Ce sont les meilleures équipes/Es sind die allerbesten Mannschaften/The main event/Die Meister/Die Besten/Les grandes équipes/THE CHAMPIIIIIIIOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNSSS…

It was Chelsea v Barcelona the other night. You might have seen it. Willian putting the blues in front, Conte going bananas, Messi breaking his West London hoodoo. It had the lot. Anyway, we watched it with lovely Dutch beer people, and long-term Champions league lager suppliers, Heineken.

A cross between a football-based theme park drawn up by Willy Wonka and a Channel 5 gameshow hosted by someone called Jorge at 3.30pm on a Wednesday, this Share the Drama night from Heineken for the Champions League was absolutely bonkers.

First, before we got to the event, we were greeted by a man selling us scarves. Nice scarves they were too. Then, after the scarves, there was the ticket man. Selling us tickets. Asking us for a password. Ushering us inside.

Then there was a wall of beer. Walls of beer are good things, and somebody was giving us those beers. They were cold and tasted of beer and boy did we drink some. Then we got our photo taken. And then, compered by a man who appeared to be the unplanned child of Matt Berry and Sepp Blatter, our names were drawn from a bowl of balls and pulled into two teams. One blue. One red. One Chelsea. One Barça.

We went into the changing room for a team talk. Our photo appeared on the screen. I was a forward. With one goal in six games. Form is bad. Class is temporary.

Then we went into another room. This room had a big projector. It was a Chelsea members only club. This was where we would be watching the game. If we held up a yellow card, somebody would bring us drinks. A red: food. We held up both. Regularly. We got pies and cheeseboards and pate. This referee was out of control.

At half-time, a man appeared out of nowhere and imitated an advert on the huge projector screen. This man was chased by the compere. He was an intruder, apparently. So, the man tried to escape. A chase ensued and ended when the intruder dived headfirst through the project screen. Madness. A huge bang. Then, then the maracas.

As members of staff from the other side pulled down the now broken projector screen, we were invited into a new room. A Barcelona tapas bar. There were tortillas and patatas bravas and olives. The Spanish stuff.

The game ended. It was a good game. It was a good time had by all. It was terrifying and refreshing in equal measure.

Check out the photos above to see just how mad it all was, and subscribe to our quarterly print magazine for more lager, football, and scintillating sports journalism.