Where shall we begin? Russia won again, that's a good start. They kicked Salah and King Tut's butt with 3-1. Even more so, the statistics seem to mention that the Russians ran the most during their two matches. 118 and 115 kilometers respectively. Not even in the Premier League do the footballers run that distance. Now, carefully, the first doping-rumours have started. Here and there people are talking about the scandals again. After all, doping increases the stamina, makes athletes run longer. I think those guys with the fluo-yellow vests will have their work cut out for them. I just watched Messi walk past one of those dudes. The doping control man almost pissed his own pants this time, so scared was he. Of course, Messi was not in a very good mood after having his ass handed to him by Modric and his Croatian legion. That goal by Modric was a beauty by the way, one of the prettiest ones so far in this World Cup. 

Sepp Blatter was in Russia. For those who don't know who Blatter  is: he was the eighth president of the FIFA ("Football Isn't For Arabs" - according to 9Gag). Blatter is currently on a six year ban from serving in any FIFA activity because of corruption, bribery, fraud, money  laundering and all the other things men in suits do. Naughty-presi Putin invited Blatter, possibly in another attempt to one-up Robbie Williams' middle finger. For an anti-gay forerunner like Putin, he certainly likes to invite old white men to his parties, no? 

It feels weird knowing that an odds-on favorite like Argentina might not even make the next round but Iran still has a chance. Perhaps that's the charm of something like the World Cup. The Muslim countries aren't doing very well. Loss loss loss loss...it looks like the Belgian state budget. Yet, teams like Saudi Arabia, Iran and Tunisia can build a wall like no Trump can. I bet Donald has never thought of that: just stack a heap of Arabs on top of each other and no Mexican will migrate to the USA. 

Luckily, when the performances on the grass are disgraceful, there are always the fans to cheer people up. The internet always goes wild over the beautiful women cheering their team. Balls 'n' boobies, that's all most people need for a successful World Cup, or better, "Balls, beer 'n' boobs". Apparently, the Russians are getting low on beer. Shops and bars underestimated the beer-lust of football fans. Probably because their national competition isn't sponsored by a beer brand, like the Jupiler League in Belgium. Soon, they will have to dilute their beer with vodka. I'd say "finally", some more aggression. This has been such a goodie-goodie world cup that people are beginning to lose interest. Where are the hooligans? Where are the English inbreds? Where are the Russian fist-troops? Hell, all attention now goes to the Japanese and Senegalese fans who clean their section in the stadium. Fucking pussies. Is the final going to be Japan vs Senegal for the cleanest stadium?

Actually, I'd like to give these fans some sort of being-human-award. What they did wasn't necessary but it said so much about these people and perhaps even more about the other countries' fans. It shows that some people still know what respect means, possibly even more than the ones on the pitch. So Kudos to Japan and Senegal, you two are now my favorites for when I ever decide to leave this tree-cutting, lion-shooting and nuclear-disaster prone country that Belgium has become.

I mean, here we are, in the middle of thousands of people cheering on their team. Fans from winning teams showed frenzied signs of happiness. They waved flags, sang songs and danced the night away. What were the Belgian fans doing? Complaining that our team won by only 3-0. Winning wasn't good enough, our Red Devils had to crush the competition with at least 274-0, that seems to be the general idea here. I guess we just have to face it, Belgians can't be happy. Our natural emotion is disappointment, which is pretty easy because when we're not disappointed we can be disappointed for not being disappointed. If you want more goals, go watch handball.

Imagine having a Fqemtfoiesqrgtuknbsdeftgbson as dentist. Your teeth will behave, that's for damn sure. Somewhere in 2018 the UEFA Nations League will kick off and our Belgian Red Devils have to go up against these Icelanders. Our defenders will probably have no choice but to open the sluices again, like we did against the Germans a few decannia back. We'll also have to face Switzerland, who saw all our secret accounts and document shipped to Panama. Oh history, you funny.

I'll end this thing with a word on the VAR, the "assistant video referee". I love it when they introduce things into sports that will undoubtedly cause more discussion and confusion. I want every sport to be as confusing as possible. The VAR has become such a nice comic relief to the whole thing. Of course, being pissed on illegally brewed Russian vodka, the VAR only works before and after the game. Gotta love that.

The VAR never really worked in Belgium, which isn't surprising since nothing really works here. In Russia they have a very complex network of cables, satellite-dishes, wi-fi, bluetooth and whatnot to make sure that every clear error is punished. But, in the end, it might just be better to use one extra referee who can look at the match from a different angle. That would be cheaper. It still wouldn't work but the FIFA could save some money, no? 

Oh, that's true, a mumble rapper died. Boy, did he pick a bad moment to be shot now that all attention is on the World Cup. Just proves that mumble rappers are dumb.

See you soon


Rik

When I was a young boy, I used to watch football matches on television with my father. My mother didn't like the game so she did some crossword puzzles or play Tetris on an LCD gaming device. Later, since my father worked in an electronics factory, we bought another television so my mother could watch her soap series while my father and I cheered on the Red Devils. I think those were the few moments when I felt truly at ease, at home. 

In a tiny room in a tiny house in Brazil, a seven year old boy is watching his heroes play against Switzerland. He watches it on an old television, probably a model from the early eighties. In those days things were made to last. The television is standing on a plastic picnic table. There is nothing else in the room, just the boy, the table and his ancient television. He is happy because Brazil has scored. He won't be this happy until they score again.

The man writes that those footballers are overpaid morons who run after a ball, only to kick it away again. He presses "publish" and takes on more sip from his wine. Then he decides to go to the movies, to watch overpaid morons pretending to be somebody else. Later that year, that same man will appear in a wooden cubicle to vote for overpaid morons who will only attempt to divide and enslave their subjects even more. 

I can't help but think about that little boy in Brazil. That boy has one goal in life, become an athlete and be rich. It reminds me of another story (read) of a boy that wanted to become an athlete, coincidentally a football player. He was born in absolute poverty. His lunch was bread and milk, every single day. One day he came home from school and saw his mother dilute the milk with tap water. They no longer could afford the milk. That day, the boy made a promise to his mother. He promised that everything was going to be fine. He started training. Later, his grandfather begged him to take care of his daughter, the boy's mother. Once again, the boy promised to fight. Only a few days later his grandfather passed away.

I'll tell you a little secret, I really enjoyed Robbie Williams' performance at the opening ceremony, especially the 'Angel' duet with Aida Garifullina. What a perfect name for a soprano by the way and what a beautiful and talented lady that Aida is.  Williams is an excellent entertainer and with that done-before middle finger he tried to prove to the world that he is still some kind of enfant terrible. Was it against the Russian's treatment of gay people? Was it against the billion dollar industry that football has become? Was it against his fans who are mostly a bunch of overpaid morons? I don't know. I think it was just Robbie being Robbie. And as far as the enfant terrible thing is concerned, we Belgians have Nainggolan, a guy I like more and more each day. Here in Belgium, the non-selection of Radja was a huge thing but Radja, although clearly "bitten in his ass", takes it with a neat dose of humor. 

The Saudis weren't good, but neither were the Germans, the Brazilians or the Argentinians. Although, we have to give Argentina the benefit of the doubt because they were battling the Icelandic vikings, the only nation that as one man stands behind their team. More than 95 percent of the Icelandic population watched the match. That must be an absolute record and a baffling number, considering the fact that Iceland is not a football nation, yet. Given time Iceland will undoubtedly dominate. Do you know why? I'll tell you why. The Icelanders don't care about anything but Iceland. They support their own. They know what the word "United" means. For Icelandic people, uniting is not a vague concept like "Metalheads Unite" or "Fortnite Fans Unite". On this side of the world, the word "unite" is only used to divide people into little groups of people who hate everything about all the other little groups. In Iceland, being united means being one, fighting for each other and turning all faces into the same direction, which I assure you is not Donald Trump's stupid antics. 

So is it such a bad thing that for once these people can cheer a little after their team beat Germany? That should not be surprise, that should be heartwarming. According to some sources, the many happily jumping people caused a little earthquake in the area around Mexico City but that is not true. It was possibly just a real earthquake somewhere in the neighbourhood, caused by tectonic activity. But for once, let's just believe the happy story that people can actually cause earthquakes. I mean, we love that kind of stories. We tell them to our kids and then tell them that lying is bad. When those kids finally discover that the Easter Bunny isn't real, we make up another story to regress their anger and when they see through that lie we tell them to shut up and find a job. And you wonder why your adolescent doesn't really like you.

I found it increasingly difficult to understand people's hate, fear and anger towards either talented or hard working people. True, some people have it easier than others but is that a reason to empty your gallbladder all over your facebook page? I don't like Justin Bieber either but there must be a reason why she is so immensely popular. Eighty percent of the world population being absolute nitwits can be such a reason but so is being picked up by pedophile artist agents and having massive wallets shoved in your face.

Anyway, back to football. I really wonder why I have not seen a meme about steroids and performance enhancing drugs after Russia beat Saudi Arabia. Why is that? Has everyone forgotten the gargantuan Russian doping scandal in the Olympics? Am I now under electronic surveillance because I mention this? Is Putin now spying on me for being the only journalist who dares mention this stuff? I guess nobody thought of this because of the cringeworthy appearance by the Saudis. Is the Saudi team still alive or am I stirring in another dangerous pot here? 

I also really dig the drama around the whole World Cup. The Mexican team hanging out with prostitutes for example. Athletes and hookers have always been an entertaining match, just like athletes and cocaine, right Maradona? See, the world of football is just like the real world: whores, drugs, parties, the more the merrier and the richer the better.

I just don't understand the group sex thing. I already puke when I think about showering with other men, something footballers do seem to enjoy, but having sex with somebody in a pool while your teammates are in the same pool, having sex with the same women? That feels very Skull & Bones to me. Those weren't orgies, those were secret society initiation rites. Whenever a guy debuts with the Belgian Red Devils, he has to sing a song in front of the group. I think in some countries, I'm not going to mention which ones because I don't want to die, teammates have to jerk off together as some sort of sick teambuilding thing. Groupwanking can turn people into presidents so I'm sure it can also cause a big win against another football team but still, yuck.

I'll move to saver havens with Spain - Portugal. That was by far the most entertaining match so far. Ronaldo might be an absolute ass but he scored a hattrick and thus saved one important point for his nation. I, as a Belgian, still hope Lukaku will outdo Ronaldo. Actually, I would like to see a UFC match between Lukaku and Ronaldo. That would probably be even more entertaining that this World Cup, a cage fight between two successful strikers. I don't like mixed martial arts. I'm one of those sissies who prefer professional wrestling but that is one match I would definitely watch, or even better, Lukaku versus Neymar. 

I found the World Cup so far extremely entertaining. There have been a few good matches, some surprising results, a bit of laughter with people's last names and a dash of hilarity when the mosquitos attacked the English team. There were facepalms too, like when Roberto Martinez complained about the length of the grass and the ninety minutes Neymar spent inspecting that length. I also enjoyed the Swiss players' grin whenever they looked at the little troll rolling and crying and whining and complaining. I think my advice in this article is clear. Don't roll and cry and whine and complain. 

Don't be a Neymar.


Rik

I had a rough night with only a few hours of decent sleep. I felt annoyed, sleepy and irritable. Yet, somehow, after a few cups of pitch black coffee, I realized that it would probably be best to just skip all other plans and start gardening early. That would certainly be better than getting annoyed by useless advice by useless people in useless facebook groups. This morning I saw someone promoting a book on "how to overcome your masturbation addiction with the help of Jesus". Obviously, I read the first few pages. Void of capital letters, punctuation marks or spaces between paragraphs, it was technically as horrible to read as the content itself. Apparently, if you lay your dick in the hands of a Mexican named Jesus, it's not longer masturbation. In that case, it's gay and we all know God is ok with that. Or, if He's not, that author will probably release a sequel soon, "How to overcome your gay addiction with the help of God" and earn another three dollars.

The garden was empty, all of them were. Perhaps most of the gardeners were still sleeping or just not keen on hard work during the Ramadan. The first person I saw was a drunk throwing the bottles from the day before in a glass container. I took the necessary equipment from the shed and started clearing the weeds. It was easy at first, working my way around the raspberry bush. But when I reached the part with grass, things got a bit nastier. Grass is a bitch, especially its roots, but eventually I bulldozed my way through that obstacle as well. Like last time I hacked and bashed and smashed my way through countless of green things. The sun was burning my skin and the sweat was rolling over my face. One liter of coffee and one liter of Aquarius kept me going until nature decided it was time for revenge.

While hacking my way through the weeds, I apparently disturbed a sandbees' nest. Suddenly there were bees everywhere, seemingly inspecting what had become of their habitat. One of them got stuck in my shoe and stung me, which apparently told other bees that I was the culprit here. I saw them roaming around, munching on the little white flowers. Once in a while, one of them would fly up to me to tell me to get lost. I offered a truce. I was even prepared to negotiate about giving them a piece of land on the other side of our parcel. But they wouldn't listen so after a few minutes I decided to give them some time off. 

I left ground zero and sat down on one of the chairs to inspect my foot. It was already swelling, itching and stinging. I put a bottle of cold water on the hump, which was uncomfortable in more ways than you can imagine so I tried to forget about the hole thing and put a cigarette in my mouth. I looked at my arms, they were covered in sweat. My back started to itch, so did my legs and my buttocks. What the hell was going on here? Did more than one bee sting me? Had other insects decided to join in on the human flesh buffet? Luckily, I had my little towel, my trusted piece of rough wiping cloth. I scratched the sweat away and got back to work.

I dug a first trench and then a second one. Then I took a scratching break. I noticed more bumps and immediately a bunch of curse words appeared in my head. Another cigarette followed, and another bottle of Aquarius. Then it struck me: allergy. Here comes a fun story, I'm allergic to my own sweat during hot temperatures. At times like these, I wish I was just allergic to gluten so I could just be an annoying ass about it. But my own sweat? How fucking lazy does that sound. "No, I can't help you today, it's too warm outside and I'm allergic to my own sweat". Ok, I AM lazy but this just sounds like a lame excuse. 

A year or two ago I had a conversation about this condition with my doctor. She told me that treating it would be possible but it would consist of smearing expensive lotions on my skin and probably getting some anti-allergy injections. Is that worth it? I don't think so. Yet, is it worth having a garden when the work can cause this kind of inconvenience? Well, I guess the best way to cope with is is to learn from it. The things with the bees was unfortunate and being allergic to myself is a nuisance but I guess I could have known. I'm allergic to most people. That's probably why I hate having sweaty bodies around me at concerts. That's probably why I dislike the gym. I am literally allergic to people on hot days. I'm going to use that, maybe I can get my doctor to write me a note about it. 

Well, I noticed that this blog is not very funny but how would you feel when your whole skin is tickling and burning? There is little else to write. Watering the few plants I have already put in the ground is not that exciting. Although, I have to say, the pumpkin and the tomatoes are doing quite well and I did find an almost perfect potato when I was digging trench three. I'm going to write an eviction notice for the sandbees now. I want those morons off my property and on another part of my property. Because in the end, I think we can be friends. I made them a peace offer by sowing wild, native flowers in what I call the "flower garden". Let them have their orgies there and not on my foot.

Well, see you next time. There are still plenty of gardening adventures to come...



​Rik

Our incredibly lazy sit-down comedian Rik Stalknecht recently got his hands on a piece of gardening land. Suddenly, this inveterate couch-crusher turned into a frantic gardener. And, much like everybody who finds a piece of soil to plant some vintage vegan food, Rik also turned into a professional gardening blogger.

​Since Rik has no other outlet than Merchants Of Air, we had no other choice than to publish the writings. So from now on we will regularly publish these columns.  We are very sorry...

On the other hand, this thing might help get you started on your own little garden. Rik does know a thing or two about fruit and vegetable growing. 

When I first heard about this little piece of land I was immediately interested. I could already see the bell peppers, tomatoes, strawberries, asparagus and cabbage grow. Old memories popped up in my mind. Young me throwing leeks into holes in the ground, young me picking up potatoes, young me throwing rotten eggs against a tree to mess with the chickens. Come to think of it, that last one was pretty mean, throwing their unborn children against that old beech tree. Of course, the hens ate it all. They ate everything we threw at them. The even started picking on one of their own after we put it back behind the fence of their residence. 

We also invented a fun game to play with the chickens after reading about ancient Romans' interrogation techniques. Back then children learned real important stuff in school. The game was one of stamina. We would steal maize from the nearby field, smear our legs with honey, stick the corn grains on the honey and then play hide and seek inside the chicken den. One of my nephews or friends counted to fifty and we all ran to hide behind one of the bushes. The chickens, who adored the mix of maize and honey followed us frantically, picking the delicacies from our tender childish flesh.

​It hurt like hell.

The strip of land I plan to exploit is 5x14 meters, plus a few small strips for a herb table, which we'll call 'Herb Alpert', and for a flower garden. The last one is for the bees which obviously are incredibly useful to pollinate your soon-to-be soup. I mean, in the last two days I have destroyed several of their favorite flowers and next week more of their property will be disowned so the least I can do is give them a bunch of tasty little flowers to munch on and an insect hotel, where they can engage in all those creepy little insect fetishes of theirs. It will be a nice hotel, more like a motel actually, with a tiny red led light, an "open" sign and a bar with fresh sugar water. In the lobby I'll play some Chopin while barely dressed bumblebees sign in the guests and show them to their room. It will be the best bee hotel in the whole world, complete with a tennis court, a sauna, free massages and free underground parking. And then I'll build a wall around the red ants nest. Those fuckers will no longer illegally enter this little garden of mine.

Actually, I am going to build a wall but not against ants. There are two ground animals that we will have to tackle; snails and rabbits. There are plenty of rabbits around this area, enough to not trust any restaurant that serves them. I distrust them in the same way I distrust Chinese restaurants selling "Park Duck". My bunny wall will be made from metal, possibly thrash metal. Rabbits have sharp little teeth that can gnaw through everything, except metal. Snails hate everything sharp so I'll protect my plants with sharp eggshells. Lazy slow little cunts as their are, snails also hate coffee so I will use coffee-grounds around their favorite food. Coffee-grounds, the leftovers from making coffee, also fertilizes the soil, hurray.

But first things first. Before I had the chance to put anything in the ground, it had to be cleared and dug around. The whole lot was covered in undergrowth, from nettles to pieces of now wild leek to grass and every rubbish the neighbours had tossed over. So I took a shovel a started hacking the soil. I removed about two centimeters of soil, raked all the green together and threw it away like an empty bag of crisps. I allowed three species of fauna to stay; the seringa, the raspberries and the redberries. The last two are delicious. I don't know who planted them there but they're mine now. In fact, while I was working the soil, I lived solely of these two fruits. They gave me everything I needed: sugar, water and a completely lack in conversation. Absolutely perfect.

A man walked by my parcel. He stood there for a few moments before I decided to show that I had noticed his appearance. I was hoping he would just go away, like I do with most people, but he just stood there with a wiseacre grin on his toothless mouth. Suddenly he said "You have to spray that all out, kill everything with burning poison from the depths of hell and wait a few months". I replied: "Not gonna". He grinned harder and simply repeated his monologue. I could have sprayed it all to death and make it easy on myself but I think Monsanto is already rich enough. Plus, I wanted to do some hard labour for a change. So I ignored the untoothed and got back to my weeds demolishing.

Then he started talking about digging trenches and covering the weeds in them. I tried to explain that I wasn't going to do that because the soil had already been enriched last year but I was talking to a wall. So eventually I just nodded, saying "yeah, that's what I'm going to do now". He then offered me cucumber plants before he started another monologue about my neighbour's tomato plants. It was a bizarre conversation but quite honestly, I don't know who was worse in it, him or me. I mean, let's face it, I communicate like a vacuum cleaner, barely. After the grinmeister left, I got engaged in a conversation with a white butterfly, which was a lot more amusing. 

Nonetheless, after several hours of shoveling, sweating and apologizing to the worms I turned homeless, my piece of soil was ready to receive its first plants. Timing was essential because a friend was coming over with some of his leftover fauna. But I made it. I broke one shovel and the nettles certainly got their revenge but now there were potatoes ready to be planted. That smashing pumpkin plant looked hungry for dirt and water and the cauliflower practically begged for a spot on that awesome piece of plant real estate. 

Just like when I was a little kid I made holes in the ground and put my new friends inside. I like digging holes in the ground to put my friends in. I guess that's why I moved to another city, otherwise I would have definitely become an undertaker. It still looks like an appealing job to me. You can get rid of people before they even start bothering you. You mostly have to be silent and nobody is really happy to see you. Oh, the joy.

But I'm digressing a bit, so back to the veggies. My phone was a great help. It made it easy to look how much space I needed between the plantings. It also told me, or at least a few websites did, that it would be best to plant potatoes and tomatoes on the side. Bunnies don't eat those and quite often also stay away from the rest too. They don't pass the "tompotato-barrier". I'm still going to build the fence though. For now, the plastic bottles will probably do. Nature hates plastics, except for whales. Apparently whales can't get enough of plastic bags. They keep up getting stranded on the beach with tonnes of plastic in their stomachs. Dumb animals (*).

Eventually, after two days of planning and hard labour, parts of my soon to become spaghetti sauce were ready to play the waiting game. It was a heck of a long time ago since I last did some heavy duty work. Now, most of my muscles are trying to call the domestic abuse hotline so I guess I'll give them a bit of rest. But very soon I will be back, clearing another lot in my ever evolving garden. Come back soon to find out how well (or how horrible) all of that went. I will now put my tired body to rest.


Rik


​
(*) Keep in mind, Rik Stalknecht identifies as a comedian.

After multiple demands, power slams and clothes lines, we were finally able to ask columnist Rik about his weird fascination with professional wrestling. Every Monday and Tuesday night (and occasionally other days too), Rik hides in his man-cave and watches those half naked men fake-fighting each other. He claims it's fun and he has been doing that since the eighties. So why not give this wrestling fan and sit-down comedian a spot on our little website? 
​

Did you ever encounter a wrestling fan who was really, really, really surprised when you told him that wrestling is fake? Did a conversation about professional wrestling - or "sports entertainment" - ever go like this?

-Oh man, Wrestlemania was awesome!
-Wrestlemania? Really dude?
-Yeah, Goldberg kicked Lesnar's ass. That was so cool!
-You know that wrestling is fake, right?
-What? No, can't be.
-Yeah, it is. The matches are predetermined.
-Predewhat?
-Predetermined, they know who is going to win before the match even starts.
-No, it's not.
-Yeah, it is.
-No, it's not. Hulk Hogan and André and John Cena and Undertaker.
-All fake.
-Nooo, there go all my hopes and dreams!

Nope, that is not the way those conversations usually go, do they? Usually, the scenario is something like this:

-Oh man, Wrestlemania was awesome!
-Wrestlemania? Really dude?
-Yeah, Goldberg kicked Lesnar's ass. That was so cool!
-You know that wrestling is fake, right?
-Yeah, so are your mom's boobs but I'd still do her.

​Wrestling is one of the most ridiculous things on this planet, apart maybe for peeled and rewrapped eggs. The crazy thing is, both fans ànd haters are aware of the nonsensical phenomenon that pro-wrestling really is. We all know that, somewhere in an ivory tower, Vincent Kennedy McMahon pulls the strings of the entire industry. He decides who wins, who loses, who gets into the spotlight and who will forever fade away in the indies. But even Vince can't control our minds so we all have a different opinion about his trade. I've had and heard several of those useless discussions over the years. I discovered that in each one of them, the anti-fan is the most annoying of the two, stating the obvious as if it were an epiphany. As if he finally understands the meaning of life. 

On the other hand. The die-hard wrestling fans usually don't add a lot of deep thoughts into the discussion either. Most WWE-Universe members won't find much more arguments than "yeah, but I still think it's cool", or "everything you're watching is fake too". And they are damn right about that. There is no reality in reality-tv, just like there's no reality in the news. Reality is something different. Reality is the reason why you are reading this column instead of getting drunk with some bimbo on a tropical island in front of fifty cameras, recording your pathetic romantic moves and showing them to the world (Yes, that is a Temptation Island reference, that show is soooo real).

​Reality is: waking up, stuffing junk down your throat, doing your very best to make someone else rich and trying to get enough sleep to be able do it all again tomorrow. Somewhere in between, you are allowed to find something to entertain you. For some of us - millions apparently - that something is wrestling. 

Wikipedia says "Professional wrestling is a dramatized athletic performance inspired by competitive combat sports" and everybody knows that. Originating as a popular form of entertainment in 19th-century Europe and later as a sideshow exhibition in North American traveling carnivals and vaudeville halls, professional wrestling grew into a standalone genre of entertainment. Today, its popularity is mainly due to Vince McMahon and his business intelligence.

In short: Vince's dad had a wrestling promotion. Vince had money. Vince threw that money into a special called Wrestlemania. Vince now has more money. Without Vince, someone else would have tried, Paul Heyman probably, but aside from that, millions of people are being entertained by Vince's ingenuity several times a week. So I think Vince deserves his picture below this sentence.

Good guy Vince McMahon now runs a multi-million dollars company. He's good friends with Donald Trump too, which somehow draws parallels between wrestling and politics. It's all fake. It's all predetermined and it's all been choreographed. None of it makes any sense, but at least McMahon turns it into an enjoyable show. 

I think for most Europeans wrestling is a guilty pleasure. I've been watching it since I was a little kid. I witnessed the wars between WWE & WCW, I've seen TNA try, I've seen the demise of ECW. I've enjoyed ROH and NJPW. Many Europeans secretly watch wrestling, but just like with their porn, they hide it from the outside world. Here, the form of entertainment is something for local sports halls and fairs. 

So yes, when Serge put me in that sleeper-hold and demanded a series about wrestling, I quickly gave in. From now on, I'll be writing about all things wrestling. I'll tear it down to the bone, laugh with it, adore it, criticise it and respect it. There will be specials. There will be reviews. I'll call the series 'Rik's Rassling Ramblings' because: A: I always pronounce "wrestling" that way, B: these kinds of alliterations work in 'Suske & Wiske' so they will work here too and C: as a tribute to this legendary scene with Shelton Benjamin, Trish Stratus and the master of ceremonies himself, Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

Rik Stalknecht


p.s.
For those who want an answer to the question 'How many wrestlers does it take to change a lightbulb', the answer is; doesn't matter, it will be a spectacle anyhow.

With all the brouhaha about religion these days, a friend asked me what I believed in.  'Oh', he said after I said 'nothing', 'so you're an atheist'.  I denied. I said that I don't want to see myself as an atheist, certainly not one of those fanatic non-believers you see these days.  Most of my friends would call themselves atheists if you ask them.  Very few of them will actually start talking about it in the first place and that's exactly where I would like to fit in.

I used to believe.  I remember an intense praying session after I survived an accident where a car hit me when I was cycling to school.  I flew through the air for several meters before landing in the middle of a busy street.  Yet, I got up quickly and ran to safety.  I checked myself but apart from a few scratches and bruises, I was completely unharmed.  When I got back home, on foot because my bike wasn't as lucky as me, I prayed to Mother Mary to thank her for surviving that accident.

Yet, soon after, I started re-imagining the accident and it started to come back to me.  I saw the car coming right at me and I knew an impact was imminent.  I remember putting more pressure on one foot in order to achieve a decent landing pose.  Once up in the air, I carefully selected my strongest arm to take the fall.  When it touched the ground, I allowed the rest of my body to roll over, spreading the pressure over the entire body. Mother Mary didn't do that.  My brain just brought up the basic martial arts training I received.

I have always been fascinated with my brain.  It's such a delicate and powerful tool.  It can do so much in so little time and it feeds on information.  It can bring up worlds of fantasy and bring those to use in the so-called real world.  It's the core of my being, everything else is either working for or acting through the brain.  Two weeks after that car hit me, I started worshiping my brain and feeding it with everything it could take.  Books, papers, documentaries, observation,... I fed it all I could find.

I was brought up Catholic but not very strict.  In my childhood I was forced to go to church but that somehow vanished completely when I got older.  It was quite boring, that's true, but church gave me time to be alone with my brain while the priest babbled on.  Besides, I liked the taste of 'hosties', those little wafers priests give you, claiming it's the body of Christ.  Every Sunday, I waited forty minutes for such a wafer.  Needless to say that I'm quite a patient man, no?

I used to believe in God for a while and even today I refuse to outrule the possibility.  Why? Well, even with all the science we have today we still can't seem to figure out who we are and what we are here for.  Some things are still shrouded in mystery, something that gave way to religion in the first place.  Wasn't lighting some punishment from God or gods before we finally discovered what it actually is?  Perhaps, and hopefully, science will one day overrule religion completely but we're not there yet.

Do I believe now? No, but I also don't believe that there is no God.  My beliefs resemble those of an adolescent who ran away from home because his father was an abusing alcoholic. Even if there is a god out there, I don't think he's worth of believing in, let alone worshipping him.  He completely failed in his fatherhood when he allowed people to murder, rape and enslave others in his name.  And don't come telling me that those people just have the wrong religion.  

Perhaps there is a god and perhaps he still sees what we are doing.  In that case, I honestly think he sighed and moved on.  If you can create the universe once, you can do it again, no?  So why should I care about God if he obviously doesn't care about his children.  And why should He still care, seeing what we have done to his creation. Although, 'creation'.  Making beings in His liking and allowing them to fight over their differences is not a creation, that's a social experiment.

I read the stories and I listened to the preachers but my beloved brain classified all of them as confusing spam, as stories to keep the people obedient, as hypocritical one-liners.  At one point, I remember sitting in church and thinking 'can't we just be good people without Him?'.  Apparently, most of us can't.  Strangely, some people still need heaven and hell to make them decide either to help or hurt another person.  I decided to try to be a good person anyway and gradually I persevered that thought.

Of everything I ever asked for, God did not give me one little thing, not even a hint of understanding.  I didn't even ask that much, an easier household so my mother would have more time to play with me, a pet that chose me instead of vice versa, help that intensely religious friend of mine overcome cancer.  When God decided to let him die anyway, I said 'that's it God, you're out of my friend zone'.  I turned my back and walked away.  Now I feel like that other friend of mine who doesn't even know, or care, whether his father is dead or alive.

So, am I an atheist?  Well, according to current opinion, I probably am.  Yet, I don't feel like an atheist. I feel like someone who just goes on without the need for something or someone up there.  I don't feel the need for that discussion because I don't think it adds anything to anyone's life.  I don't want to waste my time on someone who obviously doesn't have the slightest interest in my life.  Is that selfish? Well, not more than demanding 'above all, worship only one god'. At least I try to help someone once in a while...


Rik

Perhaps I should first point out how this column became a reality in the first place.  Earlier today a song by the number one on this list suddenly appeared on a compilation I was listening to.  I asked myself "why the hell were they even popular?" and before I knew it, a bunch other bands popped up in my head.  Now, for the record, I'm (mostly) not talking about how bad their music is. Some bands on this list often appear in my playlists but there are always acts on those playlists that deserve a lot better than the ten listed below.

Of course, there's a lot of music not worth mentioning.  No, I don't understand why R. Kelly, Kayne West or Beyoncé are famous but I actually never encounter them because I stay the hell away from wherever they are, and most of their collegues (in the 'commercial' genres) for that matter.  What I'm talking about is talent, or the lack thereof.  I'm talking about bands that hopelessly try to remain relevant by vomiting the same song again and again, or by leeching off their old hits, or other people's old hits.

The ten bands listed below are just the first ten that came to mind.  The ones mentioned above and bands like Triggerfinger (overrated), Das Ich (outdated), VNV Nation (boom boom boom boom, I want you in my dark room) and Manowar or Ordo Rosarius Equilibrio (both nothing but image) could easily be added to the list.  However, I already wrote 'ten' in the title so I'm going to keep to that.

1. B52's

I know, B52's aren't really successful anymore but they are the reason why I had to write this article.  I was listening to a 'New Wave Club Classix' cd when their seven minutes of pure ennui,  'Rock Lobster', started playing.  This must be one of the worst songs ever on the whole 'New Wave Club Classix' series and so would be their other hits, 'Love Shack' and that horrible Flintstones thing.  At least 'Rock Lobster' got funny again when Family Guy parodied it.

2. U2

Once, U2 was the pinnacle of music. Their new wave era was great, although even then many bands were actually better.  The last decent song they made was 'Numb' and since then they have been compensating musical mediocracy with technically stunning live shows.  It's a bit like professional wrestling, the show has become way more important than the music.  The discussion about Bono being an absolute cunt or not doesn't even interest me. Cunts can make good music too, right Lars Ulrich?

3. Coldplay

Coldplay is the Whitney Houston of the alternative rock industry, period.  Once again there's a band with a lot more show elements than musical ability.  Just like Oasis several years ago, Coldplay seems to write the same song over and over again, solely focusing on cheap emotions.  Here too, I don't care what kind of personality Chris Martin has, his music is just awful - still better than the Belgian Coldplay, named Novastar, but still, awful.

4. Electric Wizard

I hope I don't get death threats with this one but apart from decent doom metal, weed worshipping and showing titties, what does Electric Wizard have that other bands don't?  I've seen them live a few times, and each time the support acts were way better.  Don't get me wrong, I often enjoy their music but there's way better to be found in the world of doom.  If you want weed, check out Bongzilla or Dopethrone.  If you want witchcraft, you need Bathsheba or Jex Thoth.  And if you want titties, go to Pornhub.

5. The Ocean

Here's another one of those bands, or one-man projects with personnel, who seem to have quite a reputation.  I actually overheard conversations about Robin Staps being a bit of an asshole but I don't really care about that.  The music just isn't that good when you think of it.  Much like Electric Wizard, ever since The Ocean became a headliner in a genre, many bands have stood up who are way better.  Just check out acts like Hemelbestormer or A Place To Bury Strangers or hold on to Isis, Neurosis and Cult Of Luna.

6. Sigur Ros

While many post-rock bands evolve, adapt new ideas and keep instrumental music interesting, Sigur Ros has always remained a bit of a Cocteau Twins/Slowdive clone with a highly irritating voice.  Musically it's all fine but helium-addict Jónsi needs to keep his mouth shut.  This actually reminds me of Nightwish playing decent metal but ruining the whole with the listen-to-me ego of Tarja.  So instead of ruminating the same old melodramatic arty-farty hipster crap, try something new, The End Of The Ocean for instance.  Yes, that is a band, not a hint for The Ocean.

7. Die Antwoord

Die Antwoord is all about ugliness, grittiness and anarchy, much like The Prodigy and Atari Teenage Riot have been doing for ages with different kinds of electronic music.  That's what's wrong with Die Antwoord: most of their songs are cheap rip-offs from modern electronic dance music (especially industrial and hardcore techno), dressed in something with some shock value for the sheeple.  This act literally has nothing to add to the music industry.  Oh, and Grace Jones was a lot uglier but she still knew how to make decent music. 

8. Nickelback

​This is probably the only band that isn't really a surprise on this list.  Nickelback is the Simply Red of the alternative industry, with one exception, Simply Red has talent.  Ever since they have become popular, Nickelback has been barking out horrible songs with the same recipe, blatantly stolen from grunge bands.   They're one of the most hated bands on earth, and unlike the other hated bands, there are some good reasons for that.  Apart from the terrible music, I think many male (and obviously some female) rock fans would like to fuck Avril Lavigne but that Nickelback-cunt took that dream away from us.

9.  Amy Winehouse

Yes yes, about the dead nothing but good, I know. But I really, really, really don't understand why a drugged out post-hippie should be a musical role model for many people.  "But she is singing about problems, frustrations, this horrible world and such".  Perhaps, but the girl was no eye opener, her songs were nothing new.  Besides, if you want real songs about real problems, maybe Billie Holiday or Edith Piaf are your thing. It was just drugs, same reason why The Doors, Nirvana and the Rolling Stones became popular.  Unfortunately, if Amy Winehouse would have been sober all the time, she would have been an Adele-kind of singer, popular but hated.

10. Spin Doctors

Many bands score massive hits with their worst songs, 'Under The Brigde' by Red Hot Chili Peppers for example. But what if your worst song is actually your best song, the only one people actually remember? What if that one song gets you a lot of gigs but nobody gives a damn about the rest of your setlist?  And when you finally play that one song, people are already sick and tired of you?  Well, that's the story of 'Two Princes' by Spin Doctors.  I've seen them live, I do not recommend it.

Rik

​Het is weer november en zoals elk jaar rond deze tijd barst de zwartepietendiscussie weer los.  Steeds weer zie ik de pros en cons elkaar rond de oren meppen met compleet zinloze argumenten.  "Hij is zwart omdat 'm uit de schoorsteen komt", "nee, hij is zwart omdat hij een slaaf is".  Zwarte piet is zwart omdat hij een zwarte is die door schoorstenen moet kruipen, of dacht u dat Sinterklaas dat zelf allemaal doet met zijn in een carnavalwinkel gehuurd pak?

Telkens ik die berichten zie, vraag ik me af of er geen dringendere problemen op te lossen zijn.  Corruptie bij onze geliefde politici bijvoorbeeld, of de toestanden in het Midden-Oosten.  Kindermishandeling, dierenmishandeling, vrouwenmishandeling, rassenmishandeling, werknemersmishandeling... noem maar op.  Volgens mij is de kleur van een piet van iets minder belang.  En ja, ik weet welke dubbelzinnige grappen er nu door uw hoofd spoken.  Zo onvoorspelbaar bent u niet.

Persoonlijk vind ik heel het Sinterklaas gedoe trouwens achterhaald en redelijk idioot.  Het brengt op zich vrij weinig bij aan het leven van een kind, laat staan een volwassene.  Om te beginnen is het hele gedoe al één gigantische leugen op zich.  Elke kind zal ooit te weten komen dat Sinterklaas een uitvinding is van papa en mama om de kindjes rustig en braaf te houden, voornamelijk omdat God, hemel en hel al lang geen effect meer hebben op dat gebied.

Wanneer dat kind dan ontdekt wie Sinterklaas eigenlijk is, beseft het ook dat papa en mama vlakaf liegen, iets waarvan ze zelf zeggen dat het slecht is.  Op dat ogenblik mag je 'daag' zeggen tegen dingen als gezag en respect voor ouders.  Want ja, als ze zelf flagrante leugenaars zijn, hoeft de kleine ook niet meer eerlijk te zijn.  Daarbij, of het kind nu braaf is of niet, het krijgt toch weer een boel snoep en speelgoed van Sinterklaas, 'anders wordt het gepest op school'.

Welkom in onze hypocriete wereld, kleine Jimmy.  

Kleine Jimmy is uiteraard vroeg wakker op zes december.  Nog voordat papa en mama in de woonkamer zijn, heeft Jimmy zich al volgepropt met snoep en speelt hij lustig met al dat fonkelend nieuw speelgoed.  Zijn enige verdienste is dat hij de volgorde niet omgekeerd heeft en niet ligt te stikken in zijn splinternieuwe K3- poppetjes terwijl hij met zijn chocolade over het Perzisch tapijt van oma Floep rijdt.  Oma Floep en nonkel Bots komen trouwens straks ook nog cadeautjes van Sinterklaas brengen want hij kon niet alles op één plaats kwijt.

Ergens in de late namiddag ligt Jimmy uitgeteld op de sofa, begraven onder een berg speelgoed dat nog de volgende zomer ergens op een rommelmarkt zal liggen.  Hij wil de nieuwe Bob De Bouwer film zien maar dat kan niet want die heeft Sinterklaas niet gebracht.  Die was namelijk uitverkocht bij Bart Smit.  Misschien brengt de Sint die DVD morgen nog, of volgende week want Sinterklaas wil natuurlijk dat Jimmy blij, braaf en stil is en dat is Jimmy niet op zes december.

Jimmy weet ook niet dat die K3-poppetjes uit een stoffig fabriekje uit China komen en dat de koppen erop gezet zijn door een kindje dat heel veel zweet.  Maar dat is niet belangrijk, althans niet belangrijker dan de kleur van de man die de zak van de Sint draagt.  Bent u weer daar met de schunnige moppen, ja?  Als u zo doordoet, krijgt u niets van Sinterklaas en komt piet u in de zak steken.

Hypocrisie en hebberigheid, daar lijkt Sinterklaas tegenwoordig vooral om te draaien.  Zowat elke feestdag draait daarom, Kerstmis, Pasen, Hannukah en weet-ik-veel wat de mensen allemaal vieren tegenwoordig.  We doen ook allemaal vrolijk mee, 'want kijk hoe vrolijk Jimmy met zijn treintjes speelt (en ons met rust laat met zijn schel, hyperactief stemmetje)'.  Papa, mama, oma, opa, peter, meter en lief van de grote zus discussiëren ondertussen hevig over zwarte piet en over hoe schandelijk alles tegenwoordig wel niet is, dankzij de N-VA, de vluchtelingen, de moslims of de jury van 'K3 zoekt K3'.

Zouden we heel de boel niet beter gewoon afschaffen?  Weg met de Sint, weg met zijn pieten, weg met de klokken, weg met de kerstboom, weg met halloween (want wat een ongelooflijk kutfeest is dat eigenlijk).  Schaf al die feestdagen af en geef elke werknemer gewoon vijftien, vrij te kiezen feestdagen erbij.  Ik weet dat er maar tien feestdagen op een jaar zijn, maar maak er maar vijftien van want de werknemers verdienen dat.  Behalve nieuwjaar, laten we halsstarrig vasthouden aan nieuwjaar want dat is het enige moment van het jaar dat sommige mensen nog eens een goed voornemen hebben.

Maar ach, wat weet ik er ook van.  

I don't like people
I don't like the way they act
I don't like the way they react
I don't like their choices in life
I don't like their actions in life
I don't like their tweets
I don't like their posts
I don't like their spelling errors
I don't like their lack of reason
I don't like their selfies
I don't like their children's pictures
I don't like their children
I don't like their parents
I don't like their cars
I don't like their houses
I don't like their mistresses
I don't like their STD's
I don't like the way they smell
I don't like the way they dress
I don't like the way they talk
I don't like the way they don't think
I don't like their behaviour in traffic, at work, in the supermarket, in the shopping street
I don't like their taste
I don't like their opinions
I don't like their hypocrisy

So is it such a surprise that I don't want to be around them?
Is it so strange that I'd rather be here?
Here, were I choose who enters the room and who doesn't

I'm wrong, I know
I've always been wrong
But my wrong feels right
and if my right feels wrong to you
than I think you are wrong too

We are all wrong
Because
We are all right
We are all madmen
Because 
We are all sane

It's the others
Not you
The Others
They locked me up in here
In my cocoon of warmth, safety and comfort
Oh how I love my two bedroom uterus

I don't like people
And people don't like me
I know
That's because of me
It's my fault
and I should work on that
I know
I should work so hard on that
You never knew I know
But I know
I know
My dearest
I know

I don't like people
I'm not a rascist
I'm not a sexist
I'm not a atheist
I'm not even a believer
I'm a behaviourist
I judge behaviour
and therefore
I don't like people

So I should work on that
and in the mean time
please correct your errors
please overthink your posts
please help someone in distress
please give an old man a seat
please don't reproduce
please don't litter the street
please don't drive to fast
please don't drive drunk
please don't drive stoned
please don't drive high
please don't insult people
please don't hurt people
please don't stab people in the back
please don't kill people
please help the refugees
please stop the wars
please stop corporate greed
please stop private greed
please stop cheating
please stop 

please

stop


sincerely

Rik