Boaby’s Barca Bash

Regular poster and top Bluenose, Boaby, has got sick of waiting for yer fat editor here to do as he promised and retell his experiences in Catalonia. Unsurprisingly, Boaby puts it far better than I could anyway:

Boaby bear is my name
And I went to the Barca game
Where Rijkaard’s cavalry came
And tore up our plans again

In the winter
of two thousand and seven
The ‘Gers were dreaming of
champions league heaven

Then all too soon
McGregor’s goal fell
It’s a night
I remember all too well

The night the Gers took Barca town
And all the bells were ringing
The night the Gers took Barca town
And all the people were singing

They went, Na na na na na na na
Na na na na na na na na…….
…..
Oooohhhhh…..
Bouncy bouncy bou…….

Aherm, strongest of apologies obviously offered to Saint Robbie of Robertson for the above, adulterous mangling of his work, in a futile and probably-should-have-been-abandoned attempt to sum up what was a truly amazing day/night/24 hours.

I awoke in the Calella hotel about seven A.M. Showered, breakie, walk to train station and alighted at Placa de Catalunya just after nine.
There were already a few bears there but, as I wasn’t due to meet my mate till 1PM, I decided to take a wander up Pg. de Gracia to check out the two Gaudi buildings there and enjoy some of the other great architecture en route. I then hung a right and headed down for a closer look at Sagrada Familia. What a building. Totally awesome. Nicest God-shop I’ve ever seen and no mistake.

Heading back to Cattie Skwer, there were now a good few hundred Rangers supporters gathered around the fountain in the South-West corner. I bumped into a few I’d met at the hotel and joined them for a beer as the numbers continued to swell. We watched as one chap waded through the water to tie his scarf around the neck of the crouching statue in the middle. Great, harmless fun.

Met my buddie outside the Hard Rock cafe and decided to join his mates for a beer in a little, Ozzie-themed hostelry on Las Ramblas. Therein we were treated to the Rangers supports answer to Domingo, belting out songs with wonderful gusto. I wanted to remember the occassion and the beer was flowing a wee bit too quickly for my liking - four pints in about an hour - so I suggested procuring a modest cargo and returning to throng in the square.

The wee supermarket on Las Ramblas was almost out of beer when we got there and was completely dry by the time we left. Back at the square there now seemed to be several thousand supporters and a general, party atmosphere with footballs being booted into the air. We got the tube to the stadium accompanied by a Rangers fan dressed as Superman. More partying at the ground before I attempted to gain access to the Rangers end. My mate’s face-value ticket proving more useful than my hunner-quid, Barca-end job, I trooped back round to Access 4. Here the party continued, beach balls-a-flying, for another hour or so, before the gates were opened. A couple of Barca fans, mingling with us, told me Rangers have the biggest and best away support they had ever seen.

Once inside, ticket scanned, I realised I could roam pretty freely from area to area, Gers end excepted. Plumped for a seat right on the halfway line and proceeded to bewilder the locals with a constant stream of “You’re Shite Messi! You’re worse Beasley!” type invective. I apologised to the two gents on my left for the blue invasion of their stadium but they reassured me that they loved the spectacle of so many pockets of away fans. Lovely people, by and large, the Barca support. They were listening to the tranny and even went so far as to offer me condolences once they heard Henry’s goal was handball. None of us had noticed at the time.

As for the IRA-themed nonsense, I had to explain the relevance to several home fans who, like me, seemed to find the whole idea amusing, albeit in a somewhat pathetic way. It was also a Barca fan who tapped me on the shoulder, pointed out the boy in the kilt swinging punches and said, “your friend is very brave but maybe very stupid too, no?”

I thought there was some lovely football in the run up to their second goal and duly congratulated the Barca fans in the nearby area - handshakes all round.
Overall, I thought we were well below par and probably got off lightly. Having discussed the Liverpool score of the previous evening with the Barca gents, them hoping to top it, me to avoid anything like it, we all seemed to welcome the final whistle with a sense of acceptance. Could have been better but could also have been much worse.

After the match I wanted to hang about until the Rangers fans were allowed out but the Stewards were having none of that and I was kicked oot. By the time I found my mate, whose phone had died and he had to borrow a fellow fan’s to contact me, it was well past midnight. Walked all the way to the bus station, saw him onto a bus at 2:45 a.m. and wandered back towards Placa de Catalunya.
Just as I reached it, a lone Rangers fan started belting out:
F*ck you Celtic
You’ll never win away
You cannae spell yer name
Away an’ huv a waash!

Nearly pished myself and a host of other bears joined in.
Ended up drinking with these guys until after 5 a.m. when they all headed for their hotels.

Decided to take a walk down the famous Las Ramblas, which I’d been told was a must see. Perhaps not at 5 a.m. Outwith Amsterdam I’ve never seen such a concentration of hookers, nor had to turn down so many sexual solicitations in my life.

Encountered loads of guys who’d been pick-pocketed or robbed. One guy in particular had lost phone, wallet, friends and memory of where his digs were. Lent him my ‘phone so he could ring home, to no avail. Still don’t know how he got up the road.

I’m not used to nights lasting this long without chemical assistance and by the time I got my train I was struggling. Surprise, surprise, I fell asleep and missed my stop. Finally arrived back at the hotel around 8:30 a.m.

I’d do the whole thing again tomorrow.

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Published:
11.13.07 / 4pm
Category:
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