As I reach the hotel, I am greeted with a shout of ‘Martin!’, and a smiling guy comes over to shake my hand. It’s Bob from Portsmouth, who I also met in Trondheim, in the Irish bar, then again in St Gallen this July. We spent quite a bit of time drinking together before and after the match in Switzerland and I obviously made a big impression, given that he has already forgotten my name. Not to worry. I tell Bill that I’ll be out and about this afternoon and will give Ben a call at some point. The joke is wasted on Rob but at least I get a laugh. I’ll ‘Martin’ him!
I’ve slipped into something more Hoopy and a shower and a shave have made me feel more human. I head back towards the main square, passing the Rue de Corbin, obviously named after the Labour Leader’s historic decision to follow the Celts to Cluj. I then see another familiar face, as Tony comes towards me, suitably Hooped-up. I met the big fellow in Cluj and we had a few beers in O’Peters. A nice, helpful guy. He had pointed me in the direction of the Irish pub in Romania and now gives me the lowdown on the bars in Rennes, where the Bhoys will be. Every Celtic trip should include a Tony.
I’d hit O’Connells for a pint and I’m wandering through Parliament Square taking in the atmosphere. Both sets of fans are out in the sunshine wearing their colours and it’s brilliant. The locals are taking photos and I’m guessing this sort of friendly invasion isn’t commonplace in Rennes.
I recognise a few of the guys in the square, including the nephew of my old mate, who despite being pretty-much an ever-present following Celtic in Europe, has managed to avoid me until now. Sensible boy. Ciaran is actually in the company of friends of my kids, so introductions are made and a photo taken to send back to his Uncle Joe, a pal of mine for thirty years plus. Joe likes to wind me up by telling me that I have a worse record in Europe than Theresa May, whilst his young nephew is a bit of a lucky charm. I point out that we are actually going to the same games, so that can’t be the case, however, it falls on deaf ears. ‘You’re older, so you’ve seen more defeats!’ He probably has a fair point, thinking on it.
I’m mingling in the Square again when I hear my name shouted, the correct name, so it’s obviously not Bob/Bill/Ben/Rob. It’s actually the young guy I first saw in Sarajevo wearing the new yellow away kit in the café at the cathedral. He then introduced himself as Conor when we met by chance in Cluj the following month, en route to picking up our match tickets.
His pal shouts out something about missing royalties for his photo in the kebab shop and I remember the Tweet, I just hadn’t joined the dots. Turns out Conor’s pal is the guy who inadvertently ended up in my photo of the ‘Street Food’ joint in Cluj, which turned out to be a kebab house rather than some trendy eatery where men in their 50s go at 3am in search of culture.
I get a good laugh as the boys tell me that not only are they both called Conor Patrick, but another three guys on their CSC have the same forenames. ‘I’m Conor Patrick and so is my wife!’ Only in Coatbridge, the 33rd county of the Republic! The Conor Patrick CSC Bhoys are great company, a credit to their families and our club. They go everywhere to follow the team. A few beers and a few laughs. This is what it’s all about.
I would happily spend more time with the guys but as I’m Martin and not Conor Patrick then I don’t qualify for the gang. I leave them to it and head back across to O’Connell’s for the promised catch-up with Bob, who has been texting me to find out my whereabouts. Wonder what name I’m under on his phone?
Outside the pub, there’s a banner proclaiming that the French CSC are on tour. It’s more of a home game for them but again the global nature Celtic and its following is highlighted by the flags from all over the world. Nearly said ‘ceramics’ there. The home support are now out in force as we approach match-time, it’s already late afternoon. I get talking to a few of them inside the packed bar as we try to get served and it’s clear that they too are having a ball. This has been a really chilled-out day in north-western France, and it is turning into one of the best Celtic away trips in a while.
I’ve barely said hello to Bob or touched my pint before the fan walk to the game commences in the square opposite where we are standing. Bob’s off like a shot but I’m struggling with the multitasking involved in walking and drinking at the same time. Typical guy.
The mass march to the game is a new thing for me and I love it. Leipzig was incredible as there were thousands involved that day, albeit by the time we got to the stadium, it was clear that someone hadn’t thought through the logistics. The huge crowd turned up to be met by three turnstiles and a multi-search operation and I missed about thirty minutes of the game.
These numbers look much more manageable and as I know where I’m going, I march for so long before grabbing a seat to enjoy my Guinness and watch the scene unfold. There are locals everywhere grabbing a photo opportunity, laughing or applauding. The Rennes fans have joined in and the whole thing just looks and feels brilliant. Pint downed, I rejoin the procession before cutting off for the shortcut I found earlier. Thankfully, everyone else stays on the main drag and so I find myself arriving at the empty turnstiles for the easiest awayday access ever.
I take my seat which is really high up in the upper tier, quickly realising that everyone else is moving to the front of the stand. They can’t all have Row A seats so when in Rennes…I find a brilliant spot on the barrier. A guy asks if I will keep an eye on his banner as he ties the black flag of the Neilson CSC to the rail. No problem. Superb view. I should do this more often.
I’m taking in what’s going on around me as the ground starts to fill up. In front of me is the banner of the Neil Mochan CSC, of which my big pal is or was the chairman. So there’s a photo texted back to Big Tam. There’s also a brilliant Wimbledon CSC flag, which is made up in the purple and green All England Tennis club colours. Another cracker. And talking of crackers, in the nicest-possible sense, I see Lubeck Joe at the front people-watching. One ‘look behind you’ text later and my big German pal is smiling and waving up. He had travelled down by train on Tuesday. Fanatical Celt is Lubeck Joe.
CLICK ON GREEN ‘NEXT’ BUTTON AT TOP TO CONTINUE
