I think it’s Friday, or is it Saturday, or wacaday? today. Woke up feeling pretty fucking weird. Heart racing. Palpitations. A genuine moment of “Am I having a stroke? Or a heart attack? Or both?”
I lay motionless in my hotel bed in Hamburg, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing and wondering if this was it. Spoiler: it wasn’t. It passed after a couple of hours, but it was enough to shake me. I blamed it on the 4 or 5 coffee liqueur shots I had at some dodgy pub last night. Not grown-up. Not funny. And certainly not clever — well, it might’ve been last night. Today, it was just grim.
After two solid days of excess, my body was politely suggesting I might want to calm the hell down. But life had other plans — we were flying to Amsterdam. Oh dear.
Truthfully, lying there all palpitated and panicking, all I wanted was to go home, crawl under a blanket, and drink herbal tea. But you don’t abandon the lads mid-tour. The show must — and will — go on.
And Amsterdam? It was a blast.
We didn’t do the stereotypical tourist stuff — no weed, no window shopping in the red light district. We just did what we seem to do best: drank, walked around aimlessly, and spent a fucking fortune. Every bar, every round, every bite of food felt like a robbery. Amsterdam is a beautiful city — and she knows it. And she charges accordingly.
Saturday – Cold, Fucked, and Full of Regret
3rd December 2022
I woke up in what can only be described as a hovel. My hotel room, somewhere along a dirty canal, was freezing cold, dark, and depressingly damp. My throat was sore, my mouth was dry, and I’m fairly certain my drunken snoring had led to an elongated uvula — that dangly bit at the back of your throat — making swallowing uncomfortable and life generally unpleasant. It felt like someone had replaced it with Anne Frank's diary.
At some point in the night, I’d stuck an electric heater on the bedside table, switched it on, and fell asleep with it glowing next to my pillow. Genuinely lucky I didn’t burn the whole canal-side building to the ground, with everyone in it. Stupid boy.
As for Amsterdam — it was a bridge too far after the chaos of Hamburg. My body was done. My brain was mush. My wallet was empty.
Steve and Carlos, in a moment of clarity (or defeat), decided to head to the airport four hours early because they were — and I quote — "cold and fucked."
That left Tim, Mic and me to wander around this overcrowded city being cold and fucked. It was too busy, too chilly, and we were too hungover to enjoy it properly. Amsterdam, we love you, but next time, maybe after a detox retreat.
Was so glad to be home, tucking into a post-holiday biryani and vowed to maybe not drink for a month. Or a week. Or... well, let’s not make promises.
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