Guns, drugs and prostitutes

Jingoism. Tub thumping. Selotaping the front page of the sun to your living room window. Attaching a ping pong ball sporting the cross of St George to the aerial on your Vauxhall Zafira. Taking any notice of Mark Lawrenson.

I do none of these things. Neither do you. That’s why you’re in the right place.

Just like you, I love football. And I’m particularly partial to FIFA’s four-yearly jamboree. I’m English, and while I’d like to see England do well at this summer’s World Cup, I just don’t buy into the xenophobia that kicks in every (well, almost every) fourth June.

I’m here for the football, but not just the football. The whole carnival. The emotions, the mis-placed passes, the forty-yard rakers, the underdogs and the underachievers. The side stories, the broken hearts, the broken metatarsals, and those Brazilian women with the enormous…..er….outfits. The hand of god, the phlegm of Riijkard, the forehead of Zidane and the birth certificate of Roger Milla. All great, fantastic. Love’s got the world in motion and I’m in. Tell me where to sign.

"If he'd have spat on me, I'd have chinned him"

So why a blog? I know my football; locally, nationally, internationally; but I’m no seasoned blogger (which will become all too clear, if it hasn’t already). The interweb seems a great place to get your thoughts out into the open, but deep down, I’m of the opinion that getting paid to be a professional writer can’t be all that hard. Well, it can’t be can it? If only I could just bother my arse to write something. So I’m going to……..although no money will change hands. Bugger.

Where does Maradaona come in then? Well the Maradona in question is, of course, none other than Diego Maradona. That’s the curly headed, salad dodging, line snorting, kidney failing, stumpy cheating loon that is the incumbent Argentinean football coach. It is also the mesmerizing, enigmatic genius that was the greatest footballer of his (if not any) generation. He can still captivate and commands attention wherever he goes. From Buenos Aires to Naples, when Maradona speaks, people take notice. Oh yes, and he’s got a team at the World Cup as well.

It would just be too easy to report on the predictable fortunes and misfortunes of England. Plenty of others will be doing that. Your local paper will invariably carry a dreary ‘World Cup Diary’, full of WAGs and robot dances. That won’t do for this pilgrim. I’m going to go where the real action is and follow the circus that is Argentina.

It’s not because Argentina have (arguably) the best players, but because they embody everything as a football nation. It’s all in there; the flair of the Brazilians, the organization of the Italians, the efficiency of the Germans, the ‘it’s probably all going to kick off soon’ness of the Dutch. Throw in a ‘skin of their teeth’ qualification campaign preceded over by a national demi-god who has selected over 100 players in an 18 month tenure and you’ve quite a melting pot. They could be out after three games or they could win it. There will be highs, there will be lows. Sublime skills and reckless tackling. There will be guns, drugs and prostitutes (often all at once). There will be Argentina. I can’t wait.

Stick with me and follow La Albiceleste (that’s the White and Sky blue to me and you) over the coming weeks on this blog. I’ll try to make it amusing, I’ll include a fair smattering of half decent reporting and I’d like your comments and interaction. Hey, this blog will be nothing without you, dear reader. (I looked right into the camera when I said that).

The English tabloid press will no doubt invoke a flag waving, don’t like it up 'em, ‘this is our year’ rhetoric over the coming weeks. This blog will be the antidote.