At Vattenfall they do have a sense of humor. Not only do they send me an email announcing that my energy bill will soon be five times higher, but at the end of the cheerful announcement they also ask what I think of their email. Of course nobody will read my answer, but the question comes across as very customer-friendly. Undoubtedly, there is a slick marketing ploy behind it.

    Because they think I’m at the fröbel level like most of their clientele, I have to give my answer with a smiley face. I try to put a raised middle finger in between them, but I’m digitally literate. That’s why I call Pepijn van Houwelingen because this pathetic sneak head is very handy when shopping for photos. Last weekend he had great success in his splinter party by having the nice Ernst Kuipers hoist a Nazi flag under the watchful eye of Karien van Gennip. So he should definitely succeed.

    I can’t get Pepijn on the phone. He is probably on a maternity visit to his great leader Baudet, who welcomed a son together with his wife. I fear it is a crybaby and I base this on the character of the boy’s father. Apples never fall far.

    Of course I hope he will be a healthy and happy little boy. A male who likes a little mischief. That later, when he sleeps with his parents in a hotel, knocks on the neighbors’ hotel room door and then runs away.

    I got homesick for my own childhood when I read the incident with Mathieu van der Poel. I understand the girls and the cyclist’s reaction. But who the hell put the world champion candidate in a Novotel? That’s a bleak cave where they only rent out broom closets. You put champions where champions belong.

    In all the hustle and bustle, will Thierry have had time to personally congratulate Putin on his new purchases? What a success for this kind Tsar and how wonderful for him that the people of those destroyed parts of Ukraine have chosen him so unanimously. In some places even 98 percent of the voters. Freedom at last! Finally they can say what they want there!

    How wonderful that our confused planet has such bold leaders. Take US President Joe Biden, who seriously asked last Wednesday where Congresswoman Jackie Walorski, who died two months ago, was. Early dementia? Nope, just in the final stage. Putin cannot hope that he will suffer from the same ailment. Because then he probably starts to call all the rich Russians who have died by suicide. Maybe out of sadness. That he misses all those dead men so much.

    And the Chinese Xi Jinping who desperately wonders where all those nice Uyghurs have gone. Such lovely people. Didn’t hurt anyone.

    I dreamed this last week in an African hotel room. In sunny Mali. I am looking for a house there. The sun does its job very well there and as a soon to be retired I want a place where I don’t need gas. I am the first refugee the other way around.

    In the middle of the night there was a knock on my room door. I heard giggling ladies. I wanted to sleep through, but they kept knocking. When I opened the door grumpy, no one ran away. Vera Bergkamp and Khadija Arib stood in front of my door. If I wanted a threesome. They had learned through anonymous letters that I was a rather horny man. I let them in sleepily.

    Vera warned me to do my best otherwise Khadija would show me all the corners. Strict mistress. She could really get angry beyond borders. It seemed delicious to me. And Vera? He looked around and found the room too neat. She wanted to make an incredible mess of that at first. Only then did she function. When everything was broken and turned over, the ladies took a brisk run towards my hotel doubter. At that moment I happily woke up. My wife smiled and asked if I had any visitors.