Column | Over her corpse

The Gordon, who is addicted to itself, recently went with a scanty, bunch of flowers scored by the gas pump in search of the grave of his great idol Whitney Houston. Of course there was a camera. People like this do nothing for nothing.

He came to a modest grave in which the world star rests close to her mother and daughter after an eventful and dramatic life. Just like Whitney, that daughter did not have a peaceful deathbed.

The outlined folk singer immediately thought: there is something to get here and maybe I can also make a good salad here.

He now seems to have established a foundation. He will arrange a proud tomb for the singer. Whether he does this in consultation with the Houston family is not yet entirely clear. According to Gordon, that is not necessary either. Just as he does not seem to need permission from the cemetery.

Whether that is true? I think Gordon came up with that after a few nice lines. Or is he already on the road with a funeral director and a contractor? Maybe it’s an idea to have the demolition of the Dutch Whitney Houston done? Glennis Grace has experience.

But it is interesting that some bridleed Amsterdam idiot makes it in his decayed resin to shamelessly commit violation on the grave of one of the largest world stars of the last century. And just because this gentleman, who once sang a reasonable moppie, is craving attention. The fallen polder star who, in his tragic days as Blaricumse Barista, has to leuten with Gooise Women, whom I called tight -cowed botox togjes in my wanton years.

Of course I also know that it is not all going on and that it is a curse and a sigh of a warthhead damaged by Coke, but is it not going just too far that he dances on the grave of the big Whitney Houston?

Elderly artists are pathetic. I know all about that, but my advice is: gets tidy old. Like the great writer Heleen van Royen. This bestseller gun has chosen to undress for a few tens on some pathetic internet site for illiterate whore runners on her old age. There she first gets rid of her mobility scooter, then from her walker and when there are customers, she pulls out her shoes for two euros per person.

Maybe there are lovely people who want to pay money when she picks up something again. Out of ideas. But Heleen is so neat to gently dance and thaw on her own grave. But as a Houston family, who has been forgotten a lot with that poor Whitney, you will have to talk to a false torture market vendor of the Albert Cuyp, who finds the grave too sober.

But maybe that simplicity of that grave is just the wisdom of that family. That we were all muddy stumperds and that one had a little more money or happiness than the other. Death is dead. Leave the deceased alone.

I recently visited a beautiful cemetery in Sicily where the rich families were resting in proud palaces and the ordinary people in sweet, stacked drawers. And because the cemetery is close to the sea, there is also a field with drowned refugees without a name. Wooden crosses with only a number. Getting rid of lucky seekers. For a moment I thought: don’t those people earn a small memorial? Would Marjolein Faber want to pay for that because they never got Ter Apel? How are the thousands of starving Gazans stored? They go into a pit with ambulance. And the murdered Ukrainians? But you stay away from everyone’s final resting place.

Until now I had intended to be buried after my death, but I changed that to cremation since yesterday and then in a jar. The notary asked if I was sure. As long as Gordon still wandered around here, I don’t take any risk.

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