A man walks into a bar and offers me two tickets for Bayer Leverkusen v Newcastle United…

So there I am ahead of Beyer Leverkusen v Newcastle United, perched on a bar stool at the Lindner Hotel, which is built into the BayArena.

The time is about 11.30 on matchday six and Ross Wilson, Newcastle United’s sporting director, breaks off from a meeting with some of the backroom staff to order a double espresso.

He is smartly dressed; I am wearing a vintage NUFC Christmas jumper. Bit of a giveaway.

“Hello, you’re Mr Wilson,” I say. “Good luck this evening.”

He spares a minute or two of his precious time to chat politely and confirm that, sorry, he has no spare tickets. Then he resumes his confidential briefing.

A few minutes later, while I’m still sitting at the bar, nursing a peppermint tea, a big man with a German accent walks up and asks if I’m going to the match. Must have been that black and white jumper . . .

I explain there is no prospect because, like thousands of other Mags staying in Leverkusen, Cologne and Dusseldorf, I cannot acquire a ticket.

“Why do you all come over without tickets?” the big man asks.

“Oh, we love to meet friends, have a bit of a party. We can watch the game on TV,” I explain.

“So how many tickets do you want?”

“Well, I would like one for me and another for a pal who is arriving today.”

He explains that he knows a woman in the box office and might be able to help. We exchange mobile numbers. He cannot give me his real name, tell me his job or where he works. “Just call me Paul Leverkusen.”

“I know, you are actually a spy and will have to shoot me if I discover your true identity. Sell me two tickets, then you can shoot me after the match,” I joke.

Big Paul has to meet somebody else, so we shake hands and he promises to get back to me.

Four hours later, still no call. I intend to text him but press the wrong button on the mobile and he picks up.

“Simon, my friend isn’t answering my calls. I’ll try her again now.”

Within a minute, he rings back and offers two tickets, one free, one full price, for a total of 150 euros. “Send me the money on PayPal and I will send you the tickets on a pdf.” He rings off.

Not before time, alarm bells are going like the clappers. The three friends who are sharing my flat in the city are immediately suspicious.

I text, asking for proof of the tickets. A few messages go back and forth, including one that shows the tickets have a 71 euro face value. Nothing free, then.

Can I meet Paul at the stadium and do the transaction face to face. “No, I cannot be there this evening.”

Texts continue, he plays the “I can’t believe you don’t trust me” card. He rings my mobile and I decline to pick up.

After a “this is your last chance” text, he says he will give the tickets to a friend, wishes me a good Christmas and a happy life.

Was he genuine? We’ll never know.

(ED: Simon pictured above, flanked by two new Dutch friends)

An hour later I’m back at the hotel bar, drinking alcohol, catching up with old friends, taking photos of Newcastle United supporters for The Mag and marvelling at the relaxed ambience. Kick-off is still more than two hours away.

A small group of Dutch fans with Woltemade and Tonali on their tops happily pose for a shot.

“You write for The Mag? We read it every week, what’s your name?”

I show them the scene setter that went online yesterday. “You don’t have a ticket? We have a spare one. You can have it. Near the away fans, on the touchline.”

After quickly explaining to my English friends what has happened, I head to the turnstiles with Martien, Dave and their mates. Because they refuse to let me pay, I promise to donate money to a charity, such as the Teenage Cancer Trust.

Big Paul’s loss is a worthy cause’s gain. He almost certainly wasn’t a spy but there was clearly something a bit dodgy about his behaviour.