I wasn’t in France 10 minutes before it all kicked off.
– “So are you here supporting Northern Ireland?” for God’s sake, right?
– “No, I’m not. I’ll be cheering for the Republic.”
– “But you’re from Northern Ireland?”
– “Just… forget it, alright.”
As introductions to tournament football go, Marseille 2016 was a baptism of fire and tear gas that was equally as exciting as Saturday night was haunting.
When England are in town, it’s big time.
It’s the very definition of having the eyes of the world on you. Thousands upon thousands of expectant fans descended upon one seaside port demanding entertainment and the global media, the pressure, and the hooligans all followed them.
“I’m never coming back here again.” It was hard not to feel sorry for the English fans on the train out of Marseille on Sunday morning. As the smoke finally lifted off of the eery streets, the mood of a group of scraped and bruised young men had sunken further.
One night of a celebration of football, one night on the south coast of France and they were pining for home. The sun was blaring down, international jerseys of every colour filled the city but there was no buzz felt by the end of the weekend. Instead, it was just five lads in their early 20s genuinely shaken and looking to get out.
It was just five lads whose bloody football team couldn’t even make the experience half worth their while by holding on to a win against a rubbish Russia side.
The scenes in La Provence before kick-off were filtering through by the minute, each one more brutal and terrifying than the next. I wasn’t there. I was sat watching them on mobile from the safety of some back-street establishment that failed after 65 minutes to show any sign of food – or a kitchen.
French travel tip: If you’re ever unsure if it’s a pub or something seedier, don’t go there looking to eat. And don’t let an Irish Times journalist convince you because “they’re showing the football”.
By full time of Switzerland’s victory, we gave up and left far too long after we should have and the six of them working in an otherwise empty bar didn’t seem to care too much. They definitely didn’t do food.
So we’re back on the streets half-expecting to run into a riot but the trouble wasn’t everywhere. Far from it. It was anything but in some places.
Outside the stadium, it was just herds of English supporters drinking and talking up their chances. It was just people there for a good time and then after that good time, they’d go on and watch England play for a bit.
It was people putting up their flags, grown men in ridiculous costumes, singing and dancing, climbing up trees – the sort of behaviour we’ll be lauding the ‘gas’ Irishmen for on Monday.
“We’re in Marseille and we’re on the piss,” rang around the place.
Finally, we got eating with a few of them watching the Wales game – they even celebrated Bale’s goal, for whatever reason.
They were there for the Euro 2016 experience and they were enjoying themselves. They were more interested in hero-worshipping Andy Reid for a stupidly long time when they found out they were speaking with Irish natives. (The Northern Ireland explanations were completed by that stage)
Every so often, 20 police vans or so would go streaming by into town, sirens blaring. It was two different worlds but, try as you might to dissociate them, they were clearly interlocked.
If there was already an uneasiness in the air with the pre-tournament terror threats, there was definitely a nervousness owing to this new undercurrent of violence that was marring the build-up.
The fact that English men and women did their best to sell-out the Velodrome themselves didn’t ease fears as supporters of both countries were lumped behind one set of goals – the Russian stand allocation for the game. No segregation, no real police force visible and fireworks and flares going off inside the stadium despite all the security precautions and assurances.
That was the scariest thing of all – probably more frightening than the sight of manic Russians charging at English fans and people desperately hurling themselves over barriers to escape.
No-one seemed to really want to go out into the Marseille night and face it. A separated incident involving a French woman later in the night saw the city’s whole Red Metro line being closed down. It wasn’t related but it fed the atmosphere.
Young English men told stories of locking themselves in a chip shop and watching Marseille locals and Russians go at it with knives.
One lad on the train was bottled in the temple, cut and swollen.
Come Sunday morning, there were very few sitting around the port intent on seeing the whole day out again with a feast of drinking and singing whilst metro strikes were playing havoc with their travel plans. Few were sitting around the port like they were on Friday and Saturday when different groups arrived and confrontation began and a football tournament too a sidestep.
England fans have gotten a bad name in all the madness as well.
On Friday, they were taking the majority of the blame in some sections, accused of provoking riots, even burning down buildings.
But, come Saturday, it seemed like their biggest crime was stealing the Will Grigg’s on Fire song so they could chant about Vardy.
And, come Sunday, all they wanted to do was get the hell out of there.
At the very least, they go knowing a little bit more about Irish politics now.
