When Dwight Yorke sat in the Manchester United dressing room after winning the Champions League in 1999, the champagne was everywhere and he was still trying to take in what had just happened.
United had scored twice in stoppage time to beat Bayern Munich, complete the Treble and give Yorke the biggest night of his career.
He spent about half an hour sitting there drinking it all in before one thought took over.
“Boy, am I going to get p***** tonight!”
The team had a gala dinner waiting back at their Barcelona hotel, with families and partners already there.
As soon as he got back, he changed into his club suit and headed downstairs.
Peter Schmeichel was playing his final game for United that night and in the hotel reception he handed Yorke a large cigar.
The party did not properly get going until around 1am.
Yorke drank, danced on tables, danced with chairman Martin Edwards, kissed his teammates and thanked them for what they had just achieved together.
By around four in the morning, most of the players who were there with their wives and girlfriends had started heading upstairs.
Yorke was nowhere near ready for bed.
Jordi Cruyff was one of the few other single players still around, and because he had grown up in Barcelona, Yorke decided he was the obvious man to keep the night going.
At about 4.30am, he turned to him.
“Come on Jordi, this is Barcelona, we’re Manchester United and we’re the European champions.”
“You must know where to go.”
Cruyff took him back out into the city.
They carried on through another couple of bars until, sometime around 6am, they walked into another place and Yorke realised it was a gentlemen’s club.
Inside were a number of women walking around in their underwear.
Yorke sat down, looked around him and could barely believe how the night was continuing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Cruyff spoke fluent Spanish, which immediately made him even more useful.
Yorke was surrounded by four or five women and had already decided how he wanted the night to finish.
“Come on, Jordi, organize the man.”
“One of them has got to come back.”
One woman in particular caught his eye.
“Come on, Jordi, you can do it, man.”
Cruyff spoke to her.
She agreed.
United had a private charter flight home and the players had to be on the coach outside the hotel by 9am.
By the time Yorke looked at his watch, it was somewhere between 7:30 and 7:45.
He and the woman jumped into a taxi and hurried back to the hotel.
Yorke ran through reception still in his club suit, pulling her along with him, and took her upstairs.
“I swear to you, not a sentence passed between us.”
She did not appear to speak English and Yorke did not speak Spanish.
According to Yorke, he was so drunk and impatient that he fell off the bed three or four times.
Yorke repeatedly checked the clock.
“Hell, I’ve got to be downstairs for 9 a.m.”
Eventually he jumped up, put the same suit back on and tried to say goodbye to a woman he still could not properly communicate with.
“Muchas gracias.”
“Fantastico.”
He tried to explain that she was beautiful and that he desperately had a plane to catch, then ran out of the room.
When Yorke finally walked onto the team bus, most of his teammates were exhausted and sitting quietly after the previous 24 hours.
Yorke came down the aisle singing.
And the cigar Schmeichel had given him the night before was still in his mouth.