In honour of those old Italia 90 documentaries where fans talk endlessly about getting locked in Palermo, we are casting a very personal look-back at this summer's Euros from a fan's perspective.
Here's the beer sodden recollections of Balls.ie writers who attended the group games as fans. With some help from the famous Balls.ie Euros Supporters Group. As the complicated year of 2016 dribbles to a close, we recall the giddy days of this summer.
IRELAND V SWEDEN
Brian Reynolds
'Ireland and Sweden united through Chris de Burgh'
I had put down an early marker that enabled my participation in Euro 2016 by attending the win over Germany while my wife was awaiting the birth of our first child. The original plan of staying for the entire Euros was downgraded by early May to a two day trip to the first game against Sweden - the game we could win.
Two of us arrived in Paris on the Sunday before the game and found ourselves wondering if the masses had arrived yet, that question was answered in the loud announcements that Tipperary's Shane Long had been engulfed in flames. Montemart had turned into a replica of the packed flyovers that we had back in Ireland when the Italia 90 heroes came home.
In the next 48 hours we saw the Irish fans come together in a way that had to be witnessed to be believed. I saw grown men hand out bags of ice in a line from an off licence as if they were trying to put out a fire.
Later on, ice stocks dropped to a level which would precipitate a Greenpeace style protest. Irish men and women convened an emergency meeting.
These cans were supposed to be in fridges when purchased. But, by this stage, the buying was happening right off the trucks at the back of the supermarket.
The ice was gone and the evenings were never this warm back home... but then an Einstein moment - frozen peas, frozen carrots, anything frozen could be used.
The journey to and from the game was punctuated by different chants from both sets of fans until we all found common ground with a passionate version of Lady in Red. De Burgh had brought Sweden and Ireland together again. The legend.
And then I had to go home. Simple, surely? The flight home was via Charles De Gaulle and then Manchester for a connection flight to Dublin and sure other lads had to go all the way out to Beavauis and then to London etc. I was sure I had made the right decision. The Paris flight left six hours late and more importantly an hour after my connecting flight in Manchester had left for Dublin.
The only benefit was that I got to sit beside Kevin Moran who ended up fielding more questions about how to run from one Manchester terminal to the other from the passengers than he did about whether we could qualify for the next round.
Now you never want to disturb an Irish legend at any juncture but it was he who struck up conversation about hotels in the vicinity of Manchester Airport and for a moment I thought I might get an offer to stay the night in Hotel Moran. But just as he seemed close to extending an invitation he tailed off, but later he did assure me Ireland were going through to the next round.
I slept easy that night (well as easy as you can sitting upright on the 3am sailing from Hollyhead to Dublin port after getting a £350 taxi from Manchester.
Kevin was right though, we were heading to the next round. He knew it all along.
A week before we headed out, Eamon Dunphy told the Late Late Show audience he'd discourage his kids from travelling to France and warned darkly about the threat of terrorist attacks.
In the event, the closest any of us came to danger was in the terrifyingly slippy showers in our shitty hostel. An accident waiting to happen. France's tourism watchdogs need to be alerted.
We arrived in Paris on the Saturday before Ireland's match with Sweden. It was the second day of the competition and the night England took their opening bow.
We watched the England-Russia match in a restaurant near the hostel and were drawn into conversation with a young English couple living in Paris. Rock and roll.
They were the kind of charming, enlightened, Nigel Farage hating couple who'd cheer good naturedly for the Celtic nations in their group games, oblivious to the fact that the Celts don't return the favour. A world away from the St. George's Cross flaunting skinheads who did battle with the Russians in Marseilles.
And while they were mildly impressed with England's play, they seemed detached from their national team. The bloke was from Norwich and spent much of the first half telling us how much he loved Robbie Brady and Wes Hoolahan.
It was therefore slightly jarring to move from this diplomatic scene to the carnage on the Moulin Rouge. Thousands of Irish fans drinking on the street, holding up traffic, and chanting "1-0 AND YOU FUCKED IT UP!!!" over and over again. The Moulin Rouge was the unofficial basecamp for the Irish support in Paris.
Three successive nights of drunken chanting on the road and clambering on top of buses. On the afternoon of the game, one hardy individual climbed on top of a slowly moving van and proceeded to perform 'The Full Monty' while on the roof, a spectacle on which I had the privilege to commentate as-it-happened while recording that day's edition of the Balls.ie podcast. It is these moments which make the daily grind worthwhile.
Listen to that live commentary from 15.20 onwards
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The Irish supporters were later given an award by the Mayor of Paris, though personally I'm surprised this hasn't raised a cry of protest from the city's motorists.
Despite these irritations, the locals seemed cheered by the presence of the Irish. It became clear that the Irish supporters were a spectacle in and of themselves. You'd see passing natives pause to take pictures of the Irish fans up to some merry jape.
On the Sunday, we ascended the Eiffel Tower. More rock and roll. While the tower didn't feature heavily in the Balls.ie Euros Supporters Group, there were a few green jerseys accompanying us on our rise to the top. And at the foot of the tower, a gang of Irish supporters taunted a few passing Swedes with a cry of "Go home to your sexy wife!"
When we reached the top of the tower, my colleague Barry Sweeney was overcome by the majesty of the view.
"17 Euro for a lift," was his verdict.
Anyone who has been to the Stade de France will tell you that the area surrounding is shockingly run down. These are the banlieues about which we hear so much, home to France's most disenfranchised citizens, those Muslims of north African origin whom Marine Le Pen presumably wants run out of the country. The modernist glory of the stadium itself clashes violently with the depressing, dilapidated streets round about it.
In and around the stadium, there was a bubbly, giddy atmosphere. One Swedish supporter who was a dead ringer for Zlatan Ibrahimovic became a magnet for selfies, mainly among Irish fans. Lads crowded around phones when news of the team first broke.
And so, into the stadium itself. Padraig Harrington's mug appeared on the big screen in the stadium some twenty minutes prior to kick-off. He wished the Irish team the best of luck. A certain man called Bjorn Borg did likewise for the Swedes.
Ten minutes before kick-off, I was seized by the fear that this would be a repeat of Croatia, that our tournament would be over as soon as it began. How pleasing and unexpected to see Ireland play the way they did. It was the first time in aeons that I'd seen Ireland enjoy the bulk of the play against a team of equivalent standard.
In the delirious aftermath of that terrific goal, I found myself face to face with a Irishman in his 70s who'd been sitting two seats to my left. He was touchingly young at heart.
The rest of the game was a trial to sit through. The goal re-awakened Ireland's timid instincts. Why? It's not too much of a mind-bender. Now having something to conserve, they became conservative. After the 1-1 draw, we would queue for an hour outside the stadium as the horse-mounted police directed traffic and vigorously chastised anyone they caught jaywalking (all of whom were Irish. No Swedes).
Back on the Moulin Rouge that night, it felt like any lingering disappointment at the failure to hold the lead was outweighed by pride at the performance.
I had to get a midday plane the following day. This involved taking myself out to Beauvais early the following morning. Standing there in the Paris underground after a night spent quaffing grotesquely overpriced lager, I had never felt like more of a waster and a layabout.
Without wishing to feed into stereotype, there appears to be something of an epidemic of resting bitchface in the French capital. I wouldn't quite call it a national emergency. Perhaps, this is unfair. This was 9am on a Tuesday morning, after all.
So there I was, on the Paris metro at rush hour on a Tuesday morning, surrounded by suited and scowling French commuters, while wearing a white T-shirt bearing the word "WESSI" above a stylised picture of Wes Hoolahan. Bound for home.
I tagged along with my cousin and a group of his friends to France. One of the lads' nickname was Mad Dog. Now, although a fellow Cavanman, I'd only met him a few times before and he seemed a very respectable chap. I could not fathom why this name had been bestowed upon him.
Needless to say, come the end of the trip, any doubts I had about his epithet had been erased. At the end of a hectic night on Moulin Rouge, after Ireland had drawn with Sweden, myself and Mad Dog headed on the long walk back to our hostel. It was 5am, the streets were still thronged with fans and the lights of Moulin Rouge's, ermmm, 'establishments' shone brightly. However our minds were now elsewhere.
Talk turned to the following Sunday and Cavan's Ulster semi-final clash with Tyrone. I would be arriving back into Dublin airport around about the same time as the ball would be throwing in in Clones. Mad Dog and my cousin were already searching for Bordeaux's equivalent of The Boars Head - to find a television and a corner that would house all their emotions. Anyhow, the Parisian walk home gave us opportunity to air any worries we had about the match and, sure enough, by the time we got back to the hostel there was now no doubt in our minds that Tyrone were there for the taking.
Then things took a bit of a turn.
While I nestled into bed, the chat had left Mad Dog a little overexcited. Sure he loved the Euros and being in France but he simply could not wait for Sunday. Our hostel room was about three floors up and had windows which were so long they may as well have been doors. Outside, the locals were rising for work at this stage and making their way along the street. I'm sure they expected to encounter a few merry soccer fans along their journey but what they did not expect was Mad Dog.
He wanders over, opens both windows and for the next 15 minutes continuously belts out 'WHAT'S THAT COMING OVER THE HILL!? IT'S SEANIE JOHNSTON!' at every person who walked by; only easing up every now and then to change into 'CIAN MACKEY, GIVE US A WAVE. GIVE US A WAVE!'
Paris for the holidays, Cavan for Sam.
NB: Not everyone was happy with the proliferation of GAA jerseys in France this summer.
Brian Kerr's spotted lots of GAA jersies in Paris. I apologise to the locals for the horrendous visual pollution of their beautiful city.
— Arthur Mathews (@Munchious) June 13, 2016
IRELAND V BELGIUM
Donny Mahoney
'Observing the Irish male in a state of nature'
IRELAND V ITALY
Mikey Traynor
'The good samartians from Bray...'
My main memory from Euro 2016 is hectic rollercoaster of emotion that was my trip to Lille from Dublin on the day of Italy vs Ireland.
-So, where are you from, Mikey?- Bray.-No way, I grew up in Bray! Down by the Dargle.- Hah, that's mad, closer to the Seafront myself.-Where did you go to school?- Gerard's.- ...Are you serious?
![A week before we headed out, Eamon Dunphy told the Late Late Show audience he'd discourage his kids from travelling to France and warned darkly about the threat of terrorist attacks. In the event, the closest any of us came to danger was in the terrifyingly slippy showers in our shitty hostel. An accident waiting to happen. France's tourism watchdogs need to be alerted. We arrived in Paris on the Saturday before Ireland's match with Sweden. It was the second day of the competition and the night England took their opening bow. We watched the England-Russia match in a restaurant near the hostel and were drawn into conversation with a young English couple living in Paris. Rock and roll. They were the kind of charming, enlightened, Nigel Farage hating couple who'd cheer good naturedly for the Celtic nations in their group games, oblivious to the fact that the Celts don't return the favour. A world away from the St. George's Cross flaunting skinheads who did battle with the Russians in Marseilles. And while they were mildly impressed with England's play, they seemed detached from their national team. The bloke was from Norwich and spent much of the first half telling us how much he loved Robbie Brady and Wes Hoolahan. It was therefore slightly jarring to move from this diplomatic scene to the carnage on the Moulin Rouge. Thousands of Irish fans drinking on the street, holding up traffic, and chanting "1-0 AND YOU FUCKED IT UP!!!" over and over again. The Moulin Rouge was the unofficial basecamp for the Irish support in Paris. Three successive nights of drunken chanting on the road and clambering on top of buses. On the afternoon of the game, one hardy individual climbed on top of a slowly moving van and proceeded to perform 'The Full Monty' while on the roof, a spectacle on which I had the privilege to commentate as-it-happened while recording that day's edition of the Balls.ie podcast. It is these moments which make the daily grind worthwhile. Listen to that live commentary from 15.20 onwards [soundcloud url="https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/268871108" params="auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%" height="450" iframe="true" /] The Irish supporters were later given an award by the Mayor of Paris, though personally I'm surprised this hasn't raised a cry of protest from the city's motorists. Despite these irritations, the locals seemed cheered by the presence of the Irish. It became clear that the Irish supporters were a spectacle in and of themselves. You'd see passing natives pause to take pictures of the Irish fans up to some merry jape. The night before the big match, we happened upon two Irishmen in their thirties who were on a mission. Their quest was to find the most expensive pint in Paris. It usually elicits gasps when this is disclosed but one of them claimed to have stumbled upon a pub who charged him 12 euros for a pint of Heineken. For my own part, my horror story involved paying £8.50 for a bottle of the same lager. Little wonder the off-licence beside the Blanche metro line became so popular. On the Monday, their stocks of alcohol were cleared out hours before kick-off. On the Sunday, we ascended the Eiffel Tower. More rock and roll. While the tower didn't feature heavily in the Balls.ie Euros Supporters Group, there were a few green jerseys accompanying us on our rise to the top. And at the foot of the tower, a gang of Irish supporters taunted a few passing Swedes with a cry of "Go home to your sexy wife!" When we reached the top of the tower, my colleague Barry Sweeney was overcome by the majesty of the view. "17 Euro for a lift," was his verdict. Anyone who has been to the Stade de France will tell you that the area surrounding is shockingly run down. These are the banlieues about which we hear so much, home to France's most disenfranchised citizens, those Muslims of north African origin whom Marine Le Pen presumably wants run out of the country. The modernist glory of the stadium itself clashes violently with the depressing, dilapidated streets round about it. In and around the stadium, there was a bubbly, giddy atmosphere. One Swedish supporter who was a dead ringer for Zlatan Ibrahimovic became a magnet for selfies, mainly among Irish fans. Lads crowded around phones when news of the team first broke. And so, into the stadium itself. Padraig Harrington's mug appeared on the big screen in the stadium some twenty minutes prior to kick-off. He wished the Irish team the best of luck. A certain man called Bjorn Borg did likewise for the Swedes. Ten minutes before kick-off, I was seized by the fear that this would be a repeat of Croatia, that our tournament would be over as soon as it began. How pleasing and unexpected to see Ireland play the way they did. It was the first time in aeons that I'd seen Ireland enjoy the bulk of the play against a team of equivalent standard. In the delirious aftermath of that terrific goal, I found myself face to face with a Irishman in his 70s who'd been sitting two seats to my left. He was touchingly young at heart. The rest of the game was a trial to sit through. The goal re-awakened Ireland's timid instincts. Why? It's not too much of a mind-bender. Now having something to conserve, they became conservative. After the 1-1 draw, we would queue for an hour outside the stadium as the horse-mounted police directed traffic and vigorously chastised anyone they caught jaywalking (all of whom were Irish. No Swedes). Back on the Moulin Rouge that night, it felt like any lingering disappointment at the failure to hold the lead was outweighed by pride at the performance. I had to get a midday plane the following day. This involved taking myself out to Beauvais early the following morning. Standing there in the Paris underground after a night spent quaffing grotesquely overpriced lager, I had never felt like more of a waster and a layabout. Without wishing to feed into stereotype, there appears to be something of an epidemic of resting bitchface in the French capital. I wouldn't quite call it a national emergency. Perhaps, this is unfair. This was 9am on a Tuesday morning, after all. So there I was, on the Paris metro at rush hour on a Tuesday morning, surrounded by suited and scowling French commuters, while wearing a white T-shirt bearing the word "WESSI" above a stylised picture of Wes Hoolahan. Bound for home. Mark Farrelly 'Paris for holidays, Cavan for Sam. The GAA fanatics who travelled' I tagged along with my cousin and a group of his friends to France. One of the lads' nickname was Mad Dog. Now, although a fellow Cavanman, I'd only met him a few times before and he seemed a very respectable chap. I could not fathom why this name had been bestowed upon him. Needless to say, come the end of the trip, any doubts I had about his epithet had been erased. At the end of a hectic night on Moulin Rouge, after Ireland had drawn with Sweden, myself and Mad Dog headed on the long walk back to our hostel. It was 5am, the streets were still thronged with fans and the lights of Moulin Rouge's, ermmm, 'establishments' shone brightly. However our minds were now elsewhere. Talk turned to the following Sunday and Cavan's Ulster semi-final clash with Tyrone. I would be arriving back into Dublin airport around about the same time as the ball would be throwing in in Clones. Mad Dog and my cousin were already searching for Bordeaux's equivalent of The Boars Head - to find a television and a corner that would house all their emotions. Anyhow, the Parisian walk home gave us opportunity to air any worries we had about the match and, sure enough, by the time we got back to the hostel there was now no doubt in our minds that Tyrone were there for the taking. Then things took a bit of a turn. While I nestled into bed, the chat had left Mad Dog a little overexcited. Sure he loved the Euros and being in France but he simply could not wait for Sunday. Our hostel room was about three floors up and had windows which were so long they may as well have been doors. Outside, the locals were rising for work at this stage and making their way along the street. I'm sure they expected to encounter a few merry soccer fans along their journey but what they did not expect was Mad Dog. He wanders over, opens both windows and for the next 15 minutes continuously belts out 'WHAT'S THAT COMING OVER THE HILL!? IT'S SEANIE JOHNSTON!' at every person who walked by; only easing up every now and then to change into 'CIAN MACKEY, GIVE US A WAVE. GIVE US A WAVE!' Paris for the holidays, Cavan for Sam. NB: Not everyone was happy with the proliferation of GAA jerseys in France this summer. Brian Kerr's spotted lots of GAA jersies in Paris. I apologise to the locals for the horrendous visual pollution of their beautiful city. — Arthur Mathews (@Munchious) June 13, 2016 IRELAND V BELGIUM Donny Mahoney 'Observing the Irish male in a state of nature' In the weeks before the Euros, all the talk was about how Bordeaux was the game to be at. The Saturday afternoon kickoff, the opposition, the wine. I travelled alone, which is the wrong way to do it. The cracked journey I’d devised involved flying to Tours, which boasts likely the pokiest airport in Europe, and then getting a train for three hours to Bordeaux. Giddiness swept the Ryanair flight once the plane’s door closed. We ended up sitting on the tarmac for an hour due to some labour dispute in France. The beer cart made about 10 tours up and down the aisle over the 90 minute journey. Of course I ended up missing my train and got booked on an 8pm train, seated beside two banjoed loudmouths from Phibsborough who unknowingly provided a vocabulary lesson on the female anatomy to a French mother and her young son sitting in our car. I finally arrived in Bordeaux around 11pm, just as the heavens opened. The omens were bad. From an Irish perspective, it was a terrible day. After a cagey first half, Ireland were thoroughly outclassed. All hope ebbed away after that frenetic minute where Long was denied a penalty for being karate-kicked and Lukaku scored immediately after the counterattack. The hammering that followed felt deserved. It was Euro 2012 all over again, minus the keening. Something had changed in the Irish psyche. We took this one better. For all the talk of the greatness of the Irish supporters, it should be said we were out-sung and outnumbered by our red-clad Flemish cousins. But I suppose the Irish supporters save their best work for the city centre squares. A cover band had been hired to play atop the outside awning of the Connemara pub, which was ground zero for Irish fans in Bordeaux. It was carnage by the time I turned up around 11pm. The result in the Galway-Mayo game seemed more important than what happened in the city earlier in the afternoon. The patience of the armour-clad French police was tested over and over – I’d received my own polite reprimand outside the stadium earlier in the afternoon after being stopped by an Uzi-toting gendarme who decided to kindly scold me for urinating against a wall near the stadium – but they stayed calm. A few guys scaled some street signs beside me and were calmly pulled down. The Irish supporters were mostly young lads in their 20s but there was enough of an age-spread to feel like all these Euro shenanigans were part of a general mission statement by the Irish male. I remember a few French people being flattered and amazed to see an Irish fan leading a call and response version of ‘Alouetta’. A couple of hours later I stumbled through a square where one group of Irish fans were singing ‘Silent Night’ and another were singing ‘The Rathlin Bog’. Here was the Irish male in his own state of nature: emitting joy and beer fumes with work and wives hundreds of miles away. Why couldn’t life in Ireland always be like this? IRELAND V ITALY Mikey Traynor 'The good samartians from Bray...' My main memory from Euro 2016 is hectic rollercoaster of emotion that was my trip to Lille from Dublin on the day of Italy vs Ireland. Having seen so much of the positivity between Irish fans in the Balls.ie Euro 2016 group, and in all the viral clips and stories that had been filtering back in what was an agonising two weeks for me to wait for my chance to dive in, I wasn't expecting to feel that for myself. We never hope to find ourselves in a situation where we depend on the kindness of a stranger, so I was banking on my day to run with the efficiency of a Tokyo subway. I was sadly mistaken. I made it to the airport on time, checked through security and made it to my gate. I was catching a flight to Brussels where I had an hour to cross the city to take a high-speed train which would have me in Lille roughly two hours before kickoff. Enough time to meet up with my mates that were already there and desperately hungover from the night before. Great. Then Ryanair said no. A delay of 20 minutes came and went, and we hadn't seen the plane yet. Soon it became apparent that we would be taking off 90 minutes late, as every flight they had scheduled for the Ireland fans was delayed that day, which meant not only was I down to a half-an-hour to get to the stadium, but I'd missed my high-speed train from Brussels. €85 down the drain, but I didn't give a single solitary shite, I was now making alternative plans. Luckily, the plane was mostly Irish fans, many of whom were also put out by missing this train. A lovely woman told me not to worry, and that everybody would make sure that nobody missed out. And I believed her. I needed to. The thought of being stuck in bloody Belgium days after Romelu Lukaku and his pals made us look like chancers was terrifying. Upon landing, I followed two lads I had a nervous conversation with after the delays were announced. They were in the same boat, so I wanted a part of their plan. They headed straight for the rent-a-car, Lille was roughly a two-hour drive, great idea. Turns out they were offered a lift by a man and his son beside them, and there was no more room in the car due to bags. Without so much as a second for my stomach to drop, a man not too much older than myself and his wife whipped around from in front of them in the queue and said "What's that? Does someone need a lift?" As if their Irish Supporter Sixth Sense was tingling, they smelled a fellow fan in need. He and his wife were driving to a remote village on the Belgium/France boarder, a wine-tasting sort of place. They were driving there, dumping the bags, and getting a 30-minute taxi to the stadium. Time was tight, but they were going to make it. And without even looking at me they invited me to go with them. It was like that scene in Home Alone when Mrs.McAllister gets a lift with John Candy and the polka band. I awkwardly introduced myself, trying not to let the overwhelming relief that was flowing through my body result in me blurting out something stupid. After a quick smoke they were ready to hit the road. I always knew I would see Ireland play in a major tournament one day, I just didn't know I'd be driven there in a rental Fiat Cabrio. Before we had left the airport, it became apparent that I shared a number of things in common with the guy. The first conversation went like this: -So, where are you from, Mikey? - Bray. -No way, I grew up in Bray! Down by the Dargle. - Hah, that's mad, closer to the Seafront myself. -Where did you go to school? - Gerard's. - ...Are you serious? This guy graduated in the class one year ahead of my brother. Traffic out of Brussels was a nightmare, but we had roughly two hours to make an 80-minute journey, then get a taxi which would have us in good time to make the match. We eventually reached the hotel, after talking about mental old teachers for the duration of the trip, in enough time for a pint while we watched Portugal vs Austria on a friendly barman's iPad. In broken English and with no reason other than to make us smile, he predicted a 1-0 win for Ireland. Next came the taxi from Belgium into France and onto Lille. The driver had the Portugal game on the radio. It cost about €50, and I insisted that I pay, having not been allowed contribute to the rental car. They refused outright. These were the nicest people I had ever met in my life. They were adamant that they would have had to pay with or without me, so it was no bother. I demanded to buy the drinks. These heroes had gotten me to the stadium with 40 minutes to go until kickoff. Thankfully this was an idea they welcomed. We horsed two pints into us and went our separate ways. I thanked them as best I could but they'll never truly appreciate how grateful I was to have such a pleasant experience when honestly I would have settled for a lift on the back of a sweaty Belgian man's Vespa. The next 30 minutes were spent frantically trying to find my gate, as one side of the stadium, the side where my gate was, had been closed off. This caused a concerning looking crush of people trying to get past security, who for obvious reasons had to search each and every person. I eventually made my way to my seat two minutes into the match. I'd missed the anthems, but I'd seen Seamus Coleman plant an Italian on his arse before I'd even sat down. What followed is all a blur. The nice French guy next to me had adopted Ireland as his country, and kicked every ball with us. We turned and screamed 'PENALTAAYY!" into each other's faces when McClean was bundled over in the first half, but the rest is a haze of close-calls, the crushing low of Wesso's miss... The pure, raw euphoria of Robbie's moment. My dream since I was a kid was to watch Ireland in a competitive major tournament match. Not to win the fucking thing with a late goal that sealed our progression to the knockout stage. I wouldn't allow myself to be so greedy. I cried, and due to my obligations for Balls.ie I cried into a camera phone. I don't often cry because of football but that was legitimately one of the greatest moments of my life and the joy, the pure unbridled joy I was feeling having hours earlier felt that I would have to tell my mates and colleagues that I didn't make it, that I hadn't got to see the match after doing the fucking pint and passport check-in at the airport, was just a bit too much. I pulled it together and went on to enjoy one of the greatest nights of my life too. I met my friends, and we gave the dodgiest looking local lad €20 for a lift into the city. Lille was buzzing, and after a long night of drinking I lost the lads that I was meant to stay with. I woke up sitting at a Cafe in the middle of Lille in broad daylight, with a dozen or so Irish fans around me who I had been talking to for hours, apparently. I hung out with them until my hotel was ready, I was spending an extra night before heading home as it was cheaper. It was a dive of a place and I got bitten several times, but I was so happy to lie down and get some sleep. But first I watched the Robbie Brady goal with the Titanic soundtrack, and cried again. That was the last time though, honest. Read more: The Chief Enemies Of Irish Sport In 2016 Advertisement](https://media.balls.ie/uploads/2016/12/29160059/ire.jpg){kind=link}
