Scotland 0 - 1 Argentina

The SFA were no doubt quite happy to allow every possible inch of hyperbole seep from Terry Butcher's bitter word-hole in order to generate column space and ticket sales. Alas, the Scotland assistant manager's tough talk was not sufficient to plant bums on seats with final attendance recorded at 32,492. Even with the news that Diego Maradona had been appointed as national boss, it is disappointing that 19,000 of my fellow Scots couldn't tear themselves away from the couch for a couple of hours to see a team of Argentina's technical quality pass and retain the ball with embarrasing ease in the face of Scotland's bluster and industry.

Argentina started brightly, and the best spell of the game included a goal in the 8th minute from a well worked passing move finished by Maxi Rodriguez. Scotland created a number of half chances, the most notable coming from the busy James McFadden who stole the ball against the run of play in the Argentina penalty area, only to shoot tamely. Performances from the remainder of the starting eleven were eclectic. Whilst Barry Ferguson continues to look like our most accomplished player, McManus worked dilligently to be as terrible a defender as possible. His hurried and aimless distribution from defence was only glossed over by shortcomings in ball retention from other players, with Paul Hartley particularly guilty.

The match steadily petered out after half time but the game nevertheless remained an interesting spectacle for the sideshows that developed. Argentina left back Papa, sporting the number 3 on his back, might have been sporting a number 2 in his shorts after being on the sharp end of the Tartan Army's impotent rage for the majority of the match. Several Argentina players were perceived to have overcooked their declarations of injury, but the truth is that Scotland were careless in the tackle. Alan Hutton in particular was a baseball cap and an alcopop bottle away from the Friday night thug he had once threatened to become early into his Rangers career.

And of course, there was Maradona and his mano de dios. His limited gesticulations suggest a calmer head than the man that booted chunks out of Atletico Bilbao and aimed a rifle at a group of journalists outside of his home. Only time will tell whether the AFA's appointment will be regarded as an act of lunacy or another great chapter in Maradona's colourful life. This result was a good start towards the latter.

On the short train from Glasgow Central Station to Mount Florida, a sozzled group of young boys were belting out a series of anti-English and pro-Maradona chants. So imagine my surprise when such sentiments surfaced only sporadically and half-heartedly during the game itself. On ocassions where the crowd were in song it was in support of Scotland rather than the denigration of the English. Terry Butcher might want to take a lesson from the Tartan Army in putting personal grudges aside and remembering the other goal that knocked England out of a World Cup that occured 22 years ago.