The greatest job in the world

SO THERE I was earlier this week, waiting on the platform for the Dart out to the Ireland team camp in Malahide, when the Howth train pulled in. While everyone else was boarding, I continued to read my paper until an unfamiliar voice suddenly hailed me. It was the driver, leaning out his window.

“You’re not getting on?”

“No, thanks. Waiting for the next one.”

“I suppose you’ll be off to Andorra this week.”

“Yes, I will, as it happens.”

“Yeah, thought so. That’s a great job you have, all the same.”

“So everyone tells me. I’ve given up trying to convince anyone there’s any work involved in it at all.”

“Sure, amn’t I in the same boat myself. Good luck!”.

And with that, his head disappeared back inside and the train chugged out of the station.

Leaving me to think that he was right, of course. Every little boy and probably a few little girls too would love to drive a train when they grow up. And try convincing them that’s it’s mainly a job of work.

Later in the week, I found myself briefly in Barcelona, en route to Andorra, staying in a hotel just a couple of hundred yards away from the Nou Camp. And, yes, as I sipped café con leche in the morning sun, in sight of perhaps the most celebrated of all the great football addresses, I had to concede this old job of mine does indeed have its perks from time to time.

The dreamy setting also set me to pondering the subject of who might have the greatest job of all. And there can surely be only one answer: the extraordinary little genius who calls that magnificent place home — Lionel Messi.

Think about it: he’s the greatest footballer in the world, playing for the greatest team in the world, and living in one of the greatest cities in the world. He is idolised by his fans and revered by the players and supporters of teams he has, on occasion, almost single-handedly destroyed. He is also, as far as we know, a level-headed young chap who takes pride in the work. All this, and he gets paid a king’s ransom for doing something which, 99% of the time, leaves him grinning like a kid who has been told he can sit up front with the train driver.

Is there any other position on the planet – be it the job of a president, pop star or screen idol – which comes even close? I don’t think so.

A window of a couple of hours before we hit the road for Andorra coupled with the close proximity of the Nou Camp, meant a colleague and I availed of the chance to wander down the road and visit the club museum. Or, rather, to sample what is officially called the ‘Camp Nou Experience’ (yes, that’s right: Barca’s home is so good they named it both ways).

Of course, the real Camp Nou experience happens on match day. This version is a commercial enterprise, from the moment you invest €22 on the way in, to the one-way exit which thoughtfully channels you through the Megastore on the way out. But, as with all things Barca – whose motto, famously, is ‘More than a club’ – it’s more than a tourist-trap too.

In truth, it’s a model for how these things should be done. From the fascinating display of worn, faded and black and white relics of yesteryear to the almost ridiculous array of glittering prizes which is brought bang up to date by the 2011 Champions’ League trophy.

Here the 112-year history of a club which endured through desperately challenging times to go on and conquer the world is thrillingly encapsulated without ever losing sight of its founding mandate as a passionate badge of identity for Catalonia.

A friend had tipped me off about one of the many archive clips you can call up via touch-screen technology. On the face of it, and given the intoxicating range of options available, it didn’t appear one of the most enthralling: Victor Munez slotting home the penalty which qualified Barca for the European Cup final in 1986. But it’s the joy unconfined of a young ball-boy which makes it special, as he breaks all the rules to run on to the pitch and join in with the celebrating players, a huge smile splashed across his face. The kid’s name? Josep Guardiola.

It’s a reminder that they breed ‘em young in Barcelona, as is the oddly touching sight across the road from the stadium of La Masia, a beautiful 18th century converted farmhouse set in a small pastoral oasis amidst the concrete and steel of the modern city.

Closed only last summer in what was described as an emotional ceremony, this used to be the living quarters and home from home for Lionel Messi and all the other talented kids from out of town who came to Barca in the hope of making it as professional footballers.

The name was also extended to the club’s youth academy and has become a byword for the enlightened and envied system which has given the world not only Messi but also Xavi, Iniesta and Fabregas.

Back in the holy ground itself, the ‘Camp Nou Experience’ concludes by taking you from the dressing rooms along the tunnel – the walls lined with pictures of all the legends who’ve played in the claret and blue — and up the couple of steps to pitchside, your walk in the footsteps of Messi accompanied by a soundtrack of full-throated crowd noise and the club’s rousing anthem, the ‘Cant del Barca’.

All very corny, of course, but just about as close as any of us will ever come to having the greatest job in the world.

Any vacancies in Iarnród Éireann, I wonder?