I'd like, if I may, to make a non-European diversion on my humble slice of the Internet to talk about an issue that is near and dear to my heart. Last week, I had the honour of seeing a little-known picture right in the heart of London's cinema district, Leicester Square. There was, quite frankly, nowhere else I wanted to have this experience, than where so many of cinema's greats have fronted up at the premieres of their latest films.

Friends, family, random Internet browsers... I'm talking about Snakes on a Plane.

Yes, arguably the greatest film to hit screens since Plan 9 from Outer Space has finally slithered our way with all the fanfare of a post-Under Siege Steven Seagal picture. Having been an Internet phenomenon for nigh on a year, Samuel L. Jackson's self-proclaimed ultimate B-picture is a piece of pure, unadulterated cinematic hedonism.

With a title that conveniently doubles as a plot synopsis and gives a darn good indicator of the genre (would you expect a romantic comedy or, to make this blog entry relevant to Europe, a British period drama to possess such a monikor?), you know exactly what you're getting. Throw Sam Jackson into the mix, and honestly, where can you go wrong?

The movie plods along, merrily checking off a list of every disaster film cliché you can possibly conceieve:

• token unwilling leading character, who finds himself in a situation beyond his control - check
• token flight attendant making her final flight before a career change - check
• token flamboyantly gay flight attendant - check(?)
• token motley cast of passengers: stuffy businessman, unhappily shafted from first class; stuck-up socialite (complete with yappy dog in handbag); rapper with wisecracking sidekicks; kids taking their first flight alone after their soldier Dad farewells them at the airport; honeymoon couple keen to join the mile-high club; and so on, and so forth - check
• token love interests all 'round - check
• token moment where flight attendant bursts out of the cockpit and asks, "Does anyone here know how to fly a plane?"
• several token "there's only one man who can get us out of this situtation" situations
• and, of course, our token hero: Samuel L. Jackson as the awesomely-named Neville Flynn, a man who can take charge of any situation with enough manliness to make the great Chuck Norris look like a ballet dancer (only kidding, Chuck's the man)

All present and accounted for!

Only one thing missing: 500 improbably and ingeniously provoked snakes released onto a passenger jet as part of an equally improbably and ingeniously concocted mob scheme. Each of these beauties is shot in such a way that the real snakes and the seemingly half-heartedly rendered computer-generated snakes possess all the glorious cheese of a fine block of Swiss cheddar.

You don't sound too convinced, no? Sounds like rubbish, right? Well, that's where you're wrong!

Each ingredient is daintily added to the mix, ever with nothing but sheer self-awareness of the whole affair. Even the snakes have their own typically amusing Jaws-esque theme that pipes up everytime one of the slithery suckers offs a cartoon character-like passenger. The whole mixing pot is lovingly tossed and turned with nothing but the utmost appreciation for B-grade cinema and ultimately left to simmer for an hour and a half, resulting in the most fun I've had at the cinema in years and the best disaster spoof since Airplane!.

And for those of you even-slightly acquainted with this cinematic gem, I can proudly say that yes, the moment does come where Sam, God-like, proclaims to an audience waiting with baited breath, "Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthaf***ing snakes on this muthaf***ing plane!"

This, folks, is what cinema is all about!

May I leave you with Sam's words of wisdom, as he presented this year's Best Film award at the 2006 MTV Music Awards:

I'm here tonight to present the award everyone's been waiting for: best movie. Now, this award holds a special place in my heart because next year I'll be winning it for 'Snakes on a Plane'. Now I know, I know that sounds cocky, but I don't give a damn. I am guaranteeing that 'Snakes on a Plane' will win best movie next year. Does not matter what else is coming out. The new James Bond... no snakes in that! 'Ocean's 13'... where my snakes at? 'Shrek the Third'... green, but not a snake. No movie shall triumph over 'Snakes on a Plane'. Unless I happen to feel like making a movie called 'Mo' Muthaf***ing Snakes on Mo' Muthaf***ing Planes'.

Too true, Sam. Too true.

Move over John Robie, Thomas Crown and Ocean's Eleven; none of you managed the epic heist I pulled off at Amsterdam's world-famous Rijksmuseum, the Dutch national museum, home of masterpieces by such artistes, as Rembrandt van Rijn, Johannes Vermeer and Frans Hals. Nor did I require such trickery as suspension from the ceiling, à la Topkapi, makeshift Trojan horses or token red laser beams. Nope, nothing but my own ingenuity to land the below-pictured masterwork.

Yes, this artwork, commonly mistaken for a baggage card, is most likely of the mid-1990s era. Enveloped in a single shade of opulent red, with the letter A, number 61 and a simplistic, yet effective outline of a suitcase engraved lovingly on its matte-finish surface, this plastic card could easily fetch 50 pence on the black market, or, failing that, eBay. Nonetheless, for the sheer thrill, and obviously, the money, this prized possession of the Rijksmuseum was mine for the taking!

Just one of many highlights of my weekend trip to Amsterdam, dubbed the Venice of the North (so named because of the fact it has canals and, well, is in the north).


Like last fortnight's trip to Paris, it was another totally absurd 4:00am start (the price to pay for trotting the globe), and soon enough, we were on the bus to Holland! Travelling south through England, we wound up at Dover, famous for the White Cliffs of Dover (title self-explanatory), for the ferry across to France, from where we travelled up through Belgium to the Netherlands, arriving just in time for tea!

Staying at the far-classier-than-we-were-expecting Casa 400 Hotel, just outside the city centre, we soon made our way into the city for the first item on the itinerary, a tour of Amsterdam's famous (...or so I hear...) red-light district. An eye-opener, to say the least. Makes Surfers Paradise seem like the playground at McDonalds. What's interesting is that much of what occurs in the red-light district is illegal. Whilst prostitution and the various similarly-themed live shows that take place are lawful, contrary to what the city's many, many, marijuana-scented coffeeshops would have you believe, drugs are not. It's just that the laws are rather lax. Nonetheless, after completing our (strictly observational!) tour, the rest of our first evening was spent, rather tamely, with a pint of cider relaxing by one of the city's many canals.

The next day, we were treated to a tour of the city (interestingly, approximately half of the Netherlands - which actually means "low lands" - is less than a meter above sea-level, whilst much of it, including Amsterdam, is actually below sea-level; indeed, many of the city's buildings are built on wooden piles to counter the land's peaty subsoil), before taking off to the fishing town of Volendam, a gorgeous place with more character than you can poke a stick at.

On the way, we stopped off at, perhaps my favourite point of the trip, the cheese and clog factory. Yes, that's right: just the one factory for both. Where else but in Holland?

There is no greater agony in life than deciding whether or not to purchase a pair of clogs. I know I will never wear them. I know I will complain perpetually about having to lug them around with me. And I know they, frankly, look ridiculous. But on the other hand, they're clogs! After much, much agonising (I was in the queue with my credit card at the ready), I decided against such a frivolous, yet desirable purchase, settling instead for a miniature pair (the non-buyer's remorse is unfathomable).

Later that evening, I pulled my unforgettable heist (go on, admit it: how many people do you know who have flogged something from a world-famous museum?) before taking a wonderfully-relaxing boat tour through the canals of Amsterdam and later, spending a similar evening sitting by the canal and sipping cider until the wee hours of the morning.

After an all-too-brief weekend, it was time to head home, but not before a stop-off at a genuine Belgian chocolate factory (all photos of which, unfortunately, did not turn out due to a chocolate-smeared lens) and lunch in Bruges, consisting of genuine Belgian waffles! Having worked up an appetite climbing the 366 steps of the Belfry of Bruges, an 83-meter tall belltower in the town's centre square (worth it for the unparalleled view of the surrounding town and countryside), the waffles were swiftly inhaled.

And so, after a brief stop at a French hypermarket (like a supermarket on steroids), and a lengthy stop on the highway into London (which only served to appreciate just how relaxing Amsterdam really is), my third trip out of the country in six weeks came to a close. An absolutely amazing time, even if I'm still positively heartbroken over my decision not to purchase that incredibly comfortable pair of clogs. These things take time, but I will move on...

(Oh, and for those of you who want to know the specifics of my heist: in actual fact, I left my backpack in the Rijksmuseum in the afternoon, and upon returning to collect it during closing hours, forgot to hand back the card... a flawlessly- and accidentally-executed scheme worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster!)

Where else but in Paris could you be stung €13 (just over $21AU) for a one-litre bottle of Pepsi? Glass of milk? That'll be €4.50 (about $7.50AU). I was a cheapskate and settled on a €6.60 sorbet (a mere $11AU). Fortunately, it was the best sorbet in the world. I know I said that about Harrods, but, well, I'm fickle. Sue me!

Funny, then, that a day in France turned out so ridiculously cheap; aside from a handful of tolls and the trip through the Eurotunnel, the rest (including petrol and plenty of Coke, which was kindly covered by our mate, (Coca-Cola sales rep) Keith!) of the costs were a pittance!

The day kicked off, unlike most Sundays, at the ungodly hour of 4:00am, and within an hour and a bit, we were on our way to France! The trip to the British border is quite short, whilst the Eurotunnel is one of the more unusual sections of the trip. For the uninitiated, as I was, the Eurotunnel is a massive tunnel (duh) under the seabed, through which a train containing everyone's cars travels... best not to think of the ol' claustrophobia. Soon enough, we popped out the other side and made our way through the French countryside to the capital.

After meandering through the streets, observing a lengthy procession of sponsorship floats and experiencing the aforementioned Parisian bargain cuisine, we made our way down to the Seine and tapped our toes impatiently as we waited for the Tour de France competitors to cycle their way past us.

And in the blink of an eye, they came... and went. A blur of brightly-coloured lycra, which, based solely on their speed and attire, may well have been a group of superheroes on their way to work (the obvious lack of capes made me conclude otherwise), whisked past us at an incredible rate.

And so it was to the Champs-Élysées, the 2km stretch of road directly in front of the Arc de Triomphe, where we witnessed the cyclists ride approximately six laps, before ultimately concluding the fifth and final stage of the race (Aussie Robbie McEwen was overtaken in the final seconds of the day's stage!).

Then, it was back to London (in bed, believe it or not, by midnight). Paris is a lovely city, where I'll definitely be heading back to. It was great to give my French another run (which went flawlessly until the moment I asked for a glass of milk and was given a single plum floating in perfume served in a man's hat), but I obviously was there for the race and not sightseeing. I did get to have the token photograph-with-the-Eiffel-Tower-in-the-background (albeit taken from a distance), however the Musée du Louvre (with the exception of its surprisingly classy Metro station) and the Arc de Triomphe were left unexplored. However, as Arnie, recently seen schmoozing with my boss, Mr Blair, once said, I'll be back.

In the meantime, it's off to Amsterdam for a long weekend! Windmills, clogs and cheese, here I come!