Pijnacker is veranderd. Met pijn in het hart moet ik concluderen dat het groene, lieftallige dorp waar ik vroeger wel eens bij een vriendinnetje ging logeren, is veranderd. Mijn grootste jeugdzonde van destijds was dat ik, als ik er met de trein naartoe rees, zei dat ik in Berkel en Rodenrijs was ingestapt, terwijl dat in werkelijkheid station Bergweg was, om twee gulden te besparen op een enkeltje... Hoe weinig begreep ik toen al van jeugdcultuur, bedenk ik als ik de verslaglegging van een van de grotere loverboy-zaken van dit moment lees. Helaas is het dorp waar ik kaastosti’s met ketchup ontdekte en Stephen King’s IT voor de eerste keer zag, genadeloos veranderd. Met dank aan een van de grote loverboyzaken van dit moment, waarbij Delft en Den Haag als overige pleegplaatsen voor het gemak in de krantenkoppen worden weggelaten, om ook de onschuld van Pijnacker te verkrachten.
Volgens de verdediging van een van mensenhandel (en ontucht met minderjarigen en wapenbezit en verkrachting en kinderporno- en wapenbezit) verdachte jongeman valt het allemaal wel mee en heeft het allemaal te maken met hormonen. Deze verdediging (Peter Hermens) zou zich kapot moeten schamen (maar als ik ooit ga scheiden wil ik hem ook).
“Het zijn gewoon jongens met een hoog testosteron-gehalte, zoals zoveel tieners”. De jongeman in kwestie is inmiddels 21 jaar, in alle mogelijke opzichten volwassen dus. Het gedrag van deze ‘tiener’ en zijn vrienden wordt afgedaan als straat- en jeugdcultuur. Let wel, we hebben het hier niet over nachtelijk voetballen op een veldje (nou nou), rondhangen op een schoolplein (poe poe) of het achterlaten van bierblikjes en koekjesverpakkingen op een hangplek (zo kan die wel weer). Nee, het gaat om groepsseks op feestjes en het filmen ervan met mobiele telefoons, veelvuldig gebruik van alcohol en blowen en minderjarige meisjes proberen te dwingen tot prostitutie. Jeugdcultuur.
De verdachte gaf wel aan zich te schamen voor het filmen van de meisjes. Dit weerhield de verdachte er echter niet van tientallen filmpjes op zijn computer te bewaren en ze te delen met zijn vrienden. De meisjes én de filmpjes; niemand kan hem ervan beschuldigen een slechte vriend te zijn die nooit iets deelt.
Ook het “Nee!”, dat een slachtoffer roept, voordat zij door verschillende door hormonen bevangen jongens wordt gepenetreerd (vast geen woord dat door betrokken partijen gebruikt wordt), kan volgens de verdediging óók betekenen dat zij liever niet gefilmd wil worden of dat ze liever niet heeft dat het licht wordt uitgedaan. De rechter ging mee in het verhaal dat de meisjes zich gewillig lieten drogeren en ‘betasten’ en achtte verkrachting niet bewezen.
Ik weet niet wie ik eerder met mijn handtas in zijn gezicht zou slaan, de hoofdverdachte, zijn raadsman of die rechter. En ja, dit mag opgevat worden als ‘belediging’, strafbaar gesteld in artikel 266 wetboek van strafrecht. Alleen; ik ben momenteel ongesteld, en we weten allemaal welke hormonen daarbij vrijkomen.
Oh ja (alsof het nog niet genoeg was), de wapens, XTC-grondstoffen en het valse geld waren natuurlijk ook niet van de verdachte. Want elke jeugdcultuur-respecterende tiener heeft natuurlijk een tot huiskamer omgebouwde kelderbox met daarin een XTC-lab, een aantal vuurwapens en een leger bij de pizzeria opgepikte minderjarige meisjes die gewillig liggen te wachten en het het liefste met het licht áán doen.
Jeugdcultuur. Ik ben toch blij dat mijn idee van jeugdcultuur logeren bij Lineke in een twee-onder-een- kap-woning te Pijnacker was, en niet verkracht worden door Yousef A., Adil H. en Jamal D. in een kelderbox te Pijnacker.
bronnen: artikelen uit Trouw, de Volkskrant en RTL.nl
voetnoot: dit is een blog die uit boosheid nav de berichtgeving geschreven is, dus puur een mening, en niet op feiten is gecheckt bij de desbetreffende verdachten.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Confessions of a Werchter diary
I lost my festival-virginity to Pinkpop a long, long time ago. I'm pretty sure it was 1996 when I heard Pennywise's 'Bro hymn' live for the very first time and 14 years and 22 (!) multiple-day festivals later, you can still hear the 'oooh oooh ooh oh, oooh oooh oooh oh', if you listen carefully.
Twenty-two; I can't help but being impressed by that number; that's 11x Lowlands, 6x Pinkpop, 1x Torhout, 3x Werchter and 1x Into the great wide open. In all fainess; they blend into each other, I can't say what or who happened where or when. So this year, I took notes. Because really, I'm getting to old for this shit (I'm writing this from my bed I'm sharing with a ton of hankies and kiwi's and a pot of tea).
The best thing about looking back (not just at festivals, but at life in general) is selective memory. Mine sets in on the first day. We arrive on camping A4 after 6,5 hours in slow traffic in an AC-free car, that's four hours after Thomas announced us near Antwerp 'that we would be another 30 minutes'. You've gotta love an optimist. As we put up our tents, Phoenix is playing 'If I ever feel better' in the background and I appreciate the irony. I was desperate to see them, but eh, we're here and I will feel better. After all, the tailback ended the 'Kyteman-versus-Jeugd van Tegenwoordig' dilemma, I would have faced if I was at the fields at 16:30... Now we were still near Antwerp. But it really was a fun trip that ended with Take That blasting from our stereo as we pulled up on the parking-lot (don't look at me, it was Tanja's Ipod!).
As you might remember, it was boiling hot this past weekend, a steady 39 degrees Celcius. Selective memory erased the knowledge that there is no proper shower to speak of at camping A4. I once spend three weeks in Marocco and the traveljournal
that was published after this trip, was called 'Showering out of a coolbox'. At camping A4, I would have killed for a coolbox. All we had was a 2-liter Bar-le-Duc carton, we lovingly kept reffering to as 'the instant shower' and we dragged it along for 4 days. I had a nice brown colour on monday, unfortunately it washed of at home in the shower. One morning after waking up in my sauna formerly known as tent, I'm looking for something to wear and all I can come up with is yesterday's bikini-top. 
It's funny, I've never been more heavy in my life yet never cared less about what I look like. It's just too damn hot. I shake my head and sigh as I look at the legging, black longsleeved shirt, skinny jeans and woollen (!) legwarmers (!!) I so carefully packed. I must have had a good reason for bringing those, because after 14 years I still make packing-lists for every trip. All explanation has melted away though. I also wonder if it's a good idea to use my 'refreshing' Nivea deodorant stick for my whole body and not just my armpits. I don't even get that far, because it has melted into a cream.
Luckily, I don't stand out in my bikini-top, because it is the fashion item this year. Bikini-tops for girls and towels for men. Men also wear those 'Wife beater' tops, in Belgium called 'Marcellekes'. I thought that was funny. The fashion-craze that only lasted 20 minutes was the good old plastic poncho (with or without commercial print).
After all these years, I still learn something new every festival. At Wechter 2010 I learned that in the Dixie-toilets (and I use the term 'toilets' loosely... a blue puddle without a flush really isn't a toilet) on the right of the Pyramid Marquee, you can hear the music from both stages. Which is handy if you can't choose between Pink and Empire of the sun. That is, untill this dual experience is interrupted by a girl having noisy sex in a Dixie behind mine. It was either that, or she was having a really good poo.
I also learned that the Belgians aren't very fond of those 'loud and rude' Dutchmen (and women). One Flemmish guy wash shocked and put his hand in front of his mouth when I told him that I don't like football and that I had to ask my boyfriend whether a game is boring or not, because to me, all sportsgames are boring. Funnily enough this Werchter was the first time I got not one, but two indecent proposals and someone pinched my lovehandles when I wouldn't let him stand in front of me at the Pearl Jam show.
I'm pretty sure I confessed to being an easy cryer. This Werchter was no exception. It's a bit embarressing, but I appreciate cheap emotion-triggers, when I see them, so here it goes.
Green day: when Billy-Joe pulled a twelve-year old boy with glasses on the stage and some fireworks started when the child counted to four (it does seem a bit silly when I see this in writing).
Corinne Bailey Rae: when she started singing the beautiful 'Like a star' and it dawned on me that this lovely, gorgeous, talented lady lost her husband last year.
The Temper Trap: What can I say? I still tear up when I hear 'Sweet Redemption' on the radio.
Pearl Jam: Just Breathe. It's Eddie Vedder in combination with lack of sleep, a smiling Tanja next to me and a very good weekend. No apologies there.
Pink: Ok. I do apologize for this one. But the woman has a good voice, she's pretty, a great performer and can hold up a fantastic show. The same can be said about Florence and the machine; so I guess it all boils down to taste. Me, I'm on team Pink (For Christ'sake; she was twirling up in the air in a harnas and still carried a tune!). I apologize again.
Next one is Into the great wide open; talking about selective memories. I do remember yelling 'Never ever again', after that hardship; tents destroyed if not blown away, non-stop rain, a 7 hour journey to Vlieland and crappy organisation (the volunteer-rota's weren't ready untill the shifts had already commenced). But on the bright side: Whitest Boy Alive is confirmed, but more importantly, the toilets flush!
Twenty-two; I can't help but being impressed by that number; that's 11x Lowlands, 6x Pinkpop, 1x Torhout, 3x Werchter and 1x Into the great wide open. In all fainess; they blend into each other, I can't say what or who happened where or when. So this year, I took notes. Because really, I'm getting to old for this shit (I'm writing this from my bed I'm sharing with a ton of hankies and kiwi's and a pot of tea).
The best thing about looking back (not just at festivals, but at life in general) is selective memory. Mine sets in on the first day. We arrive on camping A4 after 6,5 hours in slow traffic in an AC-free car, that's four hours after Thomas announced us near Antwerp 'that we would be another 30 minutes'. You've gotta love an optimist. As we put up our tents, Phoenix is playing 'If I ever feel better' in the background and I appreciate the irony. I was desperate to see them, but eh, we're here and I will feel better. After all, the tailback ended the 'Kyteman-versus-Jeugd van Tegenwoordig' dilemma, I would have faced if I was at the fields at 16:30... Now we were still near Antwerp. But it really was a fun trip that ended with Take That blasting from our stereo as we pulled up on the parking-lot (don't look at me, it was Tanja's Ipod!).
As you might remember, it was boiling hot this past weekend, a steady 39 degrees Celcius. Selective memory erased the knowledge that there is no proper shower to speak of at camping A4. I once spend three weeks in Marocco and the traveljournal
that was published after this trip, was called 'Showering out of a coolbox'. At camping A4, I would have killed for a coolbox. All we had was a 2-liter Bar-le-Duc carton, we lovingly kept reffering to as 'the instant shower' and we dragged it along for 4 days. I had a nice brown colour on monday, unfortunately it washed of at home in the shower. One morning after waking up in my sauna formerly known as tent, I'm looking for something to wear and all I can come up with is yesterday's bikini-top. 
It's funny, I've never been more heavy in my life yet never cared less about what I look like. It's just too damn hot. I shake my head and sigh as I look at the legging, black longsleeved shirt, skinny jeans and woollen (!) legwarmers (!!) I so carefully packed. I must have had a good reason for bringing those, because after 14 years I still make packing-lists for every trip. All explanation has melted away though. I also wonder if it's a good idea to use my 'refreshing' Nivea deodorant stick for my whole body and not just my armpits. I don't even get that far, because it has melted into a cream.Luckily, I don't stand out in my bikini-top, because it is the fashion item this year. Bikini-tops for girls and towels for men. Men also wear those 'Wife beater' tops, in Belgium called 'Marcellekes'. I thought that was funny. The fashion-craze that only lasted 20 minutes was the good old plastic poncho (with or without commercial print).
After all these years, I still learn something new every festival. At Wechter 2010 I learned that in the Dixie-toilets (and I use the term 'toilets' loosely... a blue puddle without a flush really isn't a toilet) on the right of the Pyramid Marquee, you can hear the music from both stages. Which is handy if you can't choose between Pink and Empire of the sun. That is, untill this dual experience is interrupted by a girl having noisy sex in a Dixie behind mine. It was either that, or she was having a really good poo.
I also learned that the Belgians aren't very fond of those 'loud and rude' Dutchmen (and women). One Flemmish guy wash shocked and put his hand in front of his mouth when I told him that I don't like football and that I had to ask my boyfriend whether a game is boring or not, because to me, all sportsgames are boring. Funnily enough this Werchter was the first time I got not one, but two indecent proposals and someone pinched my lovehandles when I wouldn't let him stand in front of me at the Pearl Jam show.
I'm pretty sure I confessed to being an easy cryer. This Werchter was no exception. It's a bit embarressing, but I appreciate cheap emotion-triggers, when I see them, so here it goes.
Green day: when Billy-Joe pulled a twelve-year old boy with glasses on the stage and some fireworks started when the child counted to four (it does seem a bit silly when I see this in writing).
Corinne Bailey Rae: when she started singing the beautiful 'Like a star' and it dawned on me that this lovely, gorgeous, talented lady lost her husband last year.
The Temper Trap: What can I say? I still tear up when I hear 'Sweet Redemption' on the radio.
Pearl Jam: Just Breathe. It's Eddie Vedder in combination with lack of sleep, a smiling Tanja next to me and a very good weekend. No apologies there.
Pink: Ok. I do apologize for this one. But the woman has a good voice, she's pretty, a great performer and can hold up a fantastic show. The same can be said about Florence and the machine; so I guess it all boils down to taste. Me, I'm on team Pink (For Christ'sake; she was twirling up in the air in a harnas and still carried a tune!). I apologize again.
Next one is Into the great wide open; talking about selective memories. I do remember yelling 'Never ever again', after that hardship; tents destroyed if not blown away, non-stop rain, a 7 hour journey to Vlieland and crappy organisation (the volunteer-rota's weren't ready untill the shifts had already commenced). But on the bright side: Whitest Boy Alive is confirmed, but more importantly, the toilets flush!
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