I remember (just about) waking up in Parisian Chinatown the next afternoon in absolute bits. Myself and a mate couldn’t get a (affordable) flight home till the Saturday. Sitting in a bar having a cure and the front page of L’Equipe with Henry reeling off in celebration and the words ‘Le Main De Dieu’ blazed across below him. Don’t speak French but still didn’t need to google the translation.
Went for a walk after a couple of pints looking for the Bastille. Took us an hour or two to find out it had been knocked down over a century beforehand!
Were heading back to the Irish bar later that evening when the night befores Kronenburg decided to make a reappearance. Leg it to the nearest bar and spent the guts (see what I did there) of an hour redecorating this nice French bathroom the way only a 24 hours foreign gargle can do. Chattin/apologising to the bar man afterwards. He’d spent a few years in Bondi with a few Irish yahoo’s. He felt so bad over the night befores ordeal he gave us a few free (6euro a pop) beers before we headed off to do it all over again.
Gave our hand of god sob story to a football mad taxi man from Auxerre on the way back in to town and he gave us a free fare!
Funny times, oh to be young and stupid again. Oh wait…