Untitled Document

It was a night to remember, whatever the scoreline, when Barca came to town. lee marlow just about chokes back the tears...

Seve Ballesteros, Julio Iglesias, San Miguel, Antonio Banderas, the 'brave' bull-fighting matadors and those wrinkly, black-clad old women you see outside dusty cottages en route to your Spanish seaside resorts - are you listening - on Friday night, your boys took one helluva beating.

Well, OK, not quite. It wasn't a beating as such. Not a full-on 90-minute pummelling. But, honestly, hand on heart and rose-coloured Leicester City spectacles to one side for just one moment, on Friday evening Micky Adams' bargain-basement Premiership misfits outplayed, outpassed, outran and even, yep, out-thought one of the best teams in Europe. We really were that good.

And if you weren't there and you're reading this I'll bet my new City shirt you don't believe me. That's fine. So ask someone who was there. They'll tell you the same.

In fact, in years to come, 32,086 people will sit their grandchildren on their knees and say: "Did I tell you about the time we played Barcelona at Filbert Way, played them off the park for long stretches of the game and Gerry Taggart - big, slightly sinister-looking Gerry - made Patrick Kluivert look stupid? I have? Well, let me tell you again. It went a bit like this...''

It was a ridiculously hot day. Too hot, truth be told, for physical exertion of any kind, never mind a game of football against the 16-times Spanish champions.

Even queuing up in the club shop was making most supporters sweat like a fat lass in a disco.

Outside the ground, the majority of forehead-dabbing City fans were fearing the worst.

"This is bad,'' grimaced supporter David Ward, 33. "This kind of weather will suit them down to the ground. English people can't cope with this kind of heat unless we're lying by a pool with a beer in our hand.''

As if to prove his point, a blond-haired man known to some (but not many) as the White Pele came jogging round the corner of the north stand. He looked like he was about to keel over.

"Gooooo'on Birch,'' the fans shouted. "Keep it up Birch,'' they cheered. "You can do it.''

And everyone clapped and cheered and smiled and dipped into their pockets to fill buckets with cash as that big, daft loveable old duffer called Alan Birchenall picked his knees up and carried on puffing.

Jean Bradshaw was shaking one of the buckets, filled halfway up with tenners, fivers, pound coins and shrapnel. Collected and bagged up, the donations will be sent to help City legend Keith Weller continue his long and brave battle against cancer.

At half-time, Weller's brother Phil spoke to the crowd, thanking them for their generosity, kind words and messages which had left one of the greatest players ever to wear the City shirt humbled and determined to fight on. As he spoke, the stadium fell silent.

The Nou Camp, for all its majesty, history and 120,00 capacity, has never seen sentiment like this.

"I remember Weller from the 70s,'' said bucket-shaking Jean, 61, "so I wanted to do my bit.

"Ooooh dear, look at him now,'' she added, as Birch managed another torturous lap, looking suspiciously like one of those old-timers in the new '118 directory inquiries' adverts.

"He's really sweating isn't he? How do I think we'll do tonight? Oh, we'll lose I'm sure.''

For the first five minutes, as City struggled to even touch the ball, Jean's pessimistic prophecy seemed spot on. The Barcelona team - marshalled at its kernel by the buck-toothed Brazilian midfield maestro, Ronaldhino - were taking the mickey.

Hmmm. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea for 32,086 people to gleefully shout "Who?'' when they were introduced over the PA before kick-off.

And then something strange happened. I'm not sure when, how or why it happened, but City started taking control.

Cocu was sent off for up-ending Craig Hignett and it was 10 pedigree world-beaters versus Mickey Adams' team of mongrels. Game on.

There were plenty of positive points. First, all of Micky's new signings - Scimeca, Thatcher, Gillespie, Hignett, Curtis, Sir Les Ferdinand and especially Frenchman Lilian Nalis who was knocking 40 and 50-yard balls across the park like a slim-line Garry Parker - really did look the part.

And wasn't it lovely to see old boy Henry Shipley, dressed in riding boots and jodhpurs, blasting out the Post Horn Gallop and raising both hands in the air as the crowd applauded his solo effort? Get a proper microphone, son, so we can all hear it and you can stay all season.

On the negative side, Alan Rogers' centre of gravity seems to be slipping further and further south, Frank Sinclair still over-hits every cross he sends in from the right and that new change kit is so camp it wouldn't look out of place at the Leicester Pride festival.

At the final whistle, after a rousing and deserved standing ovation, cheery steward David Wright was smiling from ear to ear. Good night, Mr Steward?

"Brilliant,'' he said. "I was on the concourse so I saw most of it. That's the best friendly we've had down here.

"I know we lost but we never looked outclassed. Those new players Micky's brought in were brilliant. All of 'em.''

Walking up Welford Road, an attractive chorus line of young female Barca fans were breaking into song, cheering "Leicester, Leicester'' to the bemusement of City supporters. "Do you think we'll get this with Wolves and Newcastle this season?'' said one fan.

Barcelona, who boast more than 1,500 supporters' clubs around the world and 108,000 members, had brought 200 fans with them to Friday night's friendly.

One strikingly attractive 20-year-old called Maria Unpronouncable-Surname-I Asked-Her-Twice-And-Still-Couldn't-Get-It was slightly underwhelmed with her Catalan heroes.

"We didn't try very hard,'' she said. "We can do better than that. But I like Ronaldhino and I had a good time.''