Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory Forums

Stop it Phil your freaking me out!




HAHa!

Maybe in popeyes when that "ahmed" dickhead started shouting at the Hungarian girl!

Smashing a glass a few years ago in Rasta Baby in the conservatory and having to do the walk of shame and ask for a dustpan and brush... .....

Getting shouted at in Dampkring 2 for looking for somewhere to sit instead of queing and buying from the dealer as soon as i got in the shop.I didn't know the habbit of the shop..if I was wrong fair play..But the way he shouted accros at me was like I was about to commit a serious crime....Turned round ,left ,never returned.....no loss to me ..plenty of quality places to visit !!

Walked into Stones Corner Coffeeshop a few months ago. Asked for some Amnesia Haze. The clown behind the counter just threw a pre weighed bag on the counter at me. I Looked at him angrily and I just turned around and walked out. Never to go back.

muzzle wrote:Walked into Stones Corner Coffeeshop a few months ago. Asked for some Amnesia Haze. The clown behind the counter just threw a pre weighed bag on the counter at me. I Looked at him angrily and I just turned around and walked out. Never to go back.

to be fair to the clowns at Hightimes they sell pre bagged weed and the habit to casually toss the weedonto the counter is not an uncommon or impolite method of presentation in Dam. The BT at Paradox presents weed in exactly the same fashion and means nothing by it.

Many years ago I was asked to leave the very small seating area outside Homegrown Fantasy.

In my sheer stupidity I had picked up an empty truffles box I found earlier and decided to keep my buds in it .

I had finished all my bud when the waitress came over to clear our table and before I could explain she threw a fit and demanded I leave immediately saying that mushrooms were not allowed to be consumed on their premises, my bad not hers.

It was pretty embarrassing and my fellow companions have never let me forgot it

n/t

We're thinking of leaving flowers.

What's wrong with the pre-weighed bag? I can never really see the scales anyway

I may be alone in this, but I've often had more confidence in a pre-weighed bag. It's easy enough for an individual budtender to decide to underweight you. And, of course, even easier for you to feel paranoid that they might have done, because, well, you've been smoking, haven't you? But if they're cheating on the bags, they have to make it official policy, and cheat everyone. Or have a system of proper weight bags for regulars and shorties for gullible tourists, and frankly I can't believe that any coffeeshop would be organised enough to maintain that sort of system. So pre-weighed bags in a locals' shop like Katsu, say, are unlikely to be fiddled.

A short section from my book "Coffee,Culture and Cannabis (Tales from Amsterdam) set in the old Pink Floyd.

Above the sea of cushions on the ground floor there was a small balcony overlooking the bar area. A magnificent viewpoint to observe the many comings and goings, it was empty when we arrived so after buying our coffees we claimed it for the afternoon.

H and I took it in turns to visit the weed counter downstairs so as not to lose our vantage point to some scrote with a dodgy goatee beard. There was a group of them sitting nearby who had made motions to claim this area just as we sat down, but a hard stare from behind H’s wonky glasses made them reconsider.

My almost Heath Robinson style Vape was nothing more than a light bulb, a bowl and mouthpiece and an ignition source from an electric lighter. It seemed easy and straight forward to me. Simply fill it up and fire it up right? I wasn’t prepared for the massive heavy plume of vapor that shot down my throat into my lungs. Even though it was a vapor it was still hot. Too hot in fact as I didn’t so much cough a few times but rather had a collection of spasms whilst my lungs tried their best to tap dance on the ceiling above me. Every time I hawked a gushing river of yellow mucus and snot fired out of my nostrils and mouth. I felt like someone was inside me trying to kick his way out. If my Grandma would have been there she’d have said “oooh that’s gone down the wrong hole that has”…..no shit Granny!

People were watching more in pity and amazement than anything else. The goatee beards were chuckling and pointing the bastards. H was concerned as some of my bile had landed on him. “Fucking hell Crocket get to the toilet man” he exclaimed trying hard to contain his laughter. It’s a good job the toilet was only a few feet away as I don’t think I would have made much further. I was spasming and jerking like a dancing Mick Jagger on acid and it was all I could do to throw myself into the cubicle.

I’m convinced to this day I had a near death experience in the crapper that afternoon. Every time I coughed my vision shook like a badly tuned television. I saw visions of my past, saw my Father lashing me with his belt as a child, saw the US army jeep that almost ran me down on Menston main street aged 6. I glanced down at the lino floor between my legs and saw Mary Whitehouse’s face in the pattern. She was mocking me as she laughed “you wanted this you’ve got what you deserve don’t cry about it now boy, you’re going to die on the shitter”

That was enough to pull me back to my senses, and after stubbing my heel into Mary’s mush I managed to stagger back to the balcony and a still laughing H. I had only been gone for perhaps a minute he said when I stood at the side of him. It was weird in the extreme as I felt I had been away for hours. I expected the place to be in darkness but it was just the same as I had left it. The only evidence of the drama was the pool of bile on the table and the dried snot all over my bald head.

MR Crocket wrote:A short section from my book "Coffee,Culture and Cannabis (Tales from Amsterdam) set in the old Pink Floyd.

Above the sea of cushions on the ground floor there was a small balcony overlooking the bar area. A magnificent viewpoint to observe the many comings and goings, it was empty when we arrived so after buying our coffees we claimed it for the afternoon.

H and I took it in turns to visit the weed counter downstairs so as not to lose our vantage point to some scrote with a dodgy goatee beard. There was a group of them sitting nearby who had made motions to claim this area just as we sat down, but a hard stare from behind H’s wonky glasses made them reconsider.

My almost Heath Robinson style Vape was nothing more than a light bulb, a bowl and mouthpiece and an ignition source from an electric lighter. It seemed easy and straight forward to me. Simply fill it up and fire it up right? I wasn’t prepared for the massive heavy plume of vapor that shot down my throat into my lungs. Even though it was a vapor it was still hot. Too hot in fact as I didn’t so much cough a few times but rather had a collection of spasms whilst my lungs tried their best to tap dance on the ceiling above me. Every time I hawked a gushing river of yellow mucus and snot fired out of my nostrils and mouth. I felt like someone was inside me trying to kick his way out. If my Grandma would have been there she’d have said “oooh that’s gone down the wrong hole that has”…..no shit Granny!

People were watching more in pity and amazement than anything else. The goatee beards were chuckling and pointing the bastards. H was concerned as some of my bile had landed on him. “Fucking hell Crocket get to the toilet man” he exclaimed trying hard to contain his laughter. It’s a good job the toilet was only a few feet away as I don’t think I would have made much further. I was spasming and jerking like a dancing Mick Jagger on acid and it was all I could do to throw myself into the cubicle.

I’m convinced to this day I had a near death experience in the crapper that afternoon. Every time I coughed my vision shook like a badly tuned television. I saw visions of my past, saw my Father lashing me with his belt as a child, saw the US army jeep that almost ran me down on Menston main street aged 6. I glanced down at the lino floor between my legs and saw Mary Whitehouse’s face in the pattern. She was mocking me as she laughed “you wanted this you’ve got what you deserve don’t cry about it now boy, you’re going to die on the shitter”

That was enough to pull me back to my senses, and after stubbing my heel into Mary’s mush I managed to stagger back to the balcony and a still laughing H. I had only been gone for perhaps a minute he said when I stood at the side of him. It was weird in the extreme as I felt I had been away for hours. I expected the place to be in darkness but it was just the same as I had left it. The only evidence of the drama was the pool of bile on the table and the dried snot all over my bald head.

Tales of Amsterdam,not sure what kind of tales you will have,You say people around you where"skrote dodgy beard group of them" Strange you judge a book by there cover.I I find the coolest people in CS..I like there different and most have good story.Like I said strange a guy writes book on coffee culture and sit,s with his buddy all day in one shop acting cool with out interacting . I think I will pass on your book.

macky wrote: Tales of Amsterdam,not sure what kind of tales you will have,You say people around you where"skrote dodgy beard group of them" Strange you judge a book by there cover.I I find the coolest people in CS..I like there different and most have good story.Like I said strange a guy writes book on coffee culture and sit,s with his buddy all day in one shop acting cool with out interacting . I think I will pass on your book.

Had the same reaction after reading the above sampling…… pass

with you on this one guys. nasty, right wing sense of entitlement over others rings throughout the piece. belongs in a hate pamphet like the Mail or Express review section.

Have you finished?......now who's being "judgemental"?....right wing?.....Right point 1: We were not in there !all day"..an hour perhaps at most. Point 2: Where is the rule that compels me or anyone else to interact with anyone anywhere? What did you want us to do?....dance in 4 inch heels together to entertain people?. Point 3: A "Scrote" is a varing description of a youngish person of a somewhat unkempt appearance....which is exactly what the lad was. He was not an office worker in a suit in his dinner hour. I didnt realise one had to make besties with everyone in a coffeeshop. I really must be out of the loop tut