The noise from across the road suggests a home goal and as I head into the bar I see that PSG are already two ahead, both scored by former Madrid star, Angel Di Maria. No room outside so in we go and there’s a table with my name on it in the corner.
There is one guy working the bar and he is run off his feet, however, finally, he spies me and we’re in business, Guinness and a burger, the athlete’s diet. I’m watching the end of the first half thinking something’s not quite right here before I realise that Real Madrid are wearing navy and their former goalkeeper, Keylor Navas, now plays for Paris – as they seem to prefer to be called these days – who are wearing all-white, with former Chelsea and Atletico stopper, Thibaut Courtois between the other posts.
I’m wondering what new UEFA rule or commercial ploy is behind the decision for both teams to abandon their normal colours. Like Celtic in Hoops, Real Madrid should always play in all-white, unless the opposition kit forces a clash. Bonkers.
Di Maria misses a great chance for his hat-trick and there is only one further goal scored, a third for the French champions towards the end. It’s met with a huge roar across the pub. Who says the Parisians don’t care about their team? TV shots cut to a smiling Neymar and Mbappe, sitting in a hospitality box inside the stadium. The other member of that trident strike force who ruined my last Celtic trip to Paris – Edinson Cavani – is also missing. Pity they hadn’t been in the stand that night!
That match, in November 2017, had been my third visit to the French capital following Celtic, albeit the first had been fleeting. On a Sunday night back in September 1981, your 20-year-old author had left the Celtic social club in Springburn to join a minibus full of Cairn Bishopbriggs Bhoys for the short trip into Central Station. From there, we travelled overnight to London before catching the boat train to Paris.
The real fun started when our bedraggled party attempted to cross the French city from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyon. Looking the worse for wear and smelling of last night’s booze, my ‘O’ Level French was met by only puzzled or disgusted looks. Miraculously, we did finally manage to board the overnight train to Turin, arriving 5am Tuesday for my first continental game with Celtic, as we sought to protect a 1-0 lead over Juventus courtesy of a Murdo volley. But Turin’s another story!
Fourteen years later, in October 1995, I had travelled to Paris with my dad on the Cairn CSC bus for our European Cup-Winners’ Cup clash with PSG in the Parc des Princes. Dad had only recently been diagnosed with the first of his serious health problems, as he approached his 70th birthday, and my siblings and I decided that we would sent him on this trip as a bit of a joint treat/boost.
A quarter of a century later, there are still a few memories of that trip which remain in my head to this day. There was the severe crushing outside the stadium as 10,000 Hoops fans attempted to enter the stadium, penned in by the ‘no messing’ gendarmes on horseback, quite a frightening experience at the time.
Then a fantastic display of support from the French, the ultras at both ends trying all night to outdo one another, and producing an incredible atmosphere. This was the first time I recall witnessing such fanatical but synchronised support first-hand. The two ultra groups apparently had opposing political views and basically refused to acknowledge one another. Think the Judean People’s Front and the Popular Front of Judea – Splitter! – only without the great humour.
For our part, the Celtic fans burst into a spontaneous version of La Marseillaise at the end, which went down an absolute storm with the locals. In terms of the match itself, it was nip and tuck for the most part, Pierre van Hooijdonk missing an easy chance in the first half. You all know the script from there, I suspect, young PSG star, Youri Djorkaeff, striking the only goal of the game late on. At 1-0 down, I felt we were still very much in the tie, however, the second leg was a different story entirely. For pretty much the first time in my life, I watched a Celtic side humbled at home in Europe, the late, loved Tommy Burns’ team ripped apart in our brand new shiny stadium, as the French won 3-0, en route to winning the trophy itself.
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