The stand has now really filled up and there’s a tremendous noise as the Celts line up for the match. I’m really encouraged by the start as we take the game to the home team, with the best chance of the half falling to us as Mohamed Elyounoussi stretches but just fails to convert a Boli Bolingoli cross from the left. Having watched Celtic try and fail to defend away from home so many times over the years, there is a real freshness and excitement about the way the ball is being sprayed about. Love it.
I am always a bit wary of the referees on these trips and this guy is already worrying me. It feels like he is hammering us for the slightest thing yet being quite lenient towards the home side. I am biased obviously but this is feeling like we have a real ‘homer’ here.
I am not in the slightest surprised when he points to the spot, although consensus around me seems to be that he gets this one right. I feel quite confident when big Fraser faces a penalty, he must be an imposing sight for the taker, however the Rennes player makes an excellent job of it and so, yet again in Europe, we have lost the first goal. I text my concerns back to the Cairn chatgroup, all watching at home. The overall view seems to be that he has called most things correctly. Fair enough. I’ll take that.
We have started the second half on the front foot again. The decisive moment in the match arrives early, as James Forrest shows fantastic footwork to lull the defender into a challenge which even this ref has to give as a penalty. There is an incredible racket behind the opposite goal as the local ultras do their best to put Ryan Christie off but he shows nerves of steel to expertly tuck the ball into the corner. Cue bedlam in the away sections, and for the Hoops dotted around the two adjacent stands.
As the game draws to a close, Neil Lennon introduces Bayo for the imperious French Eddie, another fine performance from the big striker. His replacement is immediately involved in what looked like an innocuous aerial challenge but which results in his opponent leaving the field on a stretcher.
The crowd are immediately on his case and are a huge factor minutes later, as the goalkeeper writhes in agony on the pitch after Bayo chases a 50/50 with him. From my vantage point, I can see the referee clearly indicate that no foul has been committed, and he is in a great position to call it.
Then follows one of the more bizarre decisions I have witnessed, as he runs to check the grounded keeper then, on the basis of that inspection, races back to show Bayo a second yellow. I have since seen it on TV and it is a disgraceful injustice. There is little or no contact involved and certainly nothing in the area of the head or face. In my opinion, he has clearly reacted to the crowd and got it badly wrong. And the goalkeeper should be retrospectively charged with simulation. I won’t hold my breath for that.
The game ends 1-1, which is a decent result for Celtic away to the French Cup-winners, currently second in Ligue 1 having beaten PSG both in the national cup final in April, where they recovered from two goals down in the Stade de France to win on penalties, then again in the league just last month, recovering from the loss of a goal to Cavani to win 2-1. Ever a greedy Bhoy, I actually think the game was there to be won and we would not have been flattered by that. Still, I’ll take the point.
I head back into the town centre and the Fox & Friend, which is now packed but I manage to squeeze onto a barstool into the corner. The Ghent v St Etienne game is on TV and it’s good to see that Lustig is still the one, setting up a goal as the Belgians edge a five-goal thriller.
Speaking of edge, I am being nudged off my stool constantly, as I seem to have landed beside a guy with the France’s widest back. Every time he moves in his stool, I make an involuntary 45-degree turn. It’s funny at first but after a few spins, I move my own stool a bit further away, but to no avail, as Le Back gravitates towards me once more.
I’m trying to have a conversation with some French fans, a couple of whom are trying to convince me that Rennes will win 3-0 in Glasgow. Pas de chance! My new friend decides to get the party started by jumping up on a table and singing at the top of his voice, whilst waving his red flag. He has had one too many sherberts but is clearly enjoying the occasion, as are the rest of the pub. Well apart from me.
If I have to move my stool any further away I’ll be in Belgium or on the guy’s lap next to me. Neither of those options are particularly appealing, so although my French is improving in line with the amount of Guinness I decide that now would probably be a good time to head back to the hotel. Captain Sensible CSC is right. I have a full day of travelling ahead of me tomorrow.
A good night’s sleep in a proper hotel with not a stuffed mother in sight followed by a nice breakfast has set me up for the train journey back to Paris. I manage to get some more writing done and two hours later I am emerging into the sunshine at Montparnasse. My flight back to Edinburgh is not due to depart until 9pm so I have a full day to enjoy or kill in Paris. Rather than go through the normal metro routine, I decide to make my way on foot and see a bit of the city from another perspective.
Having worked out a route which should see me arrive at Notre Dame within a couple of hours, I set off. I cut through the cemetery at Montparnasse, which I had noticed when I was booking my hotel. A quick check on Google had told me that a number of famous artists, military and political figures had been interred there, although, the main name jumping out at me was Serge Gainsbourg, forever associated in my head with the old heavy-breathing classic, ‘Je t’aime moi non plus’ from my youth. Think I’ll just leave that one there.
Once out of the cemetery, my thoughts for some reason turn to the trip I made here with my dad, back in 1995, and then to everything that has happened since then. If you’ve lost someone very dear then you’ll get that these things happen at the weirdest times.
I reckon that this was his second-last overseas jaunt with Celtic. The final one would take place almost eight years later, as we headed to Stuttgart on the Road to Seville. Dad had been diagnosed with a terminal illness by then but legend that he was, he was determined to make it there. It would prove to be the only time that the three generations of Matt Corrs would be on the continent with Celtic together, my 14-year-old son and my older sister completing our party.
That was a brilliant trip, in every sense, from the Rathausplatz to the St Pauli brigade singing on the tram, en route to the game. But mostly it was brilliant because we were all there together. He had given me Celtic and so much else and now we were enjoying that special time with my own son. The baton was being passed. We had been to Cardiff and Amsterdam on Euro awaydays but I will be forever grateful and glad that we all got to do that one together. Dad survived long enough to witness a third major European final for Celtic – some 36 years after he had travelled with my uncle to Lisbon – before passing away later that year. I owe him everything.
Carrying on through Place de Denfert Rochereau, I check my bearings and confirm I am on the right route, heading due north towards the Seine and Notre Dame. I see references to Saint-Sulpice and other names from Hugo’s masterpiece, Les Miserables, a favourite of mine. Suddenly, I am picturing Monsieur le Maire, reincarnated from Jean Valjean and striding the boulevards of Revolutionary-era Paris, one step ahead of the dedicated but ultimately-tragic Inspector Javert, as he honours his oath to the dead Fantine by protecting little Cosette. Right, that’s enough culture for you lot for one day.
The crowds thicken as I approach Notre Dame. I have decided to have lunch then spend some time writing in the shadow of the beautiful cathedral. Walking away from the crowds towards the rear of the building you can clearly see the devastation which has occurred there, following the fire in April. Encouragingly, the fightback has begun, there are new wooden trestles already visible, arching into the sky. I have no doubt that once complete, the grand old lady will once again look fabulous.
I spot a quiet place to grab some food and catch up on some writing. I allow myself a wry chuckle at the thought of finding myself with a few hours to spare in one of the most romantic locations in the world, a place where writers have come for centuries to dream. Where Hemingway and Orwell and a thousand others worked up their plots. Where Bogart’s Rick met Bergman’s Ilsa, years before that electric meeting in Casablanca, in the defining romance of the 20th century. What are the odds that I’m going to spend it on my lonesome, writing about the Celtic? Definitely a club like no other.
The last part of my walking tour of Paris takes me north of the river, heading towards the Gare du Nord, from where I will pick up the airport train. Some of the Rue Saint Martin (obviously named after me, Bob) is pedestrianised and the sunshine has brought the café culture to life. It really looks a beautiful city today and I am glad I made the effort to take in the sights, sounds and smells on foot. I reach the station where I caught my first sight of Paris all those years ago, en route to Turin in 1981. It seems like a lifetime ago now.
There is one more thing on my To Do list. Today is the 48th birthday of the one and only Henrik Larsson, perhaps the greatest Celtic player it has been my pleasure to watch in over fifty years of following my team.
His performance in Seville raised the bar on even his sublime standards and it was a travesty that he didn’t get to lift the UEFA Cup on that bittersweet evening. Three years later, however, he went one better, coming on as a second-half substitute to turn the Champions League final around in favour of his new club, Barcelona, setting up both goals late on as the Catalan giants came from a goal behind to beat Arsenal 2-1 in the Stade de France.
Now as the train approaches the station at St Denis, up in the northern suburbs of Paris, I get a glimpse of the giant arena in the distance, the tourists making their way along the concrete gangways to make their own memories. I’m not a guy who has a ‘second team’. For me it’s always Celtic or Celtic but I did make an exception that evening in May 2006. I suspect I was not alone as we willed the King of Kings to win the medal he so definitely deserved. I raise a virtual glass on his birthday at the scene of his greatest triumph.
Like Bogie and Ingrid, he’ll always have Paris.
Hail Hail!
Matt Corr
Follow Matt on Twitter @Boola_vogue
All of Matt’s previous European away day diaries are available to enjoy on The Celtic Star, use the Archive section on the sidebar. Perhaps his finest Diary was from this July from the trip to Sarajevo, which is a brilliant piece of fan journalism…‘Something inside, so strong…the spirit of Miss Sarajevo,’ Matt Corr’s Diary, Dedicated to the victims of the Siege of Sarajevo and the massacre at Srebrenica…see HERE.
