the greatest circus on earth

So, le coupe mondiale is finally underway. I can scarcely believe it! The gap between tournaments is so long that I can hardly remember the magic of the previous World Cup by the time the next one comes around. But, sure enough, it arrives on the scene... and, with it, all memories of previous encounters, in far-flung corners of the globe, become vivid once again.

Perhaps more than any other, I recall the wonderfully grainy – and almost

bleached-out and shop-soiled – live footage of Mexico '86; that gut-

wrenchingly triumphal dribble and finish by Maradona, setting an unholy seal on the travesty of the

'Hand of God' infamy. I even remember the cacophony of noise, and the cyclone of ticker-tape, which brought a "pre-Falklands" Argentina side to their home stage in 1978 in the magical – and highly controversial – Buenos Aires final against Holland (I was a mere six years

old at the time).

Oh yes, the memories come flooding back... 'Tardelli's scream' (l'urlo di Tardelli) of ecstasy when he won the trophy for Italy in Madrid, 1982; the monumentally anti-climactic finale that Baggio's impotent penalty-shoot-out misfire brought about at the Pasadena Rose Bowl in 1994; and – of course – the triumph of the world's greatest player, Zinédine Zidane, on his adopted home soil in 1998 – perhaps that was the year the French finally got that 'dirty immigrant'

chip off their collective épaule.

So how can this modern-day version possibly compete with such misty-eyed and rose-tinted memories? Well, only time will tell, I suppose. But it's fantastic to watch history in the making... which is what this surely is.

We should not ignore the fact that South Africa is one of the least-deserving nations to host such a tournament in the first place. It's easy to be fooled by the media spin and the glamour; by the Table-Mountain-touting lap dancer of a country who flaunts her obvious and natural assets to the naive visitor, while hiding her dirty secrets safely from view. But let's not be completely fooled by the media's agenda,

even if we allow ourselves to be temporarily taken in for the sake of the spectacle. The searing injustices of this land wallow not far below the surface, and its catastrophic divisions have got worse - if anything - rather than better, since the fall of the abhorrent apartheid system. This is a country in a dire mess, exhibiting an alluringly painted face.

This land, quite simply, is the most unequal on the planet. It's a nation where

42% of the population subsist on less than two dollars a day; and yet one which has seen fit to spend around 33 billion rand (£3 billion) on a mere football tournament. This, if nothing else, should teach us that something is seriously amiss with the world; and that our collective human values have become utterly mangled in the hunt for fame, glory and greedy showmanship.

But, as they say, the show must go on. And the appalling outrages of its staging (the eviction of the urban poor and the rounding up of the homeless to be dumped into so-called 'temporary relocation areas' and 'transit camps') has not prevented the curtain from rising on the stage.

And what a stage is now set! Superstars such as Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi and Fernando Torres will compete for the greatest sporting prize on earth, all the while treading the unforgiving tightrope between superstardom and ignominy – a tightrope, lest we forget, that our own would-be megastars are wont to fall off. Indeed, What will befall Ugly Wayne this time around? Will he inspire a bunch of frankly half-decent colleagues to some kind of nation-girding achievement? Or will 'the lads' fall by the wayside, victims of a talentless Italian primadonna of a

manager who couldn't even be arsed to speak English

properly in the first place? Don't get me wrong: I think Capello's done a fantastic job, but it doesn't take much to anticipate the line of enquiry that the tabloids will pursue once the inevitable witch-hunt is underway.

But I'm lucky. I don't much care if England regains some kind of empire, if I'm honest. It would be nice if they made a big impression on the tournament, but this is – I fear – somewhat unlikely. My own personal favourites, if I dare whisper it, come in the effervescent form of modern Spanish football, and the

ingenious unpredictability of Argentina, with Maradona somewhat surreally at the helm.

To be honest, I just love the World Cup for what it is (and what the Premier league isn't): it showcases the very best players in the world, competing at the tip-top-banana level, for the highest prize in sport. What could be better than that? Moreover, there's a fair bit of national glory and pride at stake, too: the fulfilment of a nation's dreams (at least for a week or two) may well rest on a perfectly weighted cross; or a ludicrous penalty fuck-up, for that matter.

So can South Africa 2010 live up to the magical memories of the past? Who knows?... but I, for one, am ready for it. Normal life - apart from work - is pretty much cancelled for a month. And the tournament, as far as I'm concerned, already has its own soundtrack. Forget the wailing of Hansen and the gibbering of Shearer in the studio - the zithering wasp-like drone of the vuvuzelas is letting me know – in no uncertain terms – that this is the World Cup and I had better be paying attention. This is something special.