Barcelona – Day 3

Quite simply, what a day. This was my view from the third tier press box at the Nou Camp. I could hardly see the players. Can’t imagine how it must have been for the 7,000 FC Copenhagen fans right at the top of tier six.

So, this is why I went to Barcelona. It was well worth it. People say FC Barcelona are the best team in the world, with arguably the best stadium in the world. Well, the former certainly, but maybe not the latter. The place becomes a real labyrinth as you try and manoeuvre around hundreds of journalists looking for the press conference room, before alighting four flights to you gantry position in the gods.

The match itself was pretty intense. It’s gotten almost cliché to praise Barcelona for their attacking approach. To be honest watching on the TV you take it for granted. However, watching ‘in the flesh’ is simply incredible. You see every movement and detail that not even 3D HDTV can pick up. The sheer intelligence of the players – and I know at this point some may be thinking that all footballers are dumb idiots who massacre the name ‘genius’ – was so beautiful to see. Being a good team can win you a match. Synchronised off the ball movement can win you a championship.

But back to the football later. I started the day quite late, and so hopped on the Metro down to a Catalonian art museum in the city. It was one of those museums that has collected a jumble of art throughout the ages and attempts to bunch the pieces together in similar time periods, yet evidently different movements.

I began with Romaic art, but on stepping into the first room to see a load of crumbling tablets and statues I turned round and walked out. I’ve seen enough semi-deformed statues of naked adonises thank you very much. So, instead I went over to the Gothic and Renaissance Art section: big mistake. It was a hoard of religious billboards. Minarets of the Virgin Mary, a painted plank of wood with religious scripture on it, and yet one thing that really caught my eye: this little beauty here.

I think it’s some sort of middle ages ‘this is your life’. The monk – let’s just call him Benedict for Papal reasons – stands in the middle, with the passages of his life around the outside. Top left, he has just been born. Top right he is a kid and being educated, while middle left he is receiving some robe or something. Middle right a post-adolescent Benedict is being received properly into the church, and yet it all goes downhill from here. Poor Benni is ill on the bottom left, and appears to be receiving the Last Rites. And bottom right, the people of Renaissance Catalonia have clearly had enough of his sickliness and godliness, and execute the poor balding sod.

I also found this glorious Anglo Saxon depiction of Christ’s resurrection. Now, I’ve read my Bible, and at no point does it say Jesus sprung up from his tomb, killed the surrounding Roman guards and waved the flag of Saint George. Although of course they say a story loses a lot of it’s meaning when translated. Maybe I should learn Latin…







Yet, this is definitely my favourite piece from the Renaissance collection. As you can see, Saint George is half way through slaying the dragon, the moment where he becomes revered throughout our glorious land of England for his heroism and bravery. A master of his profession, Saint George is an example to follow, an embodiment of all that is English: fearless in the face of adversity, ridiculous health and safety regulations, and the gross slaughter of endangered species.

But if this little depiction of our great saviour is correct, I must seriously have to question the moral requirements for idol status in the middle ages. The dragon is tiny. Where do the bravery and vigour and all that chivalric bollocks come from if all you have to do is kill a lizard the size of a badger? A good old stamp would probably have done the trick. But no; wise old George knew that getting his spear all bloody and scaley would mean a heroes welcome on his return. What a con man.

One of the great things I love about paintings is the clear rebellious cheek many artists include in their work. One ‘genre’ of this cheek is what I like to call the anonymous individual. Usually in a crowd scene there is a direct attention for the persons in the painting to look upon. In this particular painting, it’s some declaration or signing of something or summat like that. All protagonists are facing generally the same direction, giving importance to the focus of the scene. And yet, if you look closely, there’s always one person who goes against the grain. Here, while the beautiful ladies and the regal gentleman gaze left out of shot, some promiscuous little pompous devil in an orange and blue waistcoat is most certainly checking out the cleavage of the girl next door. Suits you sir.

Well the rest of the art museum consisted of a brief period of Spanish impressionism (slightly too late to the European scene) before Picasso and his crew took over; and what was once such a lovely period of artistic skill and talent died in a pit of emotionless ‘challenges’.

Right, back on with the football. Here was my office for the evening. We were allocated prime half way line seats in the press box, at the top of the ‘main’ stand, yet only three tiers up. I say ‘only’, the rest of the stadium has six tiers. The view was amazing, the atmosphere incredible, and the FC Copenhagen fans proudly making their presence heard in the balcony of the Barcelona sky.

The match itself was one of the most petrifying experiences I have witnessed since Arsenal played Leeds at Elland Road back in 2003. Like Arsenal, every time Barcelona got the ball they looked dangerous, threatening to score at any opportunity. And of course the wee little Argentine Messi bagged the opener, a sweet goal from outside the FCK penalty area. Before the game I thought to myself that hearing 70,000 Spaniards erupt in adoration would be deafening; and yet, the sound when Messi scored was one more of expectation than of full-out joy.

Maybe it was because Copenhagen were losing, making me feel extra critical, but I was beginning to see behind the mirage of the Nou Camp that is depicted on TV. Much like the stereotypical Manchester United fans at Old Trafford, FC Barcelona supporters attend matches to be entertained, rather than stir their team up into a winning frenzy. There was a disappointing pleasure of acceptance I heard, when Messi scored. The noise wasn’t particularly loud, if anything it was more of a chuckle at how someone could be so good at the game, and that they owned him.

What struck me most about the Barcelona fans however was their moaning. Yes, it is widely accepted that the Spanish style of football is less physically accepting than what is played in the north of Europe. But when 70,000 whistles resonate round an enormous bowl because poor little Andrés got tripped over was actually quite appalling. There was a definite sense of ‘don’t you dare touch our players inappropriately’. When Dame N’Doye – Copenhagen’s lead front man – got booked for a foul on Mascherano, the whole place went up in uproar; far louder than when either goal was scored. Now, I know I like a good whinge now and again, but these Spaniards didn’t half bloody moan.

So yes, what an amazing experience – apart from the Catalan mentality I suppose. Here is me doing my best impression of a Lego man, as the players come out for the second half. And what a half it was; FCK were so close to scoring as N’Doye hit the crossbar. To have scored a goal at the Nou Camp would have topped the night for me, but I had to wait for a quick interview with Gerard Piqué to really set the grin on my face in stone.

Barcelona – Day 2

Well at 2am this morning I finally got into my hotel room. What a fiddle yesterday was, but today more than made up for it. I woke at about 9:30 without any idea what time it was, seeing as my room has no windows. By 10am I was mixing with the tourists in the centre of the city, trying to navigate my way to the Picasso museum.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though every other foreigner in the city was heading to the same place. The narrow streets were overcrowded and when I eventually got to the museum entrance, the queue was 200 deep at least. Sack that – let’s go for a wonder.

So I did, and stumbled across some old blokes playing boules in a park. They all seemed rather chirpy and clearly at ease with the world. What stuck me though was how smartly dressed they all were. Ironed shirts and pullovers, one guy even in a suit. Clearly today was the bi-weekly Barcelona pensioners’ boules tournament. What a way to spend the day.

I quickly realised my mistake of forgetting sunglasses for this trip. Copenhagen now is pretty damn chilly, but certainly not Barcelona in October; thought it isn’t unbearably hot. I passed two guys – pale, blonde, fat and most obviously Danish – walking through the city with shorts on. They were screaming ‘tourists’.

After a visit to a museum of 20th Century Russian art – grossly out of place but interesting all the same – I clambered the big hill in Barcelona to the Olympic Stadium, which housed the 1992 Olympic athletics events. The picture here shows the typical bowl like any other stadium. However, what is most interesting is the outside, and in fact the whole shell of the stadium itself. Most unlike the ‘modern’ stadiums with huge steel structures and glass panelling, Barcelona’s Olympic Stadium is built with stone to form a classical Greco-Roman style, with turrets and gateways and open social areas. It is completely opposite to the Nou Camp, which I will now get on to.

Oh my good giddy aunt! I have just come back from one of those life experiences you will never forget: this was on a par with the first kiss, the first ‘time’, and yes… even the first verruca. Sitting in a press conference in the deep heart of the Nou Camp, before heading off to pitch side for one-to-one interviews. Sitting in the dug out is one thing, but having a sneak peek into FC Copenhagen’s dressing room is something else. It was enormous. In fact, it was almost too big. You could lose half a squad in that place.

I had a chance to sit at the back of the dug out and reflect on where I was. I appreciate it a lot, and of course realise what a privilege it is to be here. As my fellow reporter Torkil deduced, there are 4,600 FCK fans who would kill to have been where I was today.

A great day in Barcelona. Now let’s just hope for a 3-0 thrashing tomorrow.

Barcelona – Day 1

This post shouldn’t really be called ‘Barcelona’, as it’s 20:23 and I’m still not in bloody Spain. France, you pathetic moaning bunch of lazy individuals… I will get back to you later.

I am currently sat in the wonderfully modern Charles De Gaulle Airport, Paris. It has taken me fourteen long hours to get here, after I woke up at 6am full of excitement for the few days ahead. A bitter Copenhagen air cracked my face as I walked through the governmental grounds to the train station, clad in my new suit and shoes so shiny I accidentally caught a glimpse up an old woman’s knickerbockers from their polished reflection while queuing for my train ticket.

Of course, I didn’t actually… she was wearing trousers.

A four-hour train journey up to Gothenburg went as swimmingly as… well let’s just say it went swimmingly. I arrived at the internationally renowned Landvetter Airport, Sweden. And what an airport it is too; I should know: I spent five hours in the damn thing.

‘But Joe, why spend so long in an airport, and yet wake up at 6am? Why not have a lie in and be refreshed for your journey across Europe?’ Well, why indeed. (Excuse me at this point while I clear up the spleen that has just vented all over my keyboard)

I’ll say this nice and clear: those miserable, whingeing, adolescent, ungrateful, work-shy, quivering-bottom-lipped, floppy haired, greasy haired, cigarette devouring, begrudge-thy-neighbour, useless French tossers. How dare you delay my flight for three hours while you ponce around with your banners and mottos as though it’s your right. I’ve been so stressed out today hoping I can catch my connecting flight – both with Air France – that my hair line has receded so far back I doubt I will have to shave my shoulders ever again.

So, roughly forty minutes ago I was waiting to depart the plane, when the lovely stewardess on the tannoy explained there weren’t enough staff to trawl the stairs over to connect with the plane door. Ten minutes later and one solitary, surly looking bloke moped over and attached the stairs. I bolted out and looked around – we’d parked in what looked like an aeroplane graveyard: hundreds of them, with no buildings. So, five minutes later and we all clamber onto a shuttle bus, ten minutes after that and I fall into a man on his mobile as I try to squeeze past the garlic muncher and out of the bus.

By this point I’m knackered, hungry, sweating heavily and stressed out. I quickly gamble into the terminal and greedily devour the departures board: Barcelona, 20:20 – now delayed, 22:00.

All that stress for nowt. All that running for nowt. And, if you can see by this picture, if you wish to complain like the poor man here, you will get nowt in reply. So, thanks France. I realise how unashamedly inappropriate I have been in mentioning a whole cheese board of criticisms; but if you’re going to strike, I think I may be justified with the other stereotypes I have mentioned.

Ah, only 75 minutes to go now. I wonder if they sell berets, or cheap red plonk anywhere…

Shower Skills

The most amazing thing has just happened in the shower. No, I have not found a third nipple or uncovered a way of washing my hair without leaving half a bee hive in the plug hole, instead, I have become witness to shower skills.

Now, you may be thinking ‘oh, shower skills? what is this absurd paradigm?’ Well, to put it simply, shower skills is something every bloke on this planet will try at least once. It’s the art of catching the soap on your foot as you drop it – ladies, I know what you’re thinking: ‘what the fu-?’

It may sound absolutely ridiculous, but the sense of achievement when you successfully ‘catch the soap’ (not a euphemism in the slightest) is one of utter euphoria.

Let me just explain the reasoning behind it. There’s nothing more annoying (well, there is a lot of things more annoying but it’s just an expression I suppose), than having a shower in a cubicle without a soap rack. Where do you put the shampoo and soap and that needlessly smelly Lynx stuff? The answer is sadly on the floor, which can lead to slippage from accidental stepping and serious bending activities.

I have a shower like this. By catching the soap on your foot, you have control of it until you need it again – it can’t run off anywhere – while there’s no need to bend over and risk pushing your arse against the cold side of the shower cubicle: always a shock.

Now we have delineated the reasoning behind such an activity, it would be useful to explain the method. Having lavishly soaped oneself, the drop to the foot is important. Adding extra velocity by throwing will not help your cause. You have to lightly drop vertically, above the foot. The foot itself must be raised, with the toes bent outwards to provide a soap-sized nest.

You are now ready to catch your soap – guys stay with me, this is as tedious as trying to explain the offside rule, I know. As the soap reaches the intended raised foot – and at this point I must stress not to raise both feet at the same time, by making sure you’ve selected the appropriate foot before commencing the operation – you should begin to lower the foot in relation to the soap (but ever so slightly slower). This provides a cushion for the dropping object. The result: the soap should nestle nicely in the newly configured indent of the foot about one inch from ground level.

I know this may sound easy, but it isn’t. It takes years of practice, and even then a full soap catch is very rare to come by. I’m writing this now because this is the first time I’ve managed it in over for weeks, and therefore comes as an event for me on a Monday without lectures, social life, or any vague sense of wellbeing whatsoever.