At around 10pm the air was filled with a familiar sound. Some of the residents of my block had slid open their doors and stepped out onto their balconies. They were ready to protest.
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A man sat near me has seen enough. He shakes hands with those around him and makes his way up the stairs to my left. He's about to miss one of the craziest last 10 minutes in the history of sport.
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Toward the end of the Celta game, banners started appearing behind the goal where the ultras sit. Each carried a different slogan, but the overall message and accompanying hashtag was the same. #JoHiCrec. I believe.
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If you take the C-16 road north from Barcelona towards the Pyrenees, you'll eventually hit the French border. And then, a few minutes over the border into France, is Spain. Again. Welcome to Llivia.
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El Clásico. The biggest show on earth. If you like football. Or perhaps even if you don't. Because El Clásico really is a show. There's more going on than just the football.
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In the exam hall before the papers were handed out, all I could hear was the beat at the start of the song. Dum dum, dum dum, dum dum...
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Andorra feels like a refuge from nature. Even though it's full of mountainous beauty and nature is all around you, it seems to be in the background. Secondary.
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You know it's a bank holiday in Spain when you step out of your flat and into the beginning of a zombie film. There are no cars on the streets. Shops have the shutters down. Where is everybody?
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When I lived in London, I often felt like a tourist in my own city. A particularly bad day at work could be salvaged if, when walking home, I looked up and caught sight of St Paul's Cathedral in just the right kind of light.
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