Part 3: Amsterdam (Days 3, 4 and 5)

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I haven't spent a Saturday night in Amsterdam for at least a fortnight. The fact I came here on my pre-season tour with FC Hockley at the start of the month was both a blessing and a curse. Good because I was able to navigate us around with confidence and I was almost an authority on the red light district. But on the flip side it lost a bit of its magic and occasionally felt as though I was retracing my steps.

For a capital, Amsterdam is a relatively small city and all the key areas can be taken in on foot or by the ubiquitous trams that glide through the city trying to run drunk people over. There is plenty to do, but also plenty of tourists trying to do it at the same time. 4.2 million people were attracted last year, many seduced by its reputation for tolerance (quirkily you can smoke a joint inside but not tobacco due to the recent smoking ban) and as a party capital. The population is under a million, all of whom must be sick of the sight of intoxicated British men staggering past their doorways high as a kite on various substances.

It is seedy in parts, sure, but I love the way that the red light district is so socially accepted that it appears in all half decent guidebooks. There is even a prostitute information centre, although sadly I didn't track it down during either of my two stays. I would hope though that it has photos, a mark out of ten and even maybe one or two reviews.

After dropping off our stuff at the StayOkay hostel a little out from the action, it was 'the district' that was to be our first port of call. It has to be said that some of the scantily-clad women that flaunt their wares in the illuminated windows are truly beautiful. It's an excellent place for a single man to do a bit of window shopping (Si of course looked at the floor the whole time). However I can imagine actually partaking in a transaction, which begin at 50 euros for 15 minutes (15 minutes!!!), would be a fairly empty experience. Especially if it dawns on you at any point that you're unlikely to be the first, the fifth, or maybe even the tenth customer that night.

After days two and three had run like clockwork from a logistical perspective, we made our first damaging error since the Rotterdam Tramgate saga by deciding to wash our clothes before breakfast. After some initial confusion with the bizarre hostel washing machine system, it transpired that the garments would take one and a half hours to dry. After waking up late as it was following liberal drinking in a spectacularly expensive bar at Dam Square (14 euros for two beers) the previous night, the delay meant we didn't get to the Anne Frank House until about 1pm. By which time we discovered to our dismay that the queue was snaking about 200m around a corner.

Both of us had marked it out as a priority before we set off, and with the Amsterdam ArenA still to see, we decided reluctantly to save it for another trip.

Lady luck smiled upon us when we reached the ArenA, a 45 minute ride out of town due to building work on the metro. On arrival, an English language tour began after we had spent half an hour at the World of Ajax museum, complete with film theatre and mini screens playing highlights of the club's numerous European finals.

Joors, the guide, was in his late 20s and sported a mad red perm, the type of which you only see on the continent. He made no bones about his allegiance early on, proclaiming Ajax to be the best team in the country "which is why you are standing in this stadium and not that of PSV and Feyenoord". We exchanged glances but didn't have the heart to tell him of our Friday excursion.

The ArenA, which seats 52,000 people, is on an out-of-town cinema and entertainment park in the south east of the city. It dominates the rather dull, industrial skyline as it is raised well above ground level. It is, depressingly, the sort of surroundings that all football grounds will find themselves in twenty years from now. The first stadium to incorporate a sliding roof to cover the pitch in the event of bad weather, it was opened in 1996 to replace the De Meer stadium.

The designers clearly set out to scare the wits out of any spectator with vertigo. After being invited to sample the view from the back row of the upper tier, both Si and I emerged with sweaty palms. The top row must be 60m up in the air and the gradient of the stand is so steep it felt like I would need a pickaxe and a rope to begin my descent.

Despite the gleaming facades and the flashy museum, we both felt De Kuip had trumped the ArenA due to its friendliness and tradition. A typically British attitude, but never mind.

Following a low key evening, the highlight of which was discovering we had a whole room to ourselves, we headed out of Holland on Monday morning. It was time for me to put my long-forgotten A-Level German to the test. Next stop Berlin.

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