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.