Did you hear the bang in Midwolda on New Year’s Eve? I do. While I was in Sicily. For a moment I doubted whether it was an exploded weapons depot in Gaza, but Italian seismologists immediately pointed to Midwolda. Who had done it there? I had no idea. Perhaps someone who wanted to make the ground shake festively to win the NAM after all these years. Did that gentleman clean up the mess afterwards? According to him, NAM never did that either, so why should he? Yes, I write ‘sir’ because I am sure the perpetrator is a man. Women are too intelligent for heavy fireworks.
Here in Sicily I understand that New Year’s Eve in the Netherlands was mainly a pleasant one. Okay, some loose hands that can never be sewn again, a bunch of flying eyes that didn’t see much anyway, a lot of third-degree burns that ensure that you always have a good story in the pub, a few hundred ears that never listened anyway and thousands of desperate pets. Outside of that, there were some ambulance personnel besieged with paving stones and Cobras. And of course the police officers and firefighters who had to fight for their lives for hours.
Things were slow here in that regard. In the large square, thousands of Sicilians stood drinking and listening to five minutes of beautiful fireworks and then a number of bands. Until at least four o’clock. Not a siren, not a single flashing light, zero fights and basically not a cop. So it’s all pretty boring.
The next morning the Dutch New Year’s Eve fun was news. The Sicilians wondered what was going on in the once so progressive and friendly guide country of the Netherlands.
“Dissatisfaction,” I suggested cautiously and explained that the Netherlands had made a sharp move to the right in the last elections.
“So,” said the local cappuccino king, “those weird fireworks of yours will be banned next year. There is already enough war in the world. You now have a healthy right-wing majority in parliament and that club, just like us, does not like half measures. In short: fireworks ban!” I knew better now and kept silent.
Everyone hoped for me that the Netherlands would still be there when I returned. They had seen the floods on television. “Plenty of fire-fighting water for next year,” shouted the cheerful GP.
I told you that a certain Sywert is going to save our country by handing out free sandbags together with two other benefactors. After this, I explained what this criminal trio had done during the corona crisis. So they’re in jail now?
I said that the investigation could take some time and that a minister would also have played a dubious role. There was an understanding laugh. You don’t have to explain this to Sicilians.
Because the mood was good, I was also allowed to tell you who slum landlord Wybren van Haga is with his cast-iron redundancy pay principles. There was a loud roar. Then I talked about Jumbo, where more is stolen from the stores than the supermarket makes in profit. Never caught anyone? Yes, just one of the owners. He had tons of money laundering cash on hand. There was a good laugh again. Especially when I told you that his case is also still under investigation. By now I was thinking about Glennis Grace. Shouldn’t she run a branch?
Then I had to go to the airport. The entire coffee shop wanted to come with me. On the plane, I dreamed of Michael Jackson bouncing Stephen Hawkings through Jeffrey Epstein’s bedroom, while Prince Andrew looked on and a children’s choir sang “The Shepherds Lie at Night.” My Dutch airplane neighbor asked if I regret that ‘the voice of the eye’ is stopping. The beautiful voice of Hans Hoogendoorn, who has completed seventeen thousand broadcasts.
“Yes,” I said, “but that’s not necessary, is it? Everything is possible with artificial intelligence, right? It’s just a matter of cloning the voice and then you can make it say anything.”
“Really?” said the neighbor.
“Well, it’s going to be investigated. We’ll know in ten years!”