Besides getting a hard-on while dancing a ballet solo, such a short circuit is the worst thing that can happen to you as a spectacle maker.

“He mixed up the lyrics and then couldn’t get it straight again.” How graphically can you say that someone had a blackout? The message was in Het Parool Wednesday and it happened to comedian Youp van ‘t Hek: that short circuit in the brain that leads to verbal confusion and ultimately a standstill in thought and action.

It is a certain traumatic experience for everyone, but even more so for someone who has to make a full room laugh for a living. Besides falling into the orchestra pit during a captivating monologue or getting a hard-on while dancing a ballet solo in exaggerated tights that accentuate the pubic area, such a short circuit is the worst thing that can happen to you as a spectacle maker.

The only thing to do is stay calm and hope that the engine starts again before the audience starts to notice anything, but that didn’t work this time with Youp. He is on his farewell tour and, everyone hopes and if his nerves allow it, will end his impressive career on May 25 in Carrè in Amsterdam.

Worse than a blackout is the fear of another one, thinks the amateur traumatologist in me, who goes to the neurologist if he can’t think of a word twice in a row, but it can also have good sides.

When, after a recent night out, during which I admittedly had had a little something to drink, I no longer remembered the next morning that I had gotten into a heated argument with my beloved in-law on the way home, I immediately sobered up and stayed that way. This has now led to the bankruptcy of a drinks center and a night shop in my immediate area, because I have a lot to spare for my mental health.

Sudden freezing in the middle of a sentence: it also happened to Mitch McConnell, the powerful leader of the Republican senators, a few times live on television at the end of last year. It was a pitiful sight and a quick exit was the result. While his supporters continued to insist that nothing else was wrong, everyone saw a vulnerable and lonely man.

The decline of Hugo Claus also presented itself to the general public when he suddenly found himself at a loss for words while reading his poetry in the Leuven city theater. The landing, as it turned out, had definitely started.

I would rather have a leg cut off or a malignant cancer at the end than evaporate wordlessly in the madhouse, that is my heartfelt wish. But, as my mother said: you don’t get to choose.