In an attempt to escape another unpredictable British summer, YACK! Packed our bags and hopped on a plane to Holland. Obviously being given VIP treatment from the moment we landed, YACK! Experienced more than just the coffeeshops and red light districts that most people associate with the flattest country in Europe. Although we got completely fucked up as well.
Five star hotel? Yes. Rooms on the executive floor? Yes. Complimentary Nespresso machine? Yes. Our stay at the Kurhaus Hotel was pure luxury, and for the vast majority that haven’t stayed there, well you simply should. Especially if you have any interest in the history of modern music, for the Kurhaus played host to an infamous Rolling Stones gig back in 1964 which was cut after just four songs because the Dutch crowd were a bunch of fucking hooligans. I guess the modern equivalent is to put One Direction in the best Premier Inn within Britain and fill it with little girls. Mayhem.
If you like the history of music I will assume you will also enjoy live music, and if both of these are true then Kurhaus is for you. Just underneath our luxurious accommodation we discovered a piano bar with a bit of a difference, because when I imagine a piano bar I envisage a bunch of drunk toffs sipping red wine, while the piano man creates an atmosphere playing soft lounge. Crazy Pianos however, absolutely rocks. Two back to back pianos playing everything from Chuck Berry to Major Lazer. Slip the pianist five Euros and he’ll probably play you a request, and don’t hold back because these guys can play just about anything.
Check out the crazy cheesey awesome dutch expose video for a little taster.
A 40 minute tram ride from the hotel got us to Delft, where there was a rock and jazz festival. A local told us it had been downsized, and fuck me had it. Throughout the whole town there were just two stages (to our knowledge), but thankfully the first one we found was right next to a bar. There was only one thing to do, sit and drink Heinikens all fucking day. We spent the better part of the day not moving very much at all and listening to the funky jams provided by Fat Harry & The Fuzzy Licks who were excellent, serving up head nodding musicality on a frankly excellent scale.
Boy, were those Heinekens good. It wasn’t just in Delft we knocked them back, oh no, it was everyday because they were just that much better when they are poured in their native country. Oh, how we love Heineken.
Naturally when in Holland, you have to take a trip into Amsterdam for the canals, windmills and tulips. Yeah right. First stop was the Sex Museum, which, unsurprisingly, was full of pictures (and statues) of dicks, big hard dicks. After being visually raped by a thousand boners it was time to pop in to a small coffeeshop known as ‘Baba’, which was recommended to us by a friend for having ‘the craziest stanky dank’. Note to all potential customers, stay clear of a strain called ‘trainwreck’, I believe the name tells you why.
After we were loaded we had to head to the famous Bulldog café, where we ended up playing pool with a lonely American traveller who’s name escapes us. After we were fucking chonged up, smashed the Yank at his own game, we left. Back to the hotel for a decaf Nespresso before another night of Heinekens in our own red-roped area of the hotel bar.
We had a good time in Holland there is genuinely more to do than just get high, which mainly however involves getting very drunk. We’re not sure if we’ll ever be able to go back to the Kurhaus though because we’re all fucking broke now. Bogus.
This post was sponsored by Heineken… not really, but feel free to send us a crate of that delicious dutch nectar if you want to Heineken.