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About Amsterdam

I saunter over, cool as you like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She laughs—proper throaty, makes me grin. “Tenner for a quickie,” she goes. Bargain, innit? But I’m ragin’ inside—ten quid? Inflation’s a bitch! Used to be a fiver in the ‘80s, swear down. Still, I’m chuffed—beats chasin’ Blofeld. We duck into an alley, all dark and damp, like the estate in the movie. “It’s all fucked, innit?” I mutter, quotin’ Mia’s mum. She nods, smirkin’, like she gets it.

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After that, I decide to hit up the local café, you know, Café de Kater. I’m thinking, “Let’s grab a beer and chill.” But as I walk in, I see my buddy, Joris, and he’s got this wild look in his eyes. Turns out, he just lost a bet. He’s gotta wear a chicken suit for a week. I’m dying laughing! Like, Raalte’s gonna see a chicken walking around. Classic!

60 years later, ladies are still Dutch dancers at heart