United? Are they in red?

He was there, all expenses paid. Yet Russell Bulgin isn't a football fan...

FOOTBALL FANS of Britain, go ahead, hate me. Because I sat four rows from the touchline at the Champion's League Final, so close to the action I swear I caught a whiff of Denis Irwin's aftershave. And David Beckham waved at me. Twice.

Yet football isn't really my thing. I shouldn't have been there at all. I was a shameless corporee, a recipient of significant largesse from what UEFA inevitably terms an Official Partner. Why me? Because I write for a car magazine. And Ford wanted me to drive its new Ranger pick-up in Barcelona, coincidentally on The Big Day.

The trip started in the business terminal at Stansted with clammy handshakes and bacon rolls. The flight is on one of Ford's company planes. There are two levels of corporee on board: a few hacks and a posse of Ford fleet- car customers, distinguished by their considered leisurewear and matching cheeriness.

Nothing goes to plan. Barcelona air traffic control is gridlocked: we divert to Reus, an hour south, bus into Barcelona. Hang out in a hotel for a while, spot Pele easing across the lobby. Walk to the Nou Camp through streets shaded in red.

Head for the Champions Village. This tented courtyard is base camp for corporees. This isn't football. This is modern sporting entertainment, a chance to interface with key executives in a convivial non-workplace environment. Or something.

It's complimentary beverage-a-go-go, with linen table napkins, discreet service and daintily obscure finger-food. Assorted celebs flicker in and out of view. Johnny Herbert, in town for this weekend's Spanish Grand Prix, Mr and Mrs Simon Le Bon, the ex-boss of Jaguar, and Top Gear's latest professional Northerner overlay a constant background mumble inevitably suffixed by "let's get together on that".

Bravely, a few guests wear Manchester United team shirts. Looking brashly ill-at-ease among the buttoned-down chit-chat of the hardened corporee, they confirm that, truly, the Champions Village is a parallel universe orbiting around Nou Camp.

What's the etiquette in an environment where there's an entire cordoned- off section devoted to visitors proudly chaperoned by the makers of Nutella chocolate spread? Is it the done thing to sing time-served favourites such as Knick-knack Jaap Stam while cradling a vol-au-vent in front of a mover-and-shaker from corporate governance? Nonetheless, there's something oddly reassuring in discovering that McDonald's guests, jetted in expensively from who-knows-where, really are served tiny boxes of Chicken McNuggets, a chilling affirmation of team spirit with which Alex Ferguson would surely identify.

Swag - badges, baseball caps, match programmes - is vacuumed up by everyone.

And how to get to the stadium itself? Use standard-issue VIP commonsense and follow the red carpet snaking from Village to pitch.

From ground level the tiers at Nou Camp peel upward like a mountain swathed in drip-dry scarlet shirts. The noise at kick-off is terrifying .

Bayern's goal is languid from seat F10, the ball moseying into the net. The next 85 minutes pass in a blur of sporadic British finesse against relentless German quality control. Corporee or newbie - who cares? You would have to be comatose to remain uninvolved after being magicked to the heart of this unashamedly melodramatic night.

And the celebrations seem to go on for a week, United players gingerly fingering their medals like kids feeling their way with a new toy. I head back to the Champions Village to get Johnny Herbert's match analysis - "United were lucky".

And the Ford Ranger pick-up? Those flight delays meant there was no time to drive it. I am distraught about this. No, really.