Barcelona and "The Hand of God"

Barcelona is a fabulous city, but prone to vice. A steady procession of excellent bars, restaurants, nightclubs, after-clubs and after-after-clubs tends to reduce one's hotel room to little more than a luggage-store and bathroom. Yet to reach many of these venues one has to brave back-streets cluttered with pleading prostitutes, and pick-pockets of the most amazing skill (the pick-pockets, I mean, not the prostitutes - I am unaware of whether or not the prostitutes possess any skill that one might qualify as amazing, or indeed any skill at all).

In the early hours of Saturday morning, one particular denizen offered to demonstrate for me the footballing prowess of Diego Maradona, which involved using his knee to juggle the wallet out of my front jeans pocket into his waiting hand. Fortuitously, one of my quicker-thinking drinking companions reached out to remove the wallet from 'The Hand' - a feat that perhaps Diego himself would have admired, and one that was celebrated for a good many hours afterwards.

At the suggestion of a local colleague, four of us deliberately headed into the infamous "Maradona's" turf on the way to a club in the early hours, and soon the man himself approached. My three companions dropped back and spread out to leave me one-on-one with the maestro, who hailed me by asking "You like football? You like Maradona?" over and over as he got closer. My wallet was in my right hand jeans pocket, where I'd been sure I could keep it safe. "Maradona" began hopping on his right foot as he approached, bouncing an imaginary football on the raised left knee until he was in front of me. Still bouncing, he put his right hand on my left shoulder, steadying himself and putting me back on my heels at the same time. Suddenly I sensed that his bouncing left knee had made contact with my wallet in my right pocket. I looked down just as it popped out, but being off-balance I couldn't get my hand down to stop it. I was powerless!

It was then that my colleagues pounced. One grabbed the wallet, while another shoved "Maradona" away, and there was a scuffle behind me as one of the maestro's confederates who'd crept up behind me was shunted aside by a third pal. The gang then melted away, leaving us to celebrate, all four of us bouncing along the street shouting, "You like football? You like Maradona?" over and over...

The following night on another drinking companion was pick-pocketed in a crowd, though sadly no one was 'on-hand' to save his wallet.

So, you have been warned. Leave your wallet secured in your hotel room. Some cash and a single credit card should be sufficiently concealable to see you through the night.