I did say last week that well into the twenty-first century no-one in the public eye should be allowed to sport a haircut like that displayed by the Argentinos Juniors manager,  Pedro Troglio. And so it has come to pass.

I guess poor results didn’t help either. This was the third game in a row in which the Bichos shipped four goals. So in a very dignified manner,  shortly after this defeat to bottom club Estudiantes in La Plata,  he closed his eyes,  held his nose between his forefinger and thumb and jumped off the plank.

I was not sorry to see him go since he’s not been able to mould a half-decent squad of players into a team. He seemed to find ways of suppressing their talent.

What does concern me is that the manager before last,  the man who took them to last place in the table in the 2009 Clausura season before going on to abject disaster at River Plate,  a man with an even worse unreformed nineteen-seventies mullet hairdo than Troglio – could it be they frequent the same barber? — is being talked about as the possible replacement.

Gorosito. Get yer haircut!

Please,  stay where you are,  Nestor Gorosito. Far more to my liking is the possibility that geriatric goalscorer,  Jose Luis Calderon,  who was wrenched from his rocking chair to lead the Bichos to Apertura 2010 championship glory,  will nibble at the insect being dangled before him.

I got to three stadiums this weekend but none of them were hosting the less than silky skills of Argentinos Juniors.

On Friday at the decidedly un-football friendly hour of five pm,  I hopped on a train to Retiro,  then ran the length of the Linea C underground line to Constitucion,  then took another train to Avellaneda to see Independiente host Colon.

This was the first game for the new Red Devil’s manager,  Ramón Díaz,  and it soon became apparent that he’s got a lot of work to do. Independiente were woeful and probably lucky to escape with a 1-0 defeat.

Their players showed occasional hints of talent but didn’t seem to connect to one another,  almost as though some were playing football while others were thinking basketball and volleyball.

A shame really because this is a club with a fine history and a pleasant ground which will be even better when it’s finished. I said that last time I visited nearly two years ago and it’s still not complete. Or are cement mixers and half-installed seats part of the design?

Independiente - be nice when it's finished.

The 5pm kickoff meant that supporters rushed to the ground straight from work – men in suits,  telephone engineers and cable TV installers with small boxes,  nurses with stethoscopes around their necks,  airline pilots with headphones on,  prison guards jangling keys. I’m getting carried away here but you get the picture.

Avellaneda is a whole different experience. I’d earlier been dining in Palermo Hollywood,  so-named for its preponderance of film studios. Palermo Hollywood is arty,  international and possibly even a little twee. Avellaneda is tenser,  dirtier and industrial. Some might just call it poorer.

A heavy cloud of marijuana hung in the air and many of those walking to the ground were gulping frothy liquids from plastic Coke bottles which didn’t look to me like it was anything you’d want your children to be drinking at their birthday party.

Argentinos Juniors’ arch rivals,  Platense, are currently lurking in the regional third division. My sons were playing handball there – an interesting game which seems to combine football and basketball. A-ha! Maybe that’s what Independiente were playing!

The odd thing about Platense is that they play in brown. It’s the team my wife’s family grew up with and in a none-too subtle attempt to endear myself to them,  I once took my kids there to see a game. “Shirts are like shit – they play like shit,” said my eldest son,  then a precocious but astute ten-year-old.

Flea on bass guitar...

We adopted Argentinos Juniors instead and now test our food before eating when we visit the in-laws. I’ve not spoken to the brother-in-law since.

And then to probably the best second division ground in the world – River Plate’s Monumental stadium. Again a strong strain of marijuana in the air but not a football in sight. River Plate were playing away,  struggling to a 0-0 draw against humble Deportivo Merlo.

The visitors were the Red Hot Chili Peppers,  completely dominating the goal furthest from us with a spectacular light show and Flea sublime on bass guitar.

The great thing about the Chili Peppers is that they’re my age yet they’re still hip and trendy among the youth of Buenos Aires. So I could take my boys,  aged 14 and 11,  without them living in fear of a class mate seeing them with me,  as long as I promised to subdue my shadow guitar playing and didn’t wear a leather waistcoat.

* Boca Juniors seem to have found their stride,  beating rivals Lanus 2-1 away to clinch the top spot. Atletico de Rafaela are breathing down their necks after an impressive 3-1 win at San Lorenzo. Belgrano beat fellow newcomers San Martin 1-0 at their place while Olimpo and Godoy Cruz and Tigre and Arsenal all drew 2-2.

Newell’s and Velez and Union and Racing all drew 1-1 but a special mention must go to Banfield who scored their first and only goal of the season to record their opening win – a 1-0 at All Boys. They’re still bottom of the pile but Argentinos Juniors are just a place above them,  now the only team in the division without a win after seven games.

Much has been written about this Clausura 2010 championship since pretty much every Argentine is a football expert and some of the lucky ones even manage to earn a living by adding a tinge of authority to their rantings and ravings.

The Moment

Nearly all seem to agree that the Red Bugs were worthy winners – not for their money because they ain’t got much, not for their sturdy defence for they shipped a fair few and not for their power and influence in the Argentine game since this is a small neighbourhood club with a ramshackle but often intimidating ground.

The word I’ve seen more than any other is ‘dignified.’ They were dignified champions who brought dignity to the Argentine league.

The manager, Claudio Borghi, brought together a collection of strong personalities and melded them into a team. It was a team in which the first priority was always to play attractive, attacking football. They held their shape, the midfield created options and, what always struck me, was that the whole team seemed to be enjoying themselves.

The player who perhaps best symbolises this team is 39-year-old Jose Luis Calderon. A fine physical specimen, he ran as much as the youngsters. “With his experience, he calmed us in moments of madness,” said teammate, Nicolas Pavlovich.

Borghi brought him out of retirement, convinced he still had much to give. Calderon played seven-hundred and forty-three games in his long career, after making his debut for Estudiantes in 1992. He played for Napoli in Italy, America and Atlas in Mexico, won the Argentine league and the Libertadores cup with Estudiantes and the Copa Sudamericana with Arsenal.

Borghi substituted him ten minutes before the end of the Huracan game and the crowd erupted. His teammates crowded around him and tears were no doubt shed. “It was a dignified way to end my career,” said Mr Calderon.

But he wasn’t alone. There was also that magical midfield partnership between Nestor Ortigoza and Juan Mercier. “It’s like a marriage,” they said. I think I know what they meant but I’d rather not pry into their private lives.

In attack, there was Ismael Sosa, uncomfortable at Independiente, he was borrowed by Borghi who knew how to bring out the best in him. He’s fast, wears bright yellow boots and was the club’s top scorer with nine goals.

The names will be remembered by the young Argentinos Juniors fans when they’re in their nineties and have forgotten where they left their false teeth. The slightly eccentric goalkeeper, Nicolas Peric, that defensive rock, Matias Caruzzo, the tireless running of Gustavo Oberman and the personality of Ignacio Canuto.

And then, of course, the man at the helm – Claudio ‘Bichi’ Borghi – a fine player in his day and Argentinos Juniors lynchpin the last time they won the championship twenty-five years ago. Whether the team was winning or losing, playing well or not, he sat like a frozen Buddha in his dugout, calm, collected and confident that the team was on the right track and that eventually they’d win through. They usually did, losing only two games all season and often leaving it until the final five minutes to plop the ball in the net.

So a great team but a one off, frozen in time. No sooner had those millions of scraps of paper thrown by the fans washed into the gutter to block the drains the next time it rains, than the talk of dismantling had begun.

Borghi is hot favourite to take over at slumbering giants, Boca Juniors. The thinking is: “If he can produce a championship-winning team with everyone else’s flotsam and jetsam, just think what he’ll do with Boca’s money and influence!” Mercier and Caruzzo may well follow him.

The Celebration

Now that Independiente know what Sosa can do, they’ll want him back and I doubt they’ll even say ‘thank-you.’ Calderon has already swapped his boots for carpet slippers and Ortigoza – my own favourite – would grace any team in the world with his effective tackling, pinpoint passing and inability to give up.

So what now? Well, let’s enjoy the moment for a little longer. The rump of a good team remains and the spirit and tradition are still there. So much depends on who takes over from Borghi and how many players the club manages to hold onto. They will be playing in the Sudamericana and the Libertadores cups which should bring in cash to bolster the squad.

And Argentinos Juniors is not known as the seedbed of Argentine football for nothing. A healthy crop of youngsters is sprouting up through the ranks and there’s hope that we won’t have to wait another twenty-five years to reap a harvest like this one.

I’m off now to do a bit of research, scouting the backstreets and alleyways of Buenos Aires for the best bars and cafes in which to watch the World Cup. I may be gone for some time.

This was one of those trips across town to a nether region of Greater Buenos Aires, Sarandi, requiring a convoluted combination of bus, train and underground travel. And for that, you need loose change which is often as sparse as decent options in a West Ham attack.

Like Gold

The banks will, reluctantly, change ten pesos worth. I, however, choose to queue outside a hole in the wall at the main Retiro train terminal for twenty pesos of clinky, shiny coins. Then, if I’ve got the time and no-one’s spotted me, I’ll queue again and head home with pockets bulging like the cheeks of a hamster that’s just emerged from an ‘All You Can Eat’ granary and jangling like the Tin Man on speed.

This is the only country I know where one peso can be worth more than two pesos. That’s because if it’s pissing with rain and I’m far from home, then I’d gladly exchange my crisp, new but easily obtainable two peso note, which the buses won’t accept, for a grubby, sweaty one peso coin, which they do. And I’d dance a tango and perform a little juggling trick as the tip.

This shortage of change is an inconvenience to public transport users like myself. But it’s also turning me into a liar. “No,” I’ll mumble and fumble when the shopkeeper asks if I’ve got any change. “I haven’t got any, none whatsoever, not a thing.” He knows I’m lying and I know that he knows that I’m lying, but what can I do?

I have to consider the welfare of that huge army of one-legged Peruvian guitar players, blind Bolivian jugglers and banjo-playing waifs and strays that strolls the aisles of the buses and trains to earn a few pennies to feed their hungry families. And of course, I need my own bus fare home.

This shortage of change has never been adequately explained which gives rise to a wide array of conspiracy theories. One is that the bus drivers sell 90 pesos worth of coins for 100 pesos on the black market.

Travelling Bichos

The man behind me in the queue had the idea that the Argentine Central Bank bought their coins for US dollars but were short of readies because President Cristina Kirchner hoarded the greenbacks to finance her shopping trips to New York. There was something in there about Paraguayan gun runners and a large shipment of marmalade from Tanzania but it was my turn to be served and I couldn’t stay to join up the dots.

Conspiracy theories abound, partly because of the manipulation and often downright dearth of official information.

The official government statistics office, the INDEC, quite blatantly misquotes the inflation figures. President Kirchner never gives interviews and rarely attends news conferences and her ministers follow her lead.

Football, as it so often does, mirrors the rest of society. Those who run the clubs are accountable only to shady politicians and the tougher elements of the barra brava to whom they owe favours, so it’s very difficult to get a grasp of what’s going on in the corridors and dark corners of the grounds.

One of the biggest footballing mysteries of all is that surrounding Argentina’s 1978 World Cup win, with their place in the final rumoured to have been bought by the then military dictatorship.

There were two groups of four in what passed for the semi-finals, with the top team in each going through to the final. The Dutch clinched their spot but Argentina needed to beat Peru by at least four clear goals to meet them. They scored six.

Worthy Winners?

It could simply have been that a very good home team, boasting Passarella, Ardiles, Kempes and Tarantini, did what they had to do – and more – against a tired Peru.

But the Peruvian keeper, Ramón Quiroga, was born in Argentina. There’s been talk of men in funny jackets making clandestine visits to the Peruvian players, of phone conversations between the Argentine military and their counterparts in Lima and Argentine ships laden with goodies sitting off the Peruvian coast just waiting for that fourth goal to go in before upping anchors and sailing into port while the crew danced a victory jig on the poop deck and tossed presents from the crow’s nest.

None of this has ever been convincingly proved nor satisfactorily disproved and is likely to be discussed for as long as football is played and beer is drunk – or Alex Ferguson discards that piece of gum he’s been chewing for the past forty years. Whichever is the sooner.

It’s all a bit like the debate over whether England’s third goal in the 1966 World Cup final crossed the line or not. Except without the ships and the military and the llamas. Didn’t I mention the llamas? But apart from that – almost the same.

There  were plenty of theories circulating the terraces at this game. Arsenal is where the Argentine Football Association boss, Julio Grondona, began his long career. So every dodgy refereeing decision – and there were plenty here tonight – is met with a chorus of abuse insinuating that the fellow in black had been ‘got at’  by the top man.

Argentinos were a tad unlucky but were really not good enough to grab all three points. That would have put on them on top but perhaps they were struck by stage fright. They started well with an early goal from José  Luis Calderón,, who is old enough to have been a ballboy at that ’78 final. But Arsenal pulled one back before half-time then took the lead early in the second half with a penalty which really shouldn’t have been.

The visitors were unusually disjointed and gave the ball away far too often. They were just not themselves. But Facundo Coria did equalise just before the final whistle and Argentinos Juniors now sit just one point behind the joint leaders, Estudiantes and Independiente with four games to go.

There’s been a full programme of mid-week games which have produced bundles of goals, including the 4-4 draw between Velez Sarsfield and Boca Juniors. And this as the national team finally played the way they should be playing and outclassed Germany on their own soil in an impressive pre-World Cup friendly.

Veron - his eye on the ball.

The Estudiantes playmaker, Juan Sebastian Veron, was on duty for Argentina while the man that ticks at the heart of Argentinos Juniors, Nestor Ortigoza, was with the Paraguay squad. Yet the two teams still produced a throbbing thriller of a game, Jose Luis Calderon netting the much needed winner for the visitors. And this against the South American champions, no less.

So how do they do it? Quality football, both home and away, simultaneously, at the same time? Well, strength in depth is one reason. The other is that they’re not shagging one another’s wives and girlfriends. And even if they were, it wouldn’t be plastered all over the local media. Sex in Argentina is simply not news and coverage of the John Terry-Wayne Bridge affair has been light since they don’t really get what all the fuss is about.

Sex happens in Argentina and it happens in Argentine football. We know that since Carlos and Mrs Tevez have just had a baby.

In this macho society, it’s still a sign of prowess to sleep with many women, even if you are married. It was long a tradition, for those who could afford it, to keep a second and even a third family. There was the official family then the mistress, with the offspring of that relationship kept in a discreet apartment a respectable distance away. Sometimes the wife knew, sometimes she only found out when the mistress turned up at the husband’s funeral, demanding her share of the spoils.

The other reason I know that sex happens in Argentina is because of the vast number of lingerie shops – probably more per head of population than Viagra bottles in —— —-’s bathroom cabinet. (Insert name of least favourite England footballer here)

But the most appropriate symbol of Argentina’s attitude to sex is the Telo. Unless you’re a beady-eyed journalist like myself, trained in the art of observance, you might not notice the Telos. But they’re there, in every neighbourhood, so discreet, so quiet, so unassuming, that you could walk past one twenty times and not notice it.

If you need sex and you need it now, at any time of the day or night, the Telo is there for you – at the standard, the luxury or the deluxe rate. There is no English translation. Some might call it a Knocking Shop but that would be demeaning. The Telo is not a hotel, despite the sign outside reading Albergue Transitorio or Transitory Accommodation. And it’s certainly not a brothel. They simply provide clean rooms that you rent by the hour to take your lover, boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife for uninterrupted, noisy sex. (British readers may pause here to titter as if the condoms were being passed around the sex education class)

Most Argentines will have their first sexual experience, not in the back of a car or at their parents’ house while their mum’s nipped out to buy washing powder, but in a Telo. Probably a cheap one in a neighbourhood some distance away to avoid anyone they knew spotting them going in or coming out. The standard of Telo will rise along with your earnings.

Better than the back seat of a car - surely!

Discretion is everything. The car-park is underground and each parking bay is covered by a curtain. It simply wouldn’t do for your wife to drive in with your next-door neighbour to spot your car and realise that you weren’t really going over the January sales figures with Miss Suarez, your secretary. The receptionist sits behind a smoky one-way glass. Drinks are ordered by telephone and then brought to your room and placed in a double-doored hole in the wall. The rooms, according to how much you want to pay, can be equipped with Jacuzzi, huge bed, mirrored ceilings and more. Use your imagination.

Then there are the themed Telos, on the outskirts of the major cities. The Centurion which is all togas and grapes. The Pharaoh if you walk like an Egyptian. Or The Cave for those into wooden clubs and animal furs. A quick internet check reveals one Telo with rooms for ‘two, three or four people.’ Another offers hydro-massage, gym, sauna and mini-swimming pool. Quite how you’re supposed to find the time and the energy for sex, I’m not sure.

There are condoms on the bedside tables, next to the customer survey forms. And cable television showing all the adult channels. They’ve got all the major sports channels too which is useful if you’ve forgotten the Viagra and find the fun is over earlier than anticipated. But I warn you, Bolton Wanderers versus Hull City as a starter does nothing to set the scene for a session of passionate sex.

Not that I’d know, of course. No-one ever openly admits to using a Telo. Say it’s your birthday and the in-laws are round looking after the kids. “Oh dear! We’re out of cat food,” you tell the mother-in-law. “And there’s a sale of bumper bags but only at the pet shop in Belgrano so we’ll need to take a bus and we’d both better go since it’ll be heavy and it’s quite dangerous there at this time of the day and er…”

You and your wife/girlfriend rush out, deliberately forgetting your mobile phones. No matter how good an actor you are, you’ll return an hour or two later feeling guilty and without the cat food. “Sold out,” you say. “And we’re flushed because there were no buses and we walked back, quickly.”

She knows. And she knows that you know that she knows. But that’s fine.  That’s the story I read, anyway, in a Sunday magazine – by an anonymous writer.

The point being that sex happens in Argentina and it’s no-one’s business but the man and woman, the man and man or the woman and woman or the man, woman and man for that matter, who are involved.

I really don’t care who John Terry has sex with. But if his off-field activities undermine morale in the England camp which in turn affect performances in South Africa, then I think some kind of chemical castration should be considered. Only temporary, you understand. We are the fans, for Christ’s sake, surely we have some rights!