Vinnie the Sling – tales of Amsterdam

I almost forgot to include reference to the orgy. After my last bicycling accident, Eddie and I went out on the town for some fun and games. Our first port of call was the Winston and the Eurovision Drag Contest. I like drag but this was bad drag and I don’t mean good bad drag. A Nana Mouskouri lookie-likie with a ukele won the contest and we all celebrated with a knees up. The Dutch do love their umpapa/accordian sing-alongs. By this time, Eddie was dancing like a windmill which always signifies trouble. We went off to another bar – then another, then another. At 1am I was pooped and ready to leave but Eddie – well, let’s just say he’d seamlessly segued from amusing eccentricity into raw agression. He stamped his feet and refused to leave. I would have left him to it but had no idea how to get home. Eventually, I persuaded him to come home. I went straight to bed, Eddie went out again and then the moaning started. Downstairs were at it again. Vinnie, the owner of the flat underneath, has a sling (no, he’s not broken his arm, he just loves to, well swing I guess) and likes to invite friends around for after-dark ‘wrestling’ matches. After 10 minutes of deep moaning, a soprano joined in. No doubt, she had gotten into the swing too! At this point Eddie arrived home again and went downstairs to bang on their door. He banged, they banged but then it all went quiet. Poor them, it must have all ended on a whimper. The Dutch eh!�