Maradona, World Cup Fever and... Education?

They say that there is a fine line between madness and genius.

Well, Maradona makes that fine line look pretty freakin' wide. When not playing Seniors Invitation 5-a-side matches, I say playing, but playing like a walking heart attack would be more accurate, or shooting up reporters, or plain old shooting up, or inviting his critics to chupa him, or claiming that Pele lost his virginity to a man, he's got a job.


He is the current Education Secretary. Well, more or less. He's been helping shape the curriculum during the World Cup to help cut the numbers of kids bunking lessons. Hilarious.

But seriously, he's actually the manager of the national team. And as manager of la selección de Argentina, he has at his fingertips arguably the most talented pool of players in the world approaching the World Cup in South Africa. I say pool, because his provisional squad has done much to reduce that pool, leaving out in the cold some of the outstanding players in the world.

Out... are Gonzalo Higuain, the wonderkid at Real, Inter Milan's outstanding Cambiasso and Zanetti both dropped, apparently due to their alliegance to former coach Basile, which accounted for Riquelme's omission when Madaprimadona took over 2 years and ONE HUNDRED players ago. Gago, the Real adonis, who is surely simply too pretty to drop, has gone, as well as Barça blocker Gabriel Milito. 

In... their place come a series of local players, mostly decent pros who've had good domestic seasons and, crucially, haven't crossed el diego. But, and this might also be crucial, they're totally untried and untested.  

One tried and tested international, Maradona's apparent darling, is 37 year old Martín Palermo. Being from Scotland, I find it impossible not to compare Palermo - a god in domestic Argentine football - to Rodney Wallace. Wallace, a Southampton winger who never scored more than 10 goals in a season in England, came to Rangers and never scored less than 10 a week. Palermo did score the goal that sealed Argentina's qualification, thereby becoming an overnight sensation. This makes little difference to me. Unless he wins the golden boot in South Africa, he'll still just be the guy who missed three, yes THREE penalties in an international match. Yes, one MATCH. Whether you speak Spanish or not, you gotta love that commentry. Por favor? Por dios? How can you do that?     

In spite of the above, Argentina still, easily, have enough talent to make the semis, and then with a bit of momentum they'll take some stopping. And I for one would love to be here during a good world cup run. The place wil go beserk. People continually make paralells to 1986. It's like the English with 1966, except two decades more relevant. In '86 there was also an earthquake in Chile. In '86 they announced a shock squad. In '86 they struggled to qualify... so... you know...?

It's Shite Being Scottish
Have I become an Argie hincha? Well, yeah. More camera time for Diego, for one thing. Plus, it beats the crap out of supporting Scotland. The fact is I can name every goal Scotland have scored in World Cups since I have been alive from memory (aka without google). How tragic is that? And so, I guarantee you, can everyone else in Scotland. Ask the next Scot you meet. They'll say something like this:

Stuart McCall, goal mouth scramble, Mo Johnson (penalty?) John Collins, penalty, (although it really counts as two goals cause it was against BRAZIL, Craig Burley, quite a good lob, I can even go back to David Narey's in 1982. I even remember Archie Gemmell in 1978 and I was only 10 months old.

But to continue the Trainspotting theme, it is shite being Scottish, never worse than approaching a world cup, and living in Argentina where everyone just assumes your team qualifies. Ah, Sir, when are Scotland playing? Are you going to miss the world cup games? Yes, but it's alright, we've had 3 games in 20 years. 1998. Worst of the lot.

You get used to it. It's almost less painful then when we do qualify, where we draw with the beatable team, lose to the shock qualifiers from the Middle East/war torn state you'd never even heard of, then almost-but-not-quite-out-pull-off-miracle-victory-no-we-don't-here-we-frikkin'-go-again-against the world class team who make the finals.

Ah, maybe the Argie rejects might find some Scottish blood in there somewhere. We could do with a touch of Latin flair in our big for 2014. Imagine what Diego might do with oor boys?

Leah

A couple of no-so-little Leah from Justina. 

Maia

A glimpse of the photos of Little Maia, the photos a present from our wonderful, talented friend Justina, her website here, BabyPhotographer par excellence.

Terraza: SmugShot

Hard not to be happy when it's early winter yet a sunny 23 degrees, 4 kilos of quality carne sizzling away on the parilla (20 quids worth), a cold beer to hand, a happy wife with sleeping baby, a toddler running circles around your freshly sharpened knife, a dozen mates about to arrive, and a grandmother doing all the washing and cleaning. ¡Que vida!

Kids and Stuff

I was thinking, as I was changing Maia on my lap in a tiny toilet in a cafe today, how many things you normalise as a parent when living here. I'm not saying this is necessarily a bad thing, but it is immediately noticeable how much more the UK or New Zealand, for example, are set up to include children in terms of infrastructure.

There are, for example, no changing facilities at all (ah, no, there is one in the shopping mall at Alto Palermo), and precious few play parks or anything specifically kid-friendly like that. Nearly every play park I can think of is a death trap, with swings that look like they've been built one hungover Sunday afternoon by an overly-nagged Dad who's hammered a brace of rusty nails through the first bit of 2 by 4 he could find. There. Swing. Happy now?

Then again, when I've asked, I've been motioned into the following places to change Leah: the men's toilet, the women's toilet, a shop changing room, a park bench, into a kitchen on a table.

Restaurants don't have high chairs as standard, although most have a kinda high stool things that, after two or three solid concussions, kids soon learn not to topple forward. Or lean. But we've long since chosen our brunch/lunch places based on how likely the staff are to take your kids away and play with them while you eat. Not be nice to them, or let them in, but take orders with your child in their arms while you relax over brunch and a glass of champagne (take a bow, Laura, the maitre d' from Olsen, tragically no longer working there. Hopefully she won the lottery) 

Driving a pram is a serious operation, and we're on our 4th in 2 years. They're just not built to handle Argentine paving. So we now have one of those überparent-three-wheeler-dual-child-wider-than-a-Humvee-pricier-than-your-car-pavement-clearing monsters that is the baby equivalent of the BatMobile. Still, no one seems to mind. You don't get scowled at. People look baffled, but never the Dulwich Village competitive aggression.

It's a world free of parent groups or anything to help you other than people just being nice.  

In the UK there is a space and a place for everything, so people assume you're catered for, and that's where you should go. Don't expect a seat on the bus just 'cause you chose to have kids, there's a system, you know? You could have filled in the form before your journey, and then they'd have kept you a seat.

In a sentence summary: there is kind of a nice community of parents bonding due to the lack of provision  to help them out, rather than fighting over what is there.  

The Naming Man

We registered Maia Elicia for her National Identity Document this morning. Getting a DNI, any DNI, is a generally painful process, the process, the tramites involved is a banker to create expressions of eye rolling empathy.

So it was with joy and relief that we arrived at 8:30 at the office, found no queue, and were sitting completing our forms by 8:40, with all our paperwork in tact. A miracle.

How naive.

Having crossed the final i and dotted the final t for triumph, the administratadora looked quizzically at something amongst the mounds of paperwork and giant books on her table.

- Maia Elicia, that's her name, yes?

- Yes, we confirmed.

- One second please.

She turned around, took down one of the world's biggest books, and said, straightfaced

- Elicia, you said... Sorry, no. That's not a name.

Puzzled look, from us.

- Look. It's not in the book.

She turned the giant tome around to show us the list of EL- names.

ELEANOR

ELECTRA

ELISA

ELIHUEN (provided second name defines gender)

ESPERANZA

ESPECTACULAR

ESTRELLA

She then, bizarrely, went into paint salesperson persona:

- You can choose from anything from this range. We have something in an Electra. Or Estrella is very nice, very popular at the moment...

Whilst we sat there, non-plussed, she said, suddenly.

- Hang on. I'll go and check.

As the minutes passed, one wondered: check with who? This book is pretty frikkin enormous. I mean, if Electra makes the cut, you're not gonna find a book with Elicia in it, are you? One imagines an enormous room, a man on a throne, The Naming Man, like a baby naming Oracle. Elicia... you ask him, he breathes in the sacred smoke, a blurred vision turns clear... Yes. I can see an Elicia.

Door opened, breaking the spell.

- Hi. Yes. It is a name. She announced, with finality. Elicia. Thought so, I've got a couple of friends called that.

Done, by 8:50, but not without a fight.

Baby Talk

Man, the kid Leah has been on good form recently. Top Five from the last few days:

1. After I made a smoothy, she requested some "Noisy Milk, please."

2. After her sister spit-up on her. Cross: "No Maia. Don't puke on the Leah."

3. After I got her dressed this morning: "I'm so gorgeous!"

4. Wearing her fake watch. Katie, indicating Leah's watch.

"Leah, what time is it?"

"No, Mummy," (pointing at the wall) "the clock is there."

5. "Sylvie want a wipey?" Oh no, that was Moochie, asking our friend Sylvie, who's 31, if she needed to wash her hands.

Which prompted a story. Moochie told us that Big Yun was once on the phone to one of the shepherds, presumably arranging vital business on the farm like the time they would meet at the pub.

"OK, gotta go, " said Big Yun, authoritatively, "It's time for ma num nums".