Michael Bolton proudly displays his new national colours
Argentina have cast the fear of the sublime into to the hearts of all potential opponents at this year’s World Cup. Their demolition by six goals to nil of the stingiest defence in Europe should be awesome for its scoreline alone. Let’s not forget that Serbia and Montenegro finished ahead of this team’s other free-flowing scorers, Spain, in their qualification group. However, above and beyond the six goals was the unabashed panache with which Argentina controlled the tempo of the game, and the quality of the substitutes on hand. With Lionel Messi and Carlos Tevez Argentina have surely the two premier forwards of the decade to come. Pablo Aimar is no donkey either, and it is only the outrageous skill and performances of Barcelona discard and tournament novice Juan Roman Riquelme that ensure that no one bats and eyelid when the more seasoned World Cup campaigner is consigned to the bench.
However, the most remarkable side to Argentina’s achievements is surely the fact that they have managed to play the tournament’s most delightful football while sporting some of the tournament’s most desastrous hair. Michael Bolton apparently fed up with the lack of appreciation of his music and image, has emigrated to a country that allowed him to regrow his famous locks of hay. It would also seem that despite a lack of pace and the occasional act of defensive incompetency, he’s a decent footballer to boot. A change of name to something with a more local flavour, and presto, you have one-paced but reasonably competent as long as his team have the ball defender Fabricio Collocini.
Is this the worst hair in all of football?
Collocini is bad, the stringy mullet on ox-man Carlos Tevez is arguably little better, though to be fair Tevez’s extremely questionable do does distract attention from the other members of the squad veering down the ignominious road to mulletdom. And Tevez and Collocini both have to shrug their shoulders and admit that the title of worst haircut of any footballer in the world ever belongs to colleague Esteban Cambiasso. I have seen earlier photos of Mr Cambiasso, and it is true that once upon a time he was a very handsome individual. Unfortunately for Mr Cambiasso the makeweight in the Faustian deal that saw him receive a not inconsiderable talent for the game of football was his hair and dignity. Mr Cambiasso is suffering from a receding hairline, perhaps a little excessive for a man of his modest years, but not entirely outside the realm of genetic possibility. This in and of itself, while unfortunate is no crime. What is criminal is Mr Cambiasso’s devotion to what remains of his once luscious locks. Mr Cambiasso is almost entirely bald on the top his head, but Mephistopheles has seen fit to leave him with a little Tintin tuft at the front of his hear, where the forehead ordinarily meets the hairline. Cambiasso combs this tuft backwards, in essence producing an array of tendrils running perpendicular to Bobby Moore’s famous comb over. However, unlike Mr Moore, Mr Cambiasso really does not have much material to work with. Morever, his tendrils come
loose and during the course of the average match, taking on a sweat-drenched life of their own. The man looks like he is cultivating a Medusa in miniature on the frontal region of his cranium. Please, Mr Cambiasso, put us all out of our misery and shave everything on top of your beautiful pate and let our attention be drawn my the majesty of your football, not the mess on top your head.
Esteban celebrates that goal. But look at that hair.
