Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable.
Christopher Howse: A Pilgrim in Spain
Spain - There were so many Scouse voices around me in central Madrid yesterday, if I'd closed my eyes, I could have believed I was back in Liverpool. But for the 30 degree heat, of course.
- When I walked through Sol and Plaza de Mayor at 9.15 and 9.30, they were pretty quiet. When I walked back through them at 5. they decidedly weren't.
- In Plaza de Mayor, an irate Spaniard accosted me to ask if I understood what the commentators were saying at the temporary 5-a-side football pitch set up there. I said I didn't as it was Italian. No!, he cried, It's effing Ukrainian and they shouldn't be doing that as we're in Spain. A Vox supporter, I guess.
- My visiting friends needed to get a cab back to their hotel in Alcalá de Henares and made a reservation on Uber. I know for a fact that we entered the name of the town but the prices seemed quite low. So, I wasn't surprised to hear that the driver thought they were going to Calle Alcalá de Henares. We had to enter the area code to get the right response. Something to bear in mind when using the app and clicking on the options thrown up.
- Walking down the stairs in my daughter's Malasaña building this morning, I noticed a mat outside one door with the legend Hello on it. And it struck me that most Spaniards would pronounce this either Éyo or Khéyo. Possibly.
- At midnight on a Saturday, there's nowhere noisier than Plaza Dos del Mayo in Madrid.
- At noon on Sunday, there's nowhere quieter than Plaza Dos del Mayo in Madrid.
- With their terrific arrangements and facilities around Madrid, the organisers again proved the validity of my argument that the Spanish are never so efficient - and good at planning - as when the objective is fun. And fun-related profit.
- And it's again hats-off time to those responsible for cleaning the streets after the previous night's bacchanalia. By 8am. you'd never know they'd taken place.
- This grotesque Tory leadership race is only feeding the contenders’ egos . . . It’s a bad sign when too many people are fighting to be leader of a political party. That might seem counter-intuitive: after all, if the job is so sought after, it must be worth having. Ergo, the party in question must be thought to be in robust health. In fact, the absurd, ever-expanding number of candidates for the Tory leadership is a sign of a party in utter, undisciplined chaos with no sense of orderly accession or agreement on a coherent message. The lack of humility and decorum has gone beyond embarrassing to comic.
- Brexit has left Jeremy Corbyn a politician out of time. The Labour leader cannot understand that the main divide in British society is now cultural identity rather than class. The 2016 referendum was the most significant political event in half a century, not just for Brexit but for its effect on political identity. Being defined by Remain and Leave is exactly what has happened. Party affiliations have weakened quickly; more people have a strong allegiance to their vote in 2016 than to a party. The British are following a path that has been charted in most European nations and the US; we are voting much more with our cultural tribes and less with our economic interests.
- Richard North this morning talks of: An infectious madness that drives out the last vestiges of sense. And insists: If ever there was time for cool debate on the implications of a no-deal scenario, it is now. But, in this febrile political climate, that seems to be the last thing we will get.
- Home tech – such as smart doorbells and TVs – is increasingly being used as a form of control by abusive partners. Framed as tools of convenience, this technology allows perpetrators to weaponise a physical environment, even from a distance. . . . So how worried should we be? Good question.
- One view of Fart's comments on Brexit: Where to start with this isn't easy. The temptation to dismiss it as in dribble of a cretin is very strong. So much of what he says is so self-evidently mad that State Department officials must be cringing and our own people must be tearing their hair out. What Brussels will make of it is probably unprintable. I don't suppose Fart will worry a jot about views such as this. He knows he's the biggest genius the world has ever seen.
- I took my 4 month old grandson to watch his first football match last night, albeit on a small screen in a (quietish) bar and not at the ground or even on a large screen in a Madrid plaza.
As an Evertonian, it saddens me that he's quite possibly a Liverpool FC supporter now.
- Not a great match but I don't suppose the hoards dressed in red in Madrid will mind a bit about that.
- Here's a nice article on Klopp's success:
As anyone with knowledge of maritime history will tell you, the greatest journeys start and end in Liverpool.
Liverpool’s open top bus will complete its parade through the city towards the docks this evening, manoeuvring through several detours before settling on the stunning heritage site.
When he absorbs the splendour of the views underneath Liverpool’s Three Graces, offering up a fourth in the form of the European Cup, Jurgen Klopp will cherish the symbolism. He has wanted to complete this tour before – on three occasions during his four year reign – only to have it delayed with the itinerary already published.
Klopp did not arrive in Liverpool expecting immediate success, even though it only narrowly evaded him. He did so with an appetite to navigate this longer, ultimately more satisfying course. He did not choreograph the pain en route but this morning all those delays will feel as though they were part of a grander plan to make the moment of arrival more wonderful, more meaningful.
It is hard to imagine Jordan Henderson’s release of emotion in his father’s arms if he already possessed three winners medals, or Virgil van Dijk finally losing composure had he not suffered so much in Kiev last year.
James Milner’s tears against Barcelona in the semi-final were similarly uncharacteristic, reflective of the agonies Liverpool had had to suffer to reach their ultimate destination.
Milner's tears against Barcelona show how emotional the journey has been Credit: Getty Images
They could not lose last night. This had to be their time. Morale could not sustain a third consecutive defeat on this stage, particularly after a mentally and physically sapping league campaign.
For all Klopp’s excellence since 2015, he has sustained one great lie – that the narrow losses did not bother him so much as they were representative of the next step.
It was, to borrow one of his favourite words, bullshit. The body language of the players who have been with him since the start betrayed that more than his words about family and friends having to endure his annual final defeats.
Sceptics wondered how he could keep getting away with it, maintaining the façade all was well being Europe’s great entertainer without any tangible reward. A year ago there were suggestions it was all just smoke and mirrors, an elaborate PR stunt to create a dynamic side with an allergy to silver; bridesmaids too often; perennial losers; the Jimmy White of European football.
What those snipes failed to acknowledge, often willingly in a football environment where rivals coax sympathetic observers to marvel at the misfortune of their competitors, was Klopp’s transformative Anfield impact. They were losing, but even getting to those previous finals was above and beyond expectation and he was not working to any pressurised timeline.
Those around the club never believed those parties were permanently postponed. Just delayed.
There is some irony in the fact Liverpool’s greatest night of the Klopp era was, performance-wise, one of their most underwhelming.
Spanish TV previewed the game with the image of Philip II’s armada making a return trip draped in Liverpool red.
The erratic performance hardly lived up to that and until Divock Origi continued his one-man mission to have a statue clause in his next contract there remained the possibility this final would need to provoke the same selective amnesia as Athens, Basel and Kiev.
But Champions League victories are never about one game. Liverpool have played far better this season and lost, most notably in Paris, Manchester and Barcelona. When you get the trophy, how you did it is the number one irrelevant question.
Only in the final five minutes did the reality dawn as those Liverpool fans inside the Estadio Metropolitano matched the vibrancy and confidence of those on the streets of Madrid in the proceeding 48 hours.
“There are places I remember all my life,” read one of the flags in the Liverpool end.
They were talking about Rome, Wembley, Paris and Istanbul, scenes of the greatest conquests.
Now they will add Madrid. There will always be Madrid.
Today those supporters once more trace the steps of their players, heading home in their thousands armed with their new chant about ‘number six’.
The greatest journeys start and end in Liverpool.
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