Fußball, Koninginnedag and See You Jimmy

  I’m both happy and jealous this evening, as Husband No.1 returned today from the Heineken International Table Football Championship; an employee event laid on by the Dutch brewing behemoth involving thousands of staff from around the world.  Having been knocked out in the semi (perhaps a familiar concept to the man who tries to wake his wife that way), he then stood in for an absent referee and was rewarded with a free jolly to the final in Amsterdam [insert topical World Cup-related substitution story here, because I know none].  He and the UK Champions extended this trip to enable them to enjoy Queens Day, or ‘Koninginnedag‘; a Big Thing in Amsterdam apparently.  So off he trots, for three nights and four days of boat trips, free bars, fußball and female attention.  Obviously the birds weren’t flocking for a glimpse of the glamorous Table Football heroes (although if anyone was going to be so enthralled, one might suspect the Dutch), or for the honed abs of the UK Champs:

Ooh! I've always wanted to pixelate somebody. Mine's the one on the left.

  Nope, the ladies were lured by opportunities for an amusing novelty snap because these three wags chose to represent their country in ‘See You Jimmy’ Hats, kilts and, the final being on Friday, Wills and Kate Union Jack t-shirts.  While the other teams took the event rather seriously – the Mexicans had to win a national championship with over 2000 entrants – our proud chaps presented a comedy fusion of Tartan and Barmy Armies, much to the amusement of everyone concerned.  Indeed, in pretty much all of the photos HNo.1 took there can be found some unfamiliar character staring and/or pointing at the camera and laughing.  And of course, true to Tartan Army tradition, they did also proceed to lose and get bevvied.

Pot sees Kettle

  Having pickled themselves in the tournament, a number of the contestants stayed on for Queens Day, a holiday which probably has a deeper meaning but which these days seems primarily to be an opportunity to wear something luridly orange and get sloshed/stoned/smashed in any manner of your choosing.  Crowds of revellers amass in the streets, dancing is undertaken and there is much entrepreneurial spirit.  HNo.1 encountered kids selling 750 cans of lager and hoping to make around two thousand Euros to spunk later in the casino, and some Amsterdam residents were even hiring out the toilets in their homes for 1 Euro a pee (and given the state of the portaloos this would possibly prove a more lucrative ploy).

Mmm. Nice.

  One such bog-flogger they encountered was also selling spliffs to total strangers to be smoked in her front room with the result, presumably, that her flat was filled with urinating drunkards and wandering stoners (how terribly loo-rent you might say. Sorry.).  Clearly, Husband No.1 had nothing to do with such shenanigans and was grateful merely to avail himself of her convenience (not a euphemism, thank you).  And overall, despite the dodgy pee stations and violent colour-scheme, the whole event sounded like a pretty good day out.  My heart goes out, however, to the poor sods who had to clean up afterwards…

I'll be needing the big Dyson, please, Doreen.

  So, with liver failing and eyelids drooping, Husband No.1 was fed, watered and sent to bed at 9pm this evening.  Not without roping him in for kid duties, though; I’m not a bloody martyr.

Yep.  All in all, it’s nice to have the daft bugger home.

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