One Nil in the Bernabeu: Real Madrid 0-1 Arsenal memories 

Tim Cooper was there the magical night Arsenal beat the mighty Real Madrid in the Bernabeu 

The last (and, curiously, first) time we played Real Madrid at the Bernabeu was 19 years ago but I remember everything about that historic occasion - the first time an English club ever won there - like it was yesterday.

I remember my mate Steve, who had cunningly persuaded his wife that they should celebrate their first wedding anniversary in Madrid, assuring me he had found us a pair of tickets through the concierge of their hotel. They would be 150 euros each, he said. They would be in the Arsenal end, he said. 

I flew in on the morning of the match, not wishing to disturb the lovebirds the morning after their special day -not 'til lunchtime anyway - and found that Steve had indeed procured a pair of tickets, though match-day inflation had taken effect. They were 250 euros each. Still, at least they were in the Arsenal end; he was sure of that.

After feasting on tapas and beers, we left Steve's heavily pregnant wife to entertain herself for a few hours while we made our way to the ground by taxi, learning quickly that the English pronunciation "Bern-a-bao" means nothing to a Spanish cabbie unless you say "Estadio Santiago Bern-a-bay-oo" (por favor señor).

We'd arranged to meet our mate Shovell, who wasn't going to miss the game even though he was committed to being on the other side of the world.

He'd feared missing the match because he had been contracted to fulfil three dates DJing in the Far East, inconveniently spread over a week with the game in the middle - but had somehow persuaded the promoter to fly him all the way to Madrid and back again to Singapore afterwards.

The bar where we had arranged to meet, right by the ground, was heavily colonised by Gooners, some of them of the kind, unfortunately, who seem to be spoiling for trouble, even among their own. I elbowed my way through the throng to find my path to the tiny bar blocked by two or three large men who had decided the tiny counter was the ideal place for them to rest their beers and chat. "'Scuse me mate," I remember saying, a couple of times, while they studiously ignored me, pretending not to have heard. Pressing gently on the nearest one, I felt a beefy arm tense to block my path. Words were exchanged, as I explained that my mate had not made a 15,000-mile round trip just to get into it with some fellow Gooners over a pint in a pub. It would be an exaggeration to say they backed down but we did get our drinks.

And then we made our way into the Bernabeu itself, that cathedral of football that we've all seen so often on TV, marvelling at the efficiency: every ticket seemed to have its own turnstile, rather than the huge queues we are accustomed to at the Emirates, Wembley and everywhere else. We were inside literally within seconds.

The bar, again without queues, was well stocked with booze, unlike the bars in our grounds for European games at the time, which sold no alcohol,apparently due to "UEFA regulations." Not much sign of those in Madrid. Then again, Real Madrid have always had a special relationship with UEFA's law-makers (just ask Julian Alvarez).

Beers in hand, we made our way into our seats in the away end... except we weren't at the away end. Our comfy padded seats, with electric bar heaters glowing above each seat, were behind a goal, among the Ultras, just behind that mad bloke who dresses all in white and beats a massive drum to set the Madrid chants going.

Never mind, we had a great view; a scarily close view of what was surely the world's best team at the time, packed with superstars like Zidane, Roberto Carlos, Ronaldo (the toothy one), Robinho, Beckham, Sergio Ramos and, er, Jonathan Woodgate; plus Raúl, record goalscorer for Real and Spain, on the bench.

We, on the other hand, were in indifferent form and badly hit by injury, missing Bergkamp and Van Persie up front, with Pires only fit enough for the bench, and without Campbell and Cole at the back, forced to play a makeshift back four including Senderos alongside Kolo Toure, with Flamini as an emergency left-back.

To say we were not confident would be an understatement: we kept being reminded that no English club had ever won in the Bernabeu.

But anything can happen, as I was reminded when I turned up in Lisbon a couple of months ago convinced we were going to lose to Sporting and saw us put five past them.

The first half passed in a blur: we started in a frenzy, with Reyes, Ljungberg and Henry all missing chances to score in front of us in the first ten minutes, while Lehmann somehow denied Beckham in a one-on-one at the other end.

As the whistle brought the first half to a close we were happy to be holding them to 0-0.

At half time we refuelled with large glasses of Rioja and tasty chorizo rolls (when in Rome/Madrid...) and edged our way down the row as the second half kicked off.

We were still excusing ourselves while balancing our drinks and snacks in the air as we heard that murmur you get when something is starting to happen.

We looked up just in time to see Thierry Henry cross the halfway line and slalom his way through what seemed like the entire Madrid team with power and grace before guiding the ball with his left foot past the despairing dive of Casillas and into the corner of his net.

Obviously we went berserk, much to the irritation of the Ultras who outnumbered us by several hundred to one. But as we turned we saw that a dozen or so other Gooners had mysteriously materialised in the rows behind us. We were not alone! The second half passed in even more of a blur, but seemingly in slow motion, as it always does when you're clinging to a slender lead.

Especially when Sergio Ramos had a point blank opportunity and somehow Lehmann sprawled at his feet to save. Madrid brought on Raúl to replace the ineffective Robinho, shut down by The Flamster, they brought on Júlio Baptista (aka The Beast) whom we would sign on loan months later, but they couldn't score.

And then, finally, the referee blew his whistle for full time.

The impossible had happened. One-nil to the Arsenal - and a shut-out in the return leg at the Emirates.

Two clean sheets against the mighty Madrid.

The sort of result you might get if you had a sound defence and a stuttering attack.

The sort of result a similarly injury-hit Arsenal might hope to get in 2025.

Can it happen again?