There. I've said it.
Yesterday "we" Dutchies beat Spain by 5-1. Hurray. Millions in my country erupted in almost orgasmic joy.
Having dinner with my fellow justices of the peace, at our local Greek restaurant Limani, was very nice. Good food, good wine, good company. And people bolting their food at the tables all around us, because they wanted to be near a huge TV by the time the football would start. Never mind that Limani turned on their flatscreen as soon as it started (thankfully with the sound turned down low), and that the waiters ran around cheering as soon as someone scored.
You see, I don't mind that. Good for them. Just don't ask me to watch as well, or to pretend I give a hoot. And that's exactly what I want to tell you about.
For even though I let everyone around me enjoy their football (I even bought the beers, cakes and nuts for my family at home, who belong to the watchers), and would never tell anyone that it is, for example, a waste of money, people get really upset when I dare to admit I do not give a toss.
Someone told me to get a life, yesterday, when I said (when asked if I was going to watch) that in my opinion football is overrated.
Get a life? I mean...Gosh!
And when I cycled home (after the match, but that was pure coincidence) in my white coat some people (too many beers in their bellies) yelled at me why I wasn't wearing orange.
Quite scary, that. It made me uncomfortable. And it made me reflect on group dynamics, and how unreasonable they can be.
Right now there's a football madness in my country that bewilders me. And it's fine, they can wear orange underwear for all I care, and dance the polka, and feel really happy, and name their kids Louis to honour Van Gaal, may he save our country and grant us eternal bliss. But they should not tell me how to live my life!
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