Dutch Marco, predictably enough, was in the Sonisphere Crew Catering Tent, gazing gloomily at the leaden sky through an open flap. The only chink of sunlight lay in the form of two Red Bull promotional girls, one of whom had extraordinarily orange legs.
‘Red Bull has a positive influence on cognitive performance,’ read their little pamphlet, ‘and improves vigilance.’ Tssk, a spurious claim if ever I heard one. Skewed research statistics, I reckon, and I can’t believe Red Bull actually gives you wings. No, they can keep their foul, shiny tins of chemicals; the kettle was boiling nearby and there were plenty of teabags at hand.
‘Whatho Dutch Marco,’ I chirped affably, joining him at the urn. ‘Hello Mr. English Barnaby,’ he replied. ‘Nothing to do in this rain except go back to the trucks and watch porn again…’ – I smiled decorously – ‘…with dogs.’ Now, you know when an actor does a double-take in films? Well, imagine I’ve just done one. ‘Or horses,’ he gushed hurriedly, not wishing to cause offence. We call this, in English, digging yourself deeper into a hole.
‘Yes, it’s legal in Holland,’ he revealed. ‘80% of animal porn films are shot in the Netherlands.’ How I get myself into these conversations I don’t know, but once I’ve started, I’m always curious to get to the bottom of things. And no, I don’t mean bottom, literally.
He wrinkled his nose at this point, indicating his disgust at the nefarious practice of bestiality. But I persisted with the impromptu interview. ‘You’re allowed to fuck a dog, isn’t it,’ he explained, reddening a little as the Red Bull girls glanced over, ‘or any animal, actually – it makes no difference – but you absolutely may not hurt them. For example, with a dildo on a stick.’ Good grief, you couldn’t make this stuff up. Furthermore, who actually passes these laws? Rabelaisian rascals in The Dutch House of Lords? Coo, the place must be brimming with rampant rogues, unstintingly devoted to savagery.
Marco paused and offered me a Mentos mint. ‘Sorry, my breath is like a dead bird this morning,’ he admitted. More like a vulture’s crutch, I’d say, but his choice of words set me wondering what he might have been up to overnight – in the grounds of Knebworth House, home to the Lytton family since 1490.
Frolics with a tethered goat, perhaps? He is Dutch, after all. A tussle with a lifeless deer? Ooh, I could branch into necrophilia, too, at this juncture.. No, maybe not. And anyway, another driver called Paul had just joined us at the table, unfazed by our topic. ‘The best place to shag a sheep,’ he said emphatically, ‘is on the edge of a cliff.’
Tourism in the Netherlands
Over a second cup of tea, I had a watershed moment; my entrepreneurial mind whirred, feverishly working through a marketing angle for travel. Yes, I could top those “Smokers’ Weekends” in Amsterdam, by offering excursions deep into the countryside. “Experiencing local Fauna” would be an innocuous euphemism for “Frolicking with Flossy, your four-legged friend”. Or how about, simply, “Dutch Grandslam. Ring for details”?
Crikey, I could be on to something here, you know. There could be pheasants on offer for the poorly-endowed male; cows in diaphanous frocks for those with a lingerie fetish; a foppishly cloaked bull for gays; and panthers flown in for dangerous, back-ripping sex. The sky is the limit. And why not round matters off with a barbecue, marinating that submissive pheasant in Calvados? I could even ask Pervy Ray, the ex-pornstar to be Stage Manager. Yes, I’ll text him when we’re up and running.
No, you’re right, perhaps it is slightly too intrepid a travel tour for 2011. Very quickly, though, just in case you think these conversations of mine are fictitious, check out this short article..