God bless Twitter.
If it hadn't been for Twitter I would not have experienced two amazing football matches during the past six months: the World Cup Final in Moscow and the Copa Libertadores Final in Madrid.
A couple of years ago I put a spare Everton ticket on Twitter and the buyer was a guy called Tim; an Australian Evertonian living in London.
Since then I've helped him with tickets for various Everton games and he's helped get me in to two of the most difficult-to-get-in-to matches in world football. And I'm extremely grateful.
The 2018 Copa Libertadores Final - the showpiece game of South America's equivalent of the Champions League - was an unprecedented football occasion. The contest pitted together the arch rivals of Argentina's capital city: Boca Juniors and River Plate.
The final was a two-legged affair.
The first leg, in Boca's Bombonera stadium (which I visited during my South American jaunt in 2011), finished goalless. And on the way to the second leg, the Boca team coach was pelted with missiles and gas by River fans as it made its way into the Monumental stadium.
Boca refused to play the game, and then ensued a couple of weeks of dialogue and debate about how to settle the tie.
Eventually, Real Madrid stepped in and offered to stage the second leg at their neutral home: the Bernabeu.
Fans in Buenos Aires were understandably incensed, as were various officials in the Argentine football authorities. And the shame was on CONMEBOL - the South American football federation - who could not vouch for the safety of players and fans if the game were to take place on their continent.
So South America's loss became Europe's gain, and this mother of all derbies - and the circus that surrounded it - travelled across the Atlantic ocean to Spain.
I was an interested observer when all the above was playing out in news bulletins and newspaper columns. But my interest increased exponentially when, with four or five days to the game, I got a text out the blue from Tim: 'I've got a spare ticket for the Libertadores. Do you want it?'
Within 24 hours I had booked flights after getting the green light from my ever-understanding wife.
On the way out I chose to fly via Valencia and get a train to Madrid, mainly for financial reasons as it was cheaper that way, but also because I'd never visited Valencia.
My flight was an early one on the Saturday morning, and when I got off the metro in Valencia's city centre it was only 11am Spanish time. It felt great to be away in a new city, on a bonus adventure that I'd only booked a few days before, and with a fun 48 hours ahead of me.
If it hadn't been for Twitter I would not have experienced two amazing football matches during the past six months: the World Cup Final in Moscow and the Copa Libertadores Final in Madrid.
A couple of years ago I put a spare Everton ticket on Twitter and the buyer was a guy called Tim; an Australian Evertonian living in London.
Since then I've helped him with tickets for various Everton games and he's helped get me in to two of the most difficult-to-get-in-to matches in world football. And I'm extremely grateful.
The 2018 Copa Libertadores Final - the showpiece game of South America's equivalent of the Champions League - was an unprecedented football occasion. The contest pitted together the arch rivals of Argentina's capital city: Boca Juniors and River Plate.
The final was a two-legged affair.
The first leg, in Boca's Bombonera stadium (which I visited during my South American jaunt in 2011), finished goalless. And on the way to the second leg, the Boca team coach was pelted with missiles and gas by River fans as it made its way into the Monumental stadium.
Boca refused to play the game, and then ensued a couple of weeks of dialogue and debate about how to settle the tie.
Eventually, Real Madrid stepped in and offered to stage the second leg at their neutral home: the Bernabeu.
Fans in Buenos Aires were understandably incensed, as were various officials in the Argentine football authorities. And the shame was on CONMEBOL - the South American football federation - who could not vouch for the safety of players and fans if the game were to take place on their continent.
So South America's loss became Europe's gain, and this mother of all derbies - and the circus that surrounded it - travelled across the Atlantic ocean to Spain.
I was an interested observer when all the above was playing out in news bulletins and newspaper columns. But my interest increased exponentially when, with four or five days to the game, I got a text out the blue from Tim: 'I've got a spare ticket for the Libertadores. Do you want it?'
Within 24 hours I had booked flights after getting the green light from my ever-understanding wife.
On the way out I chose to fly via Valencia and get a train to Madrid, mainly for financial reasons as it was cheaper that way, but also because I'd never visited Valencia.
My flight was an early one on the Saturday morning, and when I got off the metro in Valencia's city centre it was only 11am Spanish time. It felt great to be away in a new city, on a bonus adventure that I'd only booked a few days before, and with a fun 48 hours ahead of me.
I'd already booked my train from Valencia to Madrid for 6pm and so had a few hours to explore one of Europe's most iconic cities. I spent time wandering the back streets, had a lovely early lunchtime beer in a sun-filled square and came across some colourful street art.
It was December, the sun was shining, I had a ticket for tomorrow's Biggest Game in World Football, and all was good in the world.
At one point I walked past a football fan in a Sevilla shirt. I suddenly had a thought: it's the weekend, I'm in a football-mad country, there might be some games happening.
I had been so focused on the River v Boca match in Madrid and with so little time between booking my trip and getting out there, that I'd completely overlooked the Spanish league fixtures.
I checked on my iPhone and - low and behold - Valencia were playing that day against Sevilla. Not a bad game to stumble upon!
A quick and successful search for a ticket on the official Valencia website (50 or 60 euro from memory), a dash to the train station to dump my bag in a left luggage locker and a failed attempt to switch my train tickets (I had to suck up the cost and buy a new one), and I was headed for the famous Mestalla stadium in the east of the city.
At one point I walked past a football fan in a Sevilla shirt. I suddenly had a thought: it's the weekend, I'm in a football-mad country, there might be some games happening.
I had been so focused on the River v Boca match in Madrid and with so little time between booking my trip and getting out there, that I'd completely overlooked the Spanish league fixtures.
I checked on my iPhone and - low and behold - Valencia were playing that day against Sevilla. Not a bad game to stumble upon!
A quick and successful search for a ticket on the official Valencia website (50 or 60 euro from memory), a dash to the train station to dump my bag in a left luggage locker and a failed attempt to switch my train tickets (I had to suck up the cost and buy a new one), and I was headed for the famous Mestalla stadium in the east of the city.
What a bonus.
I walked the 20 minutes or so from the city centre to the neighbourhood housing Valencia's iconic ground, and sat down for a fantastic paella on a side street teeming with fans.
I then headed to Manolo's famous bar, literally within the shadow of the stands.
Manolo is Spain's most legendary football fan. If you've watched the Spanish national team on TV during any World Cup or European Championship during the last 20-30 years you'll have probably seen him, drum in hand, large black hat on head.
And there he was behind the bar, as he is for every Valencia home game, serving the fans, shaking hands.
I picked up my ticket from a booth and had a stroll around the ground.
The Mestalla is a ground I've seen so many times on TV, heard so many stories about from fellow fans, so it was great to be here in person. And completely unexpectedly too.
I had a ticket for a tier behind the goal (always a safe-ish bet for a decent atmosphere) and found myself close to the 150-odd Sevilla fans, tucked into the top corner of the ground.
The Mestalla is literally crumbling in places and has clearly seen better days, but its famous steep, towering stands were as epic as I'd hoped.
When you watch a lot of football in a lot of stadia, it becomes rarer and rarer to be genuinely wowed when you walk into a new ground for the first time. But twice in one weekend, at the Mestalla and then the following day at the Bernabeu, I got that wow factor.
This was a big game featuring two relative heavyweights of European football. Valencia, so often the nearly men, and Sevilla - UEFA/Europa League serial winners.
I spent the match in a few different spots along the top tier of the stand, finding spare seats or standing specs to to take in the 1-1 draw.
Sevilla scored early in the second half and were much the better team throughout. Despite getting a 92nd-minute equaliser, the locals showed their displeasure at the end of the game with a white-handkerchief farewell to their hapless players and board.
I hot-footed it from the ground to the train station to get my intercity train to the Spanish capital.
A couple of hours later and I was in Madrid, my first proper visit to one of Europe's most popular destinations (I spent a few hours in a Madrid airport on my way home from Villarreal v Everton in 2005, but that doesn't count).
The next 24 hours was superb.
To be in the city ahead of a game that carried such importance, not just to the two clubs involved but to a whole continent, felt like a real privilege.
I spent the morning taking in the sites and soaking up the atmosphere, before meeting Phil who'd also managed to secure a ticket for the match.
In mid-afternoon we headed north on the metro to a stop just south of the Bernabeu. Despite a well-publicised alcohol ban in the bars surrounding the stadium, Tim (who'd flown in that morning) and I found a bar full of Boca Juniors fans who were in full voice and full of beer.
We had a couple of drinks and tried out some broken Spanish with the Boca fans.
We should have left the bar earlier as the queues at the ticket checkpoint were ridiculous.
The heavy-handed police - are they ever anything else at football matches in Spain? - treated us like cattle, prodding us with batons, forcing crushing and refusing to use common sense again and again.
Women and kids were frightened, some fans were getting increasingly exasperated by the slow pace of movement as we inched towards the gates, and you could sense the fear and stress in the air.
Eventually we finally made it through. Hallelujah.
Our tickets were in the River Plate end, but my expectation before arriving in Madrid was that there would be few genuine fans travelling from South America (because of the costs and such little notice), and so it wouldn't really feel like an 'end'.
How wrong I was.
I managed to finally get to my seat about 5 minutes before kick-off, getting that lump-in-throat feeling as I emerged from the concourse, up the steps into the stand and saw the inside of the Bernabeu for the first time. Wow.
The four-tiered monster of a ground was packed and throbbing with noise. Half blue, up the far end, and the red half surrounding me.
The sound was incredible. Booming anthems rolled down the tiers, the River fans were screaming at the top of their voices, veins and eyes bulging.
Despite the raucous scenes in the Boca bar before the game, and swaying crowds in the Sol square of the city earlier in the day, and the sheer numbers of Boca and River fans everywhere in Madrid, I hadn't expected an atmosphere so loud and passionate. It was bloody brilliant.
I would obviously normally choose a blue team over a red team, and have always had a soft spot for Maradona's Boca Juniors, but I was slap-bang behind the goal in the middle of the hardcore of River fans. These were not locals who decided to buy a ticket and join in the party. These were the real deal.
Tattooed arm sleeves of River players and badges, big plumes of weed smoke, weathered faces of people who had seen the highs and lows of many years following their club home, away and - now - across continents.
I knew there was a match happening below me, but spent much of the game taking in the fans, the stadium, the noise, the songs.
The standard of football was poor, but entertaining as a result. Defenders who couldn't defend, and strikers who kept fluffing their lines.
A goal apiece either side of half time meant the game finished 1-1 and went to extra time.
River took the lead for the first time through Quintero in the second period of extra time and Boca, who had already had a man sent off, were reduced to nine men when they got an injury and had used all their subs.
With legs flagging, River added a third in the 122nd minute when Martinez broke away from the rest of the field (Boca goalkeeper included) and slotted the ball into an empty net.
Cue pandemonium from those around me. Grown men crying into the shoulders of their friends, people tumbling down stairs, falling over seats, screaming with joy.
It was the biggest match in the history of both clubs. Facing their arch rivals in the final of finals, winner takes all. And I was right in the middle of the winners. An awesome memory; one of my favourite ever football experiences without a doubt.
I was still buzzing the following day as I took a long walk around the city. I liked Madrid - it was easy to get around, felt friendly and welcoming, and had some interesting shops, bars and cafes. I'm sure I'll be back.
