Days of whine and roses

THE lights were low, those sultry keyboard chords from ‘Je T’Aime’ were swirling around and I’m sure I heard Barry White’s deep, throaty growl purring in the background, as Giles, Souness and Dunphy slipped into something comfortable and whispered sweet somethings about the art of seduction in the RTÉ studios on Tuesday night.

At issue was the imminent meeting of Barcelona and Chelsea in the first leg of the Champions League semi-final at the Nou Camp (or if you prefer the Camp Nou, so good, they named it twice, differently).

And, no prizes for guessing that it was the prospect of getting up close and personal with the Catalans, not the Londoners, which had these veterans coming on like love-struck teenagers.

Well, kind of.

Gilesy always betrays a few commitment issues when it comes to pledging his troth wholeheartedly to the concept of romance in football – or, as he put it, inimitably: “Beautiful is nice, Bill” – but the Dunph more than compensated with a lyrical paean to the inspirational virtues of the beautiful game.

And then there was Souey.

If you didn’t know better, you’d take in Souey’s lovely tan, be aurally massaged by his soft Scottish burr and conclude that here is a man who would give Mr Bond himself a run for his money in the wine and roses stakes. But if you did happen to know better you’d remember, perhaps with a bit of a wince, what the same Souey could be like on the football pitch when his dander was up and, consequently, you wouldn’t have been at all surprised when he narrowed his eyes on Tuesday night and, with just the merest hint of menace, assured Bill that Chelsea “would do a number” on Barcelona.

And, not for the first time, Souey was on the money, the beast thwarting beauty in a game which was, ultimately, much ado about nothing-nothing.

Even Gilesy seemed just a touch disenchanted that Barca hadn’t lived up to billing but his disappointment was as nothing compared to the shock and horror displayed afterwards by the Catalans themselves.

Defender Gerard Pique was especially, well, piqued. “Barcelona were the only team who wanted to play,” he moaned, “and yet the reward is for Chelsea, even though it seems like they came for a draw. At least we know we’re superior because we showed that on the pitch.”

Xavi, meanwhile, accused the opposition of being simply beastly.

“One team wanted to play and the other one didn’t, it’s a shame,” he whinged. “There’s all this talk about fair play, but I haven’t seen any from them tonight.”

And Yaya Toure thought the ref wore yellow on the night too.

“It was worse than deplorable,” he said, presumably whilst stamping his little feet, “it looked as if he had come to help Chelsea. Players like Ballack and Mikel made so many fouls, it’s unbelievable they weren’t booked.” To all of which one can only respond by pointing out that you might as well complain about rain being wet.

Against the competition’s hot favourites and the team reckoned to pose the most potent attacking threat in world football, Chelsea’s pre-eminent objective in the Nou Camp was to keep the tie alive – and if, on top of a commendably disciplined defensive performance, virtually any semblance of adventure was what they felt they had to sacrifice in order to achieve that goal, then that was Barca’s problem to solve, not Chelsea’s.

Look, I’m actually with the Dunph on this. He’s absolutely right when he says that the beautiful game is what inspires kids to fall in love with football.

Like countless others, I know this from my own experience, having been lucky enough to have just about reached the age of reason in time to be thoroughly spell-bound by the magic of Brazil in the 1970 World Cup.

Now, had I been at a similarly impressionable age when, say, Greece were grinding their way to victory in Europe in 2004, the potential consequences are almost too terrible to contemplate. I might even have gotten into gaelic football.

But none of that detracts from the essential truth that the divine right of even the kings of football has to be earned. Celtic had to break the back of cattenacio to beat Inter Milan and lift the European Cup in 1967. Pele and company had to overcome the international masters of that black art to conquer the world four years later. George Best had to survive against Ron Harris and Norman Hunter to be, well, George Best.

Echoing Souey, Roy Keane was also on the money the other day in Dublin when he said: “Being easy on the eye is nice but you must have... an edge.”

To their credit, Barcelona tried to play their familiar stylish game on Tuesday but it was the conspicuous lack of a cutting edge on their part, rather than the oppositions’s dogged exercise in damage limitation, which ultimately told the tale on the night. For the romantics in all of us it is to be dearly hoped that Pep Guardiola’s boys take it to the Bridge in the desired manner next week.

And with Chelsea having to come out of their shell at home, we can also expect Guus Hiddink’s team to remind us that they can play a bit too.

But if Barca don’t show winning evidence that there’s actually more to the art of seduction than teasing foreplay, then we could be in for days and days of more whine than roses.