Last time, Charlie told us about Spain’s love affair with football. This time he is going to tell us about the mood of a Spanish city when its club wins a tournament – namely the Copa Del Rey. What struck me whilst reading his post is the sense of jubilation at winning the cup. The celebrations and pride for winning such a cup - it seems – is unrivalled by anything that has been (and will be) seen here (keep in mind this isn’t about the club winning the League or being crowned the best in Europe). What are your thoughts?

Literally translated as “Cup of the King”. Is it an old cup from the palace kitchen? No, probably not. Obviously I don’t know what the back-story is behind the cup, however I am sure that it is boring and that you probably don’t want to know.

This year’s final was Barcelona vs. Athletic Bilbao at the Mestalla. Athletic Bilbao opened the scoring, but Barcelona replied in typical fashion with four goals. It was to be the twenty fifth time that the Catalan team would lift the cup, a record no doubt.

I won’t lie I didn’t watch the match, per se. But I was in Barcelona city centre during the match and it’s not like I needed to be in front of a TV to know what was going on. I was sat in Plaza Reial, drinking with a pretty Italian girl. Trying to figure out if I liked her or not, as well as figuring out what she was saying in general, what was plainly clear was that she didn’t fancy me and that my Spanish was terrible. As Bilbao opened the scoring, you could hear the whole city rumble with anxiety. When Barcelona equalised, and with every goal that followed, the city erupted in volcanic fashion, with cheers, not lava. Every time a goal was scored I would run to the pub window, peering in and trying to figure out what was going on. Had there been only one goal, this would have been fine, there were five. If there had been the smallest of chances that the girl I was with did actually fancy me, that chance quickly disappeared with me running back and fourth between her and a pub window like a madman.

When the match finished it was a different story. People poured from every door of every bar, on every corner of every road. I don’t think anyone was inside a building that night, the city of Barcelona took to the streets, We were quickly swept up in to this flooding river of blue and maroon. For a while I felt more like I was part of some kind of political revolution than the celebration of a football match, which might have been due to the abundance of flairs and French bangers exploding around me or the hoards of shield carrying policeman, both were equally intimidating.

After marching the streets for a considerable amount of time and spilling a considerable amount of Sangria across my new white t-shirt, I might have looked like a vampire that ate its dinner off its own chest, but we reached our destination: Plaza Catalunya. The city had organised a massive screen in the middle of the square to playback the highlights and some terrible Spanish singer was there to perform some terrible Spanish songs. We chanted. I don’t know what we said, but I am fairly sure it wasn’t family friendly. I saw children who should have been in bed, old people that should have been in bed… you get the picture, everybody was out and celebrating. It was a fine time.

On the streets, people were waving Barcelona flags from the back of their Vespa’s and every car seemed to be a convertible with a four-man rave inside. Walking home we saw a bin on fire, but bar that, I saw no signs of anything mischievous going on all night. I can only imagine how the celebrations were when they won the League and the Champions League… Stupidly, I managed to be out of town for those celebrations. Schoolboy error Charlie, schoolboy error.

For the next few months, we’ve invited a guest blogger to contribute to this blog. Chris Hunt is a journalist who used to write for Four Four Two, The Times, Ice, Uncut and The Sportsman and has also written a number of books on football including World Cup Stories and The Complete Book of Football.  He is also a big England fan going to all games, home and away.  This is his first post, documenting his journey to Seville for  the Spain vs England friendly on 11th Feb 2009.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON
On arriving in Seville, I have just enough time to check into my hotel before deciding on a whim to make the two-hour drive south to Malaga for tonight’s Under 21 game against a fairly full-strength Ecuador first-team. Killing time before the game in Malaga’s old town I chat football with a couple of Manchester United fans in a café. They’ve been passionately debating tonight’s game, but it turns out they are in the country just to watch the Under 21s and aren’t travelling on to Seville for the big match tomorrow. “I’ve got a special interest in the game tonight,” says one. His special interest turns out to be his son, Tom Heaton, the Manchester United youngster on loan at Cardiff and the starting keeper tonight. We talk about the game and the long road ahead for a quality player like Tom if he’s going to stake a claim one day for a full England cap. And then the supportive dad heads off to the ground. “We want to get in to see the warm-up,” he says, keen to get to the stadium.

TUESDAY EVENING
At the 35,000-capacity Estadio la Rosaleda, the attendance is pretty poor given both the number of ex-pats living in the area and the smattering of young stars on display, but as I watch Tom Heaton make a couple of fine first-half saves on the pitch, I find myself sitting next to another proud dad and his seven-year-old lad, Spurs fan Josh. The pair live in Malaga and apparently Josh, who is sporting his red England shirt for the occasion, is a pretty good footballer himself, playing for a local club coached by former Bristol City pro Brian Tinnion.
Despite his age and location, Josh knows the stars of the Premiership inside out and has quite an impressive knowledge of the Under 21s on show tonight. I wonder if we’ll be seeing him wearing an England shirt for real in a few years’ time, but before I can ask him if he wants to play for his country, he’s on his feet celebrating as Frazier Campbell knocks in England’s second goal. “Come on you Spurs,” he shouts. Even an impressive second-half turnaround by Ecuador doesn’t dampen his spirits and he leaves the ground happy. I wonder if the same can be said for Tom Heaton and his father. Even for the most impartial of football parents, it can’t be easy to see your son concede three well-taken goals in quick succession.

WEDNESDAY MORNING
Arriving in the centre of Seville at 11am, it’s apparent that the slow trickle of England fans has already started. Over the years if you travel regularly to away game the faces start to look familiar and odds are that you’ll chance upon someone you’ve met before. Soon I bump into Tom from Sunderland, who I first met in a bar before the game in Chicago in 2005. Like many fans here today, Tom is turning the trip into a short holiday, staying for a few days to escape the snow at home. He points me in the direction of where the fans are gathering and I find myself passing through the Plaza Nueva, where a gigantic flag of St George already dominates the square.
Following the sound of distant football songs, a quick stroll along the Avenida de la Constitución takes me to Flaherty’s, an Irish pub situated in Calle Alemanes. A small side street facing the back of Seville’s famous gothic cathedral, it seems to have become the main point of interest for the day’s travelling fans. Flags are draped outside the bar and the buoyant crowd spill out onto the road, singing and chanting for the watching television crew.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
England fans have been steadily streaming into the city all afternoon and even in a place the size of Seville it’s hard not to be overwhelmed by their dominant presence. Quite simply, there are England shirts everywhere. A group of Canadian tourists enquire what all the noise is about and although they know very little about ‘soccer’, they are suitably impressed that David Beckham is in town.
The fans too are discussing ‘Becks’ and his scheduled record-equalling appearance tonight. Although the majority of the travelling fans love Beckham for the passion he has brought to playing for the team over the years, by equalling Bobby Moore’s outfield record of 108 caps he has kicked-off a cafe debate about the relative merits of the two former England captains, one a World Cup winner and one not.

WEDNESDAY EVENING
The ground is a 15-minute walk from the city centre, easily manageable by most fans, except for the pair who decide to flag down a passing horse-and-carriage and haggle a good price for a ride to the ground. Most, however, arrive at Estadio Ramon Sanchez Pizjuan by foot and by the time I’ve found a seat, the place is full of noise and colour and the match is about to kick-off.
Having come with such high expectations, the game proves a disappointing anti-climax as Villa’s 36th minute goal silences the travelling England fans. Even the introduction of David Beckham after the break fails to lift spirits, and when Llorente scores Spain’s second with just eight minutes remaining, it signals the end of the game for many, who pour out of the ground heading either for their flights home or for the start of the rest of their winter holiday in the sun. By the time England line-up against Slovakia at Wembley next month, wearing a brand new England shirt and looking forward to the World Cup qualifying matches ahead, this game will be a distant memory.