It was more like a rugby match than a second-tier football game. No aggressive, foul-mouthed rowdies, no baiting of opposition fans – and large numbers of women and children sitting on the terraces in the fading sunshine.

I was sampling Spanish League football for the first time – and as a middle-aged woman I've never felt safer at a professional match. Why, there was even a mother feeding a toddler in a pram a couple of rows in front of me!

OK, the picture I’ve painted so far sounds somewhat idealistic. But the Second Division clash between promotion-chasing Elche and bottom-of-the-table Jerez was just about as far removed from a typical Championship game as it’s possible to get. Apart, that is, from the fact that Elche’s main strike weapon was 6ft 4in former Watford, Stoke and Burnley bruiser Gifton Noel-Williams.

The Islington-born hitman - believed to be the only British player turning out regularly in the Spanish League – had a quiet game. But compared to English football, most things seemed remarkably quiet on the day'


The Islington-born hitman - believed to be the only British player turning out regularly in the Spanish League – had a quiet game. But compared to English football, most things seemed remarkably quiet on the day.

Maybe the fact I wasn’t aware of a single Jerez fan anywhere in the ground had something to do with the tranquility. Not that too many had been expected - after all, apart from being bottom of the table, the place is 626 kilometres away. Anyway, the Elche faithful were left to project their anger in the only direction left to them – at referee Bernabé García. The fact the poor guy came from nearby Murcia immediately had him branded as biased towards the opposition. And in fairness, he did his best to live down to expectations.

A lone drummer sat near the front in one corner of the impressive 39,000-capacity open-air stadium, banging out his tedious message throughout the entire 90 minutes. He was accompanied by a self-appointed cheerleader with a hand microphone who stood with his back to the pitch baying for the crowd to join him in choruses of ''David Vidal’s green-and-white army’’ (or the Spanish equivalent).

In the second half, the chorus actually managed to incorporate the tune of The Great Escape into their repertoire as Elche tried to come from behind. And stupid me thought that film was all about British soldiers escaping from the Germans!

Miguel the Mike, as I’ll call him, seemed not the slightest interested in the game. So much so that when Jerez scored he continued chanting away merrily, his back to goal. The terrace chorus seemed just as oblivious to the fact their team’s early lead had been whittled away because they just kept singing as their keeper Wilfredo Caballero picked the ball out of the home net. So strange, I thought.

But no stranger than the fact we had been able to park less than 300 yards from the stadium just 25 minutes before kick-off. There was absolutely no queue to get in and match programmes were handed out free as soon as we cleared the turnstiles. How many Championship grounds are quite so easily accessible, I thought. And free programmes? They went out before World War I!

My friend Andres has supported Elche all his life – though he reluctantly had to drop his season ticket during the 30 years he lived in England. Now back in his native Costa Blanca, he’s renewed it…at the modest cost of around £100 a season. He talks fondly of the days Elche were proud members of La Liga and particularly of their glorious exploits of 1968-69, when they reached the final of the Copa del Generalissimo (now called the Copa del Rey, Spain’s equivalent of the FA Cup). They lost 1-0 to Athletic Bilbao - but he still relives his special day out at the Bernabeu as if it were yesterday.

Three minutes into Sunday’s action, the 10,000 crowd (apart from Miguel the Mike, whose back was to the action, as ever) were on their feet cheering as key man Ruben Suarez’s overhead kick was deflected into the corner of the Jerez net.

I feared the struggling visitors were in for a drubbing. But five minutes late Ruben was crocked and with his departure from the action, the Elche engine conked out. Three Jerez goals before half-time turned the game on its head, the third coming from a penalty just before the break that every Elche fan insisted WASN’T a penalty. Well, they would, wouldn’t they?

Andres and I were 80 yards from the incident, behind the other goal, but he swears the spot-kick was only given because the ref was from Murcia. Not that he knows even now what actually happened.

Elche, to their credit, piled on the pressure in first-half injury time and almost scored on two occasions. But when they won a second successive corner, referee Garcia blew for half-time before it could be taken, and that sealed it for Andres.

‘’I want to go home,’’ he moaned, getting up from his seat and beckoning me to leave with him. ‘’This is the worst I've EVER seen us play – and anyway, there’s no way a ref from Murcia is going to let Elche win.’’

I managed to persuade him to stay for another 20 minutes in case Elche got back into the game. They tried, in fact they probably tried too hard because they left so many gaps at the back that with 20 minutes left Jerez broke away and made it 4-1. Game over. This time Andres insisted we went home.

Of course, he still couldn’t resist listening to the action on the radio as he drove back to his apartment near Alicante Airport. As we parked the car, Elche pulled a goal back. Joy of joys – they only lost 4-2.

‘’I don’t care – I’m definitely not going to see next week’s match against Albacete,’’ insisted Andres. ‘’You can have my ticket if you want.’’

The words 'bad' and 'loser' spring to mind. But I bet he'll be there on Sunday.