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El Polaco appears brandishing his Stanley, as he lovingly calls his pocket knife Five young hooligans huddle round him like classroom students He leaves them gobsmacked with a dazzling display of knife skills: in under a minute, he unscrews the four bolts in the reading light and air-vent panel over seats 31 and 32 Much to the consternation (or cowardice, according to El Polaco) of those travelling with the barra for the first time, he then removes the casing from the roof, leaving everything exposed, everything being the jumble of wires and cables that are usually hidden from public view Hidden and forgotten about, which is how the barra feel they’re treated by society ‘Before we hide it, we have to wrap it up in something… We need a hat,’ El Polaco says, and one of his disciples snatches a cap off a younger barra’s head   ‘Everyone has to muck in here, compadre,’ the timid young lad is told, as he watches his blue cap, red ‘U’ embroidered on the front, disappear into a sea of twenty-year-old hands   El Polaco carefully wraps the grenade up in the cap That’s right, the grenade A weapon of war We have a miniature bomb on the bus with us A genuine piece of munition that someone stole, we’re told, from the army when doing military service   ‘They’re amazingly easy to launch You just pull this pin, release the safety catch with your teeth and chuck it,’ one of the more experienced barra adds calmly Fear paralyses the rest of us: football fans who’ve left behind parents and girlfriends, neighbourhood friends, younger brothers, team posters on bedroom walls, a flag commemorating last year’s league title, a collection of match tickets in the bedside drawer All left behind, at home, a place that seems increasingly far away All to go on an away trip abroad for the first time All for the team   With the speed and dexterity of a practised pickpocket, El Polaco tucks the hat-explosive in among the cables and screws the panel back in place He leaves not a trace Nothing to suggest that above