Amsterdamned; The Feature Length Blog

So I did it, I went to Amsterdam.

“What for five fucking months? Did you get locked up – what did you do THIS TIME Benjamin?” is probably what you're billowing out of your mouth right now, with specks of saliva gathering on the screen [which by the way; does not class as cleaning it].

No, everything flight wise went to plan and I returned home after the weekend away.

“But where's the follow up been, you cunt? I've been sat here five fucking months constantly refreshing this webpage, waiting to find out what's happened!” is now what you're more than likely spouting, as the collection of spit heavily grows on your monitor and begins to trickle down, collecting at the bottom, then dripping onto that napkin from Costa on your desk that you were saving for 'personal time'.

But let's move away from that shit and get into what you came for;

Amster-FUCKING-dam!

Let's get the most important stuff out of the way first, fuck the whores and weed, let's talk burgers!

Amsterdam may be globally known for the place to go for the world's best prostitutes and/or marijuana strains, but it doesn't pain me slightly - as the whore-mongering stoner to say; it's burger's surpass both of them, easily. Because I went to Amsterdam thinking there's a possibility I'd have an orgasm in someone's mouth, but instead I had one in mine [no homo] at Burger Zaken!

If we move away from the puerile factor for two seconds [sorry readers, I know you love your filth] Amsterdam is famed for it's architecture too. All the buildings have an extremely narrow width, but stretch back to make space. This is true in Burger Zaken too; so the chefs are right in front of you the whole time, totally surrounded by customers. So you get to see your burger made to your specifications while getting to hear all those snarky work comments. The guy on the salad was a fucking gem, I was inches away from him bitching about the way the lettuce had been cut. But that's more of the reasons I love the place, they actually gave a shit.

We visited Burger Zaken twice that weekend. The first was kinda by accident, we needed to eat and it was a burger shop, so we went in and basked in it's glory. Then Saturday, after going out for steak at 10pm, then hitting the pubs/coffee shops, we returned to Burger Zaken around midnight for a goodbye burger. I'd like to say the greatest thing was the fact that the guys remembered us and asked how we were doing – not a surprise you may think for a customers that were only in a day before, but this was Easter weekend, Amsterdam was full of tourists and their footfall always seemed maxed out on the many times we walked passed [while lost/trying to find our bearings]. But for me the greatest thing was waiting for my burger and basking in the banter of one the employees and a foreign female customer;
“So how do you like Amsterdam?”
“It's great, it's soooo free here!”
“What do you mean free? You still have to pay for things... Oh, you mean 'free' because of the weed and the sex. Do you not have sex in Norway?”
“No.”
“Then how are you here?”

I'd stagger to Amsterdam for another one of those burgers. Honestly, I'd even empower the myths of Jesus to walk across water, while kicking sharks in the face, barefoot, for one more bite of their super succulent burgers.

So if/when you go to Amsterdam please visit Burger Zaken, tell them Ben Broughton sent you, they have no fucking clue who I am, but if enough of you do it maybe I'll get a free burger next time I go!

But let's forget burgers for a the meanwhile cos you and I know you're only here for the sordid details.

Prostitutes! After my first visit, which totally shocked me and left me all bashful like the proper English gentleman I was [and still am], my second visit to the Red Light District was mild. I knew what to expect. I obviously had no need to take advantage of the products [women] on offer because for a male of my handsome attributes it'd be a crime against natural selections for me to pay for sex, but it's fine for me to look!

Seeing as it was Easter weekend and the streets were flooded with tourists, the farmers had brought out their best cattle out [that was a metaphor by the way, sadly there was no cattle market]. Honestly some of these ladies were so beautiful it made your dick tingle, until you think about the abuse they must have suffered to get to this point - then your penis shrivels back in on itself [told you I was an English gentleman].

But what I found fascinating what all the time I spent in the RLD [it was right by our apartment, we had to walk down it to get anywhere, especially when we wanted to see boobies] I only ever saw one person go to 'use the facilities on offer' even then he was being egged on by his mates so it seemed like a dare. Which to be fair is the best dare ever; “So is no-one in our group going to fuck a prostitute? If you dare me, I'll do it … but as a reward for the dare you guys have got to pay for it!” Oh, when I said 'use the facilities on offer' I meant 'fuck a whore', I didn't mean he shat/pissed on her... but maybe he did, it is Amsterdam after all.

Weed! And the decade long love affair with Mary Jane that's ruined countless relationships, soured my aspirations and nulled my social skills … but fuck it, as I was in her home town I had to indulge in my mistress's temptations.

Off the bat, I've got to say; whomever decided to have the marijuana capital of the world in a city with so many canals, deserves every joint smoked in Amsterdam's history, past and future, put out on his face for eternity. Because it's a fucking death trap.

On our first night we came up with a plan; coffee shop then bar, then repeat. Which is a bloody fantastic plan due it's simplicity, yet the roadblocks were thrown in our faces by the bulging populous of Amsterdam at the time; everywhere was packed!

We still stuck to our plan, but speaking for myself; I soon turned into a meandering zombie; lurching from place to place in hopes of cannabis or alcohol. At one point, in one of our seemingly never ending treks I was so high I think I reached what Buddhist's call enlightenment. I was in a dream state, still walking, yet at one with everyone and everything around me. I was floating above humanity, I was a higher-being, I was untouchable... that all came crashing down when another tourist slightly brushed passed me and almost sent me toppling into a filthy canal.

Now a drawback to being a bunch of proper English gentlemen, is the fact that each coffee shop we entered we thought it was fitting to buy some more weed, despite the groom-to-be telling us to we didn't have to. But what kind of person turns up to an establishment and uses a competitors product? A bastard that's who and English gentleman aren't bastards! This eventually left us with numerous bags of weed at the end of our last night and despite our best efforts to get our monies worth and smoke the lot, we failed.

Now here's the predicament... in that super-stoned mindset you start to think; “I could easily get this back to England... somehow! I bet everyone does it!” You begin to conger up plans... the best being just putting it in your pocket... yeah it sounds fucking ridiculous now, but in my mindset at the time it was genius, plus you haven't seen my “Oh... I forgot that was in there” face!

Eventually you sober up slightly and realise it's probably not worth the risk. Then at the airport, after they check your passport, you stupidly slide it back into your pocket and walk through the metal detector, setting it off. Now some G4S dude starts to frisk you. “I think it was the chip in my passport” you tell him, hoping it stops the borderline sexual assault taking place, sadly it doesn't. “Ha, you have some coins in your pocket too”, he says, with you half expecting to follow up with correct amount; “... three Euros, fifty-two cents”, seeing as his hands wonder all over your body like he's a teenage virgin and you're some passed-out slag at a party. He eventually gives you the all clear. Then you realise it's definitely not worth the risk.

… or is that just me?

Plus they had a fucking sniffer dog when we landed back in the UK!

Bastards!

Advice to Aspiring Battle Rappers

So you've seen some of favourite battle rappers spitting their bars on one of the popular YouTube channels, now you think you've got what it takes to step up!

Hold a second though, bruv!

You sure you're ready?

So [in your own mind] you crushed an impromptu freestyle battle at a random party with your secretly penned pre-writtens, now you think you have what it takes? Go at it then, I'm not going to hold you back, I'll just inform you of what's to come.

Now, for a brief second, I'm going to assume you aren't some deluded twat that thinks he [or she] can simply send in a 30 second snippet of you rapping a cypher verse captured on a shaky smart-phone in order to get yourself a try-out in a 'big league'. And that, in fact, you're some kind of purist that wants to cut his [or her] teeth and sharper his [or her] wits in a 'lower league' before taking the plunge.

If you are one of those deluded twats, please stop reading now, good luck at your try-out that'll never see the light of day. [Damn should have wrote; “good luck at your try-out that'll never see Daylyt”, that'd have been almost amusing for the two people that read this].

But how do you go about getting a battle?

You've gotta get on social media or message boards or YouTube to start finding lower level leagues that take some battle rap obsessed nerd and match him [or her] with another battle rap obsessed nerd so they can duel it out with words and multis and schemes and shit! This should be easy enough because battle rap leagues are sprouting up left, right and centre, they're like Drum & Bass nights five years ago. So you swear to the promoter you'll turn up and you'll be amazing. Then you get an opponent, you learn his rap name, his real name, his girlfriend's favourite ice cream flavour, his shoe size, his GCSE grades and the name of second-cousin-twice-removed's pet and anything else you can.

So you gather information, say he's mad 'cos his work his shit, you twist it and make it tantalising for the public... like a tabloid journalist [punchlines for days!] But wait, you're a purist, you want no filler, all killer, plus fuck the cheap angles; mum jokes, girlfriend bars... pfff … that's amateur shit, you're going to put in a fucking classic performance battle rap historians will document in years to come. But just in case you're battling some fucking cunt that thinks it's cool to openly mention your mother's or your girlfriend's full name in battle, you've got those killer flips tucked away that multi his mother/girlfriend's [or father/boyfriend's – damn, this gender correction is getting ridiculous, so I'm giving up] name to oblivion! But let's hope it doesn't come to that.

But hey, you tow the line with a couple of name flips and maybe a jokes about where he is from. Also you've got a couple of ideas brewing, you've learned some of your rival's personal traits and you're going to manipulate them into a scheme. For example, you discover your rival is ginger, so you pen something like;

“You were born with a negative aura like a pessimist’s daughter,
Yes; it is slaughter, when I break down this Ginger without a pestle and mortar

For crossing the Throne of Caesar; I'm orchestrating this ginger bitch's closing features

It'll be like when Boudica stepped to the wrong Roman leader ”

… or maybe your opponent has another man's name on his neck for some reason, so you write;

“I don't wanna get sordid about the name on your neck you've had painted and etched
Maybe, I guess, it could be a mate that has left after you've laid him to rest,
Or there once was a lady you pressed and that's the name of the baby she kept
But at the tattooist's ... did you not engage your brain for a sec or debate in your head;

And think of a better way of paying respects without maiming your flesh?
I mean; due to me evening mentioning [NAME] you're acting restrained and oppressed
Cos that's a relationship that's become blatantly stressed and must be tainted at best;
- now you symbolically class [NAME] as a massive pain in your neck ”

… or perhaps you saw his last battle in which he got an over-zealous crowd response due to a high percentage of his friends turning up and you want to highlight that, by saying*;

“From your 2 on 2s, I cynically doubt your passion
for bringing around a faction of squinting & pouting badman
that were singing it loud and brapping while you delivered your rounds of rapping

I still can't figure it out, it's baffling

they wouldn't have been less menacing if they were skipping about and prancing
But you're in Derby now; the City I proudly stand in,
so expect limited crowd reaction
from the lyrics your pronouncing at Ben in that primitive sounding accent,”

I'm sure in your heart of hearts you think those angles are innovative, original and pack a punch that would leave any rival beaten [ - they probably would to be fair].

You prep; you go back and forth with your friends. They read you a line, you say the next one. They play their roles as friends and step up to the mark, while secretly hoping on you make a fool of yourself so things can go back to normal. Every night you go to sleep reciting your rounds, you wake up, you recite them, you take a shit, you recite them. You've got them locked down! Your ego starts to boost a bit, you're mentioning it to people at work. You give them the whole “nowadays to 8 Mile” speech. They ask when it is, acting very intrigued, you tell them. They ask you to rap a line. You freeze... then you stutter... then you come up with some bullshit excuse about saying them in public before the battle. Then you worry.

But you're fucked. The day is upon you and despite all those stellar performances you put on in front of the bathroom mirror, you start to doubt if the slightly drunken people in attendance will get each one of your obscure references that seem perfectly normal to you [everyone has a large understanding of Park Chan-wook films and Johnny Cash's early work, right? RIGHT?]

You enter the venue; knees weak, arms are heavy, as if it's some kind of cliché. The host greets you, you talk for a little bit, then he's needed somewhere else. You get a pint then you retreat to corner. You clock watch, getting more anxious as each minute passes. Battles were supposed to start at 6.00pm, it's now 7.49pm, what's going on? Then it hits you; there's more names on the flyer than there is people in the venue. You rapidly scan the crowd looking for the face that matches that Facebook profile pic you've been infatuated with putting all your inner frustrations on for the last seven weeks. You can't spot it.

You don't even notice the host approaching you, as your pupils dart back and forth like some type of medically documented eye spasm [punchlines for weeks!], finally his presence grabs your full attention. You see the look on his face and you know the deal, but you have to hear it anyway;

“Sorry dude, your opponent has no-showed due to; family problem/health issue/transport troubles/being a pussy!”

But now you know the most important aspect of becoming an aspiring battle rapper; battle rappers are flakier than a Cadbury's Flake in the pocket of a snowboarder involved in an avalanche! [Punchlines for weeks!]

You'll never admit it out loud but there's a slight relief you don't have to battle anymore. Plus technically you turned up, so you've won... you try and convince yourself. You try and enjoy the night. You spit your bars to a few of the other battlers and get some supportive reactions, maybe they feel sorry for you, maybe they actually liked it, either way you feel comfortable enough to at least give this another go! Although nobody got the; “Find a job and start that soon, cos you've made more money off J.S.A. than Park Chan-Wook” bar or your 'Johnny Cash Scheme'.

“Maybe you can reuse some of those bars in the future.” Someone kindly points out. You believe them, due to the fact the contents of your rounds means nothing to you anymore, it's just a collections of words placed into a routine that you've embedded into your memory. Then you recall the angles you took; ginger, name tattooed on neck, over-zealous crowd response... yeah I'm sure you'll be able to work those bars into any upcoming battle! So much for being a purist... bet those generic mum jokes and girlfriend bars are looking much, much better now.

End of Part 1. 

* also in this analogy your name's Ben, and you live in Derby.

 

Draft C.V.

Ben Broughton
@BenJonBroughton
www.benbroughton.blogspot.co.uk

Profile
I'm a pessimistic, borderline alcoholic with underlining issues with rage and delusions of grandeur. I attended the University of Derby in which I developed numerous skills that I am unable to translate to the 'real world'. I have the ability to complete tasks on my own [if you keep your nose out my business for long enough] and I can begrudgingly work in a team of idiots [as long as one team member promises to be the fall guy when the task is incomplete].

Qualifications

A glorified GCSE in Media Studies from the University of Derby.

• Emphasis on ducking lectures and coming up with elaborate lies to cover my back.
• Being a general nuisance and interrupting other student's education.
• Piss off if you want a third thing!

Work Experience

[Company Name Removed, due to embarrassment] 

[Nov 2010 – Present]

My role in the company is to come up with innovative strategies to maximise sales of cheap shit to idiotic consumers before they either realise the possession won't fill the void in their empty lives or they die. This role has also helped me develop numerous skills such as being able to put on a sympathetic face to someone while really not caring if they live or die. I've also learned to contain my discontent that I'm vastly underpaid for the title and job I have, while being able to mask my frustration that those in roles above me, pass off my ideas as their own, to aid their careers. I have excellent customer service for the first 3-8 minutes of each shift. I'm able to lead an average team into getting great results and also able to berate a below-average team into suicide.

[Major Supermarket, last time I checked]

[Oct 2002 – Nov 2010]

My role in this company primed my distaste for the entire human population that I'd later expand on in my next job. This job taught me I'd never achieve anything as my blond hair wasn't long enough, I didn't have massive tits and my sexual organs were on the outside of my body.

Interests

I like following OAPs around in a hoody to make them suspicious about me. I like to belittle other races in a non-racist way. My biggest passion is obviously writing … my friend's phone numbers in public toilets, offering free gay sex. I have an extremely expansive collection of toenail clippings that I hope one day will make me tens of pounds.

Achievements

Never been imprisoned for drug offences, fraud or murder. Haven't wet myself in well over a week.