Towards the end of the game, Bob turned to me and asked how much longer there was to go. I remember saying that there were three minutes left. And I am not a religious person at all, but at that point I looked up to the stars and said, to whoever might have been listening, “I won’t ask for anything ever again, just please let us score.” And it was incredible: no sooner had I said that than we won a corner – and the rest, as they say, is history. When the second goal went in and pandemonium ensued, all I kept saying is, “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it.” In fact, a lot of people didn’t celebrate for just that reason. It was too much.

That said, what happened to Bob was just bizarre. Even though we’d consciously only had four beers all day – we wanted to be able to remember everything – he projectile vomited. Everywhere. Just the most ridiculous two minutes of football in my whole life.

We were still in the stadium two-and-a-half hours after the final whistle; nobody wanted to go. We spent the whole of that night, and the next day, on Las Ramblas. We even missed two flights home – and ended up, somehow, flying back from Zaragoza.