AS I TYPE this, I’m sitting in a quaint cafe in Versailles.
I’ve been here for well over an hour at this stage and have graduated from Cappuccinos to Americanos.
I’m still here, because, quite frankly, I’m afraid to go outside.
It’s absolutely bucketing down in Versailles — kind of like that rain Ireland experienced for a sustained period last Christmas but far worse and far more sustained.
The rain buckets down in beautiful Versailles. Paul Fennessy
Paul Fennessy
With two bags full of expensive electronic devices, it’s not a good position to be in, and I know this from experience, having once lost three important interviews when torrential rain managed to seep through my bag and destroy my digital voice recorder.
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If the rain continues much longer, I might have to go for a bit of a sprint — my new bag may look ridiculous with its luminous green straps, but it is water proof, so hopefully the electronic devices will be spared this time.
It’s been a long, fun and unusual day so far. It began very early. In fact, I’m not sure when it began (8am yesterday?). Following some last-minute panicked rescheduling of train journeys, printing off of boarding passes and frantically trying to fit as many Jean-Claude Van Damme DVDs into my suitcase as possible, I went to bed at 1am.
The adrenaline and excitement of heading to cover the Euros to belatedly joined the The42‘s Ireland bandwagon post-Sweden meant I ended up just lying on my pillow for two hours with my eyes open until it was at last time for the taxi to Dublin airport.
Somewhat surprisingly, there weren’t too many Republic of Ireland fans on the flight. There were a few Northern Ireland fans, but the dominant jersey by far was that of Poland’s national team, ahead of their absolutely huge game with Germany in the Stade de France tonight.
Watching too much Sky News in recent weeks has almost conditioned me to expect the worst upon spotting a group of football fans on their travels.
However, fortunately, everyone on board was well behaved and seemingly sober — although I did overhear one Irish lad admitting his mother was “raging” after he came home “langered” shortly before he was due to leave for the airport.
Ireland fans pose in Bordeaux before the ominous clouds swept through. James Crombie / INPHO
James Crombie / INPHO / INPHO
I finally managed to get an hour of shut eye during the short flight from Dublin to Paris but was awoken as we landed by the boisterous Poland fans singing something that I couldn’t quite decipher in my groggy state, but can only assume was their equivalent of ‘come on you boys in green’. This egregious act of awakening me was just about forgivable given the circumstances, but I’m afraid I simply could not overlook the atrocious ‘Goalandowski’ pun on the back of a couple of jerseys.
After landing and getting the bus to Porte Maillot, both my bags were searched upon entering what seemed to be the Parisien equivalent of Dundrum Town Centre — there is understandably still a noticeable air of tension in the wake of the tragic events in the city last November.
I then had to figure out how to get to Versailles — the Irish team’s base where I’m also staying, although all journalists have been strictly forbidden from entering the team hotel, so we won’t be getting overly close for the duration of our stay. This is a shame, particularly for the older hacks, who can vividly remember a time when newspaper men and Irish players (and sometimes fans too) were effectively drinking buddies during those past special occasions when a nation held its breath.
Having spent 15 minutes staring listlessly at a map, I was more confused than ever, so had to ask for assistance in figuring out the best route from Porte Maillot.
One pet peeve of mine is the dilemma over whether to attempt my rapidly diminishing Leaving Cert-level French while interacting with native speakers, or just admitting defeat and acknowledging that their English will always be far superior to my mangled gibberish. Is assuming they’re happy to speak in English less patronising than pathetic attempts to make sense while massacring an apparently beautiful language? Ultimately, I generally tend to panic and end up mixing the two, saying things like “yesui”.
Thankfully, the woman at the information desk’s instructions were brief and concise. She circled Porte Maillot, Versailles and Champ de Mars, adding “changer” for the latter (even I paid enough attention in school to comprehend that).
So, as I type, Euro 2016 fever is definitely palpable. I’ll be taking a 7.30 train in the morning, which will presumably be filled with Irish fans, and their hopes and dreams, as the final preparations get underway for the Boys in Green’s crucial clash with Belgium on Saturday. It should be a wonderful occasion regardless of the result, and as always, the Irish fans are bound to win the partying at the very least.
Anyway, I better finish up — it’s finally stopped raining…
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Letter from Versailles: Flying with Polish fans and battling a French monsoon with Jean-Claude Van Damme
Paul Fennessy reports from Versailles
AS I TYPE this, I’m sitting in a quaint cafe in Versailles.
I’ve been here for well over an hour at this stage and have graduated from Cappuccinos to Americanos.
I’m still here, because, quite frankly, I’m afraid to go outside.
It’s absolutely bucketing down in Versailles — kind of like that rain Ireland experienced for a sustained period last Christmas but far worse and far more sustained.
With two bags full of expensive electronic devices, it’s not a good position to be in, and I know this from experience, having once lost three important interviews when torrential rain managed to seep through my bag and destroy my digital voice recorder.
If the rain continues much longer, I might have to go for a bit of a sprint — my new bag may look ridiculous with its luminous green straps, but it is water proof, so hopefully the electronic devices will be spared this time.
It’s been a long, fun and unusual day so far. It began very early. In fact, I’m not sure when it began (8am yesterday?). Following some last-minute panicked rescheduling of train journeys, printing off of boarding passes and frantically trying to fit as many Jean-Claude Van Damme DVDs into my suitcase as possible, I went to bed at 1am.
The adrenaline and excitement of heading to cover the Euros to belatedly joined the The42‘s Ireland bandwagon post-Sweden meant I ended up just lying on my pillow for two hours with my eyes open until it was at last time for the taxi to Dublin airport.
Somewhat surprisingly, there weren’t too many Republic of Ireland fans on the flight. There were a few Northern Ireland fans, but the dominant jersey by far was that of Poland’s national team, ahead of their absolutely huge game with Germany in the Stade de France tonight.
Watching too much Sky News in recent weeks has almost conditioned me to expect the worst upon spotting a group of football fans on their travels.
However, fortunately, everyone on board was well behaved and seemingly sober — although I did overhear one Irish lad admitting his mother was “raging” after he came home “langered” shortly before he was due to leave for the airport.
I finally managed to get an hour of shut eye during the short flight from Dublin to Paris but was awoken as we landed by the boisterous Poland fans singing something that I couldn’t quite decipher in my groggy state, but can only assume was their equivalent of ‘come on you boys in green’. This egregious act of awakening me was just about forgivable given the circumstances, but I’m afraid I simply could not overlook the atrocious ‘Goalandowski’ pun on the back of a couple of jerseys.
After landing and getting the bus to Porte Maillot, both my bags were searched upon entering what seemed to be the Parisien equivalent of Dundrum Town Centre — there is understandably still a noticeable air of tension in the wake of the tragic events in the city last November.
I then had to figure out how to get to Versailles — the Irish team’s base where I’m also staying, although all journalists have been strictly forbidden from entering the team hotel, so we won’t be getting overly close for the duration of our stay. This is a shame, particularly for the older hacks, who can vividly remember a time when newspaper men and Irish players (and sometimes fans too) were effectively drinking buddies during those past special occasions when a nation held its breath.
One pet peeve of mine is the dilemma over whether to attempt my rapidly diminishing Leaving Cert-level French while interacting with native speakers, or just admitting defeat and acknowledging that their English will always be far superior to my mangled gibberish. Is assuming they’re happy to speak in English less patronising than pathetic attempts to make sense while massacring an apparently beautiful language? Ultimately, I generally tend to panic and end up mixing the two, saying things like “yesui”.
Thankfully, the woman at the information desk’s instructions were brief and concise. She circled Porte Maillot, Versailles and Champ de Mars, adding “changer” for the latter (even I paid enough attention in school to comprehend that).
So, as I type, Euro 2016 fever is definitely palpable. I’ll be taking a 7.30 train in the morning, which will presumably be filled with Irish fans, and their hopes and dreams, as the final preparations get underway for the Boys in Green’s crucial clash with Belgium on Saturday. It should be a wonderful occasion regardless of the result, and as always, the Irish fans are bound to win the partying at the very least.
Anyway, I better finish up — it’s finally stopped raining…
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