A few months back a very good friend narrowed his stag doo venue to Madrid or Barcelona, the date was vaguely near the end of the year but not quite Christmas. The permit to travel had been granted by the indoors War Dept. All good stuff, until the day the Spanish Liga fixtures were announced and it became apparent Mr Beckham and new chums would be visiting Barcelona on December 6th. The venue was finally rubber stamped, we were off to Catalonia with ludicrous notions that we would get 13 tickets, no sweat! We didn't have a clue.
But then one of life's occasional moments of luck happened. I had posted on the FF messageboard for tickets - you've seen the kind of post, 'hi, I need 20 OF cup final tickets, can you help?' But I got a response from a well known poster, currently resident in Texas, got in touch to say his in-laws were well connected Catalans who may be able to help. A few weeks of discussion etc and finally he came up with 10 tickets, total cost EUR1,800. Unsurprisingly one or two of the guys were reticent about handing over the cash, especially when I replied 'no' to 'have you ever met this guy?' and 'via the internet' to ' how do you know him?'. But sometimes in life you take a chance, you can trust another, especially when you have one common bond so strong.
So off we flew in dribs and drabs on the Friday. On the flight over I read a Mail special featuring various Brits who've played in this fixture over the years gushing about the intensity of this fixture - Bobby Robson said it eclipsed any British derby, including the Glasgow OF - I'll have a bit of that I drooled!
We hit the sherbet trail and an uneventful first night ensued that only included one mugging, one pickpocketing, two broken fingers, yours truly dancing topless to boom boom shake the room music and a £2,500 phone bill. Not pretty. In the morning, the money was paid and instructions given to be at the hotel between 7- 7.30pm. Three lads, one Spanish speaker, had missed out on the ticket draw and headed to the ground early. The ten 'lucky' ones were at the hotel. And we waited. And 8 o'clock came. And so did 8.15pm. The Bears were getting restless. But at last our chariots arrived, two people carriers, with Uncle Manel and Bill Bryson lookalike pal as promised. We were driven up by the ground. Nice. Then into the stadium car park. Great. And then into the actual stadium to reserved parking. Superb. We were waved into a lift and swept along to a private box behind the goal in the mid-tier. Now the private box wasn't quite what it is at Ibrox -it seemed more like Manel's private world, fridge, caravan style seating, his pictures, food, beer, drinks cabinet. We were encouraged to tuck into the gratis scran and more importantly the bevvy. I had gone from zero to hero! Even better news, thanks to Andy Habla Espanol, the other three lads had secured three half way line mid tier tix for E60 a pop.
Now I've seen a good few stadia in my time, but I'm struggling to think of one that gives a better first impression than the floodlit colour, the size, the aura of the Nou Camp 30 minutes before kick off. We wandered to our seats between beer refills and soaked every noise, smell, movement. It was glorious. Real were warming up and the whistles were as intense as we had expected. The imminent prematch included some pop group, nice looking chick singer, sundry backing blokes, warbling some cheesy tune that wasn't exactly bringing the house down. It seemed odd - but the song did include the word 'Barca' which cheered up the massed locals! It was followed by some kind of Barca anthem that required standing and the yelling of the word 'Barca' every now and then. We mimed our way through it!
The players finally managed to get to the pitch, through the largest group of 'people wot have probably the most tenuous reason to be alongside the pitch' I am ever likely to see - there must have been around 500. Giovanni van Bronkhorst was greeted with a fervered cheer from our box, to the amusement of those around us. And the game started. At this stage I have to say two things occurred to me - firstly, I was watching football's answer to the Harlem Globe Trotters. Zidane, Ronaldo, Figo, Raul, Carlos. This was cake and eating it.
Yet despite these names my player of the game was Beckham, he was everywhere, so much so I had no idea where he was meant to be - passing, creating, but tracking back, tackling, the lot. He was superb. Figo was the other stand out and he was booed mercilessly. They had a chant for him translated along the line's (I'm led to believe) 'He's a posh Portuguese, He's a sonofabitch'. He is resented in a way that the other Barcelona old-boy, Ronaldo, is not because of the terms he left were slightly similar to Barry i.e. preceded by a pledge to stay at the club. Roberto Carlos was also targeted with some awful, and very widespread racist monkey chants, certainly on a scale no longer heard on these shores. The game ended 2-1 to Real, their first victory in Catalonia in 20 years.
But the other thing that struck me was how subdued the general atmosphere was. Despite the occasional booing or the rare spontaneous chanting of 'Barca' the biggest disappointment was the lack of engagement between reactions on the field and on the terracing. The Spanish do not roar every move or encourage their team in the same way we do, they sit back relax, and if they get really frustrated they wave a white hanky! Our own Roger improvised with some minging bog roll found in his pocket. This was best exemplified when Barca got a corner a minute after pulling a late goal back in the game - imagine the same in an Old Firm and you'd be screaming your head of in search of an equaliser, yet the Barcelona crowd just sat there in detached quiet.
It may be bigger, dominate the media for a full week in advance, be more glamorous than an OF but its got a bit to learn when it comes to showing passion, making noise or singing songs! I can only summarise, Barcelona Real Madrid, big? who the hell are you trying to kid!
Sgt Steve