Argentina  2  Greece  0

I called the repair company three weeks ago, as the Argentine winter chill was beginning to bite and well before the World Cup kicked off, to ask them to fix the gas heater in the living room.

Juan Carlos rolled up on his motorbike and spent five hours grunting and swearing before he managed to produce a flame, then he sped off into the night, 300 pesos richer.

I inspected his work and found the control dial in the wrong place and when I tried to relight the heater there was no spark. So the next day I called the office. And the next and the next and the day after that. Every day a polite elderly lady either told me that Juan Carlos was on his way or would call later. He never did.

I kept my cool since it doesn’t pay to lose your temper in these kinds of situations in Argentina. Three weeks later, at ten o’clock on the morning of the Argentina v Greece match, I called again. “He’s on his way,” I was assured. But of course he never showed. When I phoned later that evening I was told that he’d gone home early because of the match.

“But you told me at ten this morning that he was on his way,” I bleated. “The game didn’t kickoff until three-thirty.”

“You’re a foreigner,” she told me, sounding very haughty. “You simply wouldn’t understand.”

“That,” I replied, “is a racist comment.” I was about to go into 1966 and all that when she put the phone down on me.

While my wife and kids watched the match wrapped in blankets, I was downtown. I walked past Plaza San Martin where the big screen has been set up while Uruguay were playing Mexico. The hillside was decorated with Uruguayan flags.

But the rest of Buenos Aires was sky-blue and white. Although it hardly seemed possible, yet more sellers of sky-blue and white hats, horns, flags and shirts have sprouted on Florida, the main pedestrian shopping street. There are even shops now dedicated to the sale of similar but slightly better quality items.

I watched the game in the Richmond – all leather armchairs, oak panels and tea with milk served with proper pots and strainers. It’s more English than Stanley Matthews’ baggy shorts, John Terry’s jock-strap – you get the picture.

It had a big screen and miserable waiters – the kind who pride themselves on memorising the orders in what is a paperless restaurant. We were six and ordered a variety of beverages and cake. I was convinced that our man, with his Hitleresque moustache, would screw up. But no! Teas, coffees and cheesecake all arrived in front of the person they were meant for in time for the kick-off.

This little patch of oak-panelled England in the heart of Buenos Aires very soon became pure Argentine as the ‘albicelestes’ pushed on the Greek goal.

I think they’re getting better with each game, playing like a team and not relying overly on Messi. Two crucial goals have been scored by defenders, Heinze against Nigeria in the first game and the opener against Greece by Martin Demichelis, perhaps confusing his opponents with his Greek surname.

Of course, Argentina cheered that one but they cheered even louder for the second goal, tapped in off the rebound by Boca Juniors’ Martin Palermo. He’s big, he’s strong, he’s courageous and he plays his club football in Argentina. A goal from Messi would have been nice and it will come. But the day after the game I heard the word ‘Palermo’ everywhere – on the street, on the radio, from the bloke who delivered our soda siphons at 7.15 in the morning. The World Cup is all anyone talks about.

A fine example of how desperate the Argentine media is to fill its special World Cup TV programmes and newspaper supplements was an interview with Juan Sebastian Veron’s mum revealing that while her son was born in Argentina, he was in fact conceived in Greece. Fascinating! Did that little tidbit have a bearing on the game? Was that the reason Diego didn’t play him against Greece?

After the game, I walked back to Retiro train station, up Florida, against the tide of supporters leaving the Plaza San Martin. This was a nation content, a nation smiling. There is plenty of discussion about selection and tactics but one thing is clear. The Argentine people are fully behind their team.  And win, lose or draw, they’ll stay that way. I doubt you’ll hear booing from the terraces or see players swearing into the camera.

The next morning, as I settled down at home for the England v Slovenia game, England shirt on, England team cardboard cut-out on top of the tele, Rooney poster on the wall, blankets and hot coffee at hand, I heard the putter of a motorbike outside. It was Juan Carlos come to fix the heater, finally.

“Who you backing then?” he asked. I could have told him Burkina Faso and he’d have believed me. “African teams not doing too well,” he’d have said. He fixed the heater and rode off before Jermain Defoe had put the ball in the net.  I dare not touch it. I want to stay warm at least until Germany have knocked England out on penalties.