Some zip around on mopeds and bob-about on rowboats floating abuse at innocent bridge-walkers, whilst others wear loud trousers (often in red, blue or green) and can be heard shouting things like: ‘Hey, Rudy, all the French girls were askin’ after yoouu last night!’  But they all have one thing in common… what the fringe is it?

Haargel. And they use copious amounts of the stuff! It’s said that the amount of hair gel that the Dutch use could be moulded into a life-size wax replica of all the oceans combined, and with as much sliminess, and that stroking a Dutchman’s head is like stroking broken glass, or touching that one rock-hard sock that you keep in your top door.

In the parts of Britain that need to secede, this pompadour phenomenon is referred to as a Dutch Prince: there’s nothing Royal about this. I’ve also learnt that these people I’m describing in sweeping generalisations are in fact widely depicted in even more non-discriminatory terms here in the Netherlands as ‘Kakkers’.

So, to fully embrace Dutch culture, I’m going to start doing it. In fact, as you may have noticed, I’ve already started to apply gel in the picture above. All I need now is a football and big orange sunglass that I can wear around inside the UB: koelte!

Dutch women may enjoy competing over the mirror in the mornings, but surely they don’t actually like the kakkers’ gluey blond locks! Well, it has certainly worked for Rudy, so perhaps it can work for me, too. Armed with a silo of hair gel, mastery of the word ‘lekker’, and a brief history of FEBO, it’s hard not to imagine me sweeping up the French girls straight from Rudy’s sticky grasp.