Wednesday April the 30th was Koninginnedag (Queens Day) in Holland. As I mentioned last year Queens Day is the day that everyone in Holland celebrates the Dutch Queen’s birthday and it has nothing to do with men up and down the country putting on dresses and applying a little make-up to make them selves feel pretty.

The whole country joins in on the celebrations and Amsterdam becomes one big party, one big party that I was planning to go to. I had one problem though. Everyone wears orange on Queens Day since it is the national colour but I had no items of orange clothing. Usually I use the ‘I have orange hair’ argument but at the Queens Night Party the day before the debate had started again between my friends about weather I had ginger or strawberry blond hair. Despite being born and raised ginger it seems like it was not going to be good enough this year. I had no choice. I would have to try and find an item of orange clothing on Queen’s Day. How hard could it be?

I woke up on Queens Day, got ready and boarded the train to Amsterdam to meet my friends (there were a few more steps between that but I thought it best not to bore you with details about how many sugars I take in my morning tea or how long I spend brushing my teeth… No sugar by the way).

The feeling of excitement amongst my fellow Queen’s Days celebrators on the train was almost tangible. As we pulled into Amsterdam train station everyone started to cheer. As the doors open we all stepped out onto the platform as one. There was a feeling of charging into battle only this battle was one big party. Deep inside a primordial part of me wanted to shout out, “Charge!”

Then we got out side and hit the crowds of other orange wearing party goers and everything slowed down as our charge became a slow stroll. Part of me still felt like shouting out, “Stroll men! Stroll casually into battle! Strollllllllllllll!”

After a while I made it into the city and started my hunt for an item of orange clothing.

However, the only available options I could find came in the form of cowgirl hats or feather bowers, either of which would have made me look more like an Essex girl on a hen night then an Englishman trying to enter into the spirit of Queen’s Day. I decided it was best to keep on looking.

There was so much orange on sale that I was starting to think the colour was in danger of becoming extinct in the wild. It was as if Amsterdam had become some kind of black market where illegal supplies of orange were being sold (but then I guess you would call it an orange market) but I still could not find any thing suitable.

I decided a beer might help me relax about my lack of orange clothing. This was my first beer of the day which I purchased from one of the many street beer vendors around the city. One of my friends translated the writing on the side of the glass which said I could return it and get a euro back. I did this and felt very Dutch but it reminded me I still lacked the orange clothing to give the outward appearance. I re-started my quest.

I had lunch in the form of a hotdog in a bun. I was surprised that to keep with the orange theme that is was not a carrot in a bun and started to wonder if I had orange on the brain. I had to find something soon before I started to go crazy (if it was not already too late).

On every street around the city Dutch people sell their old belongings but in this photo you can also see the side effects of having so much orange located in one city at the same time. That’s right, the colour had evolved into a life form. I considered trying to buy it so I could walk around the streets of Amsterdam with it on my shoulder, thus solving my orange-less problem. However, I decided it was not a good idea since there was no way of knowing if this new colour life form was hostile and would try to bite my ear off.

It seemed hopeless. I was never going to find something orange and suitable to wear. I was defeated. It was hopeless. I had lost. I had failed.

But then I saw something that made me realize I had not failed at all. I saw someone else who was not wearing orange, someone famous.

The lure of the biggest party in Holland had proved too tempting even for the likes of Darth Vader who was hanging around and enjoying the atmosphere in his own moody way. I suddenly didn’t feel so worried about not wearing orange. If the Dark Lord of the Sith does not have to wear orange then why should I. I learnt something from Darth Vader that day. I realized wearing orange was not important. I could still enjoy Queen’s Day even if I was not wearing orange as long as I had orange in my heart. The father of Luke Skywalker had realized this and through him I now had too.

On the other hand, I don’t think anyone would really want to tell the Emperor’s right hand man that he had to adhere to the dress code or leave, not if they did not want to die in a very horrible way at least. I decided to learn from his example anyway and enjoy Queen’s Day and the beer, while keeping a safe distance from him just to be on the safe side.

This is something I have never done on this blog before but it is time for me to make a formal apology… to the people of England. I have done something terrible in a moment of stupidity and… well… there is no way to sugar coat this so I’m just going to come clean and say it. The Dutch now own England and it is all my fault.

During a Sunday afternoon in an Amsterdam bar I engaged in a game of pool with some friends. We decided it would be fun to form two teams; Dutch vs. British. After a few friendly games we decided to make things ‘interesting’ by putting a little wager on the table. This ‘little’ wager was that if we (the British Team) won we would own Holland and if they (the Dutch Team) won they would own England. I think you can guess where this story is going. It seemed like a good idea at the time right up until the point when we (the British Team) lost to them (The Dutch Team). Now our home land is owned by two Dutch guys with the must Dutch sounding names imaginable, Jochem and Jeroen. However, we now all have to call them King Jochem and King Jeroen (unless one of them opts for being the Queen).

This means that any body living in England who does not wish to wear orange, eat bitter ballen or listen to music by Frans Bauer should emigrate to Wales or Scotland (which I luckily did not gamble away). I know this will be hard on all of you but as you all try to learn Welsh or try to learn how to love deep fried Mars Bars and pizzas I hope you can take some comfort in the fact that it was a very close game. It all came down to the black ball in the end and some jolly bad luck.

I’ve not spoken to the Queen yet but I expect that she will be very angry with me when the news reaches her. I fully expect I will receive a jolly good telling off with lots of finger waving and use of my full name as I look sheepishly at the floor.

But fear not people of England. If someone is willing to lend me their country for just a short while I’m sure I can win England back. I hear there is an underground chicken racing game organized by an ex-mob boss which is taking place in just a few days. I’ve got a good tip so I’m sure to win a few other countries in the process. Trust me, what could possibly go wrong?

If there is one important lesson we all could have learned from the 80s it is that you can never really keep a horror movie villain down. They can never truly be defeated and they always return. The same is true of my own personal nemesis; The Lift.

Maybe I had become too cocky and let my guard down because it had been a few years since I had spent that long night trapped alone in its small confined space of steel and evil. It had long since become just an amusing story of an unlucky event. I had started using the lift again despite the fact that my co-workers would quickly exited it when ever they saw me enter because I was, “cursed.”

I should have known that the lift was not defeated, it was not silenced, it was not beaten. No. It was waiting. I should have seen the warning signs but I had become arrogant in my lift riding abilities.

As I returned to the office from a long lunch and entered the lobby the lift was already waiting for me. No one else was around. No one could have pushed the button but the doors were strangely open. I was too blinded by stair climbing laziness to question this fact. I stepped inside. I pushed the button for the third floor which lit up dimly. The doors slid slowly shut with a strained, rusty mechanical sound and then… nothing. Silence. Stillness. Lack of movement in the vertical direction that lifts are usually known to travel along.

I pushed the button for the 3rd floor again… nothing.

I pushed the button to open the doors… nothing.

I had fallen for its trick. I was trapped once more. The lift had captured me in its tiny space again. I was sure I could even hear it laughing.

However, the lift had sprung its trap too soon. It had waited for so long but it had not waited long enough. There were still other people in the building this time. I knew I would be the one who would have the last laugh. I pushed the alarm button to rally everyone to my aid but… nothing.

The alarm sounded but no one came to the rescue. It had become a joke to press the alarm button every now and then when I entered the lift so no one paid attention to it any more. I suddenly realized why the lift had waited for so long to play its little trick on me. I had become the boy who cried lift.

All seemed lost. I was doomed. I was trapped. No one was coming to my rescue. I started to pace up and down in the small space and cursed the lift. And then… suddenly… after one minute… the doors opened. The lift simply let me out. I slowly stepped out, unsure if it was a trick but it was not.

I don’t know if the lift was playing mind games with me or just reminding me that it could strike at any time. All I know is that I will not let my guard down again because I now know once again that that lift is truly evil.

Maybe there is a lift in your place of work or residence. Maybe you have ridden it up and down between floors for years. Maybe you think it is safe. I hope my experiences have proven to you that this is not the case. All lifts are evil. Prey that they don’t choose to strike next time you enter them.

Looking for something fun to do this Friday? Like to laugh? Like to shout stuff at the performers on stage with you being thrown out by a very large security guard called Bob with hairy knuckles? Then you will be happy to hear that ‘The Dog Ate My Scenework’ improv group will be performing again this Friday.

I will be performing on stage again with the rest of the cast as we take the audiences suggestions for locations, relationships and much, much more to inspire us in the creation of completely improvised and made up scenes of comedy and mirth using the skills past down from improv master to improv student for generations.

Show Time: 23.59 hrs

Tickets: € 4,-

Discounts: See either Easylaugh shows at 20:30 or 22:30 and pay only € 2,- extra for ‘The Dog Ate My Scenework’

Location: Crea Muziekzall, Turfdraagsterpad 17, Amsterdam: (Click Here)

Other show dates:
- Friday 25th April
- Friday 9th May
- Friday 23rd May
- Friday 6th June

For more information join The Dog Ate My Scenework Facebook group: (Click here)

Or check out the Easylaughs web site: (Click here)

Everyone is welcome to come to the show. Bring your suggestions.

As an Englishman I have a very particular view of Holland. Due to the average height difference between English and Dutch men this view is about a foot or two lower then the natives. This is sometimes makes it very easy to feel short in Holland and it always makes it hard to find jeans that are the right length with out resorting to turn ups.

However, I have found one place in Holland where a person from a height challenged country like myself can feel like a giant and that place is Madurodam. Madurodam contains several famous Dutch locations in miniature form as if an eccentric mad scientist has used his newly invented shrink ray to collect his favourite tourist locations in one place. Everything is in 1:25 scale and includes places like Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Den Haag and more.

I was able to walk around the place and feel like some kind of English, non-green and less scaly Godzilla. There were a few times when I had to suppress the urge to raise my arms in the air and go, “roar!”

Despite having to behave myself and stick to the laid out path I felt tall. I felt big. I felt elevated. However, it only took one look at my Dutch date who was taller then me (I’m talking about the average height for Dutch women now not Dutch men) to remind me of the reality that I should consider platform shoes if I ever want to pass as a local. Plus the fact that she might start to question my sanity if I had actually begun to make monster noises at the exhibits. Sometimes it is easier to get away with being a child. They were allowed to do it.

Mini Schiphol Airport: Complete with mini Easyjet and mini chavs on their way to the mini red light district.

Mini Dam Square: I walk through this area every morning but as hard as I searched I could not see a mini red head version of myself. It’s not that accurate if you ask me.

Mini Amsterdam: Even with a scaled down canal of this size there is a drunk English tourist somewhere that will find a way to fall into it.

Mini dam or bloody big sea gull: Alfred Hitchcock was right! Quick! Everyone evacuate Holland!