Amsterdam

I could tell he didn't like me from the moment he laid eyes on me. Something about the fire in his eyes when he refused to shake my hand in the dressing room, and the way he spat in my general direction as I walked out to bat.

This isn't what I'd hoped for at all when Irish Richard told me I was playing cricket in Amsterdam. But it's happening now, and I'll just have to grin and bear it - while I still can grin, that is. Standing off in the distance with a shiny new rock in his hand and preparing to run in at me again is Shoaib Akhtar's younger, leaner, meaner cousin. He's angry, and he will continue to be until he's sent my head flying off its shoulders. He's already got me praying to some unseen higher power and I've only faced two balls. The first zeroed in on my off stump before swinging, viciously and late, past my hapless forward defensive prod. The second was a mere blur accompanied by a whirring sound as it fizzed past my nose on the way through to the keeper.

"I am gonna fuck you up, boy", he's saying, and now he's running in again. Oh god. This one is short of a length but I prop forward instinctively, too hungover to read it early. It rears up nastily and suddenly it's headed straight for the hard spot directly between my eyes. I'd love to sway out of the way but suddenly my whole body has gone to jelly. I have no control over it as the red missile traces its inexorable course towards its target...

"How are you feeling, lazy man?", says Willem as he assembles the bread and cold meats for our breakfast. I'm still in Utrecht, and alive. Shoaib's cousin, if he exists, is still waiting for me in Amsterdam ready for our showdown tomorrow. That Dutch Dynamite last night was obviously so potent that it gave me nightmares. I highly recommend it if you're ever in Utrecht.

Irish Richard arrives at lunchtime to pick me up on his way through to Amsterdam. It's time to say goodbye to my gracious hosts Willem and Heleen, who have declined my offer to join me in the capital for the weekend. "No thanks, but have fun with the gay boys".

Richard has organised for us to go on a late afternoon/early evening boat ride through the canals of Amsterdam, which I'm told is the best way of exploring the city. Before we embark we head to Reilly's bar for a warm-up pint, where we meet Robert and a couple of his mates. A cricket teammate and associate of Richard's, Robert greets us with a cheerful hello and wonders aloud if we'd like some beers. It's a Friday but his glazed over expression, and the fact that he's wearing sunglasses in the murky light of an Irish pub, suggest that his weekend began many hours ago.
"Oh man, it's been a long hard week", he says. "I got up this morning and you know, I was so tired that I didn't know if I'd be able to play golf today".
"How did you go?", Richard asks.
"I won!", he says, sounding as surprised about it as we are.

The television in the bar, which had previously been showing the England v South Africa cricket test, has now been switched over to pre-match build up of some pointless friendly football match between Spurs and Celtic. Richard is disgusted. Quick as a flash, Robert pulls a radio out of his pocket and switches it on to the correct frequency.

There seems to be a surprising amount of enthusiasm for cricket in Amsterdam. Richard told me on the way over that his club has six teams, made up mainly of Dutch players. Is this something we need to be worried about as Black Caps fans? Is our position as 7th best test playing nation in the world under threat from the sleeping giant that is the Netherlands?
"Don't worry, Pietersen and Collingwood are still in", Robert says, holding the radio up to his ear. "Well boys, shall we go for a boat ride?"

From the pub, we wander through a maze of streets and canals in the general direction of the boat. Robert trails off some distance behind, endeavouring to walk straight whilst holding the radio to his ear. I'm also joined by a couple of South Africans, also keen cricketers, who ask if I'm looking forward to the gay parade tomorrow.
"Actually, I'm playing cricket with Richard all day so I'll miss it. Gutted I know".
"Oh well, you'll enjoy the cricket", says John, the club pro for Richard's team". "They don't take it too seriously over here". In light of this, I decide not to tell him about my nightmarish visions of Shoaib Akhtar's cousin.

Suddenly, a desparing yelp of "OH NO!" comes from somewhere behind us. I turn around, expecting to see Robert flapping about in the canal but instead he's just standing, holding the radio to his ear.
"Pietersen out! Out for 91!"
Robert is an Australian-born Dutchman. Why does he care?
"And now Flintoff out! Flintoff out in the same over!.... To Harris? Harris! Oh no!".

Robert's brother is already loading beers and snacks onto the boat as we arrive. It's an open-topped motorised dinghy of about 20 feet, small enough to manoevre through most of the waterways and low enough to get under every bridge. A good crowd of about 25 people, mainly cricketers plus some various hangers-on, pile into the boat and we're away.

A canal boat cruise certainly is the best way to see the city, especially with a Heineken in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other. Every canal is lined with trees and a row of ancient four-storey houses. Many have their construction dates visible on the front, and most that I can see date back to the late 16th century. Unlike many Dutch cities, Amsterdam was not bombed heavily during World War II, and consequently the city centre has looked much the same for hundreds of years.

Robert sees me gazing up at the buildings and taps me over the shoulder. "See those hooks?", he says, pointing up at the large metal hooks attached to ropes that jut out from the top floor of each building. "Those are for moving furniture in when you move into the house. And see how that hook has a backpack hanging on it?". He points to a house further down the canal, which we're passing now.
"Yep, what's that for?"
"That means someone in that house has just graduated from school!"

I'd like to believe him, but he's just finished telling us about how he sold his keyboard to some guy on eBay who, before coming to collect it, emailed his girlfriend asking how old she was. When the man received the answer that she was in her thirties, he didn't bother coming round. "Can you believe that?", he said. "My girlfriend made me miss cricket practice so I could stay home alone and let some fucking pedophile into my house!"

"I don't know, Robert", I say, sceptical of his backpack theory. With every beer he drinks - and I drink - the line between truth and fiction in Amsterdam is getting blurrier.
"It's true!" He says defiantly. "Ask anyone!"
I ask the attractive blond girl sitting opposite me, who also happens to play cricket for the Dutch women's team.
"It's true", she confirms. "When I finish school next year, my backpack will be hanging up too".
"See?", Robert says triumphantly, then returns the radio to his ear. "Oh! Oh! Collingwood on 97!"

The boat briefly cruises out into a wide harbour before plunging back into the narrow canals in another part of town. This time we're in the red light district, which is gearing up for a weekend of gaiety. Lining the walkways either side of the canal is an uneasy mix of seedy locals and American tourists with their shirts tucked into the belts. A feature of the red light district here is prostitutes in clear glass "display cases" that face onto the street. Not my cup of tea, but an amusing novelty worth taking photos of anyway.
"Don't", Richard says firmly, lowering my arm. "They don't like being photographed, Big Lad".

Evidently, countless tourists' cameras through the years have wound up at the bottom of canals as a result of photographing the ladies. Usually what happens is that the club that owns her sends out one of its heavies to repossess said camera and deposit it in the drink. It would be quite amusing to see an American tourist try this on and end up with a wet camera just for the craic, but alas, none of them are game as we cruise past.

It's well after dark when we finally park the boat up at a mooring next to a pub with a suitably large outdoor drinking area. The hot weather has followed me up from Utrecht, making it a perfect evening for some not-so-quiet beers by the canal. I pull up a chair with Robert, who has put his radio away now that the cricket is over and can focus solely on drinking his way into immortality. Also at the table is Richard and a couple of Kiwis, Patrick and Bruce (whose real name isn't Bruce but the nickname seems to irk him a bit, so everyone is using it).

Possibly spurred on by the large volume of beer consumed, I confide in Richard my fears for tomorrow's big game.
"Mate, you'll be fine", he says. "At the level we're playing there aren't going to be any fast bowlers".
So Shoaik Akhtar's angry cousin won't be there?
"Mate, we're playing a team of postal workers from Cardiff. They'll all be fat Welsh bastards. It'll be pretty village, mate".
"Are you sure?"
"Don't worry about it, mate", says Patrick reassuringly. "Go out and have fun. Don't go swinging at every ball, just concentrate, be sensible and you'll be fine".

Given the scale of this evening's festivities, I think concentration is going to prove an impossibility tomorrow morning. The rest of the night is remembered only in flashes and snippets of conversations: posing for photos with blond Dutch girls, chopping beers, reminiscing with Patrick about the halcyon days of Cornwall Rugby Club of which we were both members in different eras.

Next thing I know it's four in the morning and I'm lying face down, fully-clothed on top of the sofa bed in Richard's lounge. The light is on and my laptop is open, displaying a half-finished email to a special friend which is quickly deleted to save me considerable embarrassment in the morning. And a good night was had by all.

A Welshman, and Irishman and a New Zealander walk into a cricket clubroom in Amsterdam. The Kiwi turns to the Irishman and says, "where's the shitter?" The Irishman says, "down the corridor and on your right".

Not very funny, is it? Well, it's not a joke. It's just what's happening right now. Richard, myself an a Welsh ring-in named Mike are at Bloemendaal Cricket Club, a pleasant, tree-lined ground on the outskirts of Amsterdam boarded by quaint old Dutch houses. It's a warm, humid day and I won't say that the atmosphere is buzzing - in fact, I won't even say there's an atmosphere at all - but the setting is near ideal.

Straight away I can see that this isn't going to be the no-holds-barred tussle for national pride that I had envisaged. Our team is made up predominantly of part-timers and ex-players from around the world - a bit like the Harlem Globetrotters, except without the skill and flair. As well as the Welsh, Irish and Kiwi ring-ins, there are a couple of subcontinental players, but the remainder of the side is local.

Our opposition, the Cardiff Cavaliers, turn up hungover five minutes before the start of play and head straight for the clubroom bar. There are no Shoaib Akhtars in this lot; a few Jesse Ryders though. All of them are decked out in pink t-shirts, indicating that either they didn't know about Amsterdam's festive weekend and have just made a rather inappropriate choice of colour, or that they're a team of gay postal workers from Cardiff.

As confidently predicted last night, I'm not in any state to play cricket. My head is pounding and I'm sweating pure alcohol in the sapping early afternoon heat as we take the field. My mood was not improved in the changing rooms when our captain, for reasons best known to himself, gave me the new ball.
"Can you bowl?", he asked, hopefully.
"Yeah, a bit".
"What kind?"
"Medium".
"Ok. You can take the new ball".
Oh God. "Wahey!" shouted Richard, always happy to remind me how not-hungover he was.

"Look, I'm no Shane Bond, mate".
The Skipper didn't seem to know who Shane Bond is. "You will be fine. You are a young man compared to the rest of us. How old are you, 28?"
"I'm 23".
"Well, you will be fine".

The Cardiff Cavaliers send out their two most capable batsman to deal with the threat of my gentle outswinging medium pacers. While their teammates sit on the boundary line in deckchairs drinking beer and hurling abuse at them, the openers comfortably see off the less than ferocious challenge of myself and our other bowlers, setting the platform for a healthy total of 186 off their 35 overs.

"Alright, big lad", says Richard as we make our way off the field, "you'll want to bat high up the order eh, or you might not get a hit".
"Fuck that". I'm still shaking off the cobwebs of last night, and besides that, I'm knackered from chasing their openers' perfectly placed cover drives to the boundary, then being left out on the boundary and having to run in again every time they gently knocked a single in my direction. To say that I had my work cut out making up for my middle-aged teammates' lack of pace and agility in the field is an understatement.

Eventually it's decided I'll go in at number four, which should give me some time to put my feet up while the openers blunt the new ball and set up the chase. As it happens, I'm on my way to the crease by the ninth ball of the innings, both our openers having departed to lazy shots hit in the air straight to fielders.

"I'm pretty fuckin' dark, eh", I say to Richard, who went in at first drop.
"Look big lad, these bowlers are up to fuck all. Just be sensible, don't throw your wicket away. We'll win this".
"Alright, mate". In one ear, out the other. Each of my first two balls are met with furious swipes which emphatically fail to connect.
"Fuck. I'm never drinking again", I confide in the Welsh keeper between deliveries.
"Me either", he says with a wry grin on his face. He knows as well as I do we'll be both be sinking pints in the clubrooms not two hours from now. I think that's why he's grinning.

"Easy, big lad", Richard says to me at the end of the over. "It's keeping low so just go easy to start with. Just play straight, nothing stupid".

My form is scratchy at best. Patrick's bat which I have borrowed from the occasion is too heavy for my listless arms to wield and nothing is coming off the middle. Luckily, Richard is in murderous form at the other end. In total contrast to his batting partner, he's sending balls pinging every which way to (and over) the boundary. His trademark hoick over cow corner, hit cleanly and crisply every time, is an inspiration for every aspiring village cricketer from Bombay to Bloemendaal.

And so we stay together for almost an hour and a half, putting on 120 runs, of which I contribute a Mark Richardson-like 18. I depart with about 60 runs still needed and, despite a late-innings collapse of Black Caps proportions, our number eleven whacks the third-to-last ball of the match back over the bowler's head to seal a less-than-memorable one wicket win. Richard is man of the match with his rampant 89 off just 54 balls.

Back in the clubrooms nursing a well-earned pint, I reflect with some pride on my induction into the pantheon of Kiwi cricketing greats to have plied their trade in Holland: Shane Thompson, Mathew Sinclair, Darrin Murray, to name but three.

Then there is the sheer farcical nature of today's events to consider. Here I am, having just played cricket with a Welshman, an Irishman and a few Dutch fellas, against a Welsh team, in Amsterdam. It really does sound like the makings of a really bad joke.
"Small world eh?" says the Welsh keeper. "So where's the drinking at tonight?"
"Dunno mate. You guys look like the ones dressed for a party".
"True", he says, looking down at his fluro-pink t-shirt with the rueful grin again.

The cricket has taken up most of the afternoon and evening, so it's after 9 by the time we hit the bars in downtown Amsterdam.
On the balance of today's game, I'd safely conclude that the Dutch aren't in line to challenge the Aussies for world domination any time soon, but they do have better bars and less laws. It's a warm, balmy evening and we spend it wandering through the endless maze-like alleyways of the city, in and out of cosy bars and tourist traps and Irish pubs, experiencing chance meetings with Kiwis from Te Puke, stragglers from the gay parade, and an Aussie barman who used to live around the corner from me in Sydney for six years and we never met. By the time I fall into the taxi at 4am I'm barely well enough to read the address Richard has written down for me on a piece of paper, let alone pronounce it to the bemused cab driver. I'm pretty sure he overcharges me, but I'm in no position to do anything about it.

I wake up on my final day in Holland to find myself miraculously spared of a hangover. There are some unexplained cuts and bruises; always the hallmark of a good night out. Richard is off playing cricket all day, so I wander alone into town and retrace last night's chaotic steps. My aimless walking takes me through all manner of neighbourhoods, across and along canals, through alleyways and parks, past the occasional gaggle of American tourists and a thousand coffee shops.

Walking alone is always a good way to gather one's thoughts, and it allows me to reflect on my week in Holland. On the whole, I can be pretty happy with my time here. When travelling alone it can be easy to get sucked into living like a tourist, visiting only museums, eating at McDonalds, drinking in Irish pubs and never straying off the beaten track. For the average visitor to Holland, the closest they'll come to immersing themselves in Dutch culture is when they spill a pint of Heineken down the front of their shirt.

Well, not me. I've wandered the streets and watched the locals going about their daily lives. I've gazed up in awe at windmills and mingled with the locals on a crowded beach. I've eaten stropwafels and fricandel speciaals and potat met mayo and uitsmijters, giving my digestive tract the kind of stern examination normally reserved for when Shane Bond is steaming in from the Pavillion End. I've played cricket in Bloemendaal with a bunch of ex-pats and Dutch postal workers. I've cruised the canals with beers and some good bastards. I've talked smack with locals in bars and almost got run over by bicyclists a thousand times a day.

And I've spilled a pint of Heineken down the front of my shirt.