Dear Erik Van Looy, you can make us forget that Covid-19 exists

Dear Erik Van Looy

I think I have a solution. For the Christmas thing, I mean. And you play the central role in that plan. Yes, I place the task of guiding Flanders through this difficult period on your sympathetic shoulders. Here’s the idea: because many of us are threatening to face lonely parties, and to change the ideas of the rascals that threaten to organize transmission parties – to kill two birds with one stone, make from Thursday afternoon 24 to Friday afternoon 25 live television for 24 hours in December: Christmas with Erik! You will keep the nation company for 24 hours – with jokes, quizzes, interviews, videos and the opportunity to chat with you from time to time.

I am writing this in earnest because I recently learned from my own experience that you have a very great comforting capacity. That had escaped me a bit in recent years – The smartest person no longer interested me. Everyone in that program laughs so hard all the time, there is so much needless hilarity that the rebound used to make me rather sad. With every intense burst of laughter on your part, I felt myself drifting a little further away from the Flemish soil current, which continued to give you top viewing figures.

Boomer

Today your program is a bright spot in my day. You will not blame me for confiding in you, but I contend – like many others – with slightly morbid thoughts from time to time. I am lucky with my two lovely housemates, but because I have hardly left the house for eight months now, I sometimes feel sad. Often I feel like crying quietly – were it not for the fact that I’m another shock-resistant boomer who has learned that men don’t cry. But deep down the mind is sometimes under water. I feel that the ravages of time are diligently gnawing the legs from under my chair and I struggle with emotions that I long did not suspect existed – even hearing about the death of Lutgart Simoens, I experienced deep melancholy.

And so it is that this season I am still ready to go to The smartest person to watch. I now indulge in each of your fits of laughter and greedily enjoy the opportunity you offer us to clear the mind for a moment. It’s like my brain is being completely vacuumed for an hour. When I suddenly saw an empty room this week, I thought for a moment that the audience had been collectively transported to intensive care as a result of a super diffuser, but fortunately I quickly realized that new corona rules on TV always strike with some delay. The wonderful thing about your program is that even with that empty studio you still manage to make us forget that Covid-19 exists. In fact, during your quiz life feels so light it seems like everything is always going to be fine, like most people are good, toddlers never get a bullet in the face, like Ben Weyts & Jan Jambon are the new Gaston & Leo instead of Flemish drivers – you are out of the world for a while. And in the meantime you learn something from it – completely unsuspecting, as the Fleming likes it. These are often superfluous facts, but every now and then brand new information presents itself. Really great!

K-pop

The last thing happened with a statement by DJ and participant Umi Defoort. When, after a question about K-pop, he explained that the Korean hype isn’t as harmless and nice as it seems – the celebrities are drilled from childhood and even sent to a plastic surgeon – I was surprised. Sky! Worrying. I had never heard of it. Not from K-pop, even less from the crazy business behind it. I tumbled off my cloud for a moment.

If I had watched the rebroadcast that time instead of live, I would have been spared this bang. After protest from K-pop fans, Vier en Woestijnvis decided to cut the fragment in question from the program. This in accordance with the spirit of the times that dictates that no one should be offended anymore. A motto that Woestijnvis has held for a long time. Just think of Geert Hoste’s Hitler salute that was obediently cut out from an episode of The ideal world, after a letter of complaint from an offended Flemish Belanger. This Orwellian approach to reality – if it bothers, we rewrite it – suits your production house perfectly. A Desert Fisherman is everyone’s friend, someone who – like yourself – is built out of pure cozy and charming amiability. An Erik is a friend at home.

Cut

One can be scornful about that, in these harsh times even the greatest cynic is unable to cope with it. Today we want nothing more than someone who simply cuts everything that disturbs, pinches and disturbs out of the picture stream – as if it never happened. Which gives me another idea: can you perhaps also make the annual overview after that Christmas program?

With kind regards!

Joël De Ceulaer, senior writer

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