This weekend’s football programme has been cancelled to mark the death of staunch Racing Club fan, Nestor Kirchner. He died, aged 60, following a heart attack at his holiday home in the Patagonian town of Calafate.

He was also the man who helped to negotiate state television taking over the broadcast of all live first division games. That meant free footy for the fans and an end to expensive satellite dishes or having to watch your team at a nearby bar where you’d make one beer last for the full ninety-minutes.

Oh! And he was also the former president of Argentina, the husband of the current president and the man likely to be the next president, after elections next year.

Too Much!

Too Much!

What he was not was a healthy man. Nestor Kirchner had deep, sunken eyes surrounded by shadows darker than those cast by the clouds over Upton Park. His hair was lank and his suits ill-fitting.

He’d already been taken to hospital twice this year with heart problems. He went under the knife in February shortly after Racing had kicked off against Arsenal. When he came to, he asked what the score was and, it was reported, his wife and the medical team lied to him in order to help his recovery. Racing had lost 4-2.

He was back in hospital in September when he was given heart by-pass surgery. Forty-eight hours after being sewn up he was back on his feet, alongside his wife, Cristina, at a political rally. His doctors have every right to now say: “I told you so.”

He was that rare creature in modern-day politics who didn’t seem to care about his image. There was none of that jogging around the presidential garden with his body-guards for the TV cameras nor coaching from image consultants. He was however totally at ease munching on a fatty Choripan while negotiating with union leaders over beer in smoke-filled rooms.

He was a crappy speaker, doing nothing to hide a slight speech impediment. And charisma he probably thought was a new defender signed from Paraguay during the close season. Pablo Charisma, hard tackler and a useful left foot. Kirchner was a backroom operator, a wheeler-dealer, a man who forged alliances and made deals. Whether you agreed with him or not, he knew what he wanted out of politics and how to get it.

He’s been credited with overseeing Argentina’s return to relative stability and prosperity following its economic and social crisis at the end of 2001. He stood up to the International Monetary Fund, which many Argentines blamed for that crisis. And he ensured that the prosecutions were resumed of those responsible for human rights violations under military rule in the nineteen seventies and eighties.

Some accused him of corruption, others said he was a man who bore grudges. His move to put football on state television was driven by his dispute with the media group that had previously owned the rights.

But the national show of sorrow and mourning was immense and genuine, I suspect because, love him or hate him, he was genuine.

His love of football was certainly real, not something added on by his advisors to improve his standing among the working classes.  If it were, they’d have insisted he support Boca Juniors or River Plate rather than perennial losers, Racing.

Nestor Kirchner

Nestor Kirchner

Racing, based in the industrial suburb of Avellaneda just south of Buenos Aires, really should be much better. Their stadium is right next to their local rivals, Independiente.  Both are big clubs with a huge number of fans. But while Independiente have a trophy cabinet bulging with silverware from both national and international competitions, Racing’s displays large gaps with the words ‘unfulfilled potential’ written in the dust.

The team’s ability to sustain their optimism in the face of cock-up after cock-up is admirable. They remind me of Newcastle United or Manchester City, before they became a rich man’s toy. This ability to consistently disappoint can have done nothing to help a man suffering from stress.

The outpouring of grief for Nestor Kirchner’s passing has been impressive, with some waiting twenty hours to pay their last respects to his closed coffin, laid in the presidential palace in Buenos Aires. Presidents flew in from across South America.

Diego Maradona came. Nestor Kirchner was his strongest ally in his bid to retake the reins of the national team. It probably wouldn’t have been enough but with Nestor’s passing, I suspect the little fat fellow has lost any faint hope he might have had of fulfilling his dream.

The crowds were out again on Friday, in the rain, causing several hours delay in moving Kirchner’s body to the city airport. From there it was flown to his home town, Rio Gallegos, deep down in Patagonia, where it was laid to rest in the local cemetery, I suspect accompanied by a blue and white Racing Club scarf.

Argentinos Juniors  1  Godoy Cruz  2

I’m going to ramble only semi-coherently in relation to this game since it pains me to be direct. The Argentinos Juniors’ front man,  Nicolas Pavlovich is nicknamed El Buitre or the vulture because he’s a ruthless predator who devours any loose ball and callously slots it into the net. But after this game he should perhaps be renamed ‘The Pampered Budgie’ or ‘Mimi the Poodle.’

Hungry for goal

Hungry for goal

A wounded herd of antelope lay invitingly in the Godoy Cruz penalty area, with assorted vegetables available, but instead of sinking their talons into the tender flesh, ‘The Vulture’ and his teammates pondered the menu, inquiring over the vegetarian option. As the home side nibbled on crudities, Godoy Cruz stole into their nests, ate their children and stole their electrical appliances.

By the time Santiago Gentiletti grabbed one back for Argentinos Juniors it was too late. Godoy Cruz had already scored two and were ready to saunter back to the western city of Mendoza, licking the blood off their lips and chuckling heartily to themselves. This modest little team, which Argentinos Juniors thrashed at their own stadium last season, are unbeaten this year and sit proudly as joint leaders with Colon at the top of the Argentine first division.

This was the first time my kids had seen Argentinos Juniors beaten at home and I could see them losing faith. “Be strong,” I said wisely. “Strength in defeat will make you more of an Argentinos Juniors fan and victory, whenever it comes, will taste even sweeter.”

They looked at me admiringly and replied: “Can we have another Coke and a hotdog.” As a West Ham fan I’ve learnt to deal with defeat. I prepare myself for disappointment and am well aware that football, like life, can turn from being 2-0 up with twenty minutes to go into a 3-2 home defeat in the time it takes to drink half a cup of Bovril.

I have an ill-thought out theory that bears no scientific scrutiny whatsoever that the team you support says something about the kind of person you are.  We could, but we don’t, all support Manchester United, Chelsea, Real Madrid and River Plate. Who are those fans who turn out every week to cheer on Rochdale, Stenhousemuir and Platense? What kind of grit do you have in your souls? And is there a Swiss Army knife blade designed to remove it?

I’m fairly likely to forget your name, will certainly not remember your children’s but I will never forget what football team you support. You might be John the chartered accountant but to me, fundamentally, you’ll always be ‘that bloke with a season ticket at QPR who was at the 1967 League Cup final.”

Why oh why oh why!!!?? Half time misery.

Why oh why oh why!!!?? Half time misery.

The team you support and what it says about you is vital in Argentina where football seeps, sometimes unexpectedly, into everyday life. And real life very rarely seeps into the football stadium, which is probably one of the main reasons why the game is so popular here.

Argentina is a wonderful country but it should be so much better. They’re celebrating their bicentenary this year. When they marked the first hundred years in 1910, the future looked so bright. Immigrants were pouring in at a steady rate, attracted by the promise of a brave new world. The recently tamed pampas stretched the length of ten-thousand football pitches. There was land and jobs for all. Their railway network was one of the finest in the world. Grand, new European-style buildings lined the boulevards of Buenos Aires.

But a hundred years and several military coups later, spiced up by countless corrupt governments and millions of squandered pesos, the bicentenary is a little less sparkly.

A taxi ride rarely goes by without the driver bemoaning the state of the country, pining nostalgically for the good old days and grumbling about rising crime, the government, the economy and the schools. Since none of them were around in 1910 I’m not sure what golden age they’re referring to. But they’re not happy and football provides some much needed escapism.

There’re a lot of teams to choose from in Buenos Aires so just pick the one that best suits your personality. Boca Juniors if you’re a working class lad made good or with aspirations to make good or with the desire to flaunt real or imagined working class roots. It’s River Plate, the Millionaires, if you were born affluent, or would like to have been, and want the world to know. Racing Club will do for those who really revel in a good whinge since they constantly disappoint and it has to be your local neighbourhood side if you’re a local neighbourhood sort of person.

No-one is quite so calculated about which club they are seen to support as Argentine politicians. The former president and wannabe racing car driver, Carlos Menem, was an avid River Plate fan. Nestor Kirchner, the last president, husband of the current president and widely thought to be the man behind the throne, is a Racing Club man.  Much was made of the fact that as he went under the knife for a recent operation he asked how his team was doing. His wife and the doctors lied since, as usual, Racing had thrown away a lead and they didn’t want to upset Mr Kirchner in his delicate state.

Racing Club fan

Racing Club fan

The mayor of Buenos Aires, Mauricio Macri, is stinking rich and would look much better in the red and white of River Plate than the blue and gold of Boca Juniors. But it was as president of Boca that he gained national recognition. While he was at the helm, Boca won trophies and balanced their books. Many of the large working population of Buenos Aires thought: “Maybe he’ll run the city as well as he runs the club.” They voted for the kind of man who they’d normally dismiss as just another cocktail sipping, rich man’s son.

As you can probably tell from the tone of this ramble, I’m a little disillusioned with the Red Bugs after two defeats on the trot. It’s Estudiantes away next then Velez at home, two tough games and the team isn’t gelling.

Before all the games this weekend,  there was a minute’s silence for the victims of the Chilean earthquake. Two Argentinos players, the goalkeeper Nicolas Peric and Emilio Hernandez, are Chilean and perhaps, with the uncertainty back home to worry about, they were not fully concentrated on their game. Real life can sometimes, even in Argentina, seep into the football stadium.

Banfield  3  Argentinos Juniors  0

This was the resumption of the second game of the season, called off after eight minutes because of torrential rain. And it looked to me like the Argentinos Juniors players never really dried out. Banfield are the current champions and it showed. They were snappy, they were hungry and they enjoyed their football. They never allowed the visitors time on the ball and when they won it they always had options, always had players running into space.

I must confess that I didn’t go to this game – a 9.30pm kickoff in one of Buenos Aires’s nether regions and the prospect of a late night trip home on public transport didn’t exactly set my red and white blood racing. And the game was live on state-run television. All the first division games are live on TV under a government-financed scheme introduced last year to bring football back to the masses and win tens of thousands of votes into the bargain. They’d have mine, I thought as I settled down with a cold beer and a bowl of crisps, if I had one.

Falklands - Malvinas?

Falklands - Malvinas?

There are two things and two things only that guarantee almost total agreement in Argentina – support for the national football team and the knowledge that the Falkland Islands, Las Islas Malvinas, are rightfully theirs and should be returned forthwith.

A British company, Desire Petroleum, has just moved its drilling platform, the Ocean Guardian, into place about one hundred kilometres off the islands in the search for oil. Lovely, slushy crude oil. Some say there may be as many as 60 billion barrels in them there treacherous waters. But I suspect that’s a crude, slushy estimate. Ask yourself, how can anyone with any certainty know how much of anything lies under the sea bed beneath several hundred metres of some of the wildest waters on the planet? And it won’t be down there in 60 billion neatly-packed barrels either. Sixty-billion barrels of wishful thinking on the part of some oil executive with a model rig on his desk and a dream of owning a much bigger car.

The Ocean Guardian is putting down its roots as the Argentine government flounders in turbulent waters of its own. Inflation is rampant, although official figures say it’s not, the government is losing control to the opposition in the two houses of parliament and President Cristina Kirchner and her husband, Néstor, the previous president, are being accused of dodgy dealings. And there are elections next year.

The national football team, with Maradona at the helm, looks increasingly like a colony of penguins which can’t find its fish. They’re unlikely to bring Argentina together in wild rejoicing in July. So the Falklands will have to do. It’s a sure-fire winner, just as long as they don’t go overboard and send in the troops like they did in 1982. That just upsets people.

The Malvinas is an issue here. School text books show them as Argentine property. As you leave airports and cross borders, the first thing to welcome you into the country are signs reading: “Las Malvinas son Argentinas.” The bus that takes me to the Argentinos Juniors ground goes down a street called The Malvinas Combatants and there’s a particularly good ice-cream parlour around the corner from my house called: Las Malvinas, which does a very tasty sheep and penguin flavour cone. To tell the truth, it doesn’t, but it should do.

There are active Falkland war veterans groups across the country. They differ over whether the 1982 invasion by the then military government was a good idea or not. They criticise subsequent governments for the treatment they’ve received. Hundreds of veterans have committed suicide, unable to fit back into a society that labelled them as losers or as unwitting tools of a repressive regime. Some former soldiers are suing their officers for human rights abuses, saying as well as being under-trained and poorly equipped for battle, they were abused and sometimes tortured. But, like 99.9 percent of all Argentines, they all agree that Las Malvinas son Argentinas.

Closer to tango than bagpipes

Closer to tango than bagpipes

The British established their presence there in 1833 in the days when the fellow with the biggest ship and the most cannons could thrust his country’s flag into the ground and claim pretty much anywhere outside of Europe for king and country, while just a few stray penguins looked on. The Spanish wanted them, the French wanted them and, when the Spanish left, the fledgling Argentina said they wanted them. They are, after all, the closest – by several thousand kilometres.

The sticking point has always been the residents, the kelpers as the Argentines call them, none too kindly. They want to stay British in a very steak and kidney pie, Enid Blyton, tea and cricket on a Sunday afternoon sort of way.

They use Argentina’s long history of economic chaos and military repression as a reason for not swapping Queen and country for tango and big, juicy steaks. If the Falklands did became Las Malvinas then within weeks the driving would get much worse, inexplicable queues would form at the post office and government buildings would become swamped in bureaucracy. There would also be more beauty parlours and hairdressers, pubs would also be open longer and children would be allowed in.

But if you take a look at Argentine demographics you’ll see that the majority of the forty-million population lives in and around Buenos Aires. Vast expanses of Patagonia in the south and the hot, northern provinces are almost bereft of human habitation. So how many Argentines would actually go and live in the Falklands?

OK, who's got the fish?

OK, who's got the fish?

It used to be about how much of the world map you could claim as your own. Now it’s all about oil. If the United States and Britain invaded Iraq under the false justification of weapons of mass destruction, they’re not going to let a few whingeing Argies stop them from extracting a possible 60 billion barrels from the South Atlantic.

Argentina has the support of the whole of Latin America and the Caribbean. The Venezuelan president, Hugo Chávez, appealed directly to Queen Elizabeth to give the islands back. Argentina has gone to the United Nations. Tension is high. But Argentina won’t be invading this time.

The government, with its many faults and problems, is a democratic one and proud of it. The military, defeated and disgraced in the 1980s, is not the force it was and doesn’t have the stomach or the hardware for a fight.

There’ll be plenty of shouting and some frenzied flag waving. But if it’s a result Argentines are looking for, then it looks like the pressure is back on Diego, Leo, Carlitos and Javier to deliver the goods in South Africa later this year.