El Classico

El Classico. Real Madrid vs FC Barcelona. Watched by hundreds of millions of football fans the world over and more important to some than Christmas and birthdays rolled into one.

It only happens twice a year and it causes big problemos in our household. Why? On account of the bloke supporting Real hasta la muerte (till death) and me supporting Barcelona since five years ago.

After saying he wouldn’t watch it with me, bloke repented. And so I found myself driving at break-neck speed back from the centre of town to our local bar, the brilliantly named Yupi (Yipee?) to watch the match.

It never ceases to amaze and amuse me how seriously bloke takes his football. Hours before kick off he was focussing his energies “to send Messi bad vibes” and as we got closer to the bar he was sweating with nerves and had steamed up the windscreen of the car.

After a few near misses on the car accident front we were finally parked up and running down the road, Yupi-bound, with at least 10 minutes to spare.

It’s a weird atmosphere in the city when El Classico’s about to happen. The place is deserted (I’m always told it would be the best time to rob a bank or engage in similar criminal activity) And this time, half the streetlights in Madrid didn’t seem to be working. (even better for thieves)

I was pondering this in those ten minutes before kick off (bloke is too nervous to speak to me obviously.)

Ten minutes after kick off I’d come to the following conclusions:

1) I’m so glad I’m taller than most little old Spanish men or I’d have a real crappy view.
2) Drinking big jars of clara is a bad idea when the bar is rammed, the toilet is far away and a pain in the arse to get to.
3) I hate Cristiano Ronaldo. He makes me want to puke. Just the sight of his greasy smarmy face makes me pull an ‘I’m sucking lemons’ face.
4) Every time someone on Real goes down (even if they dive and deserve an Oscar) everyone in the bar will scream “penalty” or “falta” like their very lives depended on it.
5) There are no other Barca supporters in the bar apart from the barman (and he is keeping it super quiet ‘cos he needs his job)

At half time it was a draw. Cracking match with a lot of missed opportunities on both sides. Bloke commented that if Real won he would be logging into facebook every hour to taunt Barca supporters. I asked what he would do if they lost.
“Not log into facebook for a month,” was his reply.

Well it all went wrong for Real in the second half when Abramovich came on. He scored pretty much straight away and there were cries of horror, followed by a big silence in the bar. Tumbleweeds. It’s not even that silent on a Wednesday night when there’s just the two of us in there playing darts.

Final whistle went and bloke was beside himself, moping into his rum and coke. One nil to Barca. Disgusted once more with me supporting “the enemy” , he did everything possible to try and persuade me to change sides.

Emotional blackmail: “My grandfather, who was Real Madrid’s second team’s coach, would turn in his grave if he knew I’m going out with a Barca supporter”

Bargaining: “I’ll buy you any piece of jewellery you want:”

Threats: “I’ll never marry you unless you support Real” and more threats: “You’re paying for the drinks. You're walking home!”

But nothing worked. I can’t just change now, can I? I only started liking football when I moved to Spain – to Barcelona. So I supported my local team. I could have picked Espanyol, but I didn’t. So there.

Bloke was upset for a while, but he soon cheered up. After logging into facebook immediately to post some hateful messages, followed by two mixto sandwiches, and a game of darts (which he won), he was back on form again.

As far as Classicos go, it was a good one. (not as good as the last one when Barca won six-two, but still not bad.) We’ve got ourselves till May to prepare for the next one.