Forget the supposedly ubiquitous H1N1 virus (aka Swine Flu); the over-reported, over-exaggerated [with due apologies for willful plagiarism to ex-US President George Dubya] current media obsession. More worryingly, England has been infected by a virulent strain of a derivative of Stockholm Syndrome, a mentally debilitating disease affecting the young, the elderly, lunatics and all those susceptible to what psychologists term 'groupthink'. Henmania has been usurped by Murraymania. If an Englishman cannot prevail in SW19, we'd better support an anti-Englishman, or so the theory goes. I'll retire to Bedlam [with due apologies for willful plagiarism to Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge].

One faces a stark choice for the next decade: either support whomever crosses rackets with 'Our Andy', or spend the first week of July abroad. Me and my Bitter Half chose the latter, courtesy of a special offer from a national carrier I refuse to plug. Destination Buenos Aires. The only Lloyd-Webber musical in town was Phantom, you may be surprised to learn. Political elections had delayed the final round of football matches by one week. What luck! On Saturday we saw River Plate 1, Estudiantes 2 at the National Stadium, a ground so rickety as to make the old Wembley appear positively state-of-the-art. As with a once-beautiful woman approaching her seventh decade, a lick of paint would not go amiss but a major face-lift is required. As for the hallowed turf, I promise never again to criticise the new Wembley's cabbage patch. Nuff said.

With only club pride and player contracts up for grabs - to coin a phrase - the ground looked empty with 15,000, perhaps 20,000 spectators. Interestingly, though not altogether illogically, it was the home fans who were kept in at full-time, while the sparse but victorious visitors beat a hasty retreat. Shame I did not know the Spanish for "Is that all you take away?" The food outlets made our ground’s over/under-cooked offerings appear Michelin-star fare. And pray that your chef du jour had not gone to the banas before serving you; the bogs have neither soap nor driers, and only cold water. Club Level it ain't.

Sunday threw together the division's top two teams. Home team Velez Sarsfield needed victory to pip Huracan. Amazingly, on the morning of the match, our hotel obtained easily tickets and transportation for less than the price of a Grade B game at E******s. I could hardly believe my good fortune; this was serendipity on a grand scale. The ground was almost full an hour before kick-off, the party in full swing. Till-rolls were distributed to every fan to hurl when the teams emerged. Coupled with the smoke from fire crackers behind the Velez goal - their North Bank? - it was a sight I shall never forget. REDaction can only dream ... (Some people think redaction is what MPs do when caught with their fingers in the till)

The game started a mere ten minutes late at 3.30pm and for the first time all week it began to rain. Rain soon turned to hail and after 19 minutes the referee had little choice but to stop play for everyone's safety. Golf balls would be an exaggeration but these missiles from the gods weren't pleasant. "DON'T LOOK (up), ETHEL". Stadiums do not have roofs and I genuinely feared an eye injury. After 25 minutes' delay, play resumed. Velez missed a dodgy penalty (good save). Still goalless at half-time, which lasted 23 minutes.

The second half kicked off as the match should have been entering Fergie-time. Velez's attacks became more desperate as the tension and atmosphere mounted. Finally they scored, with the Huracan stopper prostrate following a challenge most Premiership referees (and all European ones) would have blown for. Cue pandemonium on and off the pitch. An Argy Bargy broke out minutes later and I thought the game would never restart. The missus, incredibly, was confused as to which team needed to score. And there I was, counting my blessings that for once I'd been spared explaining the away goals rule in a foreign land. Words fail.

Eventually eight minutes' injury time was displayed. Surly can only dream ... The second half entered its second hour but Velez, finally, could celebrate. Latinos know how to "rejoice" (get it? Clue to follow...) despite an alcohol ban not only at the stadium but within the confines of ten "blocks". Fans scaled the tall perimeter fences to mob their idols, undeterred by well-aimed fire hoses; they were already drenched, of course. The Velez team perched atop the crossbar. Only a geographer could state that Australasia is farther from England than is South America; this was a continent apart.

In Buenos Aires the food (mainly beef, but none of it corned) and local wines were excellent. Postcards and T-shirts remember Che Guevara but not, surprisingly, Lady Thatcher. It was with a heavy heart that I flew home yesterday. If you follow my recommendation to visit Argentina, don't mention the war. I did (once), but I think I got away with it.