Now what? Only the small matter of the second biggest international tournament in world football. Euro 2008 has not so much crept up as been blatantly disregarded by those with no vested interest on these shores. It makes for a genuinely enjoyable tournament, one for the discerning football fan without the historic stress and masochism of watching Scotland, or the insufferable arrogance of the English media declaring "we can win this" after an opening-day draw.

I'm with the Russians. It is a long-held affinity, dating back to a schoolboy fascination with the Soviet Union and a curiosity in peeking behind the Iron Curtain. Never could find it on the map and wondered if the Iron Lady would be responsible for any alterations on her Singer. A niche market, or Perestroika as it became known.

I blame my uncle. He returned from a business trip to Moscow at the time of the 1980 Olympics with an odd little bear called Misha. The official mascot was as symbolic of the macho malevolence of communist Russia as Rudolph Nureyev. To compound matters, Misha squeaked when squeezed affectionately; a contradiction to Mrs Peline's insistence that bears growled and roared. It made for a confusing upbringing. Uncle Allan also bought me my first doll (I told you it was confusing), or rather five of them, all snugly smaller than the next and painted identically and intricately.

I soon graduated to such mythical heroes as Ivan Drago, only to discover that geographical obsession was one thing but a daily intake of Rocky IV was not part of Uncle Allan's grand plan. He did not respond well to my robotic hissy-fit: I must break you. Interests realigned, Mr Cochrane's initial excitement at my voracious appetite for knowledge on the real-time break-up of Communist Russia during standard grade Modern Studies became a matter for the assistant headteacher. Chess club was one thing (I was always Kasparov), forming the King's Park Commie Club while raiding the old man's tool shed for a sickle was quite another.

Mikhael Gorbachev's birthmark was always more intriguing than his historic socio-political policies. By comparison, Boris Yeltsin's entire face looked like a birthmark, or some kind of gruesome creation from the Garbage Pail Kids Deluxe Edition. He was the poster boy for Intravenous Stolichnaya. Mother Russia was so affronted she reared Boris with curtains over his pram. Iron ones at that.

I digress. The real stars were not the leaders responsible for ending decades of oppressive rule but the sportsmen who prospered amid the hardship. Ivan Lendl looked Russian, sounded Russian and came from next door Czechoslovakia, so he was good enough for me throughout many an unfulfilling Wimbledon fortnight. Sergey Bubka was most definitely Russian and seemed to break the pole vault record at will: by a centimetre and usually on a Sunday. Irina Privalova was a Russian man running in the women's 100m and 200m. He was a formidable specimen and never got caught.

The footballers were the real flag-bearers and, nearly 20 years on, have again reclaimed their place at the summit of sporting excellence. Which brings us to the point.

Having forgotten entirely about Euro 2008, a cure has been found for post-season football fatigue.

It is called ESPN Classic, a satellite station that can only be found on a dark night and by accident. You know what I mean, lads.

No sooner had Nicolas Anelka caused Roman Abramovich's stony face to crack inside the Luzhniki Stadium, than a quick flick to channel 442 promised a repeat of the first game I had been genuinely transfixed by as the Castlemilk Kid. It was the Euro 88 final between Holland (which was inexplicably spelled N-E-T-H-E-R-L-A-N-D-S, I recalled) and the CCCP (which was inexplicably pronounced USSR). They were also the Soviet Union, then the CIS and then Russia again. No wonder the poor sods have an identity crisis.

It was the game that produced the most dramatic goal in football history, if not the most elegant or inspired. Marco van Basten's ridiculous volley sealed a depressing win after Ruud Gullit's wondrous mop of hair blinded Igor Dasaev for the opener. It was not these great players that originally enthralled but the brick-effect adidas home shirts worn by Holland and the Soviet Union. The Soviets stood out for the CCCP branding on their chests. It was not so much advertising as intimidation. It worked a treat.

In retrospect, a few things struck me. Alexei Mikhailichenko was both Gullit's shadow and Russia's majestic orchestrator in that final. He was unrecognisable to the lazy, yet misused and under-used, figure at Rangers. Oleg Protasov looked older than Roger Milla's old man, yet claimed to have been 27. He had a harsh paper round with Pravda.

Russia won the inaugural event in 1960 and have finished runners-up three times. Under Guus Hiddink, they could easily add to the Russian revolution in football. Zenit became the second Russian team to win the UEFA Cup in three years, after CSKA Moscow, and the capital hosted a memorable Champions League final. They are favourites to beat England to hosting the 2018 World Cup and boast a fine squad.

Andriy Arshavin, the man-of-the- match in Manchester, is suspended for the opening two matches of the finals but is the subject of interest from Barcelona. Even they, though, are balking at his £50,000 per week salary on top of an exorbitant fee. Pavel Pogrebnyak and Roman Pavluchenko complete one of the most formidable forward lines in the world. The Russians are coming.

I must remember to pack Misha . . .