Fun & Famous

MAY MISSES ALBERT

“This is really a treat for you.” Colleague H. had lined up a fresh job for me for after the summer. You should know that when you work in TV (non-TV people actually say ‘at the TV’ but you should never do that if you want to make a bit of an impression), you are essentially a seasonal worker. Ten months of working very hard, then two months in a state of utter laziness, and then it’s a new round, new chances. And it’s always exciting to see what you will do after the long summer.

This time it was about a new, daily program for RTL4 that would be broadcast in the early evening. It was clear that the topics could be divided into the chapters of celebs, royalty, crime, and fashion, and that the presenter would have to say both the name of the program and his own name every day. Who that presenter would be was still completely unknown. The then-director of RTL4 was navigating somewhere between Viola Holt on the left and Margriet van der Linden on the right and everything in between.

For the regular entertainment expert who would join every day, only one name was mentioned. Albert Verlinde. The only option. He was still with SBS6, but nothing is too expensive to be bought, so it happened that I was introduced as the first editor-in-chief of RTL Boulevard on a sunny summer day to Albert Verlinde.

As it goes with a startup, you develop a much closer bond with your colleagues than when you join a ship that is already sailing. I took that quite literally, as my colleague editor is now the father of my three daughters, but I also shared more with Albert and Beau than with any other presenter I ever worked with.

I watched the video tape (yes, those were the days) of his wedding video with Onno, went to every premiere of his musicals (and there were many, and they were always below the rivers), I met his parents and was the head of the internship for his niece. My morning started with Albert. Well, not entirely, but he was my regular half-past nine moment. By then, I was already busy with the morning newspapers and evaluating the broadcast from the day before at half past seven in the morning. At half-past nine sharp, I would call Albert or he would call me. ’Can you call me back?“ was then his standard question. He was good, but not crazy, and deep inside him lived a frugal, Brabant boy who was aware of the value of money and thus also of the costs of our daily phone calls.

And that was one of the things that made Albert so perfect for the job. He remained grounded and close to the people. He felt what that woman from Breda wanted to hear in the evening. He understood how a family felt at that moment of the day. He could articulate public sorrow, like when a car drove into the crowd on Queen's Day. Or after the disaster with MH17. He made news small, digestible.

And yes, he could question people without hesitation. Or send us after someone. “I heard that so-and-so is seriously ill, can you call them?” And if we refused, he would do it himself. Because he smelled news and wanted to be the first to tell it. That didn’t mean he couldn’t keep a secret. I know it firsthand when an actress was seriously ill. “My parents don’t even know yet, can you please keep it to yourself?” And he did. If she promised him that he could bring it first. That, however, was a given.

That mix of the human, going to the extreme for a scoop, the clever, the alert, and the ordinary, makes Albert unique. And I will miss him tremendously starting Monday. Every single day.