By November 2017, PSG were operating at a different level from most sides across the planet, never mind those based in Scotland. A breathtaking array of talent was purchased for fortunes by Middle-Eastern gas and oil money in an attempt to secure the Champions League for the city.
Brendan Rodgers’ side were dominant domestically but were no match for the French, as their trio of superstars fought it out to see who could score the most brilliant goal. There were contenders galore for that honour, as they inflicted a heaviest-ever home European defeat on Celtic – 5-0 – before making it an unwelcome double with a 7-1 rout in Paris.
Like many European trips, the game had spoiled a good day out. I had met up with my son and his friends near the Eiffel Tower, before moving on to Place de Clichy for the mother of all singsongs, ‘Lustig you’re the one’ being belted out across the square by the hordes of mad visitors for most of the afternoon, before we headed west to the slaughter.
Moussa Dembele had actually given us some hope with a first-minute strike (pic above) but that only seemed to make PSG angry. It was a long night, where it seemed that everything they hit ended up in our net and it was a relief to get out and catch the flight home, tails between our legs after losing seven goals in Europe again.
Place de Clichy was the home of the French CSC that day and it was my intention to head out to the Harp Bar on arrival in Paris on the Wednesday night, in the hope there would be some other Hoops supporters around. On checking their Twitter site the previous evening, however, I discovered that they are about to move (or have already moved) on from that base, so that was that plan scuppered. Probably just as well, as I’m knackered.
So after the football ends, I cross the road to TimBatesMotel, for a desperately-needed cuppa and a night’s sleep ahead of a big day tomorrow. The kettle is on, teabag is out and I’m opening the less-than-generous milk portion to finish the job. I needn’t have bothered. Norman’s previous victim has beaten me to it, both sachets are empty. Quel surpris. It must have been some deep-clean earlier! Memo to self. Dimhotels most definitely not for me again.
It’s 5am and, somewhat surprisingly, I haven’t been murdered in my sleep. I’m up and about like any other excited 58-year-old schoolBhoy. It’s matchday and I have a train to catch. I bid ‘merci pour rien’ and ‘au revoir’ to Norman and wish his mother well on her recovery, before heading for nearby Gare Montparnasse.
It’s a huge place but it’s pretty well laid out, so I quickly find the relevant Ouigo meeting point. There are other Hoops in the queue so it feels like a Celtic trip again. I am advised by the attendant in French that it will be platform 4 for Rennes and we’re waiting at the barrier when another guy says something in French and the crowd moves as one to the right, like a scene from a movie.
I ask a chap nearby in my best schoolboy Francais what is going on and he tells me that the Rennes train will now be leaving from platform 9, which involves an escalator ride downstairs. My fee for this info is that he is indicating I take his second suitcase down the escalator, whilst my new best pal struggles manfully to control his other one.
He is built like the suitcase would have a better chance of carrying him downstairs, so I feel duty-bound to oblige. So down I duly go with his massive baggage, ignoring a lifetime of ‘don’t accept bags from strangers’ guidance. Soon I am at the bottom and as I turn around expecting the worst, thankfully he hasn’t done a runner or collapsed, so I leave him with the challenge of getting his two grand pianos on the train and rush off to find my carriage.
It’s all very civilised on the Rennes Express, with allocated seats. A few of the troops jump into the row in front of me are just getting settled when they are asked to move by a Frenchman waving a ticket and pointing to the seat. The Bhoys groan, grab their bags and move down the train and soon we’re on our way. The carriage is quiet for the next couple of hours and I manage to complete my article for The Celtic Star and send to the editor just as we pull into Rennes. Job done.
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