Tags
Amsterdam, Casualty, Connor F'n Keegan, Cumberbatch, Glasgow, Martin Freeman, Pulp Fiction, Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, Vincent Vega, Yazoo
Caught up with Martin Freeman the other night as I was walking out of a brightly lit, wee touristy spot in Amsterdam. It was called Vikki’s, and it was frankly smashing. Nevertheless he had tears streaming down his face and looked much less happy than me, therefore I saw it as my duty as his friend to investigate the source of his depression. “Did it all fall apart with Dawn, yeah? Don’t worry about it mate. You know what they say, plenty more fish in the sea. Get back up on that horse buddy.” He smiled, but I could tell that nothing I would say could raise his spirits. With a tear in his eye, he thanked me for my care and affection, all whilst looking rather confused. He knew he had a friend in me. A lad he could trust. “No problem, that’s what mates are for” I replied to the Oscar winning superstar. I offered to buy him a space cake, seeing as we were in Amsterdam and it’s legal; hoping to take his mind over the troublesome heartbreak I can only envision he was going through, nonetheless he wasn’t having it. “Straight edge chief” was his exact words, and I always respect my good friends wishes. “McDonalds it is then!” I figured, everyone loves McDees! And boy was I right.
His spirits were improving, as we gossed about the usual, mundane stuff. I’ll say this for Martin, once he gets going you cannot shut him up! LOL! He kept talking about his buddy Benedict Cumberbatch and I was addled. I thought I was his best pal? Who was this Cumberbatch cunt? This was a turning point in the conversation, and potentially our future friendship, as it finally manifested itself that I don’t know Martin Freeman. At all. I’ve never known him.
I know Morgan Freeman. Tim Robbins’ good friend, who recently just got out of that place that you get sent for life, and “that’s exactly what they took.” I mean I knew of Martin of course, as my Mum is a massive fan of the BBC series Casualty; the long running, critically acclaimed television series. Who can forget his near Bafta nominated performance as Ricky Beck, an injured civilian back in 1999? Genius. Even back in the day, everyone knew that this boy would grow up to be a star.
He looked confused; a bit less confused than before it must be said and a signifigantly less unhinged than me. Explains his bewilderment when I asked him to waffle on about hope, and how hope, can drive a man insane; or set him free. It remains a mystery as to why I didn’t compute that this Hobbit looking fellow wasn’t black, but I was high, so fuck it.
“I won’t stop till I find the answer. An answer I’m going to have to look deep inside myself to find. I must leave now, friends. Good luck my friends. I am not long for this world, I shall join you in the next.” –John Lennon
Onto my real review however, which will be considerably less compelling and probably a tad more boring. We flew into Amsterdam, and we did it on a plane. After that, we got the train into the city centre, and it was on a train.
Ok, I’ll make it a bit less boring. It’s a fucking laugh. And I can’t be arsed typing. Get a flight and go enjoy yourself, and if you bump into Martin Freeman then make sure you tell him he’s the best Sherlock Holmes ever. He loves that.
Oh, and if you like your chips with mayonnaise, they really do drown it in that shit.