Invading Holland Has Moved

Coming Soon

The paint is still drying, some things are held together with sticky back plastic and the Plummer has made a complete mess but the new and improved Invading Holland site is almost ready.

For that reason this post is going to be a little different from the usual kind as I invite everyone to contribute to the new site in a small way. Since it includes a profile page I am looking for any questions people might like answered there. Feel free to ask anything (but any inquiries into my credit card number will have to go unanswered). Any questions that won’t suit the profile page I will still try to answer here.

I would also like to hear which posts everyone has enjoyed the most for the most popular post section.

If there are not any technical hick-ups I will be revealing the new site in a week.

Student Politics

Politics has never really been my subject. It’s one of the topics that makes my head hurt if I think about it too much. Maybe that is one of the reasons why I decided not to run for the position of Student Council Class Representative when I was at college (as a theater design student). I left that responsibility to my fellow class mates who had more political ambitions. There were three candidates but only one clear winner once all the votes had been counted, Malcolm.

Malcolm had won by a land slide but there was one small problem, something that made it difficult for him to for fill his new position in student politics (or any thing else for that matter). Malcolm was an inanimate green amphibian, a stuffed toy frog to be more precise. He was our class mascot who had been nominated because we needed a third candidate.

He would have been more at home on the Muppet show then in a meeting room debating what should be available in the college canteen. It had been amusing to vote for him but we had to face facts. Malcolm was not capable of representing us (something that was fundamental to the position as the title suggested). His muteness would impair his abilities and influence on the student council. We were forced to take another vote.

Once all the votes were counted again the winning student was awarded with his new title. However it was not the title of Student Council Class Representative. That would have been unfair to Malcolm. Instead the chosen student was crowned, "The Voice of Malcolm." He became Malcolm's emissary, his vessel, his voice.

The Voice of Malcolm took Malcolm to every meeting of the student council and spoke his wishes aloud for them all to hear. I never attended one of the meetings myself but often imagined Malcolm perched on his shoulder while whispering ideas into his ear like something out of a Philip Pullman book. However, some suspected that The Voice of Malcolm was only speaking for himself. No one showed any signs of being unhappy though (even if it would have been a great injustice).

Then one fateful day disaster struck. Malcolm had been left by the studio’s open window. As he sat their minding his own business (either thinking about the pond out side or his dreams to climb the political ladder) he fell out of the window into the car park bellow. By the time we had reached the car park to rescue him he was gone. We will never know if it was a simple accident or a political assassination attempt that led to his disappearance.

We tried to find a replacement but no other toy frog was worthy of filling Malcolm’s shoes. He had become more then a class mascot, he was our leader and he was mourned. You might think the story of Malcolm I have told you is far too strange to be true but we really did vote for a stuffed toy frog to be our Student Representative, someone really was appointed as his voice and he really was lost the day he fell out of that window (we were strange/typical students). I like to think that maybe he is still alive some where (as alive as an inanimate green amphibian can be) living like a king and leading some small country we have never heard of to a state of prosperity. Long live Malcolm.

Back to School

Maybe it is because I am English and the stereotypical politeness that comes with it that courses me to ask a Dutch person “Spreekt u Engels?” before I bombard them with the language. Whatever the reason may be a lot of them reply with a very simple, “Yes, a little.”

However, when a Dutch person suggests they only know a little bit of English it is usually the equivalent of Albert Einstein claiming he only knows a little bit about mathematics or Steven Hawkins saying he only understands some Physics. In contrast to this when most English people say they can speak Dutch it’s usually the equivalent of claiming to be a gourmet chef when all they can do is burn toast.

English seems to come easy to the Dutch but most (not all) expats struggle with Dutch. Attempting to learn Dutch often feels like returning to school. This isn’t because every Dutch person runs around in school uniform, scraping their nails down any available chalkboard and making out with the girls from the neighboring country behind the bike shed (although some probably do). It’s because it’s like trying to learn reading, writing and speaking all over again (especially if you are dyslexic like me).

Counting has to be re-learnt. The system for telling the time is different. There are new names for the letters of the alphabet. You even have to learn how combinations of different letters make new and unfamiliar sounds that will course you to talk like a Klingon with a cold.

During the first few months of learning a conversation with a Dutch person is like trying to understand Scooby Doo. You might be able to figure out what they are saying from their hand gestures and the noises they make but the words themselves are impossible to understand.

Every conversation becomes an exam that you have not studied for enough, possibly because the X-Box or PS2 provided too much of a distraction. A simple solution to this might be to write the answers on your arm and have a sneak peak when no one is looking.

If you get caught however you might end up getting sent to the head masters office along with the Spanish kid who did not realize his Dutch friends were only teaching him swear words (which would make him seem to have Dutch tourettes) and whenever he thought he was asking for directions he was in fact asking for something that would make most prostitutes in the red light district blush.

Dancing the Night Away

Whenever I am in a bar or night club having a few drinks with friends I find it impossible to stop myself from tapping my foot in time with the music being played. It doesn’t even matter if the music is terrible. Half the time I don’t even realize I am doing it.

It’s as if a little devil and angel are sitting on either shoulder while they argue with me in the center. The subject of their argument is not my mortal soul however. The debate that rages between them is much more important then that. To dance or not to dance?

Despite my involuntary foot tapping I have always been someone who initially resist the call of the dance floor as if everyone’s attention will be on me as soon as I step a single foot upon it.

However, I always find it impossible to stay on the side lines for long. Slowly the foot tapping turns into a head bob. The head bob turns into a sway. The sway turns into a dance and before I know what has happened I suddenly realize I am out on the dance floor getting jiggy with it as if guided by some unknown mystical force. This might partly explain why I ended up dancing like a maniac last Friday while wearing a large novelty pimp hat. I was later described as a dancing machine but still have no idea of where the hat came from. Hopefully it was not from an actual pimp.

Threw my experience with involuntary dancing I believe I have worked out the mathematical formula that predicts what will make someone dance. I have worked out this highly scientific theory using a percentage system. The closer to a 100% scored during the course of the night the higher the chance that dancing will ensue:

If there is no one on the dance floor: -20%
If there is a small group on the dance floor: +15%
If there is a large group on the dance floor: +25%
If there is a really embarrassing drunk person on the dance floor who will over shadow even your worst moves: +15%
If the really embarrassing drunk person is alone on the dance floor and you will be in direct competition with them -20%

After consuming four beers: +25%
Every additional beer after four: +10%
After every beer over eight: -12%
After 12 beers: You are the really embarrassing drunk person.
After 16 beers: Call an ambulance. Find a stomach pump. Reset to 0%

Your favorite song (otherwise known as the Catalyst Song) is played: Multiply score by 1.5.

The Catalyst Song rule also applies to the following: YMCA, Fame and the head banging part of Bohemian Rhapsody.

A Little Lost

I freely call myself an accident prone man. I am comfortable with doing so because it is something that gives me a lot of funny stories to write about. Lately I have been a lot less accident prone but I still got a chance to live up to my blogs reputation this week when I met fellow blogger Blonde but Bright.

We had arranged to meet at a bar for a few drinks along with another of her friends but I was having trouble finding the place. After some unsuccessful searching I decided to give BBB a call.

Me: “Hi. It’s Stuart. I’m near the cinema but I’m not sure where this bar is.”

BBB: “Ok. What tram stop are you near?”

Me: “Er… None I think. I don’t know this area too well.”

I’d only ever been there to go to the cinema.

BBB: “Really?”

Me: “Yeah.”

BBB: “Do you know The Heineken brewery? It’s right near there.”

All I could see was the Heineken Music Hall but I didn’t think they would be hiding a distillery behind the bar where any drunken customer could get to it and drink them into bankruptcy.

Me: “Umm. I don’t really know where that is either.”

I suddenly felt like I could not truly call myself English because of my lack of beer related landmarks.

BBB: “Really?”

It sounded like she could not believe I was English anymore either.

BBB: “It’s South of the flower market.”

Me: “Flower market? They have one of those here?”

I knew of a flower market but that was a few miles away.

BBB: “Yes. It’s near the big clock tower.”

I knew of a big clock tower as well but that was also a few miles away near that flower market. Slowly realization started to dawn on me…

Me: “Oh… wait.”

… and then I suddenly knew what I had done.

Me: “You’re in Amsterdam aren’t you?”

BBB: “Yes.”

As soon as my brain reorganized the landmarks into their correct setting I knew exactly where the place was. It was in a part of Amsterdam that was very hard to mistake for any where else and I wasn’t even in Amsterdam. I had got the address wrong by a few miles. Another train journey later and the charming Blonde but Bright got to meet Ginger but Dim.

Blown Away

To say it has been a bit windy lately would be an understatement. Yesterday Holland suddenly descended into complete chaos as a large storm swept across the country coursing more damage then a visit from Godzilla.

The streets turned into high powered wind tunnels populated by pedestrians struggling to keep on their feet. Anyone carrying an umbrella ran the risk of being blown into a near by canal or Belgium.

All trains came to a complete stand still by order of the traffic police due to leaves on the line. Normally this would not be too much of a problem but the trees were still attached at the time.

Roads turned into rivers, people in high rise buildings were getting sea sick, traffic took over an hour to go just one hundred meters and everyone was advised to stay indoors and off the roads.

My journey home that normally takes 20 minutes took four and half hours. I spent the evening listening to the high winds raging outside as parts of the house rattled and shook. I would not have been too surprised to wake up in the morning and discover that the house had landed in Oz after being swept up in the storm and crash landing, killing The Wicked Witch of the East in the process.

On the upside, all the wind turbines in Holland must have generated enough power to supply the rest of the world into the 25th century.

Keep on Jogging

New Years Resolutions are never easy to keep. Seven years ago I decided my goal would be to learn Chess. To date my only knowledge of the game is that trampling the opponent’s peaces with a toy dinosaur while making roaring noises is sadly not a winning move. My only successful New Years Resolution so far has been to stop smoking which was very easy because I had never started (so officially I still failed).

This year I decided my task would be to exercise more, eat healthier and get in shape. These goals were not easy either. Every short jog was an exhausting marathon which left me in desperate need of an oxygen mask and a stretcher to carry me home. Every snack left on a co-workers desk was a tempting offer, triggering a whisper of a voice in my mind telling me to blame its sudden disappearance on the greedy office mice.

There was several times where it seemed I would give in and fail. However, I have managed to be good and things have slowly gotten easier. I am able to resist the temptation of liberating co-workers snacks (the mice beat me to it anyway) and I no longer need a paramedic team on stand by in case I keel over during my evening run. My health is slowly improving and I can now out run every enthusiastic dog who think I am inviting them to take part in a friendly game of fetch the jogger (as they drag their owners behind them). Soon I might turn into Stuart Austin, The Six Million Euro Expat.

However, jogging has a darker side as well as a good side, its own Ying & Yang or Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hide.

On the one side a jogger is someone with a mission. As they run through the streets and fields in their trainers and tracksuit they are someone trying to improve their health through exorcise. You can see the determination and commitment on their faces as they speed by. These are qualities to admire.

However, all that changes the moment any jogger slows to a walk. Suddenly they no longer look like a jogger. Suddenly they look like a Chav. With out the act of running they simply look like someone walking around in a tracksuit as a fashion statement. The fact that they are still out of breath could be mistaken for the results of a quick get away from a shop security guard. At least that would explain some of the strange looks I have got in the street.

The Experiment

It is possible that I am the unwitting participant in some sort of social studies experiment. What the aim of this experiment is I can not say but I definitely know I drew the short straw.

Recently my flat mate started a new job in an office much like my own. We both do a lot of work with computers and both work similar office hours. However, there is one major difference between the two jobs, a difference he likes to keep on reminding me about. I work in an office mostly inhabited by men but my flat mate is now working in an office almost exclusively populated by women.

It’s as if we have both been placed in very different controlled test environments while someone in a white coat with a clip board and a mustache watches via hidden cameras and takes note on how we react to our different situations.

Step 1) Place computer nerd 1 (Subject Alpha) in an office populated with men.
Step 2) Place computer nerd 2 (Subject Beta) in an office populated with women.
Step 3) Observe and document results.

I keep on looking over my shoulder for Richard Hammond and the Braniac team or members of the Dharma Initiative.

Unfortunately for me programmers with long hair are not a substitute for female co-workers, the stubble completely destroys the illusion and the idea of them in a low cut top is truly the stuff of nightmares.

However, my flat mate has not won in every aspect. There are some negative aspects to being a man in an office full of women. There is no one in his office that he can debate with about who was the better captain, Picard or Kirk.

Hail to the King

When my parents rather cryptically started making plans for an evening out during my Christmas visit I was more then a little puzzled. No matter how many times I asked they refused to reveal their scheme. Even my sneaky attempts at tricking clues out of them met with little success. Should I be dressing up? Would we be getting there by car? Would we be eating when we get there?

After a while my questions were met with a look that said they knew what I was trying to do and it was not going to work. My child like detective work had failed and I was back to guessing with what little information I had. One phrase they kept on using was, "Keep an open mind," which is usually a scary request when you don't know what you are about to let yourself in for. I narrowed it down to a few possibilities one of which was that my parents had enough of me being single and had set up an arranged marriage.

As the evening got closer the mystery grew. I was half expecting my parents to lead me blind folded to some theatre or festival, maybe for some kind of experimental audience participation performance. Luckily there was no blind fold but I was still just as confused when they led me into the local curry house. As I sat there I could not work out why a meal at an Indian restaurant had merited so much mystery and deception. However, all my questions were finally answered when music started to play and there was suddenly a rather strange announcement that I thought I would never hear.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis is in the curry house."

And suddenly there he was; The King. He was standing between the tables with his quiff, dark sunglasses, leather jacket and microphone in hand. It's not the kind of sight you usually expect to see in an Indian Restaurant or many other places for that matter. Sightings of Elvis in England are usually limited to Fish & Chip shops and Tesco. However, he started to walk around the room and shake everyone's hand as he sang. There was no denying he was real (some people said he was an impersonator). Maybe the King had decided to swap cheese burgers for Chicken Korma.

He continued to perform a large selection of his greatest hits and occasionally got members of the audience to sing a few lines by suddenly thrusting the microphone towards them. Every time he started to walk in my direction I desperately tried to recall the lyrics of what ever he was singing in case I suddenly found the microphone (and everyone's attention) pointed towards me. Eventually I ended up singing a few lines of Tutti Frutti and The King commented on the Elvis G.I appearance of my spiky hair. That’s not a claim many people can make, The King knows my name and likes my hair.

By the second half of the performance he had changed into his familiar white jump suit with a leopard printed on the back. Waiters had to move the tables to let the steadily growing collection of drunken people dance as Elvis himself stood on one of the chairs and did his familiar hip movements. Passers by who peered inside might have thought they were witnessing a rather bizarre restaurant riot led by Elvis due to a lack of spiciness in the Red Hot Curry.

It was the last thing I would have guessed my parents had planned but it was a very entertaining night none the less. So the next time you are having a quite meal in a restaurant don’t forget to look out for Elvis. You never know, he might be there too. Long live The King.

Wet Paint

Welcome to the new look. Be careful where you sit, some of the paint is still drying. I would not touch that yet either if I was you, it's only held together by string.

I have been toying around with a new appearance for some time. Originally I was going to keep it under wraps until I moved to my own domain but I’ve decided to try it out a little early and see what people think. However, this is not the full version. There are a few things I am still keeping secret for now. I welcome any and all feedback, ideas or info about any errors.

In other news The 2007 Bloggies Awards have started accepting nominations and votes. If you notice any subliminal ‘Vote For’ me messages in the blog re-design you are just imagining things…. or maybe not.

Happy 2007

I hope you all have a great 2007. It’s time to start those New Year Resolutions. I’ll be back to Holland and my more regular posting pattern this Tuesday.