MAYBE it was an omen, but in the 24 hours before kick-off, the temperature in Barcelona shot up nearly ten degrees from a balmy, short-sleeves 20C (68F) to a dog day 30C.

For Catalunya this was as near as the stateless nation can get to a World Cup final. Virtually all official engagements were cancelled and several theatres took the night off, knowing that there was only one show in town. With the match going out on three channels, even some of the bars shut. By 8.30pm the streets were all but deserted and anyone out risked being arrested and given a loyalty test.

Faces gleamed with sweat in the Cerveseria Napoleòn, close to the Arc de Triomf, which was modelled on the Parisian version except that, this being Barcelona, it is decorated with bas-reliefs of bats. Before kick-off there was a sense of anxious excitement, everyone aware that Barça have made it to four finals and won only one, in 1992.

I was on nodding acquaintance with one of the clients because he sometimes picks up his grandson from my kids’ school. He glanced at the TV. “I was there in ’92,” he said. I asked him if he thought this team was as good as the so-called “dream team” that won Barça’s only European Cup. “Just as good as a team but better because of Ronaldinho. He’s in a class apart.”

A man came in carrying a pair of crutches in one hand and a motorcycle helmet in the other, giving a new twist to the slogan “Be prepared”. Two supporters in Stoichkov-era shirts arrived bearing a replica European Cup. “That’s bad luck,” the barman murmured. “Tempting fate like that.”

And he had a point, because twice within three minutes Victor Valdés had to keep Thierry Henry out. Then when Barcelona got neither a penalty nor the goal but the lame consolation prize of seeing the Arsenal goalkeeper sent off, pandemonium. The man on my left said something unprintable, the woman on my right suggested doing something unspeakable to the referee. The commentator said: “The referee has lost his marbles.”

And who came on to replace Lehmann? A Spanish, or at least a Basque, goalkeeper in the shape of Manuel Almunia. The superstitious barman uttered a knowing “See!?” And soon Arsenal were a goal up.

The Spanish president, the first self-confessed Barça fan to reach such heights, looked grim. Eto’o hit a post. He winced. The bar was hot; people pinched at their shirts.

The second half began as the first ended, with Barcelona making all the running and nothing coming of it. Heads were in hands, hearts in mouths, then Eto’o scored and the place went mad. Outside, and from all sides, rockets and firecrackers went off, every driver on the street had a hand on the horn and it was game on. And even before that madness could subside, Belletti got the winner. Everyone was on their feet, kissing, screaming, crying.

A pair of crutches sailed out of the door. Barça had done it.