hey You know, stereotyping people is generally regarded as wrong. And I'm not all that keen on doing it, unless I'm demoering, in which case anything goes. Today, I'm not demoering, but I was struck by how some stereotypes seem to actually fit... Allow me to paint a picture, and not in a Dali-esque kind of wacky, clock-melting, penises floating around half-naked women kind of way, either. Went to go buy a liter of milk this morning from Fruit and Veg City - local fresh produce chain specialising in exactly that - fresh fruit and vegetables. They also sell bread, eggs, cheese, milk, nuts and, for some reason, imported pasta. So I bought the milk, and some bread rolls for lunch to go with my soup (I'm in a soup kind of mood, since it's fucking freezing outside. I am only in a t-shirt, though, because it's important to not let the weather psyche you out. Oh, and trousers and shoes and stuff, obviously. Brazen, yes. Jail... no thanks. The point, though, is I am in short sleeves. I digress). So I head back to the car, and there in the poky carpark, 8am on a Wednesday morning, are four Japanese people. I'm pretty sure they were Japanese, not Chinese or Taiwanese. Definitely were not Korean or Vietnamese or Laotian or Burmese or anything - I'm pretty good at distinguishing the different Oriental peoples. Anyway, they too have just bought some fruit and milk and shit. And then they all pose in front of the store and each one takes a photograph of the other three. Just like Japanese tourists are always portrayed in the movies. I mean, it's not like Fruit and Veg City on Roeland St is an important landmark. You can't see the Houses of Parliament or Robben Island or even Table Mountain in the background. And yet four photographs were taken... I'm left wondering if maybe stereotypes are not always a bad thing, if people are just going to go out of their way to live up to them. The reason it's freezing is because it's winter. It's also pissing down with rain like there is no tomorrow. And more importantly, there are white horses all over the bay. So it's not broken. Which is good. I know several people who have experienced emotional and physical turmoil of late. I think about them a lot, especially when I start to think I have a raw deal; and in a perverse way, it's nice to know that someone out there has it worse off than me. That doesn't sound right, I know, but it's the only way I can think of to say it. And it's true. Those people aside, spare a thought this morning for the Italians, as a football side, and a nation. They needed a win over Bulgaria last night, and they needed a result in the other game between Denmark and Sweden, to progress to the next round of the tournament. And for the first time in a long time, they played. They played football like I have not seen an Italian side play in some years, a side possessed, hell-bent on proving themselves to be more than an aging, tired, one-trick pony. The Danes went up, the Italians went down, the Swedes were looking okay with the result as it was. Suddenly the Italians and the Swedes scored. The Italian bench, knowing what was happening in the corresponding fixture, knew that the Italians just had to put one more goal in to qualify. Suddenly, the Danes scored again. At this stage, the Swedes were going home because one more Italian goal looked very likely as the Bulgarians crumbled. It's in stoppage time at the end of the second half. If the Bulgarians could hang on for five more minutes, or the Swedes could score one goal in 3 minutes, something which had been eluding them the entire game, the Swedes were going to be very lucky indeed, something I'm not sure they deserved last night. In the 91st minute, the Swedes equalised. Their result was safe. They were elated. Nothing the Italians could do would get themselves through. But the Italians didn't know that, yet. Simultaneously, the Italians scored a magnificent goal as the Sweden-Denmark result was relayed to the Italian coach. The Italians on the pitch were going ballistic, thinking they were going through. They look over to the bench, and the Italian support in the stadium, all strangely subdued in the face of this superb event. The reality sinks in as they realise what must have happened in the other game. As one, they look at their coach. He offers a slight shake of the head, and looks away. The guy who scored the goal was absolutely shattered. The final whistle goes. The Italians, exhausted physically and mentally, are left stranded on the pitch, wondering how the fuck everything could possibly have gone so wrong so suddenly. Zeroes to heroes and back again with two touches on two footballs a hundred kilometers apart in only a matter of seconds. It's tough to fall from the top. Knowing my own fortune with backing losing sides, I fear for the Dutch tonight. I am a Dutch fan and they need the Czechs to do them a favour against a rampant German side... I imagine I'll be feeling a little Italian myself come tomorrow morning. Pathetic as it may seem, it's not easy supporting a sports team, in any sport. There's a lot of pressure from rival fans, and it's never easy to accept that your idols are merely mortal and flawed. The emotional investment is huge. It's draining. It's tragi-comic, it's exhilirating, it's terrifying and exciting all at the same time. Spare a thought for the Croats, the Spaniards, the Swiss, the Russians, the Bulgarians and the Italians. And tomorrow, the Latvians and/or Germans and/or Dutch, becuase two of those nations and their supporters are going to be going to bed miserable tonight. have a good wednesday.