I was quite surprised when the Resident Adolescent agreed to accompany me to see this match in Camp Nou. It was us alone – just us – noone else to help or hinder us. It’s not like we are great friends. We’re not big enemies either but you know how it is with a 17 year old especially if they are not your own son?  The step mother/son relationship is not always easy and has a huge heavy weight of baggage attached to it. Too many unexpressed emotions and not enough shared experience to carry you over the humps. Then there is the teenage  refusal to communicate.  How on earth are you supposed to make friendly contact when you are creatures from different planets?  And we had never been out together alone before.

Well, perhaps going to see Barça play at Camp Nou might bring us together.

Amazingly, we had a great time. We travelled by train and metro and foot and stopped off for a drink and something to eat. You have to talk a little when you are sharing a patatas bravas!  We chatted.  I overcame my shyness enough to ask relevant questions about discos and DJs and exams and football and he overcame his enough to answer and even smile.
I didn’t retreat behind my Kindle and nor did he behind his mobile phone.
Success!
We had great seats, right behind the corner so we could see Messi and Xavi close up

We were surrounded by kindly good-natured Barça fans except for two feisty Glasgow wifies sitting behind us who bravely chirped “Cel-tic  Cel-tic” every time that the crowd bellowed “BARÇA BARÇA”

The only false move I made was to scream and shout when Celtic got the first goal.
‘Sorry! I know I embarrassed you. But I couldn’t help it’.  He was mortified but too polite to complain.
For a few golden minutes Celtic was in the lead at Camp Nou

Afterwards as we walked away from the stadium it was me who felt embarrassed. Somehow the loud drunken chanting and bravado of the defeated Scottish fans, although harmless, seemed immature in comparison to the quiet chat of the Barça crowd.  It’s not that they are quiet during the game – our neighbours kept up a constant steam of oathes whenever it seemed that Barça was doing badly.
I learnt some new swear words although in the main it was the usual, puta mierda, collons, Ostia, cony. But after the game – friendliness and calm.

In the bar before the match one green and white clad Glaswegian fan insisted on shaking hands with all the men at this table of Catalans. ‘Good luck to you all’ he said as he pumped each arm.

So it’s not lack of good will that makes the Scottish fans seem edgy and pugnacious but perhaps an excess of alcohol?  Or is it just a different football culture?  Or insecurity?  Or that strange inferiority complex that can afflict us?   It feels like an anger that can easily bubble to the surface – something in the tone even of the chants.  I can’t imagine ever wanting to go to a football match in the UK – the seam of aggression that lies below the surface would scare me but I don’t feel that fear at Camp Nou.  As I have said before, Scotland and Catalunya – not really that similar.