The boys from the barrio were as old as Jimmy Carter last year.

And in Madrid’s Casa de Vacas (House of Cows) in the glorious Retiro park, the club had a celebratory exhibition.

Well it’s not the trophy room at Real or Barcelona, that’s for sure.

Put simply, Rayo’s best La Liga finish is eighth, and they’ve made it to two cup semi-finals. One title: the second division in 2017/18.

But that’s not the point. They represent the other side of Madrid. The hoi polloi of the south-east.

Real and Atletico are the swanky, pots-of-money big city types, classic standard bearers for the modern iteration of the game.

Rayo, well, Rayo are in the cowshed.

So no trophies. But some fondly remembered old players and one European campaign when they lost to Alaves in a two-legged Uefa Cup quarter-final in 2001.

Didn’t click on any if the QR codes so who knows what I missed out on.

Not much on individual players – it would have been interesting to see something on Laurie Cunningham, one of England’s first black internationals and who died in a Madrid car crash in 1989, aged 33, while still on the books here.

Outside, there was an art exhibition on fibre glass cows, which actually was more interesting than the Rayo display. The barrio of Vallecas got a shout here:

And Picasso got a shout here:

And here are Cervantes and Velazquez:

As visits to cowsheds go, quite impressive, reminded me of my grandad’s west Wales farm, circa 1973.

So, a typically bizarre Rayo experience. Turned up expecting great insights and a long exposition of the club’s history and ended reminiscing about grandad – hedd, perffaith hedd – from Capel Iwan.

Only Rayo have this power, folks.

Rayo 2 Celta Vigo 1

Meanwhile, at the home of football, campo de Futbol de Vallecas, Portazgo, while Spain’s big boys were Supercopaing for Saudi shekels in Riyadh, Rayo were hosting Celta.

The hot news here is that James Rodrigues, who would probably get elected as Colombia’s president if he stood, is no longer at the club after a career lasting six games.

So you can now get two bufandas for a tenner. A euro tenner, as their sell-by date had arrived.

If you arrive only four hours before kick off the ticket office will tell you only 100 euro tickets are left so I got one from a gnarly Charlie oldster outside the ground for 50 which was still double what someone had paid.

But no complaints. It was well worth it.

Only at Rayo can you end up sitting next to a former bullfight correspondent from the magazine Hola, known in the UK as Hello.

A well connected sort he’d met the Celta striker Borja Iglesias’s girlfriend before the natch for a shandy or some such. Believe it or not she lives in the tower block that overlooks one end of the home of football, which only has 3 stands – I think they lost the other one somewhere.

Sidelined striker Raul de Tomas for instance – reputedly on 3m a year – is depressed cos he’s not being picked. That was one gem!

‘She’s an influencer, and they’re an item,’ he said.

And with mates all over the shop, this 24-year-old coukd be for a long career. He seemed to have pals in the know everywhere.

Adri Embarba got the opener in five and I barely remember it cos I thought I heard the ref whistle. As did Celta who complained bitterly.

Then a great move down the left, Celta’s Bamba put in a first time cross that swept across goal and Iglesias struck first time to score, just 30 yards from his missus’s flat.

What about that for a matador’s coup de grace – netting in La Liga in your girlfriend’s back garden. I’d be impressed.

First half was decent, second half provided more thrills, capped by fruity Jorge de Frutos’s 63rd minute piledriver to make it 2-1. Celta keeper probably should’ve saved it.

It sent the terrace fruitcakes – aka the Bukaneros – potty.

Rayo hung on, Celta’s Alonso was sent in the fifth minute of injury time.

And the post-match team acknowledgement, where the squad, coaches, cleaners, dressing room budgie etc are serenaded by the fans on the fondo terrace took so long after the game – it felt like 10 minutes – I wondered if they were going to start selling tickets for it.

But it had its purpose. A restatement of barrio pride, community cohesion, an anti-modern football two’s-up to the world – that’s what it feels like. An almost unique experience in football. Could do with lopping a coupla minutes off, mind.

All hail the hoi polloi!