I was surprised at how Jonathan Liew’s article in the Guardian Pundits’ showy partisanship reflects football’s embrace of fan-centric populism resonated with me and caused the notion of an “anti-identity” to bubble up in my mind, reinforced by the thought, kindly provided by Brexit Prime Minister Theresa May, of me as a “citizen of footballing nowhere.”

Throughout my football-formative years, as we moved house and as I later continued my own arc around the UK and abroad, I have supported home teams in Liverpool, Manchester, Ipswich, Bologna, Shrewsbury and Mainz. Through friendships and admiration of certain teams, I have also supported Sampdoria (Vialli, Platt), Bayer Leverkusen (Ballack, Babic, Berbatov), Tottenham (Hoddle, Waddle, Mabbutt) and Arsenal (Overmars, Petit, Henry…). Now, with a German wife and family, I can’t feel too bad if they play well and win (though it’s agonising watching England play badly and lose, especially to Germany). I’ve been astounded and confounded at matches, in pubs or at home, so - I think it’s important to emphasise this - I don’t consider myself to be emotionally stunted when it comes to football.

Yet I find myself asking now: what does it mean to support a team? Is an appreciation of who they are at the time and of their vicissitudes sufficient? Am I OK to reset so quickly after fleeting elation or disappointment, and appreciate their struggles after going down, or do I have to feel things more viscerally, for longer?

Liew’s article also highlighted my innate reluctance – quiet, usually unaware – to despise opponents (provided they’re not simply being despicable) in any field: sport, religion, politics, work. This can put me at odds with the heartfelt supporters, those who have maybe never known anything else, who are all-in, who would consider themselves the ‘true’ supporters. It makes me wonder: is my perspective shallower, somehow weaker, more diluted than theirs? And does it reflect the problem in the populist slide, that full-throated, roaring fanaticism trumps broad appreciation?

Football is often used as an analogy or metaphor for much else in life - team and tifo, as it were: If society can find the balance between passion and respect, my team, my tribe distinctly with all the others, not against, then I think we’d all be better off.

Somehow, I managed a 50 km cycle today, over two stints: to work, and back. I definitely struggle on the ride back, after a normal day at work, and (whilst probably only marginally) back upstream along the Neckar.

Still, Ladenburg is always a welcome sight: my photo was rubbish in the end, though, since I moved the phone whilst it was still taking the night-time shot. Kind of arty, but pointlessly so. The cloud layer over the illuminated water tower could almost (well, not at all) have been an aurora.

Somehow, I managed a 7 km run today, with only the last km being more of a walk than a run. I found myself switching styles as I ran, loosening up as many muscle groups as I could. It probably looked very strange, but it felt good!

I went swimming today with my daughter, happy to be back home after a week-long training course (which I should write about) near Stuttgart, to spend time with her. I am not a good swimmer, but, with the pool being fairly empty today, I managed to snatch 30 minutes in the “Schnellschwimmerbahn” (the lane reserved for fast swimmers) to work on my… OK, to try to create even the slightest bit of a semblance of endurance.

After those 30 minutes I went to the bathroom and, on the way back, I encountered one of those extremely trim gentlemen who, so utterly focussed on their sport, seem to forget about mere bobbers like me: he scowled past me twice in and out of the showers, and then found a lane to his liking. In the pool, he was indeed fast, a swimmer of such speed, apparent endurance and efficiency that I can only dream of. But with that totally understandable focus on technique and power, on his own body, he seemed to consider other bodies as hinderances. It’s how he made me feel, anyway.

That stance (floating pose?), I will admit, is something I can be accused of, too, since there really are swimmers slower and older than me, who do seem to take up room and enter into my swum furrow. It’s a sense of irritation and entitlement that feels justified but, upon inspection, isn’t really. So when I do feel that sense of irritation about the slow swimmers, I should take it upon myself to see their position to me as being in the same relation as mine to that über-swimmer (who, just as is always the case on the Autobahn, will find himself the “hunted” by other, younger, fitter, faster swimmers) - to recognise their efforts, to embrace the obstacle as a swimming challenge, and to smile.

And the best way to forget about all of that? Splashing and diving with my daughter, totally annoying other “proper” swimmers, whilst we’re at it. We don’t mean it that way, honest!

This morning, another relaxed, family- and work-free morning, I pottered about getting up, making breakfast and checking the weather. Finally, the rain was due - but only later in the afternoon.

So, I packed my bag, plopped in my contact lenses, had a cup of tea, read more of “Teach us to sit still” by Tim Parks - an amazing account of his battle to find his balance, in order to alleviate his pain - and then finally hopped on my bike to the Tiergarten swimming pool.

It was the perfect time to go. I was ready to swim at 11:45 and there were three people in the play pool (the readout showed that was 22 °C - and it really took my breath away when I plunged in), though there was a flurry of wet-suited triathletes taking up a third of the olympic pool (which was a balmy 24 °C). The rest of the place was practically deserted, and I had a lane to myself.

Without the stress of having to watch out for other swimmers, I realised what really stresses me about swimming - it’s bloody noisy! Whether swimming breast stroke or crawl, breathing out under water creates a barrage of bubbles streaming past my face and my ears. It’s not a dainty little “bubble bubble” - goodness me, no - it’s a cacophony of cavitation, each bubble shrieking and shouting as loudly as possible “BANG! BLUB! BUBBLE!” as each CO2-filled echo chamber flops and gloops its way on by.

Once I realised that the noise was a key contributor to my emfrazzlement, I couldn’t ignore it, but I could work around it. I started to swim more slowly, more efficiently. I started to glide with each kick, only sweeping with my arms when I felt the legs float up in the stream behind me. Finally, I felt that I had arrived at an acceptable breast stroke style.

Hopefully this will mean that I’ll be able to move on from the second perennial stress-factor of swimming, which is that I think about it too much, from an engineering perspective: which angle should my hands have? Where is the most effective point to impart the largest impulse with either hands or feet? How’s my streamline angle in the water? And so on ad infinitum, for each swimming style that I try to take on.

After about half an hour, it started raining. The triathletes all left (to give them credit, I think that was more for lunch than to escape the rain), and slowly and surely the pool emptied. Finally, for a glorious couple of lengths, I was the only person in the pool.

I finished off with a victorious fast crawl - then topped that by finally trying out the water slide into the play pool.