British Style, Hooligan Style

Words by Rupert
Photos by H Man (unless credited)

For a few uncomfortable minutes I was confident I was going to miss the boat. Perhaps going to ‘the biggest graffiti jam in the world’ the weekend before an NSF trip wasn’t the best thought out plan but either way there I was, sat on a train racing from Brighton to Dover, an hour behind schedule. I was really late, chewing up my fingernails and generally flapping. The phone calls weren’t helping either. My only correspondence with the 18 strong group as they assembled and drove from Newcastle to Dover were a series of muffled bulletins. Humorous onboard tales of Baz drinking a bottle of whiskey, a half of Gin then being sick on himself had been replaced by a general feeling of uneasiness.

They were doubtful that I would make it to the ferry on time and this doubt was beginning to rub off on me. I wasn’t too worried, but once it was made clear that they would not be waiting for me, I too began to feel a little anxious.

Needless to say I made it, with some time to spare. Our two transit vans paled into insignificance among all the rigs lined up to board the ferry but once we were aboard our presence was clear for all to witness. Dover faded into the night and as the black mass of water swirled and grumbled beneath out vessel we cracked open our duty free drinks and blew a kiss goodnight to the motherland.

The remainder of our relatively brief sea journey revolved around liberating bread rolls from the canteen and supping Stella. On arrival in Calais we burst into drunken sing-along which we kept up until we found an appropriate lay-by to set up camp for the night. It all felt pretty surreal as we partied away on foreign land and eventually the evening caught up with everyone and we stumbled to our sleeping sacks below the infamous DFTU gazebo.

Photo Cragzy

My eyes opened the next morning to the unpleasant scenario of the ground moving below me. Most of the others had realized how infested our chosen resting place was and were busy packing up base camp. We hit the road for the rest of the distance to Lille where we were immediately assaulted by an array of street and a blistering sun.

Photo Cragzy

The people here were, healthy, friendly and full of spirit and for a while I felt we had fallen upon some kind of paradise. This realization was brought back down to earth when I was chased down from some street roll-in by Police dressed like soldiers armed with machine guns.

We moved on with each new corner bringing a new spot where we could session to our hearts content. The heat was intense and we literally pounded gallons of water, whilst constantly fixing punctures where our previous patches had began to melt off. Some of these places had to be seen to be believed. I don’t think anyone was particularly disappointed that we could not find the elusive skate plaza. Olsen threw a street launch over a gold 4×4 and we left Lille pumped at a successful first days shredding.

Next we gathered supplies and headed for Belgium where we found an appropriate service station to spend the night. This specific service station appeared to already be inhabited by a colony of gypsy’s and we felt this must be a good indication as to how our presence would be accepted. Once the restaurant had closed we moved in to sleep on a patch of grass directly in its shadow. We got a look at Cookies arm-pit wound for the first time as we helped him change his bandage. It was like something straight outta Dawn of the Dead and left him without a hope in hell of dropping any stunts this trip. To improve the mood Daz cracked open his can of ‘Maximator’, clocking in at 11.5% alc vol. Everyone was excited and we laughed and drank late into the night.

Come morning it appeared the mosquito repellent had worked more efficiently for some than for others. Either way this service station had provided more accommodating surroundings than some ‘official camping site’. As onlookers gazed in confusion we set about rinsing this place for all it was worth as the police helicopter repeatedly circled our caravan bound comrades.

We loaded up and headed for Brussels which from its outskirts already had the making of an interesting city. It was again unbelievably hot so we wandered around town on foot checking out some spots and generally being a nuisance. Brussels had its own sort of red light district but on a much smaller scale and after a couple days of sausage fest some of the crew couldn’t be held back. Waiting outside I tried to imagine what lay in store for the eager few that had dived into the doors of the crimson cylinder known only as ‘a peep show’. Expecting quite a wait I was surprised when the chosen few burst out the door in fits of laughter. Apparently it is quite hard to sustain arousal when in the opposite windows you can see your fellow crew members ‘dancing’.

Once the lads had it off their chests we made our way up to a bar where we sat in a beer garden and chugged large jars of beer and enjoyed the entertaining sounds of an accordion playing busker. I personally was particularly inspired by his vocal range and began to dance alongside him much to the amusement of the lads and annoyance of the locals. As the day showed no real sign of cooling off we headed out on our bikes, attempting to ride off the drunkenness in the sweltering heat.

After sessioning some places the sweat became intense, this and the consumption of lager may have influenced my decision to go for a wade in a fountain in the park. Feeling refreshed we cruised down to a skate plaza where we met some sound local riders and set about a pretty chilled out session. Some beef seemed to be on the horizon as a local skater began rolling around the park with ‘Danger, No BMX Here’ scrawled on his bare chest. I spotted this potential problem and reacted immediately, writing on my own body ‘Suck My…’ complemented by an arrow pointing to my crotch. This battle continued until both of our bodies were covered in ink and both of our prides had taken a considerable beating. The skaters English was fairly good and it all came to a close with a fair bit of laughter being exchanged. If only all BMX/Skate rivalry could be quashed with such ease. We said our goodbyes and rolled back up to the van stopping off at some ledges of Road Fools fame. Finchy stepped up and dropped the feebz to 180, nearly killing Hman in the process.

I opted for some kind of crank slide which I pulled despite still being half cut and having a rapidly deflating tyre. On route to the van we encountered a parade of medieval characters that appeared to have the city at a standstill. Some of the group got a slapped hand for cutting through the middle of this noisy procession. Did the police really think we were concerned? Tomorrow is another day and that means another city…

We continued the theme of service station life and found another spot, slightly smaller and busier than the last. We utilized the vans as camouflage for our sleeping quarters and settled in. Ratty was on a ‘stepping it up’ mission this trip, so as well as dropping hammers on the street, he was getting hammered consuming nuff gin. After a few samples of this I too was a bit worse for wear and found great difficultly locating my sleeping bag. I opted for passing out in the van, feeling guilty for not joining the rest of the gang under the stars. During the night I was awoken by the sound of heavy rain. Oh how I roared with laughter at the sight of people scrambling for the gazebo, their sleeping apparatus soaked and shimmering in the moonlight.

The next morning was much of the same. Between us we must have consumed several meters of baguette and once again we left toilet attendants with very unhappy looking faces. We loaded up and rolled on up to Antwerp. From the general outset something was missing from this place, it lacked the radiance the other places seemed to ooze. On entrance the roads all appeared cobbled and street spot seemed far and few between. Some of the group peeled off into what was advertised as ‘a traditional English pub’, only to be shunned out by a dick-head barman who mistook them for leftover World Cup hooligans. We headed out on foot but saw nothing worthy of retrieving the bikes. Some lads sat down for a pizza while a few others shaded off for another peep. This time they returned looking slightly startled having apparently been interrupted mid-show as one of the group was caught using photographic equipment. Advice to anyone attempting to capture this filth in the future is to ensure the flash on your camera is actually off.

On our way back to the van we bumped into some flatlander I should probably be able to remember the name of. He used our pump and told us of a skatepark just out of town in a place called St. Nicholas. We headed on over there and upon arrival enlisted the help of a local who showed us where to find the park. Without him we would have had no chance at finding this place as it was literally hidden deep in foreign turf. The skatepark itself appeared pretty shady from the outset so a couple of us opted to hang around in the car park which was littered with ramps and local graffiti. Most of the team however headed inside to battle the tremendous heat and punk‘o’rama soundtrack. Once the novelty of outdoors had worn thin I eventually made my way into the park, only to find Dazzy E blasting the wallride and a nice little sesh kicking off on the mini-ramp. I joined in and everything was going sweet until Steve threw a whip out onto a quarter on the deck, missed the pedals, went for the back rail to stabilize himself and went clean through it! I watched him from the opposite deck as he smashed through the wood and fell head first off a 6 foot drop. Everyone present shit their pants and we rushed round to see what state he was in, only to find him back on his feet brushing himself down. Living on the edge.

We took this as a good signal to end the session and began to make our way out, stopping briefly to say ta ra to some young chap who had Dave Mirra’s autograph on his frame. We loaded up and tore our rigs through the streets in search of supplies and somewhere to catch a nights sleep. We eventually found some kind of man made beach on the side of what appeared to be an industrial river. The water was black but the warning signs were written in some kind of foreign code, so the braver of the crew went out for a dip. We returned to dry land to find a barbecue in the making, a DIY barbeque that is, consisting of an upturned hand basket and some liberated coals. This night had all the makings of a gem, fine lagers and sand glazed meats. At one point the campfire sing-along became totally ridiculous with other people on the beach having to find shelter from our vocal onslaught. Unfortunately the fun was put on hold as a few drops of rain turned into a full on downpour. We ran for the shelter of our vans leaving our barbecue to fizzle out. At this point I was sure that the party would come to an end, but once the chaps were side by side living it up in the van things really started to loosen up. Im not sure if anyone was getting photographs, but I could live happily without seeing Blob and Cragz running around naked ever again, mind I did chuckle at the time. At some point we must have slept, but where and when I have no idea.

With morning came a warm and hazy hangover, the sort than can be laughed off and settled with a little cheeba. We cruised on into Rotterdam and our eyes bulged through the van windows at what appeared to be street on a plate. Half of the group, including myself went out for a shred, while the others opted for a swim at ‘Club Tropicana’, where the drinks were apparently not free but reasonably priced.

We rode numerous spots, first off with a little flat ledge down some stairs. Bazzy B of the Logan Army hit a smith then Tommy Finch hit a passer-by and knocked her and her washing up liquid all over the pavement. We moved on sharpish and Finch was quick to redeem himself dropping a nice meaty wallride down some stairs. I slung backwards pegs down a rail and we just rolled about enjoying this fantastic city. We found a spot that seemed to encompass something for everyone, with the pinnacle being a pre-waxed stair ledge. Ratty hit up a feebz to 180 then Olly stepped up with a feebz to smith. He was getting it every time but clipping his back peg on exit. He wanted it perfect but ended up hopping too late, missing his front peg and hitting the ground like a sack of shit, placing himself in a world of pain. The day started to wind down a little after that with Cookie riding against the doctors orders and hanging five on a cheeky little obstacle. We made our tracks back to the van and waited for the others who had gone to a supermarket. Waiting for them meant we missed the shops and had to go without beer, food I could manage without, but beer? I wasn’t impressed. We rolled up into another service station and set up camp. Needless to say without any fuel for the fire we were out for the count fairly early.

I arose the next morning with a pressing need to have a poo. I made my way to a little diner where I quickly found the toilets, complete with a little table where the attendant sits. On his table was a little plate where foolish Dutch people deposit money before they do their business. The attendant was nowhere to be seen so I strolled on in and rocked a log. Upon my return he was back at his perch and demanding money. I tried to ignore him but he pursued me and proceeded to get up in my face. I was totally skint at this point but clearly defying some local ritual. We exchanged some harsh language and I was on my way.

We decided to hit up Rotterdam again as it was basically the mutt’s nuts. On our way into town Mundo threw down a rail for breakfast, entertaining the local drunkards at the street corner bar. The ledge that had claimed Olly the day before was to be taught a lesson and it came in the form of Cragz with a feebz to B’s and Jim Nezza with a pop on, roll up, whip out the top of the bitch.

After this the group became a little scattered, Bic threw down a mighty fakie wall ride on a monstrous set up and we yelled out loud in satisfaction. It was getting on and we wanted to make Amsterdam with enough time to have a chance of finding somewhere to stay. I was delighted when a cash point was foolish enough to give me money. Mundo and I celebrated with a travel keg of Heineken for the journey. There it was, one dam to another just like that.

We made Amsterdam in good time and quickly positioned the rigs side by side. We headed into town and were basically laughed at for trying to get 18 spaces in any hostel at this time of year. Tourism was riding its peak and the streets were full of humans looking for a good time. After the denial of an abode, we too were in search of some good times and immediately made our way to Hill Street Blues, a great café/bar I had frequented in the past. Here the lads really had a chance to let their hair down and basically get crunked. Eric went into some kind of higher level of existence while other dark horses merely reveled in the legality of it all. For me the whole day began to look a little sideways, starting earlAstroturfy was not to work in my advantage and I literally had to be carried around the red light district as we made our way from bar to bar getting increasingly intoxicated. I remember at some point feeling the need to lie down. Refuge for the night came in the form of an Astroturf pitch, where I and a select few slept on the bench in the hut by the sidelines. Apparently someone turned up with a torch in the middle of the night but I didn’t see any of that. I was out cold.

Photo Cragzy

With this new morning came a hangover like no other and the only way I felt this could be dealt with was by eating sushi and drinking yoghurt whilst sat in the street. Again this may have been inspired by the alcohol still circulating in my system but soon enough I found myself donating my drink to a tramp and getting ready for our last day on the road. I pulled my act together and shortly the Cookster, Cooper and I made tracks first to the market, then onto the no.14 tram to see the sights of Flevo Park. The rest of the gang found themselves back on the crawl. The gentlemen with girlfriends took to looking for sexual aids and bedroom stimulants while others moved sharply to the café, where they welcomed the day as is done in Holland. Before we knew it time had arrived to rendezvous back at the van and although our tram preceded to break down on the way back into the centre, we made it.

Our convoy took to the road on route to the ferry terminal and already people were getting excited about our journey home. Normally you’d imagine this to be a low point in any road trip, the final voyage home, but to us the mammoth journey by sea was just another excuse to get wasted and laugh to our hearts content. Upon boarding the ferry we bid goodbye to our week in lands afar and made our way below deck to the swimming pool. Here we were greeted by the whole clan, oh how we frolicked in the water. We heckled other passengers, wrestled and generally laughed our tits off, only calming down briefly as Dazzy E’s parents dropped by to say hello! The swimming pool session came to an close with Baz being de-panted and stranded as his trunks were tossed onto the trident of a near by sculpture. Even the Germans in the hot-tub found that funny.

Next up everyone was back in their quarters getting spruced up for some serious on board duty-free consuming. I quickly achieved funding for wine by gambling what little change I had left on a fruit machine. I came out a winner and shortly found myself joining the whole crew on deck. A little piece of Amsterdam remained with us as our vessel sliced through the blue sea below. Sat in a circle we had some heavy rotation to the left hand side, with even Hman sampling the goods. The drivers Eric and Blob were given gifts as a sign of our appreciation for putting up with our crap for a week. They were supplied with spirits of choice and after a box of wine we were all feeling fine. Things started to loosen up a little and before I knew if I was surrounded by hooligans! Mundo was caught up in an intense game of hacky-sack, Ratty was on his back having red wine poured into his face and Carmine was straight up blazed and getting rowdy, throwing plastic furnishings overboard. Our on deck party was nipped in the bud by some uniformed man who seemed disgusted with our appearance, I was left standing like a turnip as everyone disappeared back below deck.

The party continued late into the night with much of the action taking place in our rooms. After a brief incident concerning a wheelchair it was starting to look like some of the group would be spending the night locked in the brig but this was avoided by a sharp escape to the on board night club. Here we felt well out of our waters as holiday makers surrounded us with evil glares and vicious snarls. I escaped back to the safety of our bunk as others stayed to rock the disco. Apparently they too decided it was time to go when a fellow passenger threw a bottle at them. The drinking in the room, whichever it was I had ended up in had become ridiculous…

I woke up. I didnt know Id been to sleep. It was pitch dark but I was confident I wasnt alone. A kick to the bottom of the bunk confirmed my suspicions, Steve let out a yelp. I apologized and made my way back to my room pin-balling from one side of the corridor to the other, all the way. When I finally made it I crashed hard knowing I wouldn’t be asleep for long enough, mind you never are on this sort of journey. There’s plenty of time to sleep when your dead.

Word to my Brothers in Arms.
NSF ’til Death.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 22nd, 2007 at 4:57 pm and is filed under Lifestyle. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.