Surprise Bar is not cool. It is not a place to see and be seen in, and it does not play good music. It is not for sophisticats, hipsters or the city’s elite, and is in fact, patronized by some of the most dubious haircuts this side of the former Soviet Bloc. It is, by most standards, a terrible, sweaty, naff little den of cheesiness and all things crap, and not normally somewhere that would gain entry to a Hedonist’s guide. But it is always packed – fire hazard, adult game of sardines packed – with an excitable crowd of locals, inhaling beer and dancing with whoever they happen to be rubbing past, to a series of awful old pop tunes, and singing along to oompa-esque Nederpop and folk songs. It’s not somewhere you’re ever likely to visit again, but it is Hedonism at its most Dutch. So Dutch, in fact, that they typically don’t allow entry to non-Dutch speakers. To get in, stride up purposefully, and if questioned, claim to live in the city (if possible, in Dutch, using this phonetic phrase – ‘mineer, ik bin hain tourist, ik vorner here’ – sir, I’m not a tourist, I live here). Failing that, a tenner to the doorman usually works.