In a development that has sent shivers down the collective spine of the British stag party industry, Dutch authorities have launched an urgent probe into the systematic spiking of drinks across Amsterdam’s more fluorescent nightlife districts. The news, delivered with the cheerful solemnity of a travel advisory, warns that the land of windmills and waffles has allegedly become a laboratory for liquid sabotage. One imagines the perpetrators, not as shadowy figures in trench coats, but as chemists in clogs, cackling over bubbling beakers of Rohypnol and stroopwafels.
This is not your grandfather’s continental escape. This is a crisis of karmic proportions. British holidaymakers, long accustomed to being the architects of their own mild lager-based catastrophes, now find themselves cast as potential victims. The irony is so thick you could slice it with a Gouda knife. The Dutch, renowned for their directness and tolerance, have apparently decided that if you can’t beat them, drug them. The probe, launched by the National Police Unit, has so far identified a pattern of incidents in which men have been particularly targeted, their drinks laced with sedatives and their wallets relieved of their contents. One might call it a predatory pricing strategy.
But let us pause to appreciate the sheer gonzo audacity of this situation. The very city that once legalised weed to keep the tourists occupied now appears to be offering a more literal interpretation of ‘getting wasted’. The British Foreign Office, in its usual manner of jolly forbearance, has issued a statement that reads less like a warning and more like a resigned shrug: “Be aware of your surroundings. Don’t accept drinks from strangers. And for God’s sake, don’t leave your pint unattended even if you’re popping to the Gents.” This is the advice we give toddlers. And yet, here we are, a nation of grown adults being told not to accept sweets from strangers in a city that invented the red light district.
The real scandal, however, is not the crime itself but the response. The Dutch authorities, in a move of spectacular bureaucratic chutzpah, have suggested that victims may have been too intoxicated to remember consenting to the drugging. This is victim-blaming elevated to an art form, a masterpiece of deflection worthy of a Rembrandt. “Perhaps you just had one too many jenever,” they seem to imply, “and this is all a misunderstanding.” As if the discovery of a roofie in one’s bloodstream is merely the result of a poor choice in craft ales.
Meanwhile, the British tabloids are having a field day. Headlines scream “Dutch Dosing Disaster” while columnists pen furious diatribes about the erosion of European values. But let us not pretend this is a uniquely Dutch phenomenon. The British booze cruise brigade has long harboured a secret shame: that our own nightlife is a petri dish of predation. We just have the decency to do it with a warm beer and a packet of crisps. The difference is that Amsterdam’s reputation as a haven of hedonistic freedom makes the betrayal feel more profound. It’s like discovering that Father Christmas has been spiking the sherry.
What is to be done? The cynical answer is nothing. The unsinkable British tourist will continue to flood the city’s canals like a tide of lager-soaked lemmings. But perhaps this scandal will serve as a wake-up call. Not to the dangers of nightlife, which are as old as nightlife itself, but to the absurdity of expecting that a city built on the principle of absolute personal liberty would not, at some point, apply that liberty to the art of chemical coercion. The Dutch are not villains. They are pragmatists. And if you’re going to get drugged, you could do worse than in a country with universal healthcare and excellent cheese.
In the end, the real culprit is the human condition. We travel to escape ourselves, only to find that ourselves have followed us, with a roofie and a grin. So raise a glass, dear reader. But hold on to it. Tight. The tulips are lovely this time of year, but the nights are long and the drinks are short. And somewhere in a Jordaan bar, a Dutch chemist is perfecting his formula for a new Dutch courage. Cheers.
