Somebody ransomed my website.
Monthly Archive for November, 2003
Heh heh, every blogger’s nightmare 
I ought to write about my experiences in Amsterdam… if only I could remember any of them. Lemme see, I arrived midday Thursday, tourist information at Schiphol Airport were worse than useless, Tourist Information at Centraal Station were wonderful (thank you Mr T Van G_____!) - telephoned my previous accomodation, confirmed that the guy there is a liar, a blackard and an ill-mannered scounderel, told me there was very little we can do about it (other than to get the guy blacklisted by his booking service) and arranged alternative accomodation for me at the Hotel Elf.
Hotel Elf is not really a hotel… it’s the downstairs of somebody’s house. Only one apartment, mine, while upstairs live the owner and her teenage son, who pass through my kitchen on the way in. It all seemed a little public, particularly the bedroom which is in an old corner shop, on the ground floor of two busy backstreets, so that dozens of people trickle past my room-sized windows every few minutes, getting a peep-show view of my private life. But I soon got used to this, and ended up loving the place - it’s also in the Jordaan district to the West of the Centre, very middle-class trendy and bohemian, full of toyshops, antique shops, art galleries and tempting-looking cafés and bars, and only a ten minute walk from the Station, the Dam Square, and the Red Light District.
Thursday afternoon/evening I though I would put to good cultural use, maybe check out some galleries and other sights. Some hope. By the time I was settled in my apartment, it was starting to get dark, and I soon found myself lured towards the Jolly Joker Coffee Shop. Thus was the weekend’s scene set.
Friday I managed to retain a little more control, if only because Guy was driving up to meet me from Antwerp. I awoke to his phone call about midday, somewhat fuzzy headed, and we both met up outside Centraal Station, even though we discovered later that he’d ended up parking only a couple of straats from my hotel. We meandered and ended up in Stout! for lunch - a gorgeous and very generous goats cheese salad, with scrunchings of spinach, several handfuls of walnuts and some tasty semi-dried tomatoes, all covered in a honey dressing. Afterwards we started on the local galleries, finding our way into a local photography school who were exhibiting self-portraits by a woman whose Vermeer-esque photographic technique was really something (the drapes in her photos really looked like they’d been painted in), but whose subject matter and composition could have been a little more exciting.
Around about this time, Simon rang me to let me know that “the lads” had arrived at Centraal. We went to meet them at their hotel on the Fokke-Simonstraat and, despite the fact that we walked and they got a tram from a slightly nearer starting point, we beat them there by some ten minutes. After seeing them installed in their room, we headed off towards John’s hotel but, on the way, we met the rest of the Electric Shocks who told us that the hotel was an overbooked shambles and the manager a psychopath who was trying to get hold of drugs to keep him sane. John chickened out and returned to stay with the others in the Hotel Euphemia.
We wondered over to the Leidseplein, then started hunting for an evening meal. Guy, Rueben and I fancied something at least slightly edible, whereas the others were keen on gorging themselves on the products of whatever grillhouse we first came across. We ended up agreeing on somewhere that looked like it might not be too touristy, but it turned out we were wrong. Our first bottle of wine (a Montepulciano) tasted awful and obviously watered down - and the cork, which arrived at the table already removed, had quite clearly never been anywhere near the bottle that arrived with it. Guy’s Flemish came in useful, and some forty minutes later the confused waitress finally brought us an expensive bottle of Brouilly, which ended up being almost as bad (but without the water). The food was not much better, but it filled a void.
Guy left us after the meal, and the night’s chaos began. We met up with Lee and Dave at the Bulldog on Leidseplein, then discovered that Tom, Tom, Tom and Terry were waiting for us in the other Bulldog, in the Red Light District. I bunked the tram to the centre. We met the three Toms plus Terry, and the debauched drinking and smoking began in earnest. When the MTV Europe awards came on TV, and Rueben started cheering on Christina Aguilera a little too enthusiastically, we decided to split. Another area of conflict was discovered - half the party wanted to drink alcohol all night, whereas the others (myself included) were happy to find a pleasant non-alcohol serving coffee shop and immerse ourselves in good vibes. We visited the Abraxus coffee shop long enough for the others to get directions to somewhere which served alcohol, but long enough for me to sample their excellent Space Shakes. The “somewhere else” turned out not to exist, but more lengthy meandering brought us back to the main drag of the Red Light District, where we found an indie-music bar, covered floor to ceiling in bad graffiti, but with a decent atmosphere and a dealer’s corner selling various comestibles. We were there for what seemed like hours, I was flagging and space-shaking and decided to walk home and sleep. The others were very concerned about my ability to get back along, and pestered me all night to check that I was OK.
The next day was very slow. Well, most of it was spent in bed actually. But I did discover the local supermarkets and the Saturday street market (a little late, unfortunately - I had already bought mushrooms in the supermarket before I discovered a stall selling an excellent selection of wild ones). I returned to my apartment and, determined to make use of the kitchen at least once before leaving, cooked up a mean dutch-cheese risotto. After a lazy afternoon I had another Space Shake at the Abraxus, met the others at the Bulldog again, bought my concert ticket and then walked back to my hotel to stow the camera and prepare myself for the evening.
I got lost on my way back to the Paradiso Club, finally made my way inside just as the Electric Shocks were starting their second number. They were fucking excellent. I danced all the way through, in a way I haven’t done for years. Stood watching the next band, in a different hall (the acts alternated so there was always a band playing) with my feet aching. I finally settled down on top of a radiator (about the only seating I could find) where I spent most of my evening, some of it a little spaced-out but most of it comfortably happily dazedly different, a feeling I haven’t really had since gigs at the Jolly Boatman when I was 17 or 18. I had an excellent time, even though The Darkness were a little disappointing. After they played, there was another surprise act in the smaller hall. The Sluts of Trust were very strange, at first they sounded terrible but I very quickly began to love their weird funky guitar-thrash noise. There were only two of them - a drummer and a strange looking guy on guitar, leather trench-coat and trousers, wispy beard and far too much eye-liner. He played thick blocks of sound with melodies thrumming underneath them, it reminded me a little of Caspar Brotzmann Massaker. At one point Arthur started heckling him “where’s your bass player”. I thought he hadn’t heard but, a minute later cool as anything he lifted up one finger on his right hand and said nonchalantly “here’s my bass player”.
Finally the gig was over and we started to filter out. I was impressed by the laid back attitude of the bouncers, they were quite happy to let us mill around inside the main entrance for 15 minutes or so, in the UK we would have been kicked out as soon as possible so that they could get home to bed. On my way out I thought I spotted a familiar face - Jess from Leo Burnett’s - it couldn’t possibly be, but then I remembered that she was working for an Ad Agency in Amsterdam so, not expecting a reply, I called her name and… it was her. Bit of a problem this… severely space-shaked out I didn’t really have any words to offer beyond her name, so our meeting was a bit short-lived and uncomfortable, but still lovely to see her again after all this time.
And off into the night… we found another bar, or two… I forget. Oh yes, we found a chip shop, then a bar which we finally got chucked out of around 3am. We tried a few more bars without much luck, and realised perhaps this was a sign. We went to the Hotel Euphemia, where we got to see the squalor that was Simon, Rueben, Arthur & David’s shared room (with a pungent spell which reminded me a little of Philip’s bedroom circa 1987). After some more time spent in their company, I left with John (who was without a bed, since David had taken his matress this night), and caught a cab back to my place. By this time it was after 4am - my flight was at 9.30 so I had to leave very early to be sure of getting there in one piece. We wolfed down the rest of the risotto and reluctantly went to bed at around 5am - it still felt like the night was young. It was even more reluctantly that I got up again 90 minutes later. Brisk pre-dawn walk back to Centraal Station, immediate train to Schiphol, lots of duty-free chocolate, and I was on my way back to Manchester, over the Pennines and home.
Well, sod that. The bloody useless postman hadn’t returned the parcel to the depot yet, even though he tried to deliver it yesterday morning, so I won’t be taking Margeting to Holland with me. When will this run of bad luck end? Ah well, at least I’m still happy, I had a good stroll, and my little meditation definitely did break the back of my tiredness - I’m awake and raring to go now.
Whoah! My meditation space just came into its own. After a day and night of ups and downs, culminating in downs, and of hurrying to get all my work done, answer emails, pack my things to go away… I reached 4.15am and was feeling very sleep-deprived, very jittery, very not ready in any way. I have a train to catch at 6.20am, and I knew that going to bed would be next to useless, but there’s no way I could stay up… so I decided to test out the mezzanine.
I thought a spot of genuine meditation would be in order. Fired up iTunes, told it to play any tracks where the genre contains the words “ambient”, “meditative” or “impressionist”. I settled down in the wonderful Emmanuelle-esque big round cane saucer-chair that Gill plonked up there for me (it’s perfect for meditation - curls around a cross-legged body just right, supports you all over) and tried to get into some of the exercises I’ve been practising down at the local Buddhist centre.
I couldn’t do it… my mind was too all-over-the-place, I could barely get a hold on my breathing, let alone focus on all the parts of my body, relaxing one at a time. But gradually the music came into its own, and that’s what saved me. I didn’t meditate so much as trip out to sounds. One particular track came on, the first track off Beyond the Pale by Experimental Audio Research. Funnily enough, of all my 18,000-odd tracks, I’d listened to that very one in iTunes only this afternoon, and rated it only as two-stars, it grated somewhat. But in this different mental state it was like a new landscape for my thought patterns to follow. The gently sweeping constantly rising trumpet-like drone reminded me of Glenn Branca, it seared into my brain, lifting it higher and higher and higher and higher and higher and higher and…
And the next thing I know, it’s nearly an hour later, I feel completely chilled out, and I’m all ready to go catch my train, or do anything that the world throws at me. It’s true, a quick session of meditation can be as good as a night’s sleep. (Well, I’m still pretty dozy, but so much more chilled out and happy with my lot. I was beginning to think my state of mind would impinge seriously on my holiday. Now I’m ready to FACE THE WORLD!)
Right, must go. The Post Office sorting depot open at 5.30am, and they’re holding a parcel for me (a copy of the book Margeting, which I’ve got to review ASAP for Brand Republic. The book is written by Netherlanders. Hee hee hee, I could have some fun with this one…
Click here to see the brand-name of my Grandpa’s old 1960s bookshelf,
which I now use to store all my computer manuals.
I have no words… no time… no energy to explain the situation. So let my email to the bastards stand alone:
Hello,
I am afraid I do not entirely understand the contents of your email, other
than that you have a broken shower and hence have a "plumper" coming.
I do not understand from this email whether the room is still available or
not, or may be available. I am a very accomodating person (and certainly not "furiously"),
and am not unduly concerned about a small problem with a shower.The story told by your email is very different from the one which I am aware
of, which I will set out here in as much detail as I am able.This afternoon I made a booking for ****** ********** Amsterdam via ******** NL. I confirmed this by credit card, and got an email back at 17.24 GMT saying
that "You have confirmed your booking by credit card; your booking is
GUARANTEED" (my emphasis).At approximately 20.15 GMT (some 45 minutes ago) I was called by a man who
I presume was from ****** **********. The conversation was a little difficult,
as his English was not great, but at the end he said quite clearly that the
booking is confirmed and I should check in at 14.00 CET.Five minutes later I was called by the same man. He said to me that "the
owner thought the booking was for two people. Because it is only for one, the
booking is now cancelled." At the time I was driving my car, and rather
stunned I had no reply for this. It was only after the caller hung up that
the implications sunk in.As soon as I got home, I called the hotel back and said that I was not happy
for the reservation to be cancelled. I pointed out that I have a clear confirmation
of booking, and that it says on the confirmation that the booking is for one
person in a two person apartment (on the channels.nl website it said quite
clearly that this apartment is available for bookings for one or two people
- see attached zipped web page taken from http://tinyurl.com/tsq8 which states
quite clearly "Apartment rate: Midweek (Mo-Thu) 1 ps EUR 70, 2ps EUR 84:
Weekend Rate
(Fri-Sun) 1 ps 85, 2 ps EUR 99,75"). Although I was quite calm about this,
and did not raise my voice (until I had to in order to be heard), the man I
spoke to was extremely abusive, shouted at me, said this was my problem not
his, and ended by slamming the phone down on me. Although this is a cliché,
I have NEVER in my life been treated so rudely by somebody who supposedly works
in the service industry.A few minutes later I got the email below, with its talk of showers and plumpers,
which I confess has me completely confused. Just after that, I received a voicemail
message on my mobile phone, again mentioning shower problems and plumpers.
This seemed to be from the same man, now a great deal calmer and more apologetic,
asking me to come to the hotel at 07.30 CET (I already explained to him that
my flight does not arrive until 12.30 CET), offering me free accomodation in
the future (which is very kind, but as it’s been 17 years since my last trip
to Amsterdam I’m not likely to be able to take this offer up for some time),
and pleading that he is not a liar (I’m not sure why he mentions this, as I
have not [yet] accused anybody of lying, but whenever somebody starts volunteering
information like this for no apparent reason it makes me suspect that perhaps
they are hiding something).I am very confused, upset, and at a loss for what to do. I tried to book over
twenty hotels and apartments before finally finding this one free. To have
my *guaranteed* accomodation cancelled only 15 hours before my arrival in Amsterdam,
with no alternative offered, is very frightening as I can only envisage that
I will be sleeping on the steps outside Centraal Station. To be treated to
a torrent of abuse over the telephone only compounds my feeling of hurt.I am not a fussy person. If there is a problem with the shower, so be it,
I am perfectly willing to sleep in an apartment with a broken shower
- I’ll wash at the swimming baths if needs be. I just don’t want my visit ruined
by having nowhere to stay. Having said that, if the "plumper" is
coming at 07.30 and I’m not arriving until 14.00 I would have thought that
leaves plenty of time for fixing all but the most monumental of problems. In
fact, you are welcome to allow your plumper more time, as I am unlikely to
need the apartment for much of the afternoon or evening.I shall be signing off shortly, and leaving for Holland at around 05.00 GMT.
I would be *extremely* grateful if somebody from ****** ********** Amsterdam
or ******** ** (preferably somebody with better English than the man I have
spoken to so far) could call me on +44 **** *** *** to suggest a solution.I do not like to make threats, and would like to try every opportunity to
resolve this matter first, but in the unlikely event that we cannot work anything
out and I end up having my trip ruined then rest assured I
*will* inform as many people and travel advisor websites about this matter
as possible, and will also investigate my position regarding breach of contract
under Dutch and EU law.Keep smiling,
Dan SumptionPS. can somebody please explain to me what a plumper is. I thought it meant
this: http://www.plumpers.com/ and while I understand that these apartments
are in the red light district of Amsterdam, I’m not sure how this will help
with your shower problems.PPS. I have no interest in meeting the apartment’s plumper or viewing their
bill or witness letter. I’m not on that type of holiday.
> —–Original Message—–
>
From: ****** ********** amsterdam [mailto:******@***.nl]
>
Sent: 05 November 2003 20:44
>
To: **@********.org; ***@********.org; ****** **********
>
Amsterdam; ******@******.be
>
Subject: re.13699923..
>
>
>
>
Hello,
>
>
>
We are sorry or client and bookings.nl but we have an building
>
emergency break in the apartment, the shower place is broken , and
>
we have to more morning 7.30 am a plumper coming , but they promised
>
me not to be
>
sure that in time the reparation will be ready. This is the
>
mean reason
>
or the act we have to cancel the booking, client is furiously
>
and will
>
not accept the reason and exist to come and to sleep. I am sorry but
>
cann,nt help client , , I informed client early evening first
>
everything
>
is oke, make one hour later an inspection o the apartment we
>
will use or
>
hoim and notes than that we have a leak.
>
Anyway we advice client to search further by bookings.nl ,
>
but he want
>
that we solved this problem, we think this is better to do by
>
********.nl because they have the contact. or at least two days this
>
weekend we cant accommodated people more.
>
>
We will client ore a ere stay one night next time but or now our hands
>
are bind, client can use this email or utter stay in
>
amsterdam, within
>
one year or another stay o minimum three nights .
>
>
Again deeply sorry or client but we cann´nt accommodated him now
>
>
>
>
>
thanks or now
>
Gerard Dobbe, ****** ********** Amsterdam .
>
>
>
>
Name plumper: de Boer in Naarden , i client wants to check the
>
problem, client may see in also the bill o the plumper , what can we
>
do more to convients
>
him. Must we send him alo a witness letter .
Saw an interesting personalised number plate today, on one of those huge boxy early 80s Mercedes: “C110KER” - with a black rivet between the two 1s so it read “CHOKER”. I presume that’s the Sheffield Strangler’s car.
Not quite as good as the one I saw on a London Taxi last week: T1P ME.
I love the Observer colour supplement’s “This Much I Know” micro-interviews. 99% of the ones I’ve seen have been incredibly enlightening, real gems of life philosophy in there (other than the Ray Liotta one - he came across as somebody who has grown old without really learning very much). They pack so much more into so much less space than absolutely any form of interview I’ve ever seen anywhere else. I always wonder quite how they elicit the encapsulated gems of wisdom.
This week’s column with Wayne Coyne was a gem among gems: he comes across as such a lovely, intelligent, down-to-earth guy. I’m not a huge fan of The Flaming Lips (don’t dislike them, just not particularly excited by them - perhaps I just need to give them more time), but from everything that I’ve read, as individuals they rock. This quote almost made me punch the air and shout “YES!”
All that heaven and hell stuff sounds like fun. But come on, be serious - nothing happens after you die. When you turn off the toaster, it doesn’t sit there longing to make more toast, it doesn’t become the ghost of a toaster. When the spark of life is gone, we’re just a sack of flesh and chemicals with no ignition. That’s why I live life with such enthusiasm.
Well, I had my day in court, and to be honest the outcome was more bizarre than anything I could have imagined. YMC were claiming off me two amounts, £350 for arranging the mortgage and £500 as a penalty charge for not taking out life insurance with YMC when we took out the mortgage. Now, I was prepared for most outcomes - for us to have to pay all of the money, pay none of the money, pay for the mortgage but not the life insurance, or come to some arrangement halfway in between. The one thing I wasn’t expecting was what happened - to win on the matter of the mortgage charge, but lose on the £500 penalty charge for not taking insurance with the mortgage.
The key to this was that there were two separate agreements, and the wording of the mortgage one said I had to pay “on issue of a satisfactory offer” - and I argued succesfully that none of the offer letters issued to me while I was going via the YMC was satisfactory. The life insurance part was more carefully worded, it said that I had to pay the money if I took out a mortgage arranged “directly or indirectly” through YMC. The judge ruled that because the initial approaches were via YMC, then the mortgage was indirectly arranged through then. There is a glimmer of hope, which is that I don’t yet have life insurance to cover this mortgage, and if YMC allow me to take up a policy with them (which will really mean eating humble pie) then they might agree to waive the £500, but it’s totally up to them and I get the feeling they’ll probably just take the money and run (especially given the speed with which they left the court room, I didn’t get a chance to speak to them after the case).
In addition to that, I have to pay £80 legal costs. What really grates about this whole thing (and I am feeling rather pissed off about it - also because I’ve lost the best part of a working day, one on which I have quite a bit to do) is not so much that I lost, I was pretty much prepared for that, but that I now have a number of “what it…” scenarios going around in my head. Firstly, the judge gave me a chance to argue whether or not I should pay the legal costs. My mind went blank, and I just waffled about “well, although I lost the most in monetary terms, given that I didn’t have the morgage arranged by YMC and… [blah blah blah. blah blah blah blah]… then I was clearly morally in the right”. DOH! I used the “m” word in court, stupid stupid stupid. I should have remembered that the law is above morality, but what can I say, it was a momentary lapse of reason. What I should, of course, have said is that “although on balance I have lost in financial terms, i.e. I have to pay out £500 rather than £350, the basis of the case was that YMC had arranged a mortgage on my behalf, and in that respect I’m clearly in the right”. I’ve a strong feeling that if I’d said that, the judge would have found in my favour, he clearly wanted to be able to let me off.
The other thing I’m kicking myself about is that I didn’t press my counterclaim. YMC have already been paid approximately £475 as a commision for the mortgage, and I mentioned in my defence that I wanted to get this money back but had been unable to find out how much it was, so couldn’t claim a specific amount. During the discussion on the case the judge clearly gave some credence to the idea that, if YMC hadn’t arranged the mortgage on my behalf then they weren’t entitled to the commision. But unfortunately, come the end of things, I forgot to press this point. I don’t think he’d have given it to me straight out, but it might have made negotiations more advantageous from my point of view.
Oh yeah, one other weird thing. In his summing up, when the judge mentioned the contract for the life insurance penalty, he said something like “this contract, which Mr Sumption has very admirably admitted to signing” (I don’t think the word was “admirable”, but it was something very similar in meaning). Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but I thought it was common form to tell the truth in court. I know we didn’t have to swear on bibles or anything, and it’s always nice to receive praise especially from one in such an elevated position, but since when has telling the truth in court been worthy of singling out for honour?