Locker Room:Those who enjoy seeing a well-constructed argument being undone by mere reality should read on. Bad cess to ye though.

A few weeks back I was in town and ran into Adekunle Gomez, whom I hadn't seen - well, let's see, certainly since late in the last century. Years ago Ade and myself tried our hand at running an African disco. Ade had the music. I had the use of the hall. I was to promote the idea to college kids, young people whose idea of a cultural night out didn't extend beyond the traditional disciplines of drinking and shifting. Once the kids got the idea that African music didn't preclude drinking and worked quite a charm when it came to the shifting, all was well. And there was a little fad for the music.

Funny thing is - and I'd feel guilty admitting this to Ade (although I'm sure he's used to chancers like me by now) - that while I owned and still have on the iPod music by people like Remi Ongala and King Kiki, and enjoyed the soukous of outfits like Orchestra Makassy, I never developed the interest any further or deeper. Apart from being able to throw in the odd name and recognise the odd riff, that's where my expertise ends.

But of course I'm a white, European male type, and in the back of my mind I think that trick of being able to name two or three disparate African artists makes me one with my brothers. If a journalist should always have a keen sense of the superficial, then you are reading a man at one with his calling.

When we spoke, Ade was heading home to be at the African Cup of Nations. Naturally I enthused about this and encouraged him to do some writing and reports on the matter when he got there.

When we parted, though, I came away with a keen sense of déjà vu. I felt the same as I had felt years ago over the African music disco business. I was very enthused and positive and keen to display my minuscule shards of knowledge and the fact that I consider African football to be a good thing, but my knowledge is shallow and sketchy.

Years ago, when I got into this business, one of the first paying gigs I had was to write little preview boxes for the 1990 World Cup. If there were rules for the coverage of African soccer, they were rudimentary and old school. The writer would examine in detail the prospects of all European and South American contenders, and then proceed to treat Africa as one all-purpose country. Cameroon being the exception, of course, because Roger Milla was then the oldest man in the world and we all found him perfectly charming.

Then there would be some general aspirational stuff and a little schoolboy sociology. Writers noted breathily that African countries were always about to take their place on the world stage. Nigeria, in particular, was just about to realise its immense potential and express that realisation through football.

African countries always won many friends with their natural athleticism and refreshing approach to the game. They were the future of world football, but could, tut tut, only be confirmed as such when they learned discipline. Old, un-reconstructed types referred to the "dark continent".

African football was always refreshing. The smart young writer would comment approvingly that they love their football, them Africans.

On a more serious note, however, he would notice that there are no cities in Africa, a lack which gives them a tremendous advantage: everybody runs everywhere barefoot and this makes them very hardy. All pieces would end with the convivial thought that it was time for them to arrive. Any sciolists still standing would refer to the teams representing individual countries by their nicknames. The Eagles! The Lions! The Elephants!

All this time later it is interesting to see how things have changed. That is, not very much at all. The African Cup of Nations which began yesterday is still filtered through European media as a novelty package with a level of seriousness about it not commensurate with us clever European folks whose continental tournament later this year will be filled with so many exhibitions of extemporary dullness that we will be able to laud ourselves yet again on our tactical nous and sophistication.

We always like to think that we are five to 10 years ahead of the best of Africa.

Maybe this tendency to patronise is no bad thing. It might help preserve a necessary distance. When European and African football mingle, the result is always the same. European involvement in African soccer has by and large been a contamination, a sporting extension of the old colonialism and imperialism. We have taken the continent's best players when our own have become too uppity and demanding. We have endeavoured to coach out of them the natural talent which attracted us to them in the first place. We go to some lengths to purchase African players and then act surprised and hurt when they turn out to be, well, African, and would like to return home to play for their African countries in events like the African Cup of Nations which selfishly they stage during the Premiership season.

They just don't understand.

In exchange for the best of their players, we have sent to Africa the most affordable of our coaches. Most of the sides competing in Ghana over the next few weeks are coached by Europeans, and our besuited chaps have infected African football with such discipline and sterility that you have to stop and wonder if the whole debate shouldn't have been about what European sides needed to shed so they could just lighten up and enjoy the game.

Yesterday it all kicked off for the 26th time in Accra. The African Cup of Nations! Ghana entertained Guinea in the opening game, and though a shock hadn't been ruled out the pressure was on Ghana. Those of us who are Leeds fans and who loved in an aching, almost physical way Tony Yeboah will always have a soft spot for Ghana.

Indeed, back in Tony's heyday (which was considerable), he played on a Ghanaian side which seemed to sum up African football for everyone at the time. Leading Germany (no less) by a goal to nil at half-time in a friendly in Bochum, the side (which also boasted Abedi Pele) fell to doing what Dutch teams had been doing for many years before that: they argued, so the story goes, over their match bonuses. The squabble was unresolved as they went back out on to the field. They managed to lose 6-1.

Yesterday, as we ploughed through this job of scribbling while stealing glances at the progress of the game, we rooted first and foremost for the story. For Ghana and Guinea to produce a game that would fit into the recent sterility of Nations Cup games and thus happily buttress the arguments being poured into this column like wet cement.

Of course they would do nothing of the sort. It was only two goals to one but the football was wonderful and Ghana won it in the end with a shot from Sulley Muntari who makes his money at Portsmouth but who, having scored such a screamer during the transfer window, could be with a big-four club by February.

Muntari's goal and much of the play that preceded it were a disgusting display of arrogance by a home side who seemed prepared to make a fool of this columnist in particular. So be it. Both sides were managed by Frenchmen.

Obviously, the tempering influence of European soccer on the African game is a good and joyous thing. All other opinions should be discounted. Grrrr.