Fire of Freedom (nd current)

It’s Sunday. I’ll check the situation. I am thinking about a round of talks. Motto: We will talk forever. I’m full to the brim. Full of love and freedom. I am a barrel of fire of freedom. We well-fed Central Europeans feel particularly predestined to piss our neighbors with good advice in all situations: Less nuclear power here, more democracy there, puts the knife on the neck of corruption.

We always forget a little bit about our own corpses in the corrupt juice shop. If I may remember the legendary corpse of the pool as an example? Allegedly, according to the Bild newspaper, he is still alive. Somewhere in the back forest, where the honest regional illiterate people still adore him – yes, I mean Austria, this country where the alpine grind regularly grinds its way into the brains of idiots. Until a few years ago, this emperor glorified half football Germany because this corrupt buddy with his jovial attitude made Germany repeatedly the laurel wreath.

In my hometown of Weimar we ate ashamed cat soup in times of need, when Franz and the battered Bavarian brood perfected the principle of the black box in the early 1970s. No problem in the Amigo state, after all, the finance minister was a member of the association and knew only too well where Barthel got his must. Taxes are only paid by fools, and from then on this deep insight was gladly followed in Bavaria. I would like to remind you of the watch smuggler Kalle and the tax evader Hoeneß, not entirely ashamed. Both villains have long been forgiven in the square skulls of the fans, if grass has grown over them for a few years, these farmer catchers will again enjoy the highest honors. I am already counting the medals and visiting professorships (for commercial law, definitely) who will soon adorn your document portfolios and heroes’ breasts.

Compared to the aforementioned bad fingers, our little Zönchen (alias GDR) is downright lean. Here referees can be charmed for ten marks (West) or a box of Radeberger, at least say the eternally deceived Saxons from the valleys of ignorance when the word monster permanent master BFC Dynamo is used.

I read yesterday that out of a hundred people, at most twenty can be described as not insane. If you take this hint as a yardstick, you really only have to drink, take drugs and scare off good citizens. But because higher beings ordered me in the summer of 2020 to care about the mental non-stupidity of football fans from now on, I will take care of your Easter eggs from now on and, for example, shed light on football in the Soviet Union. Who knows that at least 66 people died in a mass panic in Moscow’s Luzhniki Stadium in 1982? Spartak Moscow, the most popular Soviet club at the time, played 39 years ago in the European Cup against HFC Haarlem from the Netherlands on October 20. Although only 16,000 spectators chilled in the giant bowl, which at that time fit more than 80,000, there was a mass panic due to various regrettable wrong decisions when the people marched off.

It was neither the first nor the last in football history. The stadiums of the world are full of places of remembrance that call to mind the dead of football. Each of them is one too many, which is why we remember them today, cultivate a philosophical conversation about being and nothing and decorate our windows with a candle.