Two weekends ago I was in the Nou Camp.
Barcelona beat Real Betis 4-2 and I was there.
Just me, my Dad, and about 70,000 others.
But I didn't write about that quasi-religious experience.
I didn't write about the pure theatre of the Greatest Football Stadium On Earth or how, when the Greatest Football Team On Earth came out to warm up, they were greeted like rock stars. Like the Harlem Globetrotters. But in the 70's:
Two weekends ago I saw one of modern sports' greatest sights: Lionel Messi bearing down on goal, chased by five helpless defenders. The little fella' scored two that night. And everybody went home happy.
But I'm not writing about that.
I want to tell you about being packed into the Most Spanish Pub In West London watching Liverpool-Man City on one lonely TV while all around, multiple other screens burst into life to show El Classico.
Or, as I embarrassingly referred to it with the barman, "The Classico".
He knew what I meant. Everybody knows.
Craig Bellamy was excellent for Liverpool last night. But all eyes were on Barca-Real: surely the Greatest Club Fixture In World Football at this moment in time. And last night's offering was pure drama.
It had everything: tension, skill, nasty fouls, controversy, outstanding goals, and enough of the world's best players to make a genuine World XI just from those on the pitch.
But even after visiting the Nou Camp, even after buying a hat, and a scarf, and leaping to my feet as if Catalan blood flowed through my veins; even after making the pilgrimage and loving every second of it, every blade of beautiful grass...
I still wanted Madrid to win.
Because I wanted to see what Mourinho would do if they had.
He's such a brilliant bastard.
Messi is a genius, but it's people like Jose that make me love football.
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