image: Ron Layters Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-ShareAlike Licence
Over the past few days, Amsterdam has gradually turned visibly orange. Orange hats, wigs, all manner of orange clothing, and of course, strings of orange flags flutter from buildings. I considered buying an orange inflatable hammer and an orange boa, but in the end decide to save my euros for impending emergency hostel stays and visits to Norwegian supermarkets.
Instead I pick up a freebie orange hair-net and rip it apart to make an impromptu hat band for my trilby. Looks kinda odd with it´s elastication and jagged edge. ´you look like you´ve got panties on your head´drawls Dean, a random Texan I meet. We both shrug.
As the teams tussle, with Russia looking dangerous, I move from crowded bar to crowded bar to a spacious but depressed coffee shop (´who’d watch the football in a coffee shop?´ - Tikitu) Finally I settle in a bar on the lively Spuistraat. Nearby graffiti quotes Raoul Vaneigem: Those who speak of revolution and class struggle with no explicit reference to daily life, without understanding what is subversive about love, and what is positive in the refusal of constraints, they have a corpse in their mouth.
Yeah, yeah, how subversive can football be? At least there are no corpses here, - some guy at the window is yelling home-grown commentary through a megaphone. An Italian is blowing a whistle and initiating chants with his minimal Dutch. ´I don´t really care about football´ he tells me, `I just know it will be a good party if they win´ Me too.
I don´t know much about football, but it doesn´t look good. The Russian team (coached by a renegade Dutch manager) has looked swift, organised, and lethal. They have almost scored numerous times, and been ahead for most of the second half. The dutch finally equalise, sending it to extra time. Much tension. The Dutch keeper Van der Saar is screaming at his team-mates. The Russians seem calmer. Then Russia strike twice. By the time Arshavin sends a cheeky strike between Van der Sars´ legs, their style has won the respect of many as well as the game.
I watch the management of the bar desperately trying to erase the depressing effect of the impending loss by switching the soundsystem to dance music instead of the commentary. They respond to shouts and switch it back. Many people are leaving for home already, but the die-hard fans remain, stunned.
The party is over, the city is in mourning. I see the Italian who was acting as cheerleader. ´catastrophe´ is all he says.
Over the past few days, Amsterdam has gradually turned visibly orange. Orange hats, wigs, all manner of orange clothing, and of course, strings of orange flags flutter from buildings. I considered buying an orange inflatable hammer and an orange boa, but in the end decide to save my euros for impending emergency hostel stays and visits to Norwegian supermarkets.
Instead I pick up a freebie orange hair-net and rip it apart to make an impromptu hat band for my trilby. Looks kinda odd with it´s elastication and jagged edge. ´you look like you´ve got panties on your head´drawls Dean, a random Texan I meet. We both shrug.
As the teams tussle, with Russia looking dangerous, I move from crowded bar to crowded bar to a spacious but depressed coffee shop (´who’d watch the football in a coffee shop?´ - Tikitu) Finally I settle in a bar on the lively Spuistraat. Nearby graffiti quotes Raoul Vaneigem: Those who speak of revolution and class struggle with no explicit reference to daily life, without understanding what is subversive about love, and what is positive in the refusal of constraints, they have a corpse in their mouth.
Yeah, yeah, how subversive can football be? At least there are no corpses here, - some guy at the window is yelling home-grown commentary through a megaphone. An Italian is blowing a whistle and initiating chants with his minimal Dutch. ´I don´t really care about football´ he tells me, `I just know it will be a good party if they win´ Me too.
I don´t know much about football, but it doesn´t look good. The Russian team (coached by a renegade Dutch manager) has looked swift, organised, and lethal. They have almost scored numerous times, and been ahead for most of the second half. The dutch finally equalise, sending it to extra time. Much tension. The Dutch keeper Van der Saar is screaming at his team-mates. The Russians seem calmer. Then Russia strike twice. By the time Arshavin sends a cheeky strike between Van der Sars´ legs, their style has won the respect of many as well as the game.
I watch the management of the bar desperately trying to erase the depressing effect of the impending loss by switching the soundsystem to dance music instead of the commentary. They respond to shouts and switch it back. Many people are leaving for home already, but the die-hard fans remain, stunned.
The party is over, the city is in mourning. I see the Italian who was acting as cheerleader. ´catastrophe´ is all he says.
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