Friday 11pm Thirty minutes after the plane touches down, we find ourselves in Benidorm. Not Benidorm on the Costa del Sol, but a retro bar of the same name on Barcelona's Carrera de Joaquin Costa. Spookily decorated in the style of a 50s sitting room - with hostess trolleys, Bakelite fittings and weird family portraits hanging on drab flock wallpapered walls - this drinking den is stuffed with young Spaniards, for some reason passing wigs around without laughter or comment, as if it's the most normal thing to do in Barcelona on a Friday night. Maybe it is. Curly wigs, silver wigs - there's even a kinky bloke in a silk balaclava, dancing to Fame under a tiny glitterball. Barcelona is famous for its top-class museums and great restaurants, but we've come to the capital of Catalonia to sample its legendary nightlife, an idea that only starts to make sense after we sink a few beers and a few glasses of red wine with Coca-Cola (all the rage in Spain right now, according to, well, an Australian at the bar).
1am Next is Bar Iposa, a cool, orange and white-tiled split-level bar on a tree-lined square. Then it's on to La Rambla, a kaleidoscopic mile-long boulevard where you'll find cafés, restaurants, kiosks, shopfronts with splendid art nouveau lettering, plus, of course, hordes of revellers, diners, buskers, prostitutes and transvestites. There's a faint scent of the sea as we turn a corner and enter Bar Marsella, where they sell absinthe for Pta500 (£1.90) a glass. This is a fine atmospheric establishment, with peeling paint, faded wood trim, a long marble-top bar, mirrored glass cabinets holding dusty old bottles . . . and a barman from Motherwell. It's a young crowd, well-dressed, lots of black round necks and chunky leather jackets. Already they've had two hours more drinking time than English pubs get on a Friday but all around is friendly clatter and chat, not fists and broken glass.
2.30am More red wine and Cokes, this time in the London Bar, which is as long and narrow as three train carriages end to end but with much less atmosphere. All continental class and character seems to have evaporated in the sweaty chaos, although there is a woman through the back singing Spanish songs - but not loud enough to drown out all the British accents. 3am If you keeled over in Moog and spent the whole evening lying on your back, you could still have a good time in this medium-sized, kicking nightclub thanks to the leopard-skin ceiling over the upstairs dancefloor. Here, exceedingly young Spaniards, most of whom should be tucked up in bed, are dancing to loud, cheesy disco in loud, cheesy clothes. Meanwhile, downstairs, a bunch of DJs in what seems to be a reinforced air-raid shelter are bombarding the 200 or so people packed on to the dancefloor with a raw mixture of house, garage and God knows what else.
3.40am We take a taxi along wide open boulevards towards the waterfront, glimpsing the tips of tall ships above swaying palm trees, and then on to what is reputed to be one of Barcelona's best nightclubs: the mighty Woman Caballero.
4am Now this really is something. Everything about Woman Caballero is on a grand scale, from the hefty measures of spirits the bar staff unleash into glasses six inches tall to the Ducados cigarette machine in the foyer that's the size of a small boat. And then there's the dancefloor, sorry, the first dancefloor, so big that it feels outdoor. Finley Quaye gets the floor packed; then M People clear it in seconds.
4.45am Take a wrong turn and stumble across the salsa room, a more intimate place with blue and yellow tiles, beautifully ornate mosaics, carpets hanging from the walls - and hypnotic dancing. The wildly energetic bartender slams golfball-shaped ice into a glass and pounds the counter as a group of young girls in neat, white, sleeveless shirts spring into a sort of three-way salsa-cum-belly-dance.
5am Get lost.
5.15am Get lost again.
5.30am Completing the feeling that this is actually a giant mall and not a nightclub, there's a sizeable jewellery stall in one of the corridors. Beyond that - past a couple on a couch engaged in a marathon snogging session that seems to involve everything except coming up for air - the hardcore room is to be found. There, the music is loud, fast and furious, and, as a precaution, the pillars around the dancefloor are padded.
6am Woman Caballero is still going strong but there is talk of going to the beach where, apparently, there are some other clubs opening shortly. Opening? Does no one here sleep? Surely when the sun comes up they call it a day. But no, this is Barcelona, and tonight it seems as if every one of the city's 1.7m inhabitants is out on the town. Sadly, we've got a plane to catch.
6.30am "Basta ya de ruidos", says a sign outside the nearby station café, where we sit sipping café con leche and munching churros. "Enough of the noise," reads the translation underneath. It seems a pretty good idea. Our ears are ringing, our limbs are weary and our clothes are drenched with sweat. We look as if we've just been washed ashore.
7am The sun is coming up, casting a warm hue over the city. Out over the Mediterranean, purple clouds are heaping up on the horizon and, beneath them, the sky is like a strip of copper resting on the still blue sea. It's a staggering sight in a city of staggering sights. Resolving to stay longer next time, we hail a cab and head for the airport.
11am Arrive back home.
11.01am Sleep.
The practicals
Andrew Gilchrist flew to Barcelona with STA Travel (0870 1606070, www.statravel.co.uk), which offers return fares from Heathrow to Barcelona with British Midland starting from £117 (inc tax) and accommodation starting from £17pp per night. The fare is open to all and must be booked and paid for by January 31. STA Travel specialises in student and youth travel with 250 branches worldwide.
