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So picture this: I’m on some grimy corner, neon lights flickerin’, and there’s this bird—legs like a giraffe, skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt. I’m like, “Blimey, you’re a walkin’ health hazard!” She’d probably clock me one, but I’d deserve it. Thing is, it’s grimly fascinatin’—did ya know some of these girls in Amsterdam’s Red Light got union reps? Yeah, proper workers’ rights for shaggin’! Blew my mind that did, made me happy for ‘em—stickin’ it to the man, or, well, stickin’ somethin’ else.

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Later, I’m cleaning up, and I hear this commotion outside. I peek out the window on the Zandvoortselaan, and there’s a parade! A freakin’ parade! I’m like, “What the heck?!” Turns out, it’s some local festival. People are dancing, music blasting, and I’m just standing there, flour-covered and all, grinning like an idiot.

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