KEEP the faith. Football is still the opium of the people. The green, white and orange remnants of what was once a great travelling army of football supporters have come to the crumbling little city of Skopje on World Cup business.
Beneath the mountains and the minarets the locals should know better, but they have clasped the beautiful distraction of soccer to their chests like addicts clasp their stashes.
It shouldn't be so innocently charming. Macedonia, or to utter its full title the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, lies in the maw of the most complicated political situation in the world. A little Balkan country that is another big Balkan war just waiting to happen.
Macedonia is a mess of geopolitical fantasies, ethnic differences and piddling trade disputes which nobody has got around to sorting out yet. The people just get on with things, hoping that the big boys will forget they exist and wondering if they could sneak into the World Cup finals in France next year before their country detonates.
Petar, the man who comes to our room in the Continental Hotel (House Rule: No guns in the casino please) hoping to install a phone connection compatible with western Inptop computers wants to talk football.
He fishes in his old plastic bag and produces pliers and a huge briary tangle of wires, then sets them down and writes out painstakingly in pencil R-O-Y K-E-A-N-E.
"Riking," he says, jabbing the paper. "Very gutt, yes, yes. Riking. Man-Chester futbol. Riking."
He pretends to tackle the chair like Riking. The chair flinches.
"Ah yes, yes," we say, eyeing the pliers and wires doubtfully. "Riking and Den-is Irwin."
Discouraged, Petar shrugs and sets to his work, occasionally calling out names as they come into his head. Cascare-e-eno, he says, pretending to head a ball. Booomf! Tonee Cascare-e-eno.
In a while Petar has ingeniously fixed up the phone, little wires shooting off everywhere like capillaries.
"You are a genius, Petar," we tell him.
"Ah," he says, shrugging again. "Irska very strong. No goals Macedonia. Paul Makgrazz. Very good."
"No Paul Makgrazz," we tell him, desperate to relieve him of his, cheery fatalism.
"Yess, Paul Makgrazz. Manchester futbol. Very strong."
He is gone, shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders and laughing loudly as he jaunts down the dark corridor.