Here we go again! We’re on the road again! After a manic summer period it feels like a while since my last European awayday, with the good people of Cluj back in early August. A potentially-stressful house move unfortunately clashed with Celtic’s play-off visit to face AIK in Stockholm, so reluctantly – very reluctantly – I missed out on one of the cities on my bucket list.
I had been really intrigued by the Swedish capital since reading the ‘Dragon Tattoo’ novels and seeing the movies a few years ago, and my son had also spoken highly of it after a business trip earlier this year. Another time hopefully. Thankfully, we’re settled in the new place now and a trip to Rennes is very much on. Happy days!
With no official supporters’ charter for France, we’re on our Jack Jones again, really disappointing as a day trip would have been perfect for this one. I’m also a bit late to the party, in terms of booking flights and hotels, so flying directly to Rennes is now looking too rich.
I settle on a plan which takes me from Edinburgh to Paris on Wednesday evening, with an overnight stay there before catching a 7am train through to Rennes on matchday. With flights and trains booked and match ticket secured, it’s beginning to look like a really good trip before I check out the Paris hotels.
The prices are crazy, astronomical. I do consider other options including some kind of Paris by Night tour but there’s no practical alternative, so, sadly, I will have to take another one for the team. I want to be based near the railway station at Montparnasse, from where I’ll be heading west to Rennes early the following morning, and it looks like the ‘best’ options cost and location-wise are the wonderfully-named Timhotels – surely a sign from God, or Henrik, as I like to call him (by the way, Happy 48th birthday, Your Holiness!). I book one of those hotels and, albeit feeling a bit fleeced, we’re finally good to go.
I’ll have two new travelling companions on the flight to France. I ordered a cracking ‘French Bhoys’ t-shirt (see above) from @iknowjojo, featuring the trio’s celebrations after the recent 2-0 derby win, which looks great and I think will be just the job for this trip. She’s a talented girl is Jo. I had bought some of her ‘iconic Celtic moments’ coaster sets from her website earlier this year, unique gifts for family and a couple of people whom I wanted to thank at the time. One of the sets ended up more than 6,000 miles away, in the home of a Japanese Bhoy in Yokohama!
I am also the proud owner of an @italianceltscsc scarf (again see above). Club President, Alessandro presented it me recently at Celtic Park, where I was taking the opportunity to meet up with a group of the Italian Celts from Verona in the Number 7. Celtic-mad Alessandro made my night when he made me an honorary member of the club. I’ve been thinking that it’s a beautiful and thoughtful gift deserving of a wider audience, and so I have decided that ‘Sandra La Sciarpa’ will also be in Rennes to see the Celts. (Scarves are feminine in Italian, and I’ve forgotten your First Lady’s name Alessandro, sorry!).
It’s a late afternoon flight from Edinburgh on Wednesday so, for once, there’s no 6am Guinness and photo to wind the kids up before they set off for work. In fact, my ‘just-in-time’ travel arrangements mean there’s no beer whatsoever before I land in Paris. My Celtic Star Editor will be pleased though, as I’ll use the time to type up the latest piece I’ve been researching for my ‘If you know the history…’ series for the site. This article focuses on the month of September 1888, as Celtic enter the Scottish Cup – our cup – for the first time and also reach our first-ever cup final. Check it out if you fancy that, you can read it HERE.
I catch the RER train from Charles de Gaulle and an hour or so later I’m on a metro in the heart of Paris, heading for Montparnasse. It’s dark as I emerge from the subway but the place is absolutely buzzing. Magical. The pubs are packed and most are tuned in to PSG v Real Madrid, which has just kicked off. I notice the Guinness sign outside one of the bars where the locals are engrossed in the match, the roars and sighs carrying out into the street.
I find my Timheaven and head inside to check in. The chap at reception is very friendly but sadly he and the hotel name are the only good things about this place. The room is tiny, dark and old-fashioned and doesn’t feel particularly clean. As I get older I’ll admit that I have become a bit of a hotel snob but this place is just rubbish. A total rip-off. It’s not going to ruin my trip though. Quick freshen up then it’s time for a pint, food and the footie.
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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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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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I have again picked a hotel close to the station and the good news is that this is more like it, a proper hotel. The bad news is that I have to wait four hours to check-in which, whilst not unexpected, is not ideal.
I decide to head into the town centre for breakfast then a look around. I am asking the chap on reception for directions and recommendations and doing really well conversing in French, if you can ignore my annoying habit of saying ‘Si’ every time he asks me a question. Five weeks in Italy over the summer followed by a meal with the Verona branch of the Italian Celts last week and I have become some sort of mad Scottish-Italian-Spanish Del Bhoy who is lost in France.
I apologise about a million times then head out. Along the banks of the main canal I find the perfect spot for breakfast. It’s quiet and they’re advertising croissants, orange juice and coffee for 8 Euro. The guy at the bar is friendly and seems to appreciate my attempts at speaking his language. I’m a tea rather than coffee man so I carefully make my requests, hot tea, cold milk, sugar etc. I sit down feeling quite chuffed with myself and my efforts to blend seamlessly into the French way of life. That lasts as long as it takes for mine host to bring over a jug of frothy, boiling-hot milk! ‘Mange tout! Back to the drawing board, Rodney’.
Appetite satisfied and taste buds burnt, I decide to head out to the stadium. It’s a beautiful day and I am advised it will take about twenty minutes, although after HotMilkGate that could well be wrong. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes in I can see a sign directing me off the main road through a quiet residential street and park to the stadium. I arrive at the visitors end, which I’m thinking is handy to know ahead of the walk later. I don’t want a repeat of Leipzig, where we all turn up at the same time and the turnstiles are manic, and after killing time all day we miss the kick-off.
It looks a cracking stadium. A proper venue. Steep stands and all. Not unlike Salzburg from memory. I take a few photos as I walk around, catching an occasional glimpse of the inside through open gates. At the far end of the ground, the home end presumably, a Roazhon Park sign is proudly emblazoned on the stadium wall. I had learned that Rennes is the capital of Brittany and Roazhon is the Breton name for Rennes. I had noticed earlier that the street signs were written in both French and Breton, an ancient south-western Celtic language, closer to Cornish than French apparently. As fellow Celts, hopefully we will have much in common with our hosts.
Whilst taking photographs of the stadium, I am suddenly aware of the longest row of Citroen 2CV6 cars I have ever seen. As I was learning to drive, forty years ago, I thought this car was the coolest on the planet. It would appear I was not alone, as a few car enthusiasts are buzzing around these taking their own photos, manipulating the vehicles into a perfect line in a way which makes the OCD in me burst with pride. I resist the urge to help my fellow Celtic maniacs and move on. A quick pop into the club shop to maintain a tradition dad started decades ago and then it’s time to head back into town.
Approaching the centre of town, I hear Scottish accents as I pass a couple of guys not wearing any colours. Turns out they are the drivers for a CSC from Pollok, I catch the ‘7-1’ but not the full name. The troops have been dropped off in the main square and the drivers are stretching their legs and enjoying the sun. For years, the Cairn CSC ran such trips. The thought of 24 hours on a bus to travel to a game feels a bit daunting now but some of the best laughs of my teens and twenties came on those travels across the continent following the team. Rotterdam. Ghent. Dortmund. Ekeren. Berne. And of course, we’ll always have Paris.
Rennes is a nice place with a real historic feel to its old centre. The cathedral façade looks uncannily like Paris’ Notre Dame, one of my favourite buildings on the planet. I am not hugely religious. Now that the kids are adults, I tend to find solace in it when I am losing or have just lost the people I love but otherwise it doesn’t feature prominently in my life. I have to say though, that I was really moved when I saw the clip of the Parisian youngsters singing Ave Maria as the beautiful old building burned in the background in April of this year. I will be in Paris tomorrow so will try to get up for a look at it.
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Just around the corner there is a welcome sight, a ‘Failte Celtic’ sign outside a corner pub. I am still a bit early to check in to the hotel so this provides a good excuse to check it out. I look at my watch, it is Guinness o’clock. Lunch and a couple of pints then the hotel. Sorted. I love it when a plan I haven’t made comes together.
This is the Fox & Friends. Although it sounds like a roast beef joint in Middle England, there is wall-to-wall Celtic memorabilia on display and Irish music playing for the advance patrol of Hoops supporters sitting both inside and outside the bar.
A guy who looks like the owner is wearing a Celtic polo whilst a lovely young waitress is bedecked in Rennes red, complete with scarf. I order a pint and some food and make a note to take a photo or three to send home. Pinned onto the roof above the front door, there is a huge banner, which looks intriguing. On closer inspection, it is a collage of all the Celtic nations, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, the Isle of Man and some others I am less familiar with. I’m guessing that Brittany and Cornwall may be involved, given the earlier discussion.
The bar staff are rushing around to stay on top of things, as the place starts to get really busy. I wait for a quietish moment then approach the barmaid like a nervous stalker. I needn’t have been so. She is called Emily and is game for a laugh. ‘You want a photo with me? Absolutely. Whatever you want.’ The deed is duly done and another European away-day moment is captured for posterity, as Celtic connections are cemented in the Fox & Friend.
There’a a guy at the bar wearing Hoops, sunglasses and a bright red kilt, who is just screaming out to be captured for the diary. He is Kenny from Knightswood and is also up for a chuckle. We are quickly joined by his son, also Kenny from Knightswood, who recognises me as ‘the guy who did the video in Trondheim.’ It turns out they were sitting just in front of me that night in the Lerkendal, appearing in the brief clip I posted of the players and support celebrating ‘the day we won away’, last November.
I’m really enjoying the vibe but the rarely-utilised sensible part of my brain decides that it’s probably best to head for my hotel before a few pints becomes a full-on session. I make my way through the narrow streets which are now increasingly filling up with Celtic supporters. Checking my bearings on the map given to me earlier by the hotel receptionist to stop me saying ‘Si’, I now find myself in the romantically-named Rue le Bastard. I’ve rued a few. We’ll have a bit of fun with that on Twitter later.
Just along the road is the main Parliament Square and I am surprised to see hundreds of Celtic fans already there, basking in the sunshine. I had thought this would be a quietish trip numbers-wise but not a bit of it, Rennes is green and white.
I bump into big Jim, a pal who works for Celtic security and this time the roles are reversed, as he takes a selfie of him and me to send back to the guys at Celtic Park. I have found my next beer location but first things first, it’s back to the hotel to drop off my bag and get organised for the game.
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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.
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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.