The Dutch Sign Compendium
This evening we leave these flat shores and head back to the Kingdom of Rain.
At the beginning of our time in Holland I stupidly promised those who read my nonsense that I would further nonsensify it by providing a Dutch sign that was either rude, or sniggerworthy. It has been surprisingly easy but has turned me into a bit of an idiot.
For example I got all excited when I saw a neon sign that I thought said “Jism Shop” and started shrieking at Meeester to stop the car. It had the letter i missing, and realising this, I was crestfallen and feeling a little stupid about yelling “Stop! Look! A Jism shop!” in front of my family.
I may have no Dutch blogs left in me but bizarrely I have a range of signs that didn’t quite make it into the blogs. Anyone reading the Misssives for the first time may get the impression that I am, infact, an adolescent boy. Sadly, I am a 38 year old woman. *Sigh*
Anyway here they all are for you all to access your inner idiot:
Zit Stof: A shop entirely dedicated to all things acne
The Winkel Passage: I’d rather not go in there, to be honest.
Trompet Boom: The reason I like this is
because Trumpet Bum was apparently
my dad’s nickname for me as
a baby as I was prone to loud bum trumpeting.
The Slaap Studio: I got so excited
when I thought this was a beauty salon. (It wasn’t)
De Quack: I’ll just wait til I go home and go to the NHS, thanks
De OpSlag Box: Lady of Ill repute in a box.
The perfect Christmas gift for that unmarried uncle?
The Homo Monument: My most childish effort.
There was no actual monument. Answers as to what it could be
on a postcard please cos I’m not even going there…
The “Te Huur” Numberplate: For Sale after a misguided bloke
bought this for his (now ex) girlfriend for a joke
It’s the Little Differences…
I have to say I am loving it here in Holland. There is so much that appeals to me about the Dutch way of life. On several occasions I have found myself thinking, “If I could get a Babelfish inserted into my ear, I could give living in Holland a go”.
In Hellevoetsluis there is a beautiful marina and it seems that everyone has a boat. Not that I want one, I’d be a liability on a boat. However, I would like to look out of my window every morning to see a vista of beautiful yachts. I’d feel like I was in an F Scott Fitzgerald novel.
Oh, yes the weather is changeable but after a heavy shower or two it always seems to brighten up and you are able to have your dinner outside or squeeze in an hour or so on the beach.
Best of all is the cycling culture. As I said in a previous post, we’ve hired bikes and before the week is out I am going to have thighs of steel. I spent today with Junior Misssy on the bike. I felt so Dutch with my headscarved wee lady on her bike seat behind me as we trundled round the town eating ice-cream and looking for rude signs.
I am also loving the houses. There seems to be a very common style of house that has three floors with big airy rooms and exteriors painted the colour of ice cream. Why can’t we have them at home? They are beautiful.
Annoyingly though, every time I say something along the lines of, “God I love the houses here,” Meeester says, “They remind me of the type of houses in East Kilbride.” (Meeester is from EK). NO! THEY DO NOT! For the love of Pete, East Kilbride is a bum hole of a place polluted by roundabouts and housing estates. And if any of Meeester’s EK dwelling family is reading you can take a shot at me at the Christmas dinner table for what I’ve just said. I’ll stand my ground.
In fact, up until today, I guessed that Meeester is not that impressed by Holland. He said after the whole Arsenaal Pirate theme park debacle,
“That just sums up Holland for me. After this trip I won’t be back”
The Arsenaal was execrable, but to completely dismiss the rest of Holland because of one slip up is unfair. It would be like dissing the whole of the UK because of Grangemouth.
Oh dear….and I’m really liking it here. I was hoping to come back for a weekend to Amsterdam one time. I have a kidless weekend in lieu with my sister in law who is offering to take both beasts. I wanted to do the City Break thing with Meeester to Amsterdam maybe to do the whole Amsterdam Hilton John and Yoko thing. I guess I’m going to have to squeeze in a trip to the ‘Dam whilst we are here, then. Since apparently we’re not coming back.
Then today, Meeester, does a three point turn on his opinion of the Netherlands. He and Indy have been to see the new Harry Potter film in the local cinema and when they return he is beaming.
“The cinema was amazing. You could have a beer whilst watching the film! A beer! You had a little shelf for it on the seat and everything!”, he gushes, “Holland is ACE!”.
Cue conversation with Meeester sounding like Travolta’s Vincent Vega doing the whole Royale with Cheese monologue.
Anyway, now that I’ve finished mocking my other half I must bring you today’s Slightly Rude or Funny Sign That Is In No Way Disrespectful to the Wonderful People of The Netherlands.
Now, we reckon that if you are going to open a lingerie shop then you can opt to accurately describe the sensation you wish to provoke in your desired partner in the naming of that shop. Laydeees and Gennnelmen I give you:
Caught by De Fuzz
On our first day in the Netherlands something a tad bizarre happened. We are still trying to figure it out. In an attempt to do so I am going to write this post on Top Blog Magazine’s theme of the week, “There Are Two Sides to Every Story”.
Side One: The Flying Martinis are in their car trying to find a supermarket in Hellvoetsluis, Zeeland, Holland
Misssy M: No you’ve gone right past it. You’ll need to turn around, we’re heading back to Rotterdam. Again.
Meeester (Sees opening to some facility): Here’ll do. Oh look kids, Dutch bin men. Oh look a lady bin man!
Misssy M: God you’re right! I’ve never seen a she-scaffie before!
Meester: Right, so back that way…. Oh look kids, a police car!
Misssy M: Look…. they’re checking us out….Bet they follow us.
The Flying Martinis drive off in the planned direction and right enough, the cops are have reappeared… and are behind them.
Meeester: Oh, for goodness sake!
Misssy: They’re going to stop you! Oh my God, I can’t believe it! What for?
Police car shows flashing LED sign that says, “Stop!”
Misssy (starts to laugh): This is unbelievable. We’ve not done nuthin’, copper!
Meeester: Better get my papers. Have you got the fake ones that Donald Pleasance made for us?
Misssy hands him his drivers’ licence: This should be good.
Meeester gets out of the car and goes over to the Muscley Dutch Policeman. Still in earshot, the whole conversation is heard by Misssy and the kids.
Muscley Dutch Copper: Your licence please.
(Inspects licence– both sides)
So why are you in Holland?
Misssy (to herself): We’re taking delivery of a massive bale of hash. With our two small children, caravan and holiday clothes. We may also leave a nail bomb somewhere, for a laugh. Muppet.
Meeester: We’re on holiday. Just came over from Scotland yesterday. (Winningly) Lovely place. Flat.
Muscley Dutch Copper: Where are you staying?
Misssy(to herself): In a drug den. Off our mashes on ecstacy pipes. Tis bangin’!
Meeester(smiling broadly): We’re in the T’ Weergoos Camping Site. We’ve a caravan.
Muscley Dutch Policeman: Are you having a good time?
Misssy (to herself): If we say “no” will you nick us?
Meeester: Yes, although the thunder storm last night was a bit much! (Fake laughs, winningly)
Muscley Dutch Policeman(looks over to colleague in car and nods): OK sir. You can go.
Meeester (gets back in car and looks at Misssy): What the blazes was THAT about?
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Side Two: The Dutch Muscely Policemen.
Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: I’ve been working out, can you tell? *Sigh*
I want a transfer. Hellevoetsluis is dull, dull, dull. I want to wrestle people to the ground, I want to catch bad guys, I want to do a sting. Like on telly.
Dutch Muscley Policeman2: I hear you, brother. I didn’t sign up for this either. Hey! Hey! Hey! ….Engels! Check them out! Want to fuck with their heads?
Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: Hell, yes! Can I do the siren?
Dutch Muscley Policeman2: OK, but I get to pull him over…
Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: (with heavy heart): Ohhhh Kaaaay then….
And in the words of Kurt Vonnegut….”and so it goes….”
Sea Shanties and Shat Island
Oh, the Dutch do everything better than us. As a visitor, it’s hard not to feel inferior.
>They have a good football team (Apparently. I couldn’t give a shit, to be honest),
>They have the best attitude towards drug use OFFICIALLY. You want to smoke a leaf other than the tobacco one, then please yourself. I couldn’t give two hoots, and neither could the Dutch;
>They do good photogenic cheese;
>Their women are hardy, thick calfed, big breasted Amazonian specimens;
>Their (young) men are blonde foxes;
>They have no NEDS (none that I would class as such, anyway) This point alone makes me want to move to Holland. Permanent-like;
>Their cycle paths are to be envied in the extreme. It’s SAFER to be on a bike than it is on foot or in a car. We hired bikes to avoid being killed. And I’m NOT joking about that;
>The sheer engineering of the dyke/polder/dam system makes the Forth Bridge look like a pile of crap;
>The streets are as clean as a nun’s knickers;
>No-one learns or understands their language, so they can talk rudely about foreigners in front of their very faces with no fear of being punched. Every word they utter sounds like a swear word anyway, so you quickly get fooled into thinking, “He didn’t just call me a fucker, he’s just speaking Dutch.”;
All good stuff, I’m sure you’d agree. So it was with great disappointment that we discovered a chink in their otherwise superb armour (other than the condiment mania, but that’s subjective).
Buoyed up by the splendid Blijdorp Zoo experience we decide to spend a rainy day in “Arsenaal” in the sea town of Vlissingen, in most Zuid part of Holland. Billed as a fun park with a pirate/maritime theme and an aquarium we are naively expecting excellence.
You know how in Britain how you expect all theme parks to be poorly conceived, under-funded, urine-soaked, emporiums of mediocrity? Well Het Arsenaal was just that.
Imagine pirated up mannequins on pulleys. Imagine some fish tanks of a calibre that you’d maybe see round your mate’s house. Imagine an exhibition about pirates where your Dad has video-ed himself against a blue screen dressed up as a makeshift Captain Jack Sparrow, and then two model boats emit some dry ice and have flashing LEDs signifying cannon fire and someone switches the lights on and off a bit to make the whole thing look exciting.
But worst of all, imagine a tinny sea shanty of about 1min 30 secs duration played on a loop in every part of the theme park EVEN IN THE LIFTS with the sole lyrics of:
“ Yo Ho Ho! A pirate’s life for me!
Yo, Ho, Ho! A pirate’s life for me!” (Repeat until psychotic)
It was bad enough being a visitor, but those employees could sue under Human Rights violations.
And we also saw a couple of neds outside…..
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And so onto today’s rude sounding sign pic which comes from Arsenaal itself. The explanation for this belongs to Meeester.
He describes this as, “Fantasy Island but after a spell of food poisoning…”
Slurry
Anyone who knows me will know my phobia of the bottled condiment. My chief loathings are:
Ketchup
Salad Cream
Branston Pickle
Mustard
The hatred is completely out of control. In fact hate doesn’t cover it really. I am afraid of the aforementioned items to the point of hysteria.
More than this, I hate any establishment where the default setting is to cover otherwise palatable food in condiment slurry, without asking the patron if this is acceptable. In any given country the first sentence I learn is something along the lines of “No crap on my burger please”.
In Brazil it is “Sem nada” (which is actually a double negative, but let’s not get snippy), in Germany it is “Ohne (insert condiment slurry term here)”, in Spain it is “Sin (insert condiment slurry in here) etc etc.
Yesterday in Holland, home of slurry, I slipped up…I hadn’t learned the key sentence and had to shriek, “Nooooo! I don’t want that stuff!” as a mountain sized dollop of mayo was ladled onto my chips and a lake of yellow goo was smeared onto my sandwich bread. The startled operative looked incredulously at me as if I’d asked for a bike with no wheels.
I explained, “I don’t like mustard”.
“But this is not mustard, it is something else” he said as if this would make everything OK.
“You see, ” I say as I hop up on imaginary psychiatrist couch, “I don’t like any of that stuff”
He looks at me with undisguised pity.
“I wouldn’t be able to eat it if it had anything like that on it,” I whimper, as if apologising for disrespecting his national culture.
The operative shrugs and looks over at colleague in a way that negates the need for a whirly finger at the side of the head to suggest madness.
I have yet to discover the phrase I need for “No condiment slurry, please” in Dutch, but I suspect it doesn’t exist.
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And so onto today’s sign or product with an iffy name, but is in no way disrespectful to the country I am visiting. We think this might be a phrase denoting a special room dedicated to return visitors at the clap clinic:
Double Dutch from A Real Double Dutchess
Whenever I go to any country, I try to find the product that has the best unknowing swear word/funny word as its name. It’s very childish, very Graham Norton, but I can’t help it and I don’t apologise for it.
In Finland it was the “Mega Pussi” giant bag of crisps. You could also get a “Mini Pussi” if you were less than starving/greedy. That’s going to take some beating.
I reckon that Holland is going to pay out in spades. It is the country that has the words “U kunt!” for “ I can!” It’s a flipping gold mine; it just must be!
So, my bloggie chums, I am going to make it a feature of every Dutch Blog that I include one unknowing naughty sign or product at the end.
To get us started I give you this:
Forget the apostrophe. It’s a bag of teddy poo!
From Hull to Rotterdam via Hades
Little did Leo realise,he would spend the rest of the night
holding Kate’s hair back
The Flying Martinis are off once again. Except this time we’re not flying. We are, in the words of craggy-faced, fake-Scotsman, brunette-shunning, lothario Rod Stewart, sailing.
Cross the water, cross the sea to the Netherlands, as it happens. I am really looking forward to it. At least I was until French workmate’s response to me telling him that I was going on a caravanning holiday to Holland was a simple and deadpan,
“God, that sounds terrible”
We leave on Saturday departing from Hull, as sailings to Holland from the far closer Rosyth are twice as expensive for no good reason. Maybe the expensive air and ferry fares in my country are a ruse to keep us Scots firmly within our borders. We do have a tendency to kind of take over. (Waves) Hello wee Gordy from Fife!
It has occurred to me that I haven’t been on an overnight ferry for a very long time indeed. There is a good reason for this. And that, my friends, is the theme of today’s Misssive.
At age sixteen my childhood friend Helen and I are allowed to go on our own on holiday to visit our other friend Julie whose parents have taken her to live in the Hague. We arrive in Hull 10 hours too early for the ferry and spend the day being skittish and nervous of other people as we are only 16 and from the sticks.
That night we board the ferry and we excitedly find our “couchettes”. Couchettes are wipe clean (and this is important, folks!) armchairs set in rows in a large lounge area. They are not designed for comfort in any way. But they are the cheapest option for wee lassies on a budget.
The journey is underway and after skittishly checking out the vessel for teenage boys, who we may lust after but won’t approach, we make our way back to the couchette lounge to play cards. Outside the rain and wind lash the boat, “Poseidon Adventure” style. The boat starts to lunge.
As darkness falls and the storm outside gets worse, we begin to upset the Dutch gentleman behind us. He apparently cannot stand the excited chatter of annoying girls and complains bitterly to us every five minutes. He is a pain in the arse. So, when he starts to vomit loudly and constantly into a plastic bag, we laugh our asses off. He is well aware of our mockery and scowls at us in between gagging.
“Yaaaaaaarrrghhhhh!”
“Heeheeheeheheheeehheheheheheee!”
“Yaaaaaaaarrrgghhhhhhhh!”
“Hahahahahahaaa! Heeeheheheheee!”
Within 15 minutes it seems that everyone is vomiting and plastic bags are becoming a real commodity. The waves are crashing over the front window of the ferry and at times it feels like the boat is on its end. Despite the hurly-burly, we are still laughing our asses off every time our Dutch friend retches. Sixteen year old girls can be right bastards.
Then it hits us. Repeatedly. We are both sick as dogs for 8 hours straight. We can’t even make it to the bathroom, as we will get flung all over the ship. We do try, but some near misses with falling in the vomit of the many people who tried before us, forces us back to our seats. The couchette saloon becomes the Vomitarium. The walls are spattered with it, the couchettes are covered in it and the floor is swimming in it. It is absolutely vile. Projectile doesn’t even cover it.
The only thing to do is try and sleep on the plastic couchette, clutch your plastic bag and threadbare blanket, pray and wait for morning.
When morning arrives, the place looks like the pits of Hell, the passengers look like the residents of Hell, and our Dutch friend is silent. As are we.
It is 7am, the Tannoy bing bongs,
“We would just like to remind all passengers that the restaurant will be serving breakfast until 9am”
*Collective heave!*
