Boxer shorts

I’ve just spent the last two hours wandering around Copenhagen in search of boxer shorts. This is my personal nightmare.

For me, clothes shopping is a stressful activity. The slow walk around a shop gently fondling a leather jacket and admiring the soles of a pair of shoes can get very tedious after the eighth store. Asking a staff member each time where the men’s section is while surrounded by scantily clad female manikins seems to be a right of passage when clothes shopping.

I hate it. I can never find what I want, and I feel constantly watched by some teenage store assistant. The pinnacle of stressful clothes shopping, however, is the search for underwear.

The main problem I have is that, simply, it’s embarrassing. Underwear companies seem to pride their marketing success on how much cock they can reveal to the consumer without actually scaring small children. This is what I noticed in the first shop I entered, the fashionable Magasin du Nord, which I think might be the Danish equivalent of Harrods.

The department store is enormous, and it took me quite a while just to locate the men’s section – having gotten lost in the kitchen appliances department. I found an entire half a floor dedicated to underwear. It was hell. Each brand has its own little shelf with packs of underwear from loose cotton pants to the man thong, which is basically just a knob bag.

To make matters worse, a manikin of a guy’s midriff sits atop of each shelf. I’ve not seen so many arses in one room since the Leeds University Medic Society held a Friday social in the student union.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as metrosexual as the next guy. If people want to reveal the contours of their penises to the world then that’s fine by me. What I do have a problem with is, as I enter the underwear section, an attractive Danish girl comes up to me and asks if I need help with anything. The embarrassment is almost too much. I mumble in English that I’m “just browsing”, but that just sounds like I’m there to ogle at the manikins.

Anyway, I get away from the staff member and find a private corner of the department where I can browse without interruption. This is where I encounter my second problem: the picture of the modelled boxers on the front of the pack. Why is it always some rippling, muscular Adonis staring back at me? Does anyone actually look like this? Does anyone genuinely stand with their pelvis thrust so far forward it could divert oncoming traffic? Take a look at this guy for example. No man actually looks like this unless he’s rolled a pair of socks and shoved them down his pouch.

My embarrassment comes from the fact that, if I pick up some boxers with a strong guy and a bulging knob on the front of the packet, it looks as though I want to emulate that guy. Underwear manufacturers seem to assume that the idiot customer’s mentality will be ‘if I buy these pants, I’ll look like that guy and get all the ladies’. I therefore look vain and yet insecure if I proceed to the checkout where that lovely Danish girl waits and make my purchase. She’d surely snigger and make me feel all queasy inside – not worth it.

To be honest I got scared in Magasin du Nord, and so I left. There were too many people near me. Underwear shopping should be a private affair. The danger of someone seeing me nonchalantly starring at tightly fitted male pelvises for twenty minutes is one I simply cannot risk.

I carried on my walk around Copenhagen in search of a cheap, non-fashionable clothes shop. However, every store I entered had the same branded pants with misshapen willies glaring out. All I want is something comfortable. I don’t want to expose the brand of my pants to the world as though it somehow makes me more attractive to suggest I can afford luxury under garments.

The pinnacle of ‘luxury’ pants seems to be from the Björn Borg collection. In every store I entered, there was Björn staring back at me. I wouldn’t mind, but at 350 kr. per two-pack, that’s a bit extreme. That’s roughly £19 per pair. How good can a pair of boxer shorts be? For that price I want a guarantee that the child labourer in China who made them at least got a mid-morning coffee break.

There is no way in hell I would pay £19 for some underwear. I feel sorry for the Danes who I assume have no other choice than to buy them. Luckily for me, I stumbled across some plain, black, probably boring but definitely comfortable, non-restrictive boxers in the supermarket (large, naturally).

As you can see, there’s no penis. There’s no six-pack. There’s no embarrassment.

They’ll do me. I didn’t have to seek assistance or stare at a cock. If they don’t fit me then that’s fine, they’re cheap. Now that would be a kick in the bollocks: £19 for some underwear only to get home and realise that fat arse of yours does not mirror the toned rump of the model on the packet. Nineteen quid to tell you you’re a porker? Nah.

Postcard

The last time I wrote on this blog Australia was widely regarded as a competent cricketing nation.

The world has changed since December. The winter uprisings in the Middle East and Africa mean the start of a new political era for the Arab world. The Japanese earthquake has once again shown how nature’s destructive force can be far superior to our own. My personal ability to get lost on the London Underground surprised even myself.

There are some things that never change however. One is the holiday postcard.

Last week I was in London. Having finally emerged at ground level after navigating my way round the finer parts of the London tube network, I set out to buy a book. The one I had brought with me had lasted less time than the United Nation’s ‘no-action’ stance over Libya; I needed a good read.

I found myself in Pimlico, an area of London probably most famous for a tedious black and white film from the ‘50s about an unexploded German bomb – gripping I know. It appears the film writers got it wrong however, because from my viewpoint on Pimlico high street, that bomb exploded.

Anyway, I found the Oxfam books store I was yearning for, and bought the slimmest thing that wasn’t a dieting guide in the shop: Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. I found a postcard inside the pages from October 2002. Oh good lord, it fulfilled every stereotype of a typical English holiday.

As you can see from the picture, the postcard is from the beautiful holiday resort of Arnside, Cumbria. Can you see those children playing on the beach? Oh no, that’s not sand. As the writer of this treasured postcard explains: “the ‘beach’ of the estuary is actually all mud.”

In all, this postcard is a sad indictment on the British tourist industry. Just how depressing does this picture look! There’s a man in jeans on the beach. Four people in the sea look downright shivery. It’s hardly a Hawaiian goddess draped over a sun lounger, or a wonderful white beach stretching into the distance without a hint of civilisation. No, the image of Britain: a cold mud splat foregrounding an industrial-sized car park and a Weatherspoons.

And, just if you think the picture is boring enough to rot your mind, let’s take a look at what ‘Mum (et al)’ wrote to describe this amazing holiday adventure:

‘Had a stroll here today, and Granny and I spent rather a lot of money between us at a v. nice little cake-shop! Decided to save the bathing for another visit (the ‘beach’ of the estuary is actually all mud).
Lots of love
Mum (et al)’

Well wasn’t that a thrilling read. Quite predictably you spent money on holiday; and wouldn’t you know it, Grandma takes advantage of finally being let out of the Home to eat as much sugary baking products as possible. There’s also the assurance that you’ll be visiting again to get back on that lovely mud beach.

I can see why the recipient of this marvellous contribution to literature stored it in a high-security Conrad novel. I’m half way through the bloody book and I can’t see why anyone would really read it out of choice. If it wasn’t for me, this postcard would have remained pristine for centuries, condemning Britain’s 21st Century holiday culture forevermore.

Heading home

I’d like to start with an apology. I was wandering around Copenhagen airport on Monday, eagerly awaiting my flight home when the departures board, instead of offering me a gate number, flashed ‘delayed’ in my face. The setback was four solid hours and, added to the fact I had arrived early at the airport, I had six to kill.

If you have six hours in any airport in the world, you will eventually stumble into a WH Smith. I don’t know how it happens, but they’re everywhere. I did. I needed something to burn the hours away. I looked at the newspapers, but wasn’t in the mood for last Wednesday’s half-chewed copy of The Daily Mail: so I headed to the book section.

This is my apology. Charlotte Bronte, I am sorry for my actions. For, under the dung heap of John Grishams, Dan Browns and ‘Obama: My Path to the Tops’, I found your sacred Jane Eyre. Just two copies; tucked away behind the dross of sparkly authors and embossed titles.

In purchasing your wonderful novel under such conditions Charlotte, I degraded your book from one of the great works of English literature, to a ‘travel companion’. A juicy piece of trash full of sex, gore and adventure. Sentences that don’t make. Opinions that offend entire cultures. Pink, spangly lettering on the inside cover. A semi-erotic silhouette of the author on the back cover. ‘PHWAR, WHAT A READ – The Sun’ tattooed on the front. This is what your book became when I picked it off the shelf Charlotte, and I am so sorry for it.

Well, after six hours I was a third of the way through it. I’d also ransacked every shop in the airport. The gadget shop: with its random assortment of laptops and cameras. I’m pretty sure no one actually buys the expensive items; the shop probably keeps afloat on flogging UK/EU socket adapters alone. There’s always an entire wall of funky phone cases and colourful ipod socks, just to please the kids.

The souvenir shop is also a must. Every souvenir shop around the world must order from the same factory, but just changes the figurine inside the snow globe. I observed Copenhagen’s Mermaid, who no doubt has sat on that dusty shelf longer than the old girl on her rock this year. (She went to Shanghai and forgot all about us). T-shirts, keyrings, Carlsberg bottle openers. All generic with some mild pretence to Denmark stamped on them.

There’s a fine fish bar in the centre of the departures lounge too. No one was eating there except three bald, ageing blokes in suits. Clearly you had to have earned a healthy amount over a good period of time to oblige yourself with dining at that place. I moved on, and found a comfy place to read and eat my prepared sandwiches in peace.

When I flew to Paris in October and my flight was delayed, I was pissed off. I was pissed off because the French had realised they’d been working without interruption for about two whole months, and so a strike was in order. This delayed my flight, and I suppose I became a stereotypical Englishman that day. I can’t stand the French.

In contrast, on Monday I wasn’t pissed off. Even though my flight was delayed, no one can predict extreme bad weather. You just have to accept it. You don’t have to accept a load of whingeing lazy layabouts demanding extra cheese with their lunch portions or whatever it was they were complaining about.

My flight, which eventually took off, was not one that will stay in the memory for long. Sat in the middle of a chubby Dane reading Dan Brown and a gaunt boy I kept my head down with madam Bronte, happy in the knowledge I was going home.

Oh, and at customs I said ‘tak’ to the guy who handed back my passport, and ‘undskyld’ when I whacked my rucksack into someone’s arse in Sainsbury’s. Evidently old habits won’t die.

How to fix a bike wheel

Snow has descended upon Denmark. Actually as we are all too aware snow has blanketed most of northern Europe. From what I hear of Britain it’s oh so frightful. The media are scaring people with it; desperate parents are filling their non-paid days off with radio phone-ins about it (just happy for a natter); kids are playing in it.

In Denmark, they are simply putting up with it.

Three days ago I was cycling down to university when an enormous toothbrush on wheels roared past. The Danes have invested in road scouring devices to keep the ice away. It looked like an angry car wash. They also clear the cycle lanes, which means biking in the winter is as safe as any other time… or as dangerous.

So there I was romping down the road on my little speedster, when suddenly I encountered a part of pathway somewhat neglected by the council. I didn’t mind though, as I thought I was going through newly lain snow.

Wrong! I smacked my front wheel into a solid block of ice. Before I could react I fell forwards onto the crossbeam of the bike, and clipped a testicle in the process: eventually falling to a semi-crippled mess on the ice.

I’ll be honest; I was pretty sore, and so walked the rest of the way to uni. On parking my bike I hear a whistling sound however. Oh shit – of course, I now had a puncture to accompany my probable trip to Accident and Emergency.

I was in a rush so had to leave it, and walked back home in the dark that night, so I was in no mood to fix the tyre when I got to the flat. Three days later and I’ve decided to stick my neck out and fix the damn thing.

So, how to fix a bike tyre. (This is also my pitch to be the new Blue Peter presenter)

1) Locate which tyre has the puncture. This may sound silly, but last summer I removed the back wheel of my bike – gears and all – only to remember it was the front tyre that needed fixing.

2) Dismantle the wheel from the frame (as seen here). This is your first hand-to-bike contact, and initially you will be aware that a lot of grease and black road grime is all over your fingers. Don’t worry or panic. This is normal, and you will get used to it fairly quickly once the real manual labour begins.

3) Detach the rubber tyre and inner ring from the metal frame of the wheel. For this you will need to use some swanky lifting clips that bike shops pawn off to you for a ridiculous price. Apparently three is enough; the idea is that you lift off one side of the tyre before the other, and three is needed because of the circular nature of a wheel or something like that.

Anyway three clips are apparently easiest, and you can unclip your tyre without the least bit of hassle. I used a single, small flathead screwdriver, and a piece of plastic found in the cellar – as you can see here. Admittedly it’s harder to get the tyre off the wheel – 25 minutes harder to be exact – but the feeling of accomplishment makes it all worthwhile.

4) Find the puncture hole on the inner ring. I looked and looked and couldn’t find it but thought I knew where it was and, in the spirit of acting in any form whatsoever rather than standing idle, sealed the supposed puncture with glue and a patch.

5) This is the most important part. One must make sure the glue is half dried and the patch fully covers the puncture – something that I found to my detriment again last summer.

6) At this point you’re ready to put the tyre back on the wheel, and believe me if you think getting the thing off was hard work, putting it back on is like revising for a Russian sign language examination. It took me – fair to say – a good half an hour to wrestle it back on, but eventually I did it… amazingly just like my successful Russian sign language course.

7) Now you need a pump. I popped across the road to a bike shop where they have a public pump outside – oh how darling. Tyre all pumped up… and shit. The worst noise you can possibly hear after an hour of grappling with a wheel: seeping air.

8) So, repeat stages 3, 4 and 5. Unfortunately I couldn’t quite decide what was a puncture hole and what was simply a rough bit of rubber in the inner tube. I used six different patches trying to sure up that thing. It made a WWI shrapnel victim look like a morris dancer. This tubing was on it’s last… well valve I suppose.

9) Patched up and on the wheel, run across the street and whack on the pump and: air. Great stuff. I decided to give it one more chance, but sadly my luck ran out. As I stuck the screwdriver back in under the tyre for the millionth time I heard a rip, and suddenly a whoopy cushion of remaining air vibrated out all over my hand. I had ripped the tube.

So that was a waste of an hour and a half of my life. I still don’t know if I found the right puncture or not, but tomorrow I think I’ll just go buy a new tube. And what have I got to show for my exploits: raw finger ends, black hands, grime under my fingernails, and a suppressed feeling of my own uselessness.

I’d have never made it as a caveman.

Cow

Exactly a month ago I was sat in sunny Barcelona with a paella scoop on the spoon in my right hand and an ice-cold beer in my left. Today, I’ve been sat in my cosy room bashing away at my keyboard in an attempt to erect a reasonable essay for my course.

It’s sleeting outside and I’m getting pseudo cabin fever sat here by my desk in my pants, so I think a blog post is in need.

Well… what has happened over the last four weeks. (This is the stage when someone says “tell me something interesting about yourself” and your mind goes black) A lot has happened over the last four weeks, but to be honest I think I’ll focus on the last couple of days.

For example, it’s getting colder and colder here now that autumn has given up. People are all nice and wrapped up in their woollen winter clothes. However, one breed of human is bucking the trend: the joggers.

Oh yes, can there be anything more exhilarating than feeling your skin shatter as you do your third lap of a frozen pond, the icy air battering your face? No, there cannot. To make it worse, joggers still insist on wearing tight, spandex looking skins to show off their amazing flat stomachs and bulging thighs – not that I’ve been looking, obviously.

The most annoying thing about joggers though is their traffic light behaviour. Us normal people are happy to stand and wait – like the red man tells us to do – straight backed, calm, hands by your sides. We’re good citizens that follow a code of conduct in place for our own health and safety. But no, joggers insist on running on the spot like some ridiculous Power Ranger on hot coals. Got to keep moving.

Yesterday one of these offset branches of the species was stood at a crossing with me. While I was stood, she of course was flapping around trying to keep her heart rate up or burn some calories or something of the sorts.

Anyway, there must have been a problem with the traffic lights, because the green man forgot to show during two consecutive cycles. It was brilliant. I didn’t mind the wait, because old leggy here next to me was beginning to grind herself down into the pavement below. She must have been knackered by the time it went green.

When I got in last night – after an intense library workout (who needs a gym when you have a library) – I was walking up the stairs to my apartment when I noticed something different about my route. No, I hadn’t accidentally stumbled into the basement (basement? That should definitely read cellar). Instead, there was a slight change to the décor of the staircase.

The woman below has changed her doormat.

Oh god lord I know what you’re thinking. What was it like? Does it suit the door? Is it better than the old one?

Well, I must say it looks pretty damn snazzy if you ask me. I do have one problem with it though. For the last few months this old bint from downstairs has padded the entrance to her welcome abode with a doggy doormat. The old one had a silhouette of a terrier on it.

This coincided with the terrier within the flat. And what a little shit of a thing it is too. I’ve seen it twice and twice thought it was a yappy little pointless sack of organs loosely constrained within a matted pouch of malting gristle. Surprisingly lifelike to the doormat in touch I imagine. God I’d love to scrape my shows in it’s little gobby face.

Anyway, with the doormat gone I wonder if the dog has pissed off too. Unfortunately the replacement doormat – snazzy as it is – does not present a desirable alternative, as you can see here. There is no way that woman could drag a cow up two flights of stairs.

Well that was the last two days really. Apart from me locking myself out of the library for half an hour. Oh, and subjecting some friends to utter torture watching the England v France game on Wednesday.

Actually there’s a point. Four of us were watching the game, and there was a couple sitting opposite us. I say couple, they both looked about 16 – maybe a first date? Two things bothered me:

1) The guy wasn’t watching the football. What an absolute disgrace. He was devoting all his attention of his little ‘on the side’.

2) My god how much attention can a guy give a girl? He wouldn’t keep his face away from her. The poor strumpet could hardly breathe. He kept one sweaty paw over her shoulder the entire night, clinging to her like a Kuala bear to a tree. Every time she tried to move he went in for a good old smooch.

God I feel old. Anyway time for a few pints of ale down in town…

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.