Over her dead body

The self-addicted Gordon recently went looking for the grave of his great idol Whitney Houston with a meager bunch of flowers he picked up at the gas station. Of course, there was a camera. These kinds of people don't do anything for free.

He came to a modest grave where the world star rests after an eventful and dramatically ended life close to her mother and daughter. That daughter, like Whitney, did not have a peaceful deathbed.

The retired folk singer immediately thought: there is something to be gained here and perhaps I can also make a decent profit from this internationally.

In the meantime, he has apparently set up a foundation. It will arrange a flashy tomb for the singer after all. Whether he will do this in consultation with the Houston family is not entirely clear. According to Gordon, that is not necessary. Just as he does not seem to need permission from the cemetery.

Is that true? I think Gordon came up with that after a few nice lines. Or is he already on his way with an undertaker and a contractor? Maybe it's an idea to have the demolition done by the Dutch Whitney Houston? Glennis Grace has experience.

But it is interesting that some coked-up Amsterdam idiot has the guts to shamelessly desecrate the grave of one of the biggest world stars of the last century. And only because this gentleman, who once sang a reasonable tune, is hungry for attention. The fallen polder star who in his tragic final days as a Blaricum barista has to make coffee with Gooise women, who I called tightly pulled botox bitches in my wanton years.

Of course I know that it's all not going to happen and that it's a curse and a sigh of a coke-damaged lunatic, but isn't it going a bit too far that he's dancing on the grave of the great Whitney Houston?

Elderly artists are pitiful. I know all about that, but my advice is: grow old gracefully. Like the great writer Heleen van Royen. This bestseller has chosen to undress in her old age for a few tens of euros on some pathetic internet site for illiterate whoremongers. There she first gets rid of her mobility scooter, then her walker and if there are still customers she takes off her shoes for two euros per person.

Maybe there are nice people who want to pay money if she puts something back on. Out of pity. But Heleen is so nice to dance softly on her own grave and leave the dead alone. But you will still have to talk to a falsely tormenting market trader from Albert Cuyp, who finds the grave too sober, as the Houston family, who have been through a hell of a lot with poor Whitney.

But maybe the simplicity of that grave is just the wisdom of that family. That we were all just muddling bunglers and that one had more money or luck than the other. Dead is dead. Leave the deceased alone.

Recently I visited a beautiful cemetery in Sicily where the rich families were laid to rest in ostentatious palaces and the ordinary people in sweet, stacked drawers. And because the cemetery is right by the sea there is also a field with drowned refugees without names. Wooden crosses with only a number. Perished fortune seekers. For a moment I thought: don't these people deserve a small memorial? Would Marjolein Faber want to help pay for that because they never made it to Ter Apel? How are the thousands of starving Gazans being stored? They go into a hole, ambulance and all. And the murdered Ukrainians? But you don't touch anyone's last resting place.

Up until now I had intended to be buried after my death, but since yesterday I changed that to cremation and then in a pot. The notary asked if I was sure. As long as Gordon is still wandering around here I will not take any risks.