Its Friday and the week that just started ended, or will end, at some point, in time. Time moves at the same speed as it always does. I move with it, or past it. I have no concept of time, this is something I've returned to often during the past couple of years. The fact that I have lost the feel for time, a concert a week ago can feel like it was a year ago and the smell from someone in my bed can feel like yesterday. But the clock on the wall (If I would have one) just keeps onticking , relentless in it's chronic movements into the unknown. Or the time is known, but what we fill it with is not.
As chronic as the time, so is the Swedish mentality towards Marijuana. When deciding to move to Amsterdam I was confronted with more Marijuana jokes per capita than anyone should encounter during a life time. Many Swedish people believe that the only thing the Dutch do is play beautiful football without winning any tournaments, and getting stoned. Thus, I was very pleased to see this article in the NRC International. There it was conclused that the Dutch does not smoke as much weed as my Nordic country men assume. They even smoke less than the EU average. Turns out that pizza baking Italy leads the chart before day sleeping Spain and hockey hair cut Czech Republic. Ah, how we in the editorial board of Airportline loves when national stereotypes crumble. With that said I will go and buy one kilo of hair gel, cause that is what we do here in the Netherlands.
This is not a blog about football. It is about life, beauty and art and thoughts. Yesterday these concepts were suddenly aligned with both each other and with football. When Chelsea's blue knights rode over the green grass of Anfield Road, encouraged by a Dutch coach and a forcefulness in midfield from Ballack and Essien, it was worthy of a war scene in a Hemingway novel. As a Chelsea fan the games against Liverpool have carried with them something special after all the Champions League meetings. Yesterdays game surprised by being an open affair with both teams initially creating all sorts of problems for the defenders in both teams. Spanish pretty boy Torres looked like he would make the evening a sad one for us Chelsea fans when he cleverly sneaked in between the Chelsea defence and midfield to score 1-0 early on.
Chelsea forced their way into the game, mainly due to some key tackles from Ivanovic, and a midfield that found all sorts of space between a Liverpool team that struggled to find their normal Anfield swagger. Chelsea created more and more chances, with Drogba being wasteful before Ivanovic, possibly the most under rated Chelsea player around, hit the red army hard two times. Anfields red warriors suddenly looked like a group of school boys trying to pick a fight with some older and stronger guys. Gerrard was hanging with his head and Fabio Aurelio had no control over Kalou on his side. In the inner midfield Essien and Ballack paraded as if they had just conquered the city of Liverpool, giving no space for the reds to create any pressure. Drogba scored 3-1 after Ballack's through ball which cut through Liverpool's already badly wounded defense to Malouda who, with the French touch Foucault use in his writing, hit the ball perfectly to Chelseas own Napoleon, Didier Drogba, who came conquering in his African cornrows like his sole goal in life was to kill that football. And I almost almost spilled all the beer at the table at Tara's in excitement after seeing the best Chelsea performance of the season. The fact that I know way too many proud Liverpool supporters made the taste almost as sweet as a Whopper Meal while hung over. Good times.
