So England lost to Italy yesterday? I guess that ball was just too greasy for them to handle. Normally I approach football like I do any other form of entertainment; follow its progress, enjoy the games, discuss and banter over it with my mates. Like watching a film, when the game is on screen, I feel the fun and ride the excitement, and when it’s over I turn it off and return to my daily life. Last night however was possibly the first time I’d actually felt a sense of disappointment continue post-match. I’ve looked at Football fans when their team lose and fail to conceive just why they would let something so detached from the real world negatively affect their emotions. Even now, I find it ridiculous. Football, and its following, is the geekiest thing in existence and the emotional discharge is just as illogical. I admire any passion, and look up to anyone who can harbour such love for a pastime, but can only shake my head in confusion when actual depression follows failure. I may have already announced my loyalty to the German squad but still I feel England could have, or possibly even should have, gotten further. Alas.
Somewhere that could have done with going further and perhaps in the right direction was mine and Zoe’s escapade to Bülder Haus in Rohrbach. Just some casual rock climbing to pass a sunny evening. One and a half hours later, and we were still searching for the bloody place. It would appear that Germans, like Lawyers, will insist on giving you an answer even when they have no idea whatsoever. It was this process that left us being confronted by American Military Guards, characteristically not speaking a word of German, and getting stuck in a surreal Ghost town of children’s playgrounds, fenced-in front lawns and dark windows that is Mark Twain Village. I’m sure that if the literary realist and charmingly witty pontificator was aware that a village had been constructed in his name he would have been confused at best. Throw in that it’s a military town and I dare say mister Twain would’ve thrown a whimsical fit.
A few cheeky hours later and I saw evidence as to how rock climbing genuinely outclasses sex, after all, you can choose the length and width of your rope, leave your protection for guys after you, there’s lots of cracks and the only rubber you wear is on your feet. Either that or I really need to improve my understanding of intercourse.