Youp van ‘t Hek thinks Maxime Verhagen is like a Christmas tree in January: neither use nor ornament

Maxime is taking down the Christmas tree. It’s late. Mrs Verhagen is asleep. Fed up to the gills with her grumpy husband she has refused his offer of a last drink and has stomped off to bed.
Maxime is angry. Angry and disappointed. Especially at some of his critics. Not that he hadn’t expected some columnists to do a demolition job. One even compared him to a rat. Gutter journalism indeed. He’s always known he wasn’t a favourite with the press.
Deadly
But he had expected better from his fellow party members. Their reactions, none face to face, are deadly. He hears them on the radio, reads them on the internet. They praise him for not flogging a dead horse. The words ‘his own good’ crop up repeatedly as in it’s for Maxime’s own good. And the party’s, low be it spoken. Not that there’s much left of the party. It won’t take an avalanche to wash its poor remnants away. A brisk shower will do.
Maxime removes the Christmas tree ornaments one by one. Two haven’t survived the festivities. He dropped one himself and one just fell off the tree by itself some time between Christmas and the New Year. Ping! There it was, on the floor in a million pieces. Just as he was reading the Deetman report. At that very moment. Metal fatigue, a draught? Who knows. And suddenly the angel looked a bit lopsided too.
He thought he had been wise to tell them no when he did. Then they wouldn’t have to ask him. Because it was clear, wasn’t it that they weren’t going to. Nobody wanted him. They as good as told him so.
No calls
He only had to look at the Christmas cards. A printed Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, that was all he got. Not that this year’s haul had been much to write home about. His wife blamed the internet. People send digital cards nowadays, she kept saying. But she knew better. The neighbours’ mantelpiece was overflowing with Christmas cards, all handwritten.
Maxime looks at his phone. Not one missed call. No calls at all. The Blekers are keeping a low profile and Peetoom is silent. Elco is busy taking care of his 341 sidelines and Sybrand is probably on the slopes. Not a peep out of Hirsch Ballin. Lubbers is keeping schtum. Ancient oracle Hannie van Leeuwen he does not blame. She told him but he wouldn’t listen. But why has Camiel not got in touch? Namby pamby Camiel with his silly histrionics at that congress. Like a drunk Price Carnaval he shouted out his solidarity but it was always more about Camiel than about Maxime. He had had to acknowledge the message at the time but what else could he have done? There had been cameras.
It’s a good thing Matthijs and Pauw and Witteman have left for the holidays. Their sort of comment is the last thing he needs. The words ‘washed up’ are echoing in his brain. They are marching, they’re goose stepping. His eyebrows hurt. The coal fired power station in the Eemshaven pops up too. Will this be his final political triumph? A pushed through power station in the Eemshaven? A pile of pushed through filth!
Bare
The tree is bare. Now for the crib. That can go back in the attic. He takes the tree outside. A bare, dilapidated Christmas tree, a bit of Hema garland fluttering in the wind is leaning against an overflowing wheelie bin.
Mark! Mark hasn’t been in touch either! And where was Geert? Where is everybody? When he turns on the television he sees the north of the country filling up with water. Bulwark! Must remember that for my next game of scrabble.
My image stands in the way, he had said to Elsevier. Not a happy turn of phrase. But should he have said ‘I ballsed it up’? Or ‘I dug my own grave and then fell in’. You just don’t say these thing.
Cold
He surfs the net for a bit. Nobody has a kind word to say about him. Nobody sides with him.
He turns the light off and goes upstairs, to the spare room. It’s cold.
Youp van ‘t Hek is one of the Netherland’s best loved comedians and writers