Two seasons ago, on one of the random and always fun occasions on which Phil Ball and I swap columns, I decided to watch a game at the Vicente Calderon pretending that I was an Atletico Madrid supporter, against my mother's wise advice.
The puzzling results of the experiment - every person I spoke to recognised me as a Madridista as soon as I opened my mouth - led me to run a second, less daring but almost as enjoyable, undercover operation last season.
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