Bah humbug! No World Cup for England. Back to the protests then.

What disaster! What a huge injustice and monumental failure of the system to send the 2018 World Cup to the home of football. What a blow to the English (British) economy.

As the tabloids (and not only) are screaming at the perceived injustice, I must tell you that I for one thing am happy England didn't 'win' the right to organise the 2018 World Cup. There are a number of parameters here, and a number of reasons.

Firstly, there is nothing here on the level of states. FIFA are a corporation, milking the World Cup to the extreme. An extremely corrupt club for that too. The way royalty, politicians and others got involved in the England bid you'd think this had something to do with the public. It doesn't. World Cup football (and Premier League football while you're at it) are privately run entertainment events with the sole purpose of generating their owners and their partners maximum revenue. There is no morality here to be broken. Private business is profit-driven, end of story. I for one thing would not be happy to pay for the infrastructure, policing and security which would facilitate FIFA, Coca-Cola, Adidas and the rest of them to reap maximum profits.

Which brings me to my second point. All the arguments we hear about all the revenue that would come in, the tourism, the jobs, have no real foundation whatsoever. There has been no estimate (published at least) of the projected costs of hosting the World Cup. According to Panorama last Monday, the Dutch have in fact undertaken a study and it turns out that when FIFA and their partners have taken their profits, the nation would be £100 million worse off. On top of everything, the Dutch weren't favourites as they were unwilling to change their legislation to satisfy FIFA's demands or allow FIFA tax exemption during its activity in the Netherlands. Benefit? Bollocks. That's just sheer populism.

Thirdly, the cries against corruption on the part of the British media are only coming out after the English bid failed. In fact, I suspect that some of those bent officials who were exposed in Panorama would even be voting for England. Make no mistake: the English bid and its proponents were fully aware-nobody was robbed of anything here. The English have simply been bested at this game by others. The World Cup will be well placed in Russia.

The above phenomena exist whenever there is a huge sporting event with global appeal, it's nothing new. How did an impoverished country with sky-high crime rates get to organise the World Cup last summer? What happened to the infrastructure now it's all over? And have the townships, crime and poverty been eradicated as a result of the World Cup's all-healing impact? We don't know, as the patronising, flatulent journalists who were there during the event are not interested any more. And don't you think that given Joao Havelange's grip on FIFA for decades and his association with cases of bribery, it is hardly surprising that Brazil also got to organise the World Cup in 2014? Will the World Cup eradicate the favelas of Rio? Allow me to be deeply sceptical, although I'm sure it was also part of their bid: the social project, the benefit, the impact.

If you think these big events give economies a boost, think again. The only ones who get a boost are politicians who get to milk the glamour and the fireworks and the multinationals who really run the show. It is disgraceful for the prime minister of a nation hit hard by budget cuts to be throwing his weight behind what is simply a nice celebration of back-scratching and keeping money in the family. The inappropriate excitement about the World Cup bid, just like the pompous announcement of Will's and Kate's engagement, only serve to temporarily shift our attention from the more pressing issues. Unemployment, unfair distribution of taxes, further social exclusion in health and education, accommodation of an upper-class-run exclusive club of politicians, businessmen and their friends. Bread and circuses don't save the day. Just ask a now-bankrupt Greece. The Athens Olympics were only six years ago. And although the Olympics served to temporarily tranquillise them and make them forget the state of the economy, they soon woke up again. The British will too. Good luck to the Russians-they'll need it once Blatter and his partners are done chucking all the sacks of roubles into the truck...

The dream of the spherical goddess

Ever since I hurt my ankle and gave up football, 18 months ago, I have been wanting nothing more than to kick a ball. It's as if my heart defies what the body knows: I've hurt both ankles twice. Last time it took me over a month to walk, and I can still feel that my ankle is weak, probably permanently. But I sometimes go to bed and the moment I close my eyes I make that killer pass from right-back all the way to the winger. It can't be helped. I've been playing the game ever since I can remember. Some of my first memories are of the World Cup of 1978, with that fantastic poster. I remember my dad going to the coffee house to watch games with the other men in Ayia Phyla, that's about it.

I even vaguely remember Aston Villa's 1982 European Cup win. But my first, big football memories were from the 1982 World Cup in Spain. The images flood back: naranjito, the mascot, the brilliance of Brazil with Socrates, Zico and Falcao. Everyone around me loved Brazil and wanted them to win it. But I somehow rooted for Italy. Our local grocer's was giving away world cup posters of teams, and I landed one of Italy, clad in their away white strip. It's funny, but that simple coincidence in the course of my childhood, one of many, has determined my support for a national team which never plays attractive football. And then there was Marco Tardelli. In the final against Germany he scored, and produced the most passionate celebration of all time: he turned and ran towards his team's bench, screaming 'goal' and crying tears of joy. That image has remained etched in my memory, the explanation to why football inexplicably becomes the passion for millions of people. That was it. I've been supporting Italy since.

As a player I was never great. When I was in school there were no real positions-everybody followed the ball, wherever that was, to form a huge scramble of feet, elbows and heads in search of the goddess. We used to play in a dusty field next to my mother's house, clouds of dust rising. I remember taking a bath afterwards, and the water turned red in the tub, the colour of the soil, blood from my knees. We'd have matches with teams from other neighbourhoods, with all the hostility seen in a Barcelona-Real Madrid classic.

A stint in the youth team of my village didn't really last all that long. I guess, as Roberto from Byzantium said to me once, "the mind is quicker than the body". He of course meant that we were getting old. I think it also means that some people can produce on the pitch something resembling the brilliance we saw on the screen. I couldn't. I was useful I guess. I could kick the ball, and as I grew older, I developed a good sense of positioning and passing, to compensate for my complete lack of pace and mobility. I also gradually developed the ability to pass and shoot with both feet, so I could play anywhere on the pitch. Except goal.

In the meantime I began to worship the divine ponytail, Roberto Baggio. He represented all I loved about football. Talent, commitment, work ethic, but most of all he was a sound character in a sport where these were rapidly disappearing. I started playing for the uni team as an undergrad, and then when I came to the UK I bumped into the Byzantine Roberto, another one who 'excelled' on the pitch after the age of 30. By then I'd moved to defence, using my 'wisdom' as a counter to the lack of physical condition. I began to play hard, but also developed my passing based on the Italian defenders who never ever hoofed the ball, but rather patiently brought it out and started counter-attacks. I hated giving the ball away more than anything. Roberto, like his Buddhist namesake, played in attack. His 'genio Italiano' as Captain Steve called it, served him well, and he went on to score goal after goal for our struggling team. Bizzarely I never scored, not even when we (rarely) came up against teams considerably weaker than ours whom we thumped. And then, when I went to Italy for Roberto's wedding, I bagged the perfect hat-trick in a match among his friends the night before his big day. I bagged one with the right foot, a screamer with my left, and a header in the first half. And that was the last time I scored.

And now I just watch. I thought of taking up coaching. Archery. Something. But nothing is like it. No matter how many hours I play the guitar, the buzz is never the same.

Clubs and national teams I love and have loved

Anagennisi Deryneias (home club)

Omonoia Nicosia

Nea Salamis Famagusta

Italy 1982

Argentina 1986

Soviet Union, World Cup 1986 and European Cup 1988

Yugoslavia 1990

The miracle of Denmark, 1992

Romania 1994

The wonderful Czechs, 1996

Mexico 1998

Players/icons

Marco Tardelli

Diego Maradona

Georghe Hagi

Hristo Stoickov

Roberto Baggio

I am sure Roberto will remind me the ones I forgot...

Dedicated to Eduardo Galeano, whose writings on the goddess are the best tribute to the passion.

Gol

He had to jump in order to get to the long ball Javier sent from right back. With great effort, he chested it down onto the muddy pitch on the left flank. He saw the defender approach with the corner of his eye. He'd been kicking lumps out of him all evening and was certainly coming back for more. Claudio flicked the ball down the sideline and managed to jump out of the defender's way. He looked up and saw Diego and Gabriel advancing from midfield, waiting for the ball. He paused. The rain was lashing down, and the floodlights seemed to give it an almost supernatural quality, as if it was pounding down on him, heavier than ever before. Ever since the coach called him to the national team he had been trying hard to prove himself. He knew he was only in the squad because of others' injuries, and he'd only made tonight's starting line-up because Juan got injured in training just that morning. He knew this match was his last chance to show them what he could do.

Time seemed to slow down, almost pause. He could hear this fan a few meters away, screaming at him to cross the ball. What did he know? What did anyone know? He turned and looked at the coach, out of his dugout, pointing at something and yelling. He only just spotted the defender recover, making his way towards him again at great speed.

He remembered his childhood in La Plata, playing in the street with that flat football they'd found one day with his brother Alberto. They impersonated the greats of the day: Kempes, Ardiles, Tarantini, Luque. They always played these endless matches against the children from the calle San Lorenzo, a couple of blocks away across the avenida. Nobody ever knew the final score. The matches, scrappy affairs played in a cloud of dust, always ended in a fight which the Lorenzitos always won as they were a bit older. They could only retreat throwing rocks back at them. Once they crossed the avenida back into their own turf, they could taunt their opponents with swearing and gestures. The Lorenzitos would never dare to cross, they would be too far from home.

He poked the ball with the outside of his right boot, past the charging defender, jumping to avoid the tackle. He cut in, approaching the corner of the penalty box. There were three defenders, plus the one he'd just skinned who would surely be back on his feet any moment and approaching again. Jorge was taking a position near the penalty spot, while Diego and Gabriel were not far behind. He could also see Javier moving in fast from right back, towards the far post. He had a number of options and a number of obstacles. As the ball was getting stuck in the mud, he again slowed down to decide what to do.

He was only 13 when he lost his brother in the Malvinas War. He remembers his mother crying in the evenings for months, his father sitting in silence. That pointless war changed everything. Some of his friends were also conscripts and fought there, while his cousin Jose was on board the Belgrano, lost in the cold Atlantic waters. There was a shadow in his family and in the neighbourhood ever since, as if his childhood had come to an abrupt end. He carried on with his football, playing for a local club before signing forms for Gimnasia, one of the local big clubs.

He advanced with the ball, always keeping an eye out for the defender behind him. One of the two center-halves came towards him, slowly and cautiously. He saw Gabriel pointing to the space behind the center-half and beginning his run to space. He looked further and saw Diego stand off a bit, as if to shape to receive the ball and shoot. He had to act fast.

His childhood friend Matias had signed forms with Gimnasia's hated rivals, Estudiantes. Although they still met occasionally, the hatred between the two clubs was so great they gradually drifted apart. Whenever they met on the pitch, he sensed that Matias had grown arrogant and treated him with more than a hint of sarcasm. He tried to take his own back, but all he could manage was two sendings-off in three encounters. His coaches had already labelled him a rogue, a loose cannon who couldn't be relied upon when the going got tough. Against all odds, he managed to establish himself in the first team. But as he saw his friends advance and move to Boca, River or even Barcelona and Madrid, he stayed as his reputation as a bad boy preceded him, somewhat unfairly. His chance had come and gone.

The national team coach would never have called him had it not been for the misfortunes of other, more popular, and probably better, players. But here he was, striped in sky blue and white, with the crest on the chest, playing in the world cup final.

He knocked the ball forward, going past the first centre-half. He chose to ignore Gabriel and Diego; instead, he sweetly moved the ball to the left, finding himself with the other centre-half just off his right shoulder, but he was at too sharp an angle to take a shot at goal. He anticipated the defender's move. As the defender tried to shield the goal from a potential shot, he put his right foot under the ball and flicked it over the defender's left foot and into space. He didn't have to look. He knew perfectly well where the goal was. Where it always was, in the dusty streets of La Plata, in the training ground. It didn't matter if it was a Lorenzito in goal or a world class goalkeeper. It felt like a lifetime passed in a few split-seconds. He hit the ball firmly but with accuracy, making contact with the outside of his left boot. It curled and swerved away from the goalkeeper, landing just inside the far post and resting inside the net.

He can't quite remember what happened. He ran towards the fans, behind the goal. In the daze of it all he felt his team mates jumping on him, exploding with joy. It was all a mixture of rain, floodlights, mud and noise. Tears and laughter. Although he'd just given a whole continent a huge moment of joy, he could only weep. He wept the bitterest tears he ever had, as if the sweet embrace the net had reserved for his shot had released him from years of frustration. He'd done it. He'd won it. For himself, for Alberto, for his crying mother, and every crying mother. For that bastard Matias. He'd won it.

Fall in Autumn

It was all over in a flash. One moment I was up, in control (seemingly) of my movements, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, with the unfailing certainty that my ankle had given way. And it was unceremonious, no hint of glamour or valour in the whole thing, nothing like these chaps here. No no no, it was just a slip, a good, old-fashioned slip on the wet pitch. Down and out. No slow motion, soundtrack, nothing. And it hurt. It was the last kick of the match and I went down trying to stop someone scoring, as if it would have made a difference at that point, we were losing anyway. But you know, pride, competitiveness and all that. I remember people flocking around me, talking, helping out-funny how rivalry disappears when there's someone on the floor, even though he ended up there as a result. Thanks lads. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I am now the proud owner of an ankle which resembles a piglet, with little stripes of blue and yellow (Fenerbahçe?). If you are not squeamish, you can preview my work here. If you are indeed squeamish, you can always do something else, perhaps enjoy Cat Power's version of New York New York. Onwards and upwards, give me the drugs!

Viva España? Or not?

Spain's triumph in Euro 2008 has again raised issues of 'national unity', regional vs national identity, separatism and so on. I knew that the moment the final whistle went and Torres' magic goal gave Spain the Holy Grail of European football, the issue of unity would be brought up by our better newspapers and the BBC, the same way it did when France won the 1998 World Cup. The Guardian today has published an article called Political fútbol from Spanish newspaper El Mundo, in which Victor de la Serna hopes that the country will not break up into separate states such as Catalunya, the Basque Country or Galicia, idiotically stating that they "have never been independent states before, and therefore cannot claim the same type of historic legitimacy that can be brandished by, say, Scotland or Bavaria". I must admit that I have never seen such shallow and idiotic arguments against nation-states and their formation. I do not believe in nation states myself, as they promote nationalism and extreme right-wing ideals of 'purity' and 'superiority'. However, the argument that they cannot achieve independent political status because of a lack of 'pedigree' does not hold any more water than a paper bag. With holes.

And I explain: modern nationalist movements in Europe appeared in the 19th century and became the base of what we understand today as national identity and nation. The way national identity works is that people rally behind a certain set of ideals, which frequently claim historical pedigree but very often are based on very thin argumentation. Not all modern nations have pedigree, basically because there are infinitely more self-perceived nations than there can be pedigrees, or political states for that matter. Bosnia was always in a Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman or Habsburg sphere of influence. And yet it is a new nation, with a flag, national anthem and all the trimmings. The same goes for a number of other modern nations, Croatia, Slovenia, Slovakia, Kosovo, the list is endless. In addition, if we were to demand a form of historical evidence to support the right to independence, then 4/5 of the modern world would have to revert to a colonial state of being. Because we have no evidence of historical pedigree for ancient Africa, Oceania and of course America. But then again, perhaps the readers of El Mundo would support a movement to include South America back into a Castillan-led empire, such as in the 'golden days' of Philip II.

When the main partners of the EU support Kosovo's move for independence, it is hypocritical to deny Catalans, Basques and Galicians the right to choose their own fate. Western Europe does not like it when Balkan-like troubles manifest themselves at its doorstep, they cramp its style and make it look slightly untidy and not as problem-free as they like to appear. It makes no sense. If a people have chosen to believe that they are different and deserve self-determination, they then have to try it and see for themselves. It's a circle that needs to become complete, before we can then start letting this 'superiority' nonsense die down and come back to living together as humans once again. When self-determination is denied, it leads to extreme phenomena, as Spanish people will agree. Nationalism is a thinly veiled version of racism, xenophobia, prejudice and hatred. But oppressing national sentiment only serves to exacerbate these sentiments and make it harder for people to go about their daily business without having to choose sides.

Calls for 'unity' on the back of sporting events smack of 1970's Chile and Argentina, or Greece and Portugal, where dictatorships boosted sport in an attempt to consolidate 'national ideals' and distract the populace from the more sinister aspects of 'detainee management'. The mothers of the disappeared, relatives of people who were kidnapped, tortured and executed in the Dirty War in Argentina, serve a reminder to what 'national unity' represents. Football is political, there is no doubt about it. Sport becomes the focus of national sentiment, a sentiment which regimes exploited since antiquity and continue to exploit in our days. But the Guardian would do well to steer away from such idiotic 'patriotic' fanfares.

The beauty of football

After last night's Sweden-Greece paint-drying match (Sweden won it by drying 2 whole walls to Greece's wet surface), I am looking forward to a proper match. Turkey-Switzerland tonight should provide enough excitement to keep us going until the Netherlands or Spain play again.

I can't wait!

Euro 2008 is just hours away, the excitement is building up. Will the big boys deliver? Will there be a dark horse, stealing the show? What is the drama in store? Who will stand tall? And who will go out with a whimper?

One thing is for sure: international football is the best there is. The clash of football cultures is the last remaining trace of purity. 'National leagues', whose clubs feature very few home-grown players have contributed greatly in killing any kind of regional pride that came with supporting a club. The likes of Arsenal and Chelski have been lining up with 11 non-English players for some time, while the rest are not that much better either. So, to recap, international football is the only remaining stage where regional football cultures can be seen on display. Spaniards playing with Spaniards, Romanians with Romanians. English with English...oh, sorry, forgot about that. Yes. No English this time. Just as well. Saves the painful process of going out on penalties after staggering through to the last 8 by narrowly beating inferior opposition.

Anyhoo, where was I? Yes, the beauty of contrasting footballing cultures. The cool-headedness of the German team. The abundant but usually restrained talent of the Italians. The flair of the Spanish. The unpredictable Croatians. The disciplined Greeks. Or is it? Are these just stereotypes? Of course they are. The Germans are far from cool-headed. And the Italians sometimes show glimpses of the beauty of their game. How about the Dutch? Will they at last deliver, or will they implode as usual? And don't write off the chances of Romania or Croatia, nations swelling with talent and great stars of proven value.

And how will the great stars fare? Christiano Ronaldo, Fernando Torres, Cesc Fabregas, Adrian Mutu, Luka Modric, Michael Ballack, Luca Toni etc etc? Will they rise to the challenge? And who knows who will shine for the first time? Who is the next superstar to emerge? And consequently, who is the new superstar that will cost Chelski £30m and warm their bench for 2 years before being shipped to Bolton?

Who am I backing? Well, because of my age, I back Italy. This is due to their 1982 heroics, which I saw through the eyes of a 9 year-old. Rossi's goals, Tardelli's celebration, the most wonderful explosion of joy and passion, etched on my heart forever. I like the Italians. They play well, their defence is incredibly well organised, and they never ever ever ever hoof the ball out of the box. It's always passed, carefully and intelligently, in order to launch an attack. Their defenders bring the ball out, skillfully. Watch out for it. If you don't have the ball you can't play. So why give it back to the opposition by hoofing it? Can you hear me Steve (and Sven, and Graham etc etc)? However, Italy usually offer me much frustration. Their inability to cut their best talent loose (Baggio, Del Piero, Totti...) to wreak havoc in opposition penalty areas usually means that they go down, like in Euro 2000.

But I am not just behind Italy. I think the Czechs have played some wonderful football in recent years and were really unlucky in 1996 and 2004. On merit, they are the 2004 champions for me. Just think that Pavel Nedved never won the Euro, it's mad.


I would also love an underdog to come through to win it. Romania, Croatia, Poland. Anyone. Just not Germany. Never liked their football. Because no matter how good or rubbish they are, they always get to the final. And that's just boring. They were the worst World Cup runner-up in my memory, when they never turned up against Brazil in 2002. Shameful.

But I can't wait. Bring it on. Hours of footie, total immersion. Oh, and it's still all free on our TV! And one thing is for sure: I will not miss the idiotic flag-waving and the St George flying on top of cars. Nice. Watch this space for game reviews, updates etc...

And don't forget the absent greatness, Cyprus.... :-P