I didn’t do it. I know I made jokes about messing up the Dutch political system during the city council elections due to my lack of understanding (a) Dutch (b) Politics and (c) Dutch Politics. But I swear I had nothing to do with the recent collapse of the Dutch government. I was no where near the Dutch government when it happened. I have witnesses. They can verify that I was miles away. It’s not my fault. You have to believe me… Please.
You can’t prove that I had anything to do with it anyway.
It is time once again for the Dutch city council elections. Posters are being put up, television commercials are being broadcasted and letters are been sent out to all those who can vote, including for the first time… me.
I’ve never been asked to vote on such Dutch political matters before. This probably has something to do with the fact that until a few months ago I was never actually registered as living in Holland. I spent the first eight years of my stay in this country unaware that I was supposed to go to the local city hall and say, “Hello, My name is Stuart and I’m living in your country now.” It seems obvious but at the time I simply did not know that this was part of the process.
And because of this we have to consider a very important question; given my track record, does the Dutch government really want an expat like me voting on something as important as city council elections? An expat like me who once thought it was a good idea to get his eye lashes dyed. An expat like me who once trapped himself in an elevator for four hours. An expat like me who once mistook tourists for hookers. Basically, an expat like me who has a well documented history of mistakes, accidents, disasters and cock-ups.
Being asked to vote on this issue seems like an awfully big responsibility. What if I end up having the deciding vote? What if it all comes down to me? Do they seriously trust me with this? Don’t they realize the possible disastrous out come and inevitable damage I could do to the Dutch way of life? If they had read my file (or this blog) they would have realized that it is best to keep any form of decision making as far away from me as possible. I don’t know if I can handle this kind of pressure, knowing that the fate of every Dutchman and expat lies in my hands.
Even ignoring my past exploits doesn’t the Dutch government realize that I am an expat who only has a limited grasp of the Dutch language and as such has no clue what is going on around himself at the best of times even in subjects far less simple then politics. Don’t they know that I am the kind of expat who is more likely to base his vote on who has the most colorful campaign poster because he has not got an idea what they are saying.
It’s bad enough when my attempts to understand and speak the Dutch language result in me ordering the wrong thing at my local snack bar but at least my unintended frikandel has far less reaching and damaging political ramifications than any mistake I could make in a panic during voting time.
I worry about this because if I do have the deciding vote in this year’s election I don’t think people will be very happy with my excuse of, “but they had a cute kitten on their poster,” when the newly elected Expat Extermination Party is rounding us all up.
No. It’s going to be far less stressful for me to run for the position of city council myself.
For the past eight years I have made a lot of friends in Holland. I have got to know the Dutch people. I have (very slowly started to) learn their language. I have even taken part in their customs and learned their culture. However, unbeknownst to my Dutch hosts this is all a lie.
It turns out that for the past eight years since my arrival in the country of Holland I have not actually been registered as living in the country of Holland. In fact, despite having a permanent job with a contract, a tax number, medical insurance and even a membership card for my local DVD rental store the Dutch government was unaware of my existence.
This shocking revelation happened during a recent visit to city hall while the residency official sitting on the other side of the desk from me gave me a very baffled ‘are you serious’ look as I tried to explain to him that I had been living in Holland since 2001.
As the residency official did some more confused typing on his keyboard I considered showing him my DVD rental store membership card as proof of my claims. After all it was and is a very respectable DVD rental store and probably more efficient then the Dutch government since not only did they know my name, address and date of birth but also my taste in movies. The only downfall to this idea was that they might not make a good character witness since I have a bad habit of returning DVDs very late. I thought about it for a moment and decided to leave the membership card in my pocket. After all, there is no dignity in being deported by Video Land.
The reason for all this was a simple administrative error. By this I mean I was supposed to visit city hall and register myself when I first moved to the country but since no one ever told me I never knew. I only found this out recently during the process of moving in with my Dutch girlfriend. However, it’s not as if I was trying to hide my existence. I was leaving behind some pretty big clues that might tip them off that they had an extra tea drinking Englishman in the country.
After some more confused looks between me and the non- existing data on his computer screen the residency official must have decided that I did exist after all because he simply shrugged his shoulders, said ‘ok then’ in a very Dutch manner and handed me a different form to fill out.
This seemed rather anti-climatic for someone who had been living outside the system for eight years but had only known it for eight minutes. I thought there would be some repercussions. Had I been illegal for the last eighth of a decade?
Did it mean that everyone I had ever shared living accommodation with in the past hadn’t simply been lowering the cost of living by cohabitating in a place of residency with another law abiding citizen as they might have thought but were in fact harboring a fugitive? Someone who knows no laws? A criminal?
And what about in Britain? Had the British government worked out that I had left the homeland? Were they looking for me? Could I have coursed the credit crisis? Had they budgeted for the tax from one extra person who was no longer there and was now paying taxes in Holland instead? And more importantly, did I have any late DVDs to return in Britain?
I thought about it some more and then made sure I filled in the form in my best handwriting to avoid any risk that the residency official might change his mind that everything was ‘ok’.
A few days later after I received the all clear my girlfriends sister sent me this post card to congratulate me on moving to Holland after eight years of living in Holland:
Oh sweet irony, you are a cruel mistress sometimes. I thought I knew you so well by now but sometimes you are still able to surprise me.
Almost a year ago I made a post about my new determination to start jogging and get fit. This post contained the following paragraphs:
“On the one side a jogger is someone with a mission. As they run through the streets and fields in their trainers and tracksuit they are someone trying to improve their health through exorcise. You can see the determination and commitment on their faces as they speed by. These are qualities to admire.
However, all that changes the moment any jogger slows to a walk. Suddenly they no longer look like a jogger. Suddenly they look like a Chav. With out the act of running they simply look like someone walking around in a tracksuit as a fashion statement. The fact that they are still out of breath could be mistaken for the results of a quick get away from a shop security guard. At least that would explain some of the strange looks I have got in the street.”
This was just a simple observational joke but it seems that fact really does follow fiction. At least that would explain why I was just stopped by the long arm of the law during my last jog tonight.
Half way through my jog I got a stitch in my side and had to slow down to a walk, accepting the fact that I then looked like a chav. A short while later a cop car pulled up along side me. Apparently I (or some one else almost as handsome looking as me) had been seen near the scene of a car break in.
During what followed I actually got to experience the good cop/bad cop routine which (until now) I had only seen on episodes of CSI and Law & Order. While one of the two policemen was quite polite and made small talk about how cold it was (while asking for my personal details) the other suddenly asked me if I liked cars. I was caught off guard and thought this was more small talk so I replied that I was not into them that much. After all, I’ve never watched Formula 1.
“But you like what is in them don’t you?” was his surprising reply.
After five minutes of thinking I might be about to spend the night in the slammer as a guest of ‘the man’ I was allowed to go home, an innocent person.
To close this post I was going to make a joke and ask if anyone would like to by a car stereo but that would be incriminating and my lawyer really advises against it.
I am a criminal. I have broken the rules of our society and paid the price. People will judge me for the rest of my life. As I walk down the street I already feel their disapproving eyes on me and I hear their hushed whispers to each other.
“Look… there goes the guy who forgot to buy a new train ticket.”
My crime is forgetfulness. Anyone who travels on the train with a monthly pass knows it is all too easy to forget it needs renewing during the early morning half asleep walk to the train station.
I only realized my mistake when I heard the familiar call, “Kaartjes Alsjeblieft,” from the train conductor who had entered the carriage to check everyone’s tickets.
I am an honest person. I didn’t try to pass my ticket off as being in date. When she approached me I apologetically explained my mistake and felt rather stupid. From the look on her face that followed I instantly knew I was in trouble. She was looking at me like she had just caught a hardened criminal stealing charity money from a children’s hospital. Apparently I had also taken their teddy bears just to be extra mean and make them cry.
“You don’t have to tell me if you do not wish to but why did you not buy a ticket?” She asked me with a stern face. It didn’t have the same ring as “you have the right to remain silent” but she said it as if trying to achieve the same level of seriousness and authority. Obviously no one messed with the train service when she was on patrol.
Over the course of the ‘telling off’ she asked me the same question several times. It was as if she was looking for a hole in my story, waiting for me to make one slip that would bring my whole web of lies (as she believed) crashing to the ground.
“I didn’t realize it had run out at the start of the week.” I told her truthfully. “I forgot to…”
“The start of the week?” She interrupted through clenched teeth. “You’ve been traveling with out a ticket for more then one day?”
She made a move that suggested she would have reached for a can of mace if she had one. From the way she talked I was half expecting to end up face down on the floor as she forcefully handcuffed my hands behind my back.
Suddenly the train carriage began to feel like a police interrogation room. I thought about asking for a lawyer or turn snitch and give up the names of other people with out tickets. There was no way I was becoming someone’s bitch in the slammer. Luckily I only had to pay a fine and I could put the plans for my prison break on hold.
I can live with the fact that I had to pay a fine for forgetting my ticket (even though I would have rather kept my money obviously); it might help me to remember next time. However I did not like the smug way the train conductor acted during the whole event. I was obviously a liar and a thief in her eyes. I got the impression she had failed the police force entrance exam and was taking it out on me.
The moral of the story: Never equip train conductors with firearms. Innocent people will die if they have had a bad day.
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