He looks like Mozart but unfortunately he doesn’t write any music. There are cracks in the brain of Geert Wilders; he is about to make another one of his offending statements.

 

The leader of the Dutch Freedom Party is a man, but nonetheless a platinum blonde. His party is according to the latest polls the largest party in the Netherlands. Yet he and his party advocate rather disturbing opinions.

 

Wilders went all the way to London to give a press conference. This time he was allowed to enter the country! “A triumph for freedom of speech” said the man who wants to ban the Koran.

 

The self proclaimed travelling press conference considers the Koran a fascist book. He declares that Dutch culture is streets ahead of Islam and condemns the Dutch Secretary of State as being out of her mind.

 

Well, that probably just about ruins the Dutch reputation abroad.

 

In February, Wilders was denied access to Britain amid Home Office fears that his presence could trigger inter-faith violence. A very annoyed Mr Wilders was kept for hours in a small immigration office at Heathrow Airport.

 

Wilders’ aim was, and is, to show his anti-Islam film ‘Fitna’ to members of the House of Lords. This was in response to an invitation from UKIP peer Lord Pearson of Rannoch.

 

I have never been detained when travelling to London, but then I always travel by Eurostar. Now that would really put off Wilders, the word ‘euro’ alone would give him palpitations. Everything that contains the word ‘euro’ is uttered with a look as though he had just stepped into a pile of dog shit.

 

Recently, I travelled together with my 85 year old mother. We were on our way back to the Netherlands and making our way through departures at St Pancras.

 

Wherever my mother goes she sets off security alarms; she has had a knee replacement and travels with a doctor’s certificate to present to the authorities. So, whenever she spots a security gate she gets out her certificate ready for inspection.

 

This time no exception, the alarm went off and my mother was duly scanned and, as usual, the knee was identified as the culprit. She showed her certificate and was waved through. Luckily, I didn’t trigger any alarms, or so I thought.

 

However, I was immediately taken aside and questioned. ‘Could we open your suitcase, Sir?’ said a female security officer, examining me with a stern look on her face.

 

She donned her latex gloves and looked at me as if she was about to give me a full body strip search there and then; luckily she only proceeded to open my suitcase.

 

‘You’re not an expert at packing, are you Sir?’ she exclaimed and pulled out several of my soiled shirts for all to see. I broke into a sweat and wished I had special powers to think each item back into my suitcase.

 

Soon my socks and underwear too were strewn over the counter. By this time I was sweating profusely. In the meantime, my mother showed her most disapproving face (she much resembles the Queen on such occasions). 

 

Her disappointment was written all over her face: ‘Really what a disaster! This is not how I have taught my beloved son to pack his bags!’

 

Finally the security officer located the ‘offensive weapon’; a very beautiful silver paperknife that my mother had given me. Ah, of course, it’s obvious; I a slightly overweight writer, together with an elderly lady, complete with knee replacement, was set to attack Belgium with a paperknife!

 

‘She gave it to me, honestly!’ I cried quickly pointing out my mother as the trader-in-arms. She looked as if her annus horribilis had just commenced.

 

The face of the immigration officer showed the beginnings of a smile. To my great surprise, we were allowed to continue on.

 

Wilders, too, was let into the country without a fuss. However, I think it was an opportunity missed. How amusing it would have been if the British police protection would have consisted of two tall Sikh officers with turbans.

 

Would Wilders still have dared to mention the Rag-Head Tax, a tax on wearing headscarves?

 

In case Wilders wins the elections, I think that he ought to head the Department of Outrageous Ideas, or, even better, the Department of Plain Silly Thoughts. Well, I think we can rest assured that he will not be awarded the BAFTA for his entire oeuvre, unlike the Monty Python team.

 

Ah well, next time we'll again send in a slighty overweight poet with an elderly lady to represent the Netherlands, but of course without paperknife.

 

© Arnold Jansen op de Haar
© Translation Holland Park Press
 
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