Bad planning meant I was not in Barcelona to watch the World Cup final. But there was a little corner of Glasgow which had been designated Spanish territory.

Coopers pub in the west end had declared itself an official venue for Spain supporters even before a ball was kicked in the tournament. It was a wise footballing and commercial  decision. The place has been heaving with your actual Spaniards and many folk who took out temporary citizenship.

The bar was festooned in red and yellow flags and sundry Iberian artefacts. Fans (the kind you use to keep cool), castanets and a cardboard cut-out guitar. There were sombreros which might have been of interest to passing Mexicans. I have never seen anyone, apart from tourists and Scottish football fans, wear one of those broad-brimmed hats with tassles.

The Coopers pot girl (that’s a technical term for the young lady collecting the empty glasses) was dressed as an extra from Carmen. Compliment this vision of Spanish beauty on her outfit and she replies: “I’m not that exotic. I’m from Edinburgh.”

A slight problem was that there was not enough room for all the Spanish who wanted to get in. In years to come in some pueblo, a child will ask: “Dad, where were you the night Spain won the World Cup?” The answer will be: “I was standing on the pavement in Great Western Road in Glasgow, peering through the window of a pub trying to get a glimpse of the action.”

I did the decent thing and left Coopers (making room for at least three thin Spanish people) and went round the corner to watch the game at home. It was no sacrifice. I had my pan con tomate, jamon Iberico, and a glass of red wine. When you’re supporting La Roja, it’s wise to have a decent rioja to hand.

You might be wondering: is this fellow actually going to mention the football?

I can tell you I nearly choked on my ham sandwich watching the sheer brutality of the Dutch. Former total footballers turned into thugs. We expected Mark van Bommel to put it about and get away with it. Nigel de Jong’s karate kick to the chest of Xabi Alonso was breathtaking, physically and metaphorically.

It would be easy to criticise English referee Howard Webb. So I will.

Van Bommel got a yellow card followed by a series of warnings for continued violent play. I am not a qualified referee sponsored by Specsavers but I am sure this is not how onfield discipline is supposed to work.

The argument is that Webb did not want to ruin the spectacle (no pun intended) by sending off a couple of players early doors. The damage to this final had already been done by the Dutch. To be fair, Webb contributed to the just outcome of the game with one of
his many mistakes. He didn’t give the Netherlands a free kick. Spain went up the park and scored.

After the game, there was a lot of “Viva Espanya” to be heard on the streets of Glasgow. I preferred to say “Visca Catalunya”. This battle of Soccer City was won on the playing fields of Barcelona. With a bit of help from Joan Capdevila who was born just up the road. There was also a major contribution from a Madrid lad, captain Iker Casillas.

I have admired Casillas since he established himself at an early age as Real Madrid’s first choice goalkeeper. Finding himself on big wages, he got himself a car as footballers do. Not a Porsche. Casillas bought his dad a new motor and took the family Volvo for himself.

Casillas had looked uncertain and vulnerable in this World Cup. But he was a hero with two vital saves from Arjen Robben. One of them with his little toe.

For years the Spanish national team suffered from a lack of spirit, often put down to regional rivalries. That is now history. Observe the emotional embrace between Carles Puyol and Casillas, the captains of Barcelona and Real Madrid. This was a team playing for each other. Playing for their own professional pride. Playing for the sheer
joy of the game.

Spain’s victory was a triumph of football over nationalism.