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How to get arrested in Amsterdam: A practical guide.

I never intended to write a chronological blog, so fuck it; I'm not. We're skipping to the time I was travelling with my mate Mick through Europe.
Thats this colourful idiot here:


 We were both about 21 so of course we went to Amsterdam, got high as balls and watched in amusement as our roommates in the hostel were arrested. Wait...what? Yes. Yes indeed.

We pulled into Amsterdam Centraal station after a ferry ride from London on which I insisted the very confused bartender take this photo with a tiny plush kangaroo:
Upon stepping out and being a relatively seasoned cyclist at this point, I was amazed and enthralled at the sheer number of bikes. Then I got hit by one. I'd never been yelled at in Dutch before and it was quite an amazing experience, not the least because it was hurled at me by a lady in her mid-50's wearing a lovely hat who was clearly just going home from shopping. I have no idea what she said, but it was NOT 'Good day sir'.

Managing to escape being murdered by the demon-hat-lady, we checked in and met out roommates. Both were named 'Dave', both were from Melbourne (back home in Australia), both were working illegally and both were complete stoners from the underbelly of society. In short, they were both certifiable deadbeats. BUT they offered us beers (even though they were 0.50€ each...it was free beer) and weed upon arrival...so we kept our opinions to ourselves. We went our seperate ways that night and I got this sweet photo of me being an octopus in our trippy-as-hell hostel.

I am clearly not sober.
After an uneventful next day, on our final night, the 'Daves' had made an Irish friend and were partying pretty hard when Mick and I returned having both got comprehensively and seperately lost (I found a cocktail museum though, so...score?) They invited us out and we had to decline as we were both leaving before 7am the next day to go our seperate ways. Now, this is where the fun begins.

At just after 1am, Irish guy shows up absolutely shitfaced knocking on the door. I open it and he basically screams 'AAAAYYEEE BOYYS! HAVE YAS SEEN THE DAVES?!'. To which my sleep-clouded brain simply replied 'no, mate. Why?' and the exchange went like this:

 'AHHH CAS TH' LAST TIME A SAW 'EM, THEY WERE RUNNIN' FROM THE COOPS'.
'Wait, they were fucking what? WHY?!'
'STOLE A BUNCH O' THOSE BEERS THEY LIKE!'
'That cheap shit? In the 500mL cans?'
'AYE!'
'WHY? they're 0.50€ each!'
'THIRSTY I GUESS!'
'Well, they've not been back here. Sorry mate.'
'AYE...I'D BEST GO TIE ONE ON'

*exit Irish guy*

Confused, but too tired to give a shit, I went back to bed. Only to get another knock shortly before 2am. It was the daves. who looked particularly strange.
Upon asking what in the fuck they were doing, they told us that they were 'just picking up some stuff'. Which was apparently code for 'we're getting our passports because there are two ENORMOUS private security guards (not cops) standing at the door waiting to escort us away'.

We left the next day and never did find out what happened to them. However, I did smoke one of their joints after they left. Fuck it, they won't need it in jail.

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