A Postcard From Madrid: Storming The Royal Ramparts

Into the lion’s den we loped; City, the archetypal scruffy nouveaux riche Mancs walking unmentionable materials into the burgundy carpets of the House of the Royal Family of Spain, the aristocracy of UEFA, the charming white-clad heroes of Spanish, of world football. The team of Alfredo di Stefano and Santiago Bernabeu himself, of Butrageuno the vulture and the carrion-pickers Camacho and Sanchis, of fatty Puskas, of cavorting Hugo Sanchez and the goal machine Raul, of Valdano and Steve “noooo” McManaman. We limped, we slumped, we leant, but we did not bow. City, playing the downtrodden outcast once again, bestrode this palatial stage with such authority, the white scarves were soon hanging limp, the home eyes moist with frustration and stinging disbelief.

This is a role well suited after all: doing scruffy downbeats is much easier than lording it with the toffs, even if you have your own football royalty on and off the pitch these days. The morning’s copy of As had a new role for the visitors, placing City as “the most expensive side in the world”, as if Real’s desperate rags were held together by glue and sticking plasters, Zidane salary was counted out in Asturian carrots and Sergio Ramos’s fines were paid by the council. Guardiola too, the king of managers, in the home of Castillian chest-puffing. The bestubbled Catalan arriviste pointing and genuflecting in the House of God. The so-called Besta Negra of all those Barcelona victories over these self-styled monarchs. It was all set and we were all set.

A day sunny and sharp, spent cruising the pristine concrete aisles of this great city, bouncing off the red brick walls of the giant Plaza Mayor and shooting the breeze amongst the fragrant tapas of the ornate Mercado de San Miguel, was turning to night and attention was turning to the tricky task of getting past the visors and batons of a considerable police presence outside the away end at the Bernabeu. The stadium rears up at you from the great car-infested sweep of the Paseo de la Castellano, a monument to grand times. Madrid itself is built on the concept of shock and awe. Everything is huge, noisy and ferociously busy. Real are the bumptious aristocrats, the land owners, the bull fighters, the silhouetted sherry drinker on the hillside. This is what we were up against.

“Should be here earlier,” snapped the nearest Robocop when the moaning began. This was City’s (and my own) third visit, so no surprise that the police are over-officious. Being funneled through small gaps from a large and boisterous crowd of away fans was nothing new of course. That the imperial police do not fully grasp the idea of warm weather drinking in preparation for the Big Night Out should cease to be a surprise. Arriving early in a staged walking phalanx like the Germans and others favour is not the chosen flavour of things with City fans. You drink and you chat and then you do it some more, leaving no room for wrong turns on the metro to the ground, no time for choreographed drum-beating and posturing, none of the “furia” Marca had been demanding from the home fans to welcome the team coach (please, no). City’s posture would be defiance, broad-shouldered defiance, to juxtaposition nicely with our own slump-shouldered optimism. 3-1 I thought to myself merrily, the effects of the Tempranillo setting in. “Easy”.

No heads cracked this time in our vicinity and we were past the line of black and facing the big climb to our places on the 4^th and 5^th tiers. The Bernabeu, like the Nou Camp, is a thing of solid beauty when framed by the lights and projected across the world on tv screens, but has its shabby corners behind the scenes. The crabby stairwells and the peeling paint, the rusty railings and the facility-lite concourses are all far from the glare of the tv arc lights and the banks of gleaming tapas in the VIP suites. The usual view through a mesh of netting dropped from the roof edge met us at the top. It is another sign of how Real and others treat their visitors and expect them to behave. City’s ranks were certainly in no mood for polite respect, a rasping chant ripping into the night sky as the teams came out, the usual wall of boos and whistles for Zadok the poor hounded High Priest of UEFA.

City were quickly into their stride. Jesus, nominally alone upfront, playing here there and everywhere, De Bruyne probing and Mendy seeing plenty of action down the left. Ten, twenty, then thirty minutes of controlled possession, a Jesus right foot chance parried away by Courtois and next to nothing from the Madrilenos. De Bruyne skied another half chance and the wholly inactive Ederson pulled off his one save of the match, an elastic stretch to Karim Benzema’s sole offering, a towering downward header beating the suddenly struggling Laporte. Vinicius Junior’s wobbly attempt to follow up produced only an air kick and half time was upon us with everything coasting along nicely. Guardiola, the arch enemy of Real, had asked Jesus to be extremely mobile and for Rodrigo and Gundogan to shuttle with care in midfield as City’s flying Belgian roamed with more freedom to higher parts of the pitch. Had he been “overthinking” again? What is it with the Catalan maestro, always thinking about football too much? My lovely wife, sadly absent on this occasion, always says the same about me, but at least Guardiola has an excuse that he’s being rewarded to fret over Ilkay Gundogan’s pirouettes and Otamendi’s famous horizontal defending.

Thinks…What would you do with Europe’s second best attack at your disposal in the ground of Europe’s joint best defence? The Catalan had decided controlled attacking was best, high on bravery but low on risky holes in a defence that has had its slipshod moments this season.

The segundo ayuda of Meringues against Chips and Gravy steamed and bubbled. More control from City, two rasping shots from Mahrez inside a minute suggested an incoming breakthrough, but when it came, it arrived against the flow and for the home side. How many times have we seen this, but tonight City were not for turning. Back they came, raging on and off the pitch with indignant fury. Jesus, having a fabulous game, headed down beyond Courtois for a hysterically received equalizer. One-one in the Bernabeu! But City were not finished with us yet. Everything was about to fall into place. In Daniele Rosato, we finally had a referee, who did not appear at all fussed by the white robes of the emperors. Boldly he pointed to the spot, as the fresh legs of Sterling took him into and beyond Carvajal’s clumsy challenge. The right back, run ragged by Jesus all night, had nothing but a late tackle to offer.

The wait seemed eternal as De Bruyne stepped forward to try to improve City’s execrable penalty conversion rate. In it went, low to the keeper’s right. Something magical was happening, the rubbing of those royal noses into the manicured turf. Better still and almost like a third goal, the serial cynic Ramos was red-carded as Jesus again turned the defence for speed and the evening was complete, a full and rousing night of V signs and expletives, of shouting and screaming. The scruffy undesirables had sacked the fortress. UEFA’s pet legal project had ejected the princes from their own glistening tower. Sixteen shots had rained down on Courtois’s goal. This was no smash and grab while the guards were asleep. City had slept in the king’s bed and left the soiled silk sheets on the bathroom floor.

The wait to be let out went on and on. An eerie Bernabeu ringing to City’s songs of defiance. It mattered little. We had seen enough. We had drunk enough. The kings had been disrobed, garment by garment. The fragile meringues doused in thick, strong-smelling northern gravy. Guardiola had thought, thought again. He had out-thought Zidane and City had outplayed Real, making them look average in the process. As the Mancunian scruffs prepare for ejection, they will take one or two well-dressed aristocrats with them as they go kicking and screaming to the gate marked “exit”.

There will be days in court to come and, at this rate, there may also be days in the May sunshine somewhere far east of here, where the delicious irony of those about-to-be-dispelled ne’er-do-goods stealing UEFA’s Big Silver Jar just refuses to go away.