THIS STORY WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN JANUARY 2016
"Excuse me, have you got any spare, clean clothes on you? Specifically underwear. Neymar's missed his helicopter and can't get home, so he needs something to wear for tonight."
SHIT...THE...BED! The day had been weird enough as it was, given that I was currently sat in a makeshift VIP lounge within the bowels of a casino-cum-castle 90 minutes outside of Barcelona and had just engaged in a lightsaber duel with Star Wars new boy John Boyega, before going all wobbly kneed over Victoria's Secret Angel Sara Sampaio's revelation that she likes to wear nothing but socks in bed.
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Now here I was being asked if Neymar, the Brazil captain, one third of world football's most lethal front three and a recent treble winner with Barcelona could 'borrow' (like fuck I'd have got them back) my boxer shorts and any other items of clothing I had on me. Unfortunately, the PR woman would be sent back to the boy wonder empty handed, as I informed her that my sweat stained attire was the only selection of garments I had in my possession and I didn't fancy venturing 10 miles in the blistering Catalan sun to fetch anyone, even one of the most gifted footballers on the planet, a spare pair of Next boxer shorts from my hotel room.
"The fuck you mean, 'not packed any spare boxers?'" Image: PA
The reason for me even being in this surreal situation to begin with was that Neymar, along with the aforementioned Sampaio and Boyega, was a competitor in a charity poker tournament hosted by a leading online gambling website. At just three days notice, I'd been asked to trade the drizzle ridden grey skies of Manchester for the sun kissed Catalan shores of Platja de Roses, an hour and a half away from Barcelona and, evidently, too far away from Neymar's home for him to even consider making the journey by road like any normal bloke would.
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Image: PA
Of course, last minute or not, when you hear the words 'all expenses paid', 'Neymar', 'Victoria's Secret' and 'Star Wars' mentioned in the same sentence, the only way you're turning it down is if Andrea Pirlo needs you to urgently visit him in New York for a weekend of drinking wine and watching The Sopranos.
The journey from England to Catalonia was a rather standard 'two beers and a football magazine' flight followed by a meeting with the reps from the Poker website responsible for the event, a couple of fellow journalists and a camera man named 'Chud' who was armed with a bag of very questionable 'road tapas' (and an alarming lack of cans, it must be said).
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A lengthy, starlit drive towards the French border later, and we were dumping our bags in our respective rooms and performing that most British of traditions - The rushing of the hotel bar en masse before the staff clock off for the night.
It wasn't until the morning after that we realised the average age of the hotel's clientele was about 84 and the staff were quite blatantly not used to pasty lads from Burnley asking what the maximum number of Estrellas was that he could have sent up to his room at any one time.
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The conversation between our group naturally turned to Neymar, who was at that point heading for a return flight from Rome, having played out a 1-1 draw with Roma in the Stadio Olimpico during a Champions League group game.
"Reckon he's sound?"
"How much English does he speak?"
"What'll he be wearing?"
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"Not gonna be as good as original Ronaldo though, is he?"
"Two more Estrellas please."
That was about as educated as our conversation got as we approached 1.30am. Come 10am the next morning and our questions were answered by one of the poker company reps over a rather decent continental breakfast.
"You've all got five minutes with Neymar, he doesn't speak any English and he's working to a very tight schedule."
Properly sound, that. The stark reality of a press trip hit harder than the combination of ale dehydration and 28 degree weather. The idea was for us to quickly rattle off questions and then watch some celebrities play cards. Having played poker once in my life, I couldn't say I was relishing being in the audience and not having the fucking foggiest as to who was winning and why nobody was shouting "SNAP!"
However, once we arrived at the venue - the Casino Peralada in Girona, with it's armed guards and Bond villain lair majesty, the ludicrous nature of our trip began to unfold. And it was fucking glorious.
Dead normal place to play cards, this.
All was going according to plan; I put the questions to John Boyega about his role as Finn in the new Star Wars film before I baffled the shite out of Sara Sampaio with my dulcet Lancashire tones. "Where are you from?" she asked after my third attempt at asking my first question, "Like these guys are all from England, but your accent is too weird to be English". So there you have it, the Burnley accent - too weird to be English.
However, it was upon Neymar's arrival that things began to unravel. His impending landing had been mistimed, so the correct people hadn't assembled to greet him and his entourage as his helicopter descended onto the grounds of the casino. Him and his throng of hangers on were soon ushered past us (in a selection of fucking atrocious trainers, it has to be said) to the make up chairs for an emergency pampering.
I felt for the lad. Here he was being given an impromptu haircut and not 20 yards to his right was quite easily the most magnificent buffet I had ever laid eyes on, and he couldn't even get close enough to smell it. Naturally us non-millionaire types who were more used to chicken drumsticks and mini quiches quickly began formulating schemes to steal as much charcuterie and seafood as possible without any rich people noticing.
Just as quickly as he ambled into the VIP lounge, Neymar was rushed back through the casino, where he embarked upon an almost never ending marathon of gambling competition. And so the unravelling continued. We were politely informed, around the 5pm mark, that the former Santos wonderkid had to be back on board his chopper at 6.15pm and if no interviews had been conducted in that time, then tough. The only problem with this however, was that Neymar still had two matches to play and, at 20 minutes in length each, not a lot of time was being left for us to sit down with him.
As Neymar's helicopter disappeared into the sun in a scene reminiscent of a hundred Vietnam films, albeit with a lot less Napalm and heroin addiction, the Brazil captain could only consider his options. Fortunately for us, he decided that a night gambling in a castle in the middle of fucking nowhere was miles better than going home. To celebrate, he sat down and, via poker pro Felipe Mojave, answered everyone's questions.
"My favourite goal? I'd have to say Robbie Blake, Burnley vs United, 09/10 season."
The interview portion of the day was actually the low point of the evening. Although a relief to have the questions answered, it paled into comparison to what the upcoming eight hours had in store for us.
With our work technically being done and the words 'free bar' ringing in our ears, our party soon descended upon the helpless barmen with our sole intentions being to get trousered and lose whatever money we had on us in the various slot machines upstairs. Of course, some semblance of professionalism had to remain, otherwise I'd have been welcomed by a P45 in Manchester upon my return the next evening.
Feeling bad that I couldn't give the poor sod a loan of a pair of briefs, I decided that the least I could do was pose for a photograph with Neymar who, despite the language barrier was more engaging than some English speaking footballers I've met. Surrounded by hordes of hangers on and clipboard holding wallies, he gave each and everyone of them the time of day, almost as if any one of them were the feature attraction of the night, rather than himself. He joked with his mates, flirted mischeviously with some of the girls in attendance and, almost bizarrely, seemed like a perfectly normal 23-year-old lad.
Of course, achieving fame and fortune doesn't have to mean someone becomes an insufferable wanker but Neymar, at such a young age, has almost been deified in Brazil, a country where he was mourned when his 2014 World Cup was brought to an abrupt, back breaking end during the Quarter Final with Colombia.
Image: PA
His teammates cried for him, as did his devoted followers around his homeland. If you didn't know any better, you would have thought the Barcelona number 11 had been lying in a morgue rather than a hospital bed, such was the outpouring of emotion in reaction to his injury. Now, under new manager Dunga and with the captain's armband around his bicep instead of Thiago Silva's, the pressure on Neymar to lead his country to glory is even more intense.
"Shite, this. I thought it'd be all booting a ball around airports and winning World Cups". Image: PA
Achieving almost Pele like levels of national hysteria and winning a treble with Barcelona would usually see a young footballer develop an ego big enough to fill the Maracana, but instead, as he and his two mates shuffle into the casino restaurant an hour or so later in matching, emergency Lacoste polo shirts as if they're going to get lashed on blue WKD and Aftershocks at their first sixth form party, Neymar seems worlds away from being anything other than just a young lad who wants to play football and enjoy himself.
Obviously, the stories of him flying supermodels from across the world to watch him strut his stuff at the Camp Nou isn't really the behaviour of a regular lad in his early 20's, but with his bottomless wealth, who are we to quibble with such occasional excesses? The point is that, away from prying eyes I see Neymar at his most natural and as a young footballer who should not be burdened with a captain's armband or the desperate need of a country's population to be their saviour. As I foolishly try and pokerface him out of 50 euros later on (I fail and he gleefully takes my last remaining notes) he promptly laughs his head off and scoops his winnings away from me, leaving me staring down the barrel of a beans on toast fortnight until payday.
The ruthless streak he displays in front of goal translates effortlessly to the poker table, his unerring confidence almost bewildering as he bluffs his way to another few hundred euros with all the routine of tucking away a six yard tap-in. It's this charisma that has no doubt played a pivotal role in his development into one of the planet's greatest players. As the game ends, his humility shines through. After surprisingly finishing second, Neymar shakes hands with the winner (and will congratulate him again, unprompted, later on) before donating his winnings to a girl from our party, the thrill of competition and honing his skills obviously more important than a sum of money that is no doubt a drop in the ocean to him.
As we disappear into the rapidly approaching Girona sunrise, Neymar is making a beeline for the roulette tables as I pray in vain that a kebab shop will magically appear to help soak up all the complimentary gin I've consumed.
Three days later, Neymar scores and earns a penalty in a convincing 4-1 Barcelona victory over Levante. Meanwhile, in Manchester I attempt to deal with the realisation that, at the age of 27, hangovers are now two days long and no amount of fizzy Vimto can change that.
WORDS BY @JoeBaia
Topics: Football, Barcelona, PSG, Neymar