David Whitley finds himself in the Spanish capital as 2010’s biggest street party erupts.

I’ve never heard a national anthem sung so vociferously. Which, given that the Spanish national anthem doesn’t actually have any lyrics, is no mean feat. Still, as the night unfolded, I’d learned that most Spanish songs are heavy on the “lo, lo, lo, lo” – whether they’re about Iker Casillas to the tune of Seven Nation Army or Andres Iniesta to Can’t Take My Eyes Of You.

And there was a lot of singing too – including plenty of tuneful comment on the profession of Dutchmen’s mothers – as one of the most memorable nights I’ll ever have played out in Madrid. When you travel, sometimes you just luck in. Major events take over from normal life, and you’ve got little option but to get swept up in them. And it just so happened that I was in Madrid for the 2010 World Cup Final.

The day started off quietly enough, although the man selling flags and knock-off football shirts at El Rastro market was well on his way to becoming the richest man in Spain by midday. But by around 5pm, and you knew something was in the air. A sea of red and yellow poured out of the Metro stations; fans walking in unison and blowing vuvuzelas that wouldn’t get a proper rest until dawn the next day.

I went with the herd. The sea was flowing towards Paseo de Recoletos, the massive boulevard that runs north-east of the city centre. It had been closed off as a designated fan zone, and three enormous screens were showing the games. According to the BBC, around 300,000 people were packed in there. I can’t say I did a headcount, but it wasn’t far off. Everyone was fighting for position. People climbed central reservations, trees and bus shelters to sget a better a view of the screen. But a strange thing happens in such situations – no-one trusts the own eyes. They react to the noises and emotions of the crowd rather than what they see on the screen.

Thus when Andres Iniesta scored to win Spain the World Cup, it was something of a delayed reaction. The lack of timing was made up for with volume, and all the clichés went off at once. There was dancing in the street, strangers hugging each other, water being thrown over the crowd, you name it. But to see such joy on such a massive scale really sends those tingles down the back.

Of course, that was just the start of it. Anyone trying to get a taxi home through the city centre may as well have filed for bankruptcy. People were climbing on statues, standing on top of phone boxes in just their pants, letting off fire hydrants and using random cars as temporary bars on which to pour themselves a whiskey and coke. Madrid is lively at night at the best of times, but this was just phenomenal.

Beyond about 3am, I’m afraid my reporters’ instincts failed me. It’s all a bit hazy. Although I would like to apologise to all the random Spaniards I felt the need to inform that Paul the Psychic Octopus was English...

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