You'll Never Take The Metro Alone

So there I was, sitting innocently in the Madrid Metro, having just said goodbye to Mother and Godmother and on my way to work, when mine and my fellow-passengers' senses were roughly assaulted by what felt like half the Liverpool FC travelling support.

The lads were in high spirits ahead of the big Champions League game against Real Madrid that night, but no matter how harmless their intentions, their sheer numbers, volume and boisterousness made them an intimidating prospect. I would have almost preferred a panpipes rendition of Sounds of Silence.

After hearing, "Eh, eh, where do we get off, eh, eh?" shouted up and down the carriage a dozen or so times, I realised the best way to be rid of their overwhelming company was to ensure they didn't miss their stop, which to my relief, was coming up.

I stood up "Hey, Guys," I rasped, struggling to make my ailing vocal-chords (laryngitis - again) heard above their racket. "Get off at Tribunal and change to Line 10 for Santiago Bernebeu."

"What's that, eh, eh, what's that?" asked one. I repeated my information. By then, we were pulling into Tribunal itself. My suggestion was relayed up and down the carriage.
"We don't get out here, eh, eh!"
"She says we do!"
"Eh, eh, no we don't"
"She's told us we do, eh, eh!"

Another of the Scouse heroes turned to me, "Who d'you support, eh, eh?" he asked, a note of accusation in his voice.
"Bristol Rovers", I said. He blinked and realisation dawned.
"Hey - you're English!!"
No shit, Sherlock.

Liverpool won the tie, a goal to nil, which was good news for keeping breakages and argy-bargy to a minimum in Central Madrid. The inhabitants of the area wouldn't have had much sleep though. Madrilenos may be famous for all-night partying, but even they need a bit of shut-eye on school nights. There would have been precious little of that with Merseyside's finest in town.