I bet you've had a splendid evening. Probably started in earnest this morning, when you slipped on a cheeky Barca shirt under your normal work shirt, just as a prelude, just to get you excited about the main event. Which one will you go with? The Messi one? Too obvious. The Busquets one? Too random. How about the Pedro one? Yeah, great shout, I'll wear the Pedro one. Kiss the badge. Off you go.All day long you checked the team news and ruminated on how your idols would line up. You could barely concentrate on filing your papers properly. As the sun shone through the window, you caught a glimpse of the club crest through your white shirt. It gave you goosepimples. The hours ticked away and finally, your time had come. YOUR ZONE. Where you are king and nothing else matters.Nothing but Barca. YOUR CLUB. Mes Que Un Club. 46" Plasma screen, bought with the money Nan gave you for Christmas, Sky sports, HD package naturally, Barca shirt (changed to Alves) on, chilled bottle of Alhambra beer in one hand, remote in the other. The game kicks off. You sit back and watch the magic happen, it unfurls like poetry and you are in raptures. The goals pour in and you celebrate each one like it was the birth of your first child. No one knows what this means to you, no one could possibly begin to understand, that's why the friends don't come round anymore. But you don't need those friends, when you feel as close to the likes as Xavi, Iniesta, Villa and Messi as you clearly do, what is the point in casual 'banter' with Kev and Stuart? Its just meaningless semantics, what was the last thing they ever won? When did they last collect a Ballon D'or? The game ended hours ago, but you are still buzzing. You run through each goal in your head as you drift off to sleep, imagining you got the finishing touch on the fourth and made a cheeky dinked assist for the fifth. As you got subbed off in the 89th minute, The Camp Nou gives you a rapturous standing ovation. Puyol gives you the thumbs up and Pep is waiting pitchside with a fatherly embrace, as you walk away, he gives your bum a little pat. What a cheeky scamp! You drift, deeper, deeper, asleep. The kind of satisfied sleep that only an English Barcelona fan can truly understand. Sweet dreams.