“That is superb comedy, @AgentBertram. The description of sex-toys alone is worth the price of the book! U can quote me on that!”

RT @AgentBertram “I read about the sex shop and the horrid little Chinese man. Spilled my coffee laughing!” http://ln.is/bertramandgertrude.com/uYnTU … …

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The shop stood on the corner of two streets. It was quite old and looked as though it had once been a dressmaker’s or milliner’s and had now been taken over by the sex shop business. It had tall windows, reflecting Bertram & Gertrude as they stood marvelling at the goods on display.  The door into the building was sunk back a metre or so and the windows were set into narrow but shapely, turned wooden pillars, as was the door frame. Two wooden-framed glazed doors met in the middle of the entrance and their book-matched pair of polished brass handles in the shape of an elongated letter ‘S’ set the tone nicely.

Our heros entered the shop and found that it was long, narrow and lined with aging glazed wooden display cabinets in which the goods were accessible from a corridor at the rear. The whole place was painted ivory and seemed to have belonged in the nineteen thirties. There was a matching glazed sales counter in the corner, opposite the door. On display was a mind-numbing array of sex toys, intriguing latex and leather clothing, things that strapped on, things that plugged in, vibrators, dildos, dongs, gels, creams and things for immobilising and spanking naughty significant others. There were pussy pumps, cock rings, Arab straps, speculums, enema kits, penis pumps (both vibrating and non-vibrating) and stuff that Bertram had no idea what it could be for, but it looked painful.

Gertrude took a swift look around the shop, dodging the two or three other customers until she settled on a cabinet that was devoted to dildos and dongs. A misty look came over her eyes and Bertram was a little concerned that she might start to drool. She came-to again and addressed the proprietor. “Could I please see items 13, 16, 18 and 22 from this cabinet,” she said pointing to a display, “and items 3 and 6 from the next cabinet along?”

The proprietor, a small mouse-like man with balding blonde hair, a bushy moustache and a shambling gait, returned presently with his arms full of dildos, one of which was flailing around as he walked. He laid them out on the counter and took a respectful step back. Item 6 from cabinet No7 turned out to be a huge black latex-coated butt-plug of at least eight inches in diameter and after a quick glance and a sad shake of the head from Gertrude, it stayed adorning the counter, not to be purchased today – at least not by anyone that did not wish to tear themselves a new arse.

Gertrude picked up the longest dildo or dong (as she now understood that the larger non-motorised items were called) and laughed. It was an impressive beast, at two feet long with a hefty pair of balls to match. She gave it a squeeze and replaced it quickly. The next dildo was made of soft red gel and must have been fourteen inches long.

“I’ll take this one,” she said.

The proprietor took it from her and placed it in a large paper carrier bag marked Verdorven seksueel zwijnerij, presumably the name of the shop. Below this in smaller letters were the words, Dit brengt tranen in haar ogen which must have been, thought Bertram, the address of their other branch.

Gertrude bought four dildos in all and a set of three butt-plugs and was about to leave the shop on Bertram’s arm, when an angry, oriental voice pulled them back from their joint sexual reverie, to the reality where ‘shit’ happens.

“It’s da basta’d butt muncher!I goin’ fuck yu up good boy. No escape for yu naw. When I finish wi’ yu, yu goin’ be geoglaphy.”

Bertram looked across the room and then downwards. On finding the little Chinaman, he said, “Oh dear. Look at what the cat’s dragged in. It’s Won Hung Lo, the one-eyed camera man from the tourist boat. And for your information, you little twerp, it’s history not geography.”

The Chinaman was fuming. “Yu be fuckin’ geoglaphy when I finished wi’ yu. Bits o’ yu will be splead all over da place! Dat’s fuckin’ geoglaphy!” He continued at some length, “I go stick dis knife in your gut, yu bastaa’d. I fuck yu up big time.” He pulled out a rather nasty-looking short knife with a serrated blade.

Bertram swept Gertrude behind him with one arm and grabbed the huge dong from the counter with his free hand. The proprietor handed the carrier bag to Gertrude and evaporated into the service corridor, his hidden world behind the scenes. A security door closed behind him and there was the sound of locks snapping shut. The two other customers exited the shop as though their lives depended on it, which we will see, as events unfold, they probably did. Bertram held the huge dong out in front of him and swept it from side to side to keep the Chinaman at arm’s length, backing himself and Gertrude towards the exit door.

“Ye gods!” Bertram said. “I don’t think that I have ever seen anything quite as ugly as you that wasn’t peering out from under a rock. Now keep back sir, or by God you’ll feel the sharp end of this man’s… rubber… cock!”

“Yu fuckin’ buttmuncher. I goin’ kiw yu. I goin’ chop yu into tiny bits an’ make yu into spling lolls for da local Chinese lestaulants. Oh, yu goin’ be geoglaphy for sure! Den, come to t’ink of it, yu goin’ be biology! My fliends come over here on holiday an’ yu go an’ get dem deported for pilacy! Yu goin’ play da’ yu ha’ never been born!”

“I think that in the fullness of time the records will show that they got deported for their scandalous behaviour, without any help from me. Oh and incidentally, the words are pronounced ‘pi-R-acy’ and ‘p-R-ay’. You really must learn to pronounce your R’s. Your p-R-o-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-i-o-n is t-e-R-R-i-b-l-e.”

The Chinaman had by this time trotted straight past fuming, vaulted over inflamed, barreled his way into infuriated leaving it flattened on the ground behind him, burst through incensed, head-butted enraged and had only skidded to a halt at incandescent because the author had run out of synonyms. He continued his badly pronounced diatribe, “I go stick my knife up your fuckin’ Rs yu twa’. My fliend, Hu Flungdung, is naw in plison for pilacy an’ afflay all because o’ yu.”

“Oh for goodness sake!” said Bertram exasperatedly, “The words are p-R-ison, pi-R-acy and aff-R-ay. With an R! How on earth you expect to be taken seriously with such poorly pronounced diction, I will never know… “

The Chinaman continued, “Yu goin’ take me seliously when I stlike yu wi’ my sellated blade yu fuckin’ toe-lag! My fliend, Sum Tin Wong is naw in plison for pilacy an’ afflay because o’ yu. My fliend, Yu Cum Kwik is naw in plison for pilacy an’ afflay because o’ yu. My fliend, Wan Kin Goff is naw in plison for pilacy an’ afflay because o’ yu. My fliend…”

Bertram cut in, remembering that there were actually quite a lot of people on the tour boat. “I don’t need a passenger list from you, you little oik!… Just out of interest though, how many were there?”

“Der were fir’y flee o’ dem!”

“Really? That’s rather good… I didn’t realize that there were quite that many.”

“Der were, bu’ my fliend, Lei Ying Lo got away an’ has gone into hiding. Now take da’!“

The Chinaman lunged with his knife at Bertram, who feinted slightly to his left and brought the monster dong down on the back of the Chinaman’s head with all the force that he could muster. It connected with a loud and satisfying slap. At the same time, the pointy end of the giant butt-plug, moving at a truly impressive pace, shot past Bertram from behind, accompanied by Gertrude’s blood-curdling family battle cry of, “Always a Wusser! Never a wuss!” and jabbed the Chinaman in his remaining good eye.

Bertram turned admiringly to Gertrude and said, “Well done old thing! Now let us adjourn quickly to a desirable cafe and leave this little twerp to the authorities.”

However, as he ushered Gertrude towards the door, the now nearly blind Chinaman struggled back on to his feet and began slashing wildly in their general direction. Bertram walloped him again with the dong and backed Gertrude, the bag and himself out of the shop. When the door handles met in the middle, Bertram quickly passed the dong through them and left it hanging there by the balls, preventing the Chinaman, now the only occupant, from getting out.

Bertram whispered, “That went rather well! But look, old thing, I think that we’d better slope off to somewhere a little more private as the rozzers are bound to turn up and demand explanations that will take all weekend. It’s for sure that The Ministry wouldn’t like one of their chaps being involved in a butt-plug, dildo, knife fight in Old Amsterdam. Aha! I can hear police sirens already. Look, there’s a light flashing in the window!” he said, pointing. “The owner must have pressed an alarm button. What a thoughtful chap.”

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The kiss was returned and quite passionately at that!  When Bertram stopped, it took Grietja a second or two to realise that it had finished, so carried away was she at his advance.  She came to her senses and stroked her skirt down, whispering, “Hey, you really are being quite the kisser, Agent Bertram.  I was having no idea.”

“Right back at you, young thing, as I believe is the common parlance nowadays.  For a minute there, I thought that you were for real.”

“For a minute there so was I… thienking that iet was for real.”  She was now patting her hair back into place.  “Ief you are wanting to be trying again later, I might be leaving… What ies iet that I should be leaving outside?”

“Er… your scruples, my dear?”

“Yes.  I might be leaving my scruples outside.”

“That is a lovely thought, young Grietja, but you know that neither of us would ever be able to look Gertrude in the eye again, afterwards.”

She sighed.  “Yes, I am knowing that but a girl has to be having her fantasies, yes?”

“Enjoy,” smiled Bertram.  “I am glad to be there with you in spirit, at least.”

They walked down to the yellow bridge.  It was much busier here as the pub had tables outside and people were enjoying the warm Amsterdam evening, dining alfresco with their beers and food.  They crossed the canal and walked down the opposite bank towards the zoo, stopping for a pretend smooch when they drew level once again with the barge.  This time they made sure that there was no proper kissing involved as who knows what they might be inspired to do!

When they stopped, Bertram stretched and yawned.  At the same time, a lion in the zoo behind them, took it upon himself to roar into the night.  “Ah, some of us have got it and some of us haven’t,” said Bertram with a smile.

There seemed to be raised voices on the barge, so they quietly retraced their steps and once again pretended to smooch when they drew level.  The voices were still raised but all they could tell was that it sounded like some men were arguing and that, perhaps, they might be Oriental or even Martian.  Who could tell?  As evidence goes, it was pretty poor.  But it was enough for Bertram to make further investigations.

They walked back to the Rattenvanger, where Bertram whispered his plan to Grietja.

“No Agent B… Bertie, iet ies too dangerous!  The waters are very cold!”

“I’m not a fatty for nothing, Grietja.  My blubber will keep me warm!”

With that, Bertram stripped his clothes off, down to his ridiculously voluminous Y-fronts, carefully unfolded the dive ladder on the back of the boat and clambered down into the water.  ‘Grietja is right,’ he thought.  ‘The water is blooming cold.’

He silently pushed off, swimming the breast stroke which he thought would be less likely to make a splash and slowly disappeared into the gloaming.  At least, he would have disappeared but his huge underpants had filled with air and he was followed by a bubble of wet, white cotton everywhere he went, his own personal Portuguese Man o’ War.  This was a relief to Grietja as the bubble of white cotton enabled her to track him until her eyes became accustomed to working in the gloom.

He arrived at the stern of the suspect barge and held on to the rudder, listening intently.  He could hear angry voices within and the occasional shout from someone who sounded as though he had some authority over the others.  Bertram thought that he could detect three different voices, all male.  Next, the authoritative voice sounded again, much nearer this time.  There was an answering female voice that sounded much nearer water level than the others.  Perhaps she had been lying on a bed.

He waited until the male voice had moved away again and remembering his and Gertrude’s secret knock, he dared to try it.  He knocked gently on the hull four times and waited a couple of seconds, then knocked again twice.  There was nothing.  He waited a couple of minutes and tried again, a little louder this time.  Then, there it was, the answering knock!  Three knocks, a short wait, and then one more.  She was there!

There came a loud shout from the alpha-male-sounding voice.  There was an equally loud shout – female this time – in answer.

“If I want to move my chair, I bloody well will, you sexually self-sufficient little oik…  and for your information, in my country an election doesn’t have to involve Kleenex!  You don’t frighten me, with your machine guns and all that ammunition. No sir, you don’t frighten this British gel one little bit!”

The cabin door opened at the far end of the barge and a flashlight broke through the gloom, aimed at the water.  By the time the owner of the flashlight had made it to the stern of the boat, holding on to the roof rails with one hand and aiming his beam with the other, Bertram had long gone.  There were only a few ripples in the water that could have come from anything.

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As it turned out, when Bertram and Gertrude met again in the processing office, they were told simply that they could go.

“You may go,” said the processing rozzer*, and continued with his paperwork.
[*English slang meaning a Police Oficer.]

“Uhm, beg pardon Officer, old chap, but what are you trying to say?” asked Bertram.

“I am trying to say that you are free to go.  Is my English at fault?” replied the rozzer.

Bertram reasoned that this was the start of a long and grinding Police campaign involving mental torture of the brow-beating, psychological kind, but they were not going to break him!  He came from stern British stock.  Bertram’s grandfather had personally – and very sensibly, in his opinion – kept ducking bullets long enough to survive the battle of Ypres on the Somme and that took some doing!

Bertram tested the water, “I’m sorry, Officer. Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding.  Are you saying that we can go?”

“Yes, sir, that is exactly what I am saying.  You are free to go.”

“How do you define You are free to go ?”

The rozzer was not ready for Bertram’s sophisticated anti-interrogation techniques. “I define it as, we do not require you to be here any longer and you may now leave.”

“On what grounds, may I ask?”

“On the grounds that there are no charges to bring.”

“Righty-ho, then.  I think that I can see the way that this is going.  You are going to lock us up again, aren’t you?  You’ll allow us to step through the door, see the trees and smell the fresh air and then you’ll re-arrest us and bang us up again!  This is the start of a sleep deprivation campaign.  Next, you’ll take away my teddy bear so I’ll snap like a biscuit and tell you anything!  Okay then, you’ve won, what do you want to know?  Please don’t take my teddy bear.  I’ll tell, I’ll tell.  You should see how many paperclips they use at The Ministry, it’s scandalous!”

“No, sir, I am trying to tell you that you are free to go and if you refuse, I will have to throw you out.  However, if you have any belongings left in the cells, I will allow you to go back and get them.”

It had actually started to dawn on Bertram that he and Gertrude were actually being set free.  Perhaps the penny dropped when Gertrude jabbed him in the side with four very sharp and forceful fingers.

“Ah!  I see!  Well, there is one thing left in the cells that I would like to go and retrieve.  I have left a garment of clothing.”

“Okay, sir.  My colleague, here, will escort you.”

Bertram turned to Gertrude and said, “I’ll get my coat…”

“Now where have I heard that before?” she murmured.

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“No. What’s Rene’s? Is it another sex shop?”

“Ah, no my dear, Rene’s is the best street café and cake shop in the known world and if I’m right, it’s only five minutes from here. A great place for an afternoon snack. They do very good coffee, great filled croissants and the best cakes that I’ve ever eaten. Their apple strudel is worth the trip to Amsterdam on its own.”

“Ooh, sounds yummy,” said Gertrude. “It’s lucky that I left my diet at home.”

When they got to Rene’s, the several coffees that she had drunk already that morning had made their collective presence felt in Gertrude’s bladder.

“Do they have a loo here? I’m bursting for a pee.”

“I don’t think that they do. It’s just a street café. I’ll ask,” said Bertram, turning to the lady behind the counter.

“No sir,” she replied, “I’m afraid zat vee don’t. However ief you go into zee restaurant opposite and explain zat you are one of our customers, zey vill allow you to use zeir facilities.”

Gertrude trotted off to find the loo and Bertram ordered a coffee while he waited for her return. He twirled around on his stool with the large carrier bag at his feet and settled to face the street, perched there, sipping his hot, sweet, double espresso watching people and feeling that life was good. The sun was shining, God (if he existed) was up there somewhere feeling quite chipper and all was well with the world. There came the sound of good, sturdy, leather shoes approaching from the direction of Dam Square. Lots of shoes, marching in a purposeful and orderly way.

People scuttled out of the roadway as the march of protesting Calvinists got nearer. They drew level with the open shop front, shouting slogans as they went, an unstoppable wall of sturdy, self-righteous women. Bertram smiled and waved to one of the dozens of decent, stoic, tweed-clad, serious-looking gels marching past waving their protest placards.

On leaving the ladies’ loos, Gertrude nodded to the restaurant proprietor, “Thank you. Very nice. Very clean,” leaving him in some doubt as to whether she was referring to his rest room or, indeed, to himself. Folding her coat over her arm, she returned to Rene’s.

There was a crowd standing outside the café looking in. A phalanx of indignant tweed was marching away from them further down the narrow street shouting about the devil, sex and filth, in fact most of the usual stuff that evangelising protesters bang on about and once again there was the sound of Police sirens hanging in the air.

Gertrude pushed her way through the crowd looking for Bertram and found him in his very own Circle of Hell. He was still sitting on his stool, his mouth opening and closing, and he was wearing a confused frown on his face as though he was trying to do some difficult mental arithmetic like the square root of, say, the number seventeen. His empty coffee cup was swinging from his finger and the sugary coffee was splattered over his beard, shirt and trousers. Most notably though, he was covered from head to foot in a ratatouille of rotten vegetables. The floor surrounding him was knee deep in the same slimy veggie gloop, out of which was sticking the carrier bag… and several half buried Bibles.

“Bloody Calvinists,” sighed Bertram, “I should have known better than to smile.”

The Austrian-sounding woman who was serving, popped her head up from behind the counter where she had taken refuge. The rotten tomato skin hanging from her hair suggested that she had not done so quickly enough.

“I sink zat perhaps your carrier bag did not help zee situation. Vhen waving at Calvinist women demonstrators, iet ies not good to do so vith a bag at your feet zat is printed vith the words zat translate into the English… Perverted Sex Filth und… Zis Vill Bring Tears To Her Eyes! In fact ief you are wanting to be provoking them into a rage, the bag alone should just about do iet…”

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It’s an organisation that believes: there should be no drinking of alcoholic beverages (well sometimes it’s okay but only when kneeling down in church); there should be no recreational drugs; women should be dressed only in tweed and should show no visible signs of enjoyment, ever; there should be no sex before marriage; and sex in marriage is only for the creation of children and should take place only after prolonged negotiation with the local pastor. If a lady Calvinist in her day-to-day travels were to see a six pointed star, it should be classified unquestioningly as a badge-of-the-devil and attacked accordingly.

It is a recorded fact that a goodly proportion of the Netherlands Guild of Calvinist Christian Women actually believe that sex is demeaning to women. Happily, they are outnumbered by a large number of Netherlands’ women who believe that sex is indeed demeaning to women… but only if it’s any good!

In fact, the campaigning sisterhood seemed convinced that underneath Amsterdam’s Old Town was the location of all nine of Dante’s Circles of Hell and each sex shop, brothel, coffee shop and massage parlour had an elevator down to any Circle of your choice. This, of course, came under the heading of Things That Jolly Well Had To Be Stopped!

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They entered, removed their coats and sat down to study a menu and, in Bertram’s case, to have his suspicions confirmed, in that sausages, bacon and egg would be conspicuous by their absence.

A vision of loveliness approached them. It was a dusky young lady in her twenties, wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse. Her make-up and jewellery had been kept to a minimum and her tanned skin was revealed to a tasteful maximum. She was lightly built and well muscled, with big eyes, a round face featuring a small pointy chin, dark brown hair with highlighted golden curls and a smile that could melt a man’s heart. Bertram was mesmerised.  “Hi, guys,” she said with a Dutch accent, “I am Grietja and I am here to greet ya… Oh and also to be taking your order, ief you are ready.”

Bertram was at a loss what to say. He was so struck by this visage that, try as he might, he could talk only fluent bollocks. He strove desperately to say something intelligent and witty but sadly he could only gabble, “Grietja to greet ya. A fine pun in our language, fer… fer… from England, don’t you know. Very good. Very good tits indeed. Shit! Did I say tits? I meant boobies… shit, no! Oh bugger… look… I’ll get my coat…”

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