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?