Real Madrid are the Harlem Globetrotters clad all in white

THEY are the Harlem Globetrotters and they are Darth Vader’s imperial stormtroopers, clad all in white.

They represent might and majesty, thrills and villainy, power and glory.

And they are by far the greatest team the world has ever seen — with more than twice as many European Cups than any other club.

Real Madrid turn up at Anfield tonight dripping with Galacticos as usual, having won 13 of their 14 matches this season.

The Hollywood cast list of the 15-time champions of Europe currently boasts Kylian Mbappe, Jude Bellingham and a mutinous Vinicius Junior — the finest players France, England and Brazil have to offer.

And then there is Franco Mastantuono, the teenage winger seemingly en route to becoming Argentina’s next superstar.

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No wonder Trent Alexander-Arnold left his boyhood club to join Real.

Liverpool are England’s most decorated team, yet Los Blancos have NINE more European Cups than the Reds.

Arsenal’s William Saliba is the latest Premier League star linked with a move to the Bernabeu.

If Real are trying to unsettle the centre-half — and they probably are, the rascals — then they might not have to do much unsettling.

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The aura and mystique of Real Madrid are irresistible to most. Make it there, you make it anywhere.

Real are the bad guys, really — playground bullies in the transfer market and often a collection of egotistical individuals, rather than an authentic team.

And they were also the club of the dictator General Franco and of the Spanish establishment, loathed by those who seem to think that their also mighty arch-rivals Barcelona represent some sort of rebellious romanticism.

Yet it has been one of the great privileges of this job to cover Real Madrid, as I’ve done on occasion for a quarter of a century, so forgive me some self-indulgent nostalgia . . .

HOLIDAY INN, LAS TABLAS, MADRID, JUNE 2003

I am a young reporter, feeling out of my depth having been sent to cover the impending arrival of the world’s most famous footballer, David Beckham, at the world’s most famous club, Real Madrid.

In the basement bar of a hotel I encounter Michael Robinson, a former Liverpool striker who has become Spain’s foremost football pundit, adored in his adopted homeland as a brilliant analyst with a comedic and poetic turn of phrase.

We spend around eight hours getting gloriously drunk together, during which time Robinson explains the lure of Real Madrid: “It’s theatre, it’s elegance, it’s ball-juggling, it’s excitement, it’s ‘Ole!’.”

I’m hooked.

KUNMING, YUNNAN PROVINCE, CHINA, JULY 2003

It’s monsoon season in western China. I am one of a clutch of drenched and hungover English journalists wearing inadequate ponchos, watching Real train at the start of a pre-season tour of Asia.

For us, it is a raging work-hard, play-hard odyssey — taking in Beijing, Hong Kong, Tokyo and Bangkok.

The eyes of the world are on Beckham, who has arrived at Real from Manchester United and is seemingly as famous as Jesus Christ.

He has joined the original Galactico gang of the Brazilian Ronaldo, Luis Figo, Roberto Carlos, Raul and the one bloke who outshines them all.

Watching footballers train tends to be unutterably boring.

And then I see Zinedine Zidane, collecting a ball from the tempestuous heavens with a velvet touch, manipulating it, flicking it over his head with a back-heel, pirouetting, then controlling it again.

I can’t remember ever disbelieving my own eyes before. What had we been drinking? If Lionel Messi was the greatest footballer I ever saw live, then the mesmeric Zidane was my favourite.

ESTADIO DA LUZ, LISBON, MAY 2014

On a sticky night in the Portuguese capital, Real serve up the first of many heart-attack nights for this hack.

They are 1-0 down to city rivals Atletico when their great anti-hero Sergio Ramos heads a 93rd-minute equaliser, before Los Blancos secure a 4-1 victory in extra-time.

It is Real’s long-awaited tenth European Cup — the fabled ‘La Decima’ — but all I can remember is that Uefa had supplied plug points which were incompatible with UK-Europe adaptors.

I have one per cent battery left on my laptop by the time I have filed my live report. But the copy always gets there, somehow. And Real Madrid always win, somehow.

ESTADIO SANTIAGO BERNABEU, MADRID, OCTOBER 2014

My first Clasico, Luis Suarez’s Barcelona debut and his first appearance since a lengthy ban for biting Giorgio Chiellini at the World Cup in Brazil.

A trip most memorable for me because of an extraordinary pantomime routine over a boozy eve-of-match dinner from the most eccentric journalist I ever met.

This is the richest match in the history of football. It is Cristiano Ronaldo versus Messi and the first appearance of Barca’s famed Messi-Suarez-Neymar trio.

The Barca team bus is met by a hail of pyrotechnics and missiles.

Suarez provides an early assist for Neymar but the Bernabeu is at its most vociferous and visceral, a seething cauldron.

Those romantic Catalans are dispatched 3-1. I am pretty sure the din has perforated my eardrums.

OLYMPIC STADIUM, KYIV, MAY 2018

I had seen Real win another Champions League by defeating Juventus in Cardiff the previous year but this triumph over Jurgen Klopp’s Liverpool is peak Real.

The villainy and the majesty are provided by Ramos, who maims Mo Salah early on, and Gareth Bale, who nets a magnificent bicycle kick past the forlorn keeper Loris Karius.

Ukraine’s capital, Kyiv, one of Europe’s most beautiful cities, will be devastated by Russian missiles within a few years.

ESTADIO SANTIAGO BERNABEU, MADRID, MAY 2022

The most intense of many cardio-bothering incidents from Real as Manchester City blow a two-goal aggregate lead in the dying seconds of a Champions League semi-final, with an injury-time double from Rodrygo before Karim Benzema’s extra-time penalty winner.

“Ninety minutes is a long time in the Bernabeu,” is a phrase which has been used for decades here.

City boss Pep Guardiola discovers as much. Along with us lot, gasping for air as we rewrite every word up in the altitude-sickness-inducing press box.

Carlo Ancelotti’s side were putting England’s finest to the sword, having defeated Chelsea in the quarters and before edging Liverpool in the final thanks to a Thibaut Courtois wonder show on a horribly chaotic night in Paris.

Tonight, I will be reporting on a Real Madrid match for possibly the final time and there is nothing quite like them.