The drama called Drake

Actually, the plan was for my laptop and me to live separately this week. That I would spend a week with my nose in the sun with only one goal: to relax. But then, god, it's Monday morning and a girlfriend texts that she has an extra ticket for Drake who is performing that evening, and what do you do then? You cancel all your plans, leave the little chair on the beach of Noordwijk that you had claimed because, hello, it's Drake. And I love Drake. So yes, I have to be there. So far, so good.

Around eight o'clock, I arrived with my friends at the Ziggo Dome for that same Drake who secretly is on your sex bucket list . An hour later: still no Drake. But hey, I'm a concert junkie and I'm used to artists being ‘fashionably late’. Two hours later: still no sign of Drake. And by the way, almost 90 euros on drinks, because at the Ziggo Dome they charge embarrassingly much for tokens to pay for your drinks (we were with four, not that you think we spent 90 euros on beer for just two of us). There was a Jamaican, I think, named Popcorn or something, who felt the need to reenact some sort of awkward porn scene with his weird dance moves, but that's beside the point.

How many people fit in the Ziggo Dome? Seventeen thousand or so? Well, the venue wasn't completely sold out, but have you ever heard such a spacious ten thousand people shout ‘boo’? No, me neither, until yesterday, when suddenly someone from the management came on stage to announce after almost two and a half hours (TWO AND A HALF) that Drake is ‘sick’ and cannot perform. She also claimed that Drake had been in the building but I call bullshit, Drake. If you had been there, you would have had the balls to walk on stage and say yourself that you're not feeling well after so many cancellations. The good news was that everything would be rescheduled for next Wednesday. Well sorry Drake, I'm skipping it if you don't mind. After three no-shows, it's time for a break-up.

Drake, babe, you were always a man after my heart, but I hope you understand that this is really the end of the story. It's not me, it's you. And your shitty excuses to keep canceling.

End of story. Bye, I'm going on vacation again.