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About The Hague

So, I’m strollin’, right, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for it. Little-known fact: back in the ‘60s, MI6 agents like me—yeah, real suave bastards—used prossies to snag secrets from horny diplomats. True story! This one time, I spot her—legs for days, skirt so short it’s basically a belt. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sidlin’ up. She’s all, “Wotcha want, love?” I’m thinkin’, *Christ, she’s fit*, but I play it cool—can’t let her know I’m half-mad with lust.

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Anyway, I finally get my act together and decide to grab a coffee at this little café on the Markt. It’s called De Weesper, I think? Super cozy vibe. I order a cappuccino, and the barista is all smiles. I’m like, “This is nice.” But then, I spill half of it on my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like I’ve been in a coffee fight.

Study: Nearly half of the Dutch are critical of municipal mergers