Arsenal have always been ahead of the game. They lead the way. So as the rest of us are pondering whether to leave Europe or not, Arsenal last night pretty much guaranteed their own personal exit from anything Euro-esque.

Or, rather, Barcelona guaranteed it for them.

And I am biased, I warn you now. Not because I have any resentment of my north London neighbours (my shed is filled with axes, all red-and-white, and three grindstones) but because I am a proud and noble Catalan. To the very heart. Barcelona-Man; tis me.

Not because I was born there (my part of Hackney hadn’t been annexed to Spain at that time), nor spent much time there (2 trips, neither longer than 3 days) but just because in my soul, that’s where I am. Its not just the flamenco suit I bought there (pink and flouncy, size: ‘Girl, age 8-12’) nor the fact that I can’t speak the language at all. No, its in my blood. The football. Barcelona style. And style is what they have.

Going right back to when Johann Cruyff played there. Gary Linneker. Neeskins, Ronaldo (the ‘proper’ one, the fat one), Luis Figo, Maradona. They all graced the Nou Camp. Along with supporting casts so prodigious, so skilful, so wonderful that at all times they have been ‘the team to watch’.

I didn’t watch it last night.

Firstly it was on BT Sport and I don’t subscribe ‘on principle’. Though I’m not precisely sure which principle I’m referring to there. But more importantly, it was bridge night. And bridge is sacred. Hmmmmm. Lionel Messi… 6 spades, vulnerable… hmmmmm.

So I combine the two and play bridge like Lionel Messi. Or like he would. With style, grace, panache, unbelievable skill, close ball control (???) and a smile.

Yet I realised last night that in a partnership game, I am a fucking awful partner. I’m horrible. Which is why I don’t partner my wife but instead my (lucky, lucky) sister-in-law. To protect marriages. So when we first started learning, we split into non-divorcable teams and we’ve stayed that way.

And partners are odd and fickle beings who do unpredictable things. The rules of bridge dictate that you never scream or shout at ‘partner’, nor physically abuse them in any significant way (a ‘stare’ is not physical abuse, I checked with my lawyer). But I do. I can’t help it. “WHY DIDN’T YOU PLAY THE FUCKING ACE?????” I gently enquire during the inevitable post-mortem of one hand. “JESUS; DIDN’T YOU SEE HE WAS VOID IN CLUBS?????” And that was whilst we were winning.

So I apologise to my partner. It’ll never happen again. Unless you lead away from an ace, play ‘third hand not-very-high’ or forget the suit I lead.

I wouldn’t shout at Lionel Messi.

Happy Wednesday.

A xxxx

The picture is the athlete and Arsenal fan, Kelly Southerton’s tv. With the remote buried in the screen, thrown by her when Flamini gave away the penalty last night. She should learn bridge to calm her down.