A European Champions League Final between six times winners Liverpool and thirteen times winners Real Madrid. At the Stade de France, Paris. What a prospect. The Carabao Cup and the FA Cup were already in the cabinet, the Premiership title lost by a single point on the last day of the league programme. Could this historic season still produce a glorious finale?
‘One night in Paris’ sang 10cc, ‘is like a year in any other place’. Maybe if it went to extra time and penalties it would feel like that. I’d hardly slept all week. Although I’d been unsuccessful in the club ballot, my friend’s son Mark was passing his on to me. Except that the Royal Mail lost it. It was finally located in a South London sorting office the day before the game, collected by Mark’s brother Luke who rushed over to Euston to hand it to Alex, who was taking the Eurostar that night to Paris. It was seven o’clock when everyone in the restaurant we were eating in learned that my ticket had landed.
Up at five next morning, Liverpool John Lennon was buzzing with fans, the airport and its staff decorated appropriately. A 45 minute delay in taking off meant revising times with my
Air B&B host in Paris. By the time I trekked across the city by bus and Metro to check in and drop my bag, then back along almost the length of Metro 6, it was mid-afternoon before I reached the Fan Zone at Place de la Nation and found Alex. In brilliant sunshine there were thousands outside the Fan Zone, drinking, singing, laughing. It was a festival atmosphere around the centrepiece of ‘The Triumph of the Republic’, a statue erected to mark the centenary of the French Revolution. Bedecked in scarves and banners, red smoke drifting into the blue sky, it was now a symbol of what we hoped would be our triumph amidst a Red revolution.
When we entered the Fan Zone itself, we’d already missed the Lightning Seeds and Jamie
Webster was now belting out the Virgil Van Dijk song. It was entirely fenced in and access tightly controlled. It meant you couldn’t move inside, it was jam-packed and uncomfortable. At Madrid three years earlier there’d been no such security or control and everyone had a wonderful time, no trouble whatsoever. With the queue for a beer about twenty deep, we soon left. By 5:30 we were on our way to the stadium.
Over 50,000 Liverpool fans had congregated at Place de la Nation. So you’d think that there would be signs indicating the route to the correct Metro station or buses. There was nothing. This would have helped fans and other visitors to Paris who were no doubt inconvenienced by hordes of people struggling to find the right line, the right exit and so on. We took two trains to reach St Denis and began our walk to the Stade de France. I’d initially booked a room in St Denis before doing my research. I learned that St Denis has the highest rates in France for violent crime, drug offences and murder. Another article compared it to Chicago’s South Side. Despite cancelling my booking, those local characteristics would yet play a part in the evening.
We approached a check point beneath an underpass with police and security at tables. Tickets were checked and marked with an invisible marker pen. A cursory body search took place. Waiting ten metres away for Alex, I was warned off by an armed police officer who wanted me to keep moving. I walked another five metres and stopped, whereupon he walked towards me making threatening gestures. He seemed tetchy, on edge. I held my hands up and moved further away.
Outside the ground, near Gate B, we enjoyed a beer in a carnival atmosphere. It was just after 7:00 when we split up. Alex went through Gate B and was in his seat 90 minutes before kick off, but witnessed people trying to jump the gates. My mood darkened when I saw the queue for Gate Y was about 100 metres, 6-8 people wide. Not a good sign. Movement was very slow, nothing happening for long periods. Someone ventured to the front and returned saying the gate was closed. What on earth was going on?
By 8:30, we were all increasingly anxious. Frustration was evident. Under the circumstances, the level of patience was remarkable. The queue ahead swelled as fans joined at the side, raising irritation levels. Many in this queue were children attending with a parent, some were older people. As we inched towards the gate the squash became a crush, the pressure intensifying incrementally.
From time to time some 15-20 riot police would file past with shields and batons in a synchronised slow trot. Reports came back of tear gas being used. Some men climbed over the railings, dropping down and running to the steps. Those caught were dealt with savagely by police and security. Everyone in the queue was vocal in condemning these people - we know the importance of behaviour at these game, we know we’ll get the blame if things go wrong. None of these guys wore colours, so it was impossible to determine accurately where some were from, but it was obvious that many were local Parisians.
People were being pushed against the railings and they had to push back. The mass of bodies in the queue was swirling around now with the pressure from the edges coming from Parisians. Reports came through that kick off was delayed by 15 minutes. We knew this
wouldn’t be sufficient. At no stage was anything communicated by the stadium authorities. This information came from friends and family watching on TV. In fact, apart from the periodic appearance of riot police, there were no marshalls, stewards or ordinary police outside the gates of the stadium. Even English fourth tier games would at least have that sort of presence outside the ground.
This was the most disturbing period, as groups of young French men infiltrated the queue, usually in pairs. Their number quietly swelled until it became obvious what was going on. There were attempts at pick-pocketing and there was general harassment of Liverpool fans. When Gate Y finally reopened our progress was threatened by these locals. They wore anything but PSG tops - I saw Barcelona, Chelsea, Arsenal and Atletico Madrid represented, but make no mistake - as someone who can get by reasonably in French, these were all locals. Under provocation there were a few skirmishes as some of our fans tried to stand their ground. For the first time our section of the queue was tear gassed directly as people put scarves over their faces, pulled hoods up and I fixed on my Covid mask. The stinging of my eyes was deeply unpleasant, it made it hard to see properly for a minute or two.
The French youths were pushing, forcing us against the railings. A couple of youngsters were crying and as the crush worsened it was reminiscent of the Leppings Lane end in 1989 and very scary. News from home came through that kick off would be delayed 30 mins, then a final decision of 9:36. A frankly weird start time selected by those wonderful people at UEFA who’ve brought us such a range of corruption and inefficiency over the years.
Finding myself squashed against a barrier at hip height, presumably there to channel the queue, I had no alternative but to clamber over as it would have been unsafe to stay where I was with locals heaving in. One was very close to me and I asked him in French, ‘what are you doing?’ and ‘why are you here?’. He looked at me with a sinister smile and continued shoving the person in front. Meanwhile riot police continued to run up and down like choreographed clockwork cartoon characters. There was huge cheering from the queue on one occasion when they tore into a large group of locals not far from us. About time too.
Noise from inside the stadium rose. Flashing lights suddenly glowed above the arena followed by fireworks, indicating that kick-off was imminent.The game would clearly be starting without us. A French guy stood on one of the concrete bases that supported
lighting, a few metres from the Gate. Jabbing his boot at some Liverpool fans below him, tempers became frayed and he was joined on the platform by an accomplice. A minute later a strong-looking French guy, about 6’5” and wearing a Batman cap, started bulldozing his way through the crowd. Gate Y was a single gate, no turnstile. Once through you were shepherded along a row of tables, each manned by someone checking tickets and allowing you through one of four or five turnstiles. This big guy was very aggressive and clearly had no ticket. He waved his phone around, gesticulating wildly and shouting. Ultimately he was waved through. Given that all tickets for Gate Y were distributed exclusively by LFC, should it not have alarmed the stewards that so many non-English speaking Parisians were coming through the turnstile?
The tears streamed down my face as we’d apparently been targeted again for a dose of tear gas. Forced towards the railing I tapped a security guard on the shoulder through the fence and asked him in French why there was no-one outside helping and told him we needed assistance, there were people being hurt and in distress. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away. As I reached the entrance a young man was crying, an older man was struggling, who I let through, but at last I made it in.
Inside the ground it was impossible to find my seat as the aisle was blocked so I sat where I could. There were 18 minutes on the clock. The brute in the Batman cap was stood less than ten metres away from me watching the game with his mate.
At half time I went in search of a drink but could find no food or drink outlets over three floors. On the way down the steps two French men provoked a Liverpool fan who seemed very angry but he was working hard to act with restraint and kept moving away from them. Although they followed him to the toilets the numbers meant he gave up his challenging behaviour and stood in the queue. Wherever I looked in the ground I could see local Parisians. None of them could have had tickets for that part of the ground.
The game itself seemed almost academic. Real Madrid won by the only goal. From their only shot on target. Journalists would hail manager Carlo Ancelotti’s strategic masterclass. What utter nonsense. We had nine shots on target, all saved by the brilliant Courtois. If Mane’s shot tipped against the post had rebounded in instead of out to a Madrid defender, if Salah’s effort that hit the ‘keeper’s arm had been two inches higher, would it still have been a masterclass? We’re talking about fine margins and luck making the difference. Ours was out and we’d lost. Somehow it didn’t matter. This had been a nightmare and I just wanted to get back safely.
At the end of the game I stood by the post outside the ground where Alex and I had agreed to meet. Before he arrived I braced myself as a group of 40-50 Parisians ran through the departing crowds. It was a menacing sight. A few people were pushed and jostled as they passed through. They all ran through an exit close to Gate B and ran up the steps into the stadium. Alex and I made our way to the station at St Denis. We passed under the bridge which had previously hosted security checks. It was lined with riot police and several intercepted a local youth, hauling him away right in front of us. Other locals continued to move around the area in small groups, it was extremely tense and you needed your wits about you.
Stories would emerge over the subsequent days of robberies, muggings, petty theft, all the work of local young French men. We’d see footage of innocent people with tickets in their hands being pepper sprayed by security guards from the inside of railings. Given the notoriety of the area, who thought it would be a good idea not to bother with any police or stewards outside the ground? It was riot police or nothing.
Having reached the station we boarded a train which pulled out 20 minutes later and took us one stop only. Everyone had to get out and find another train. I had a long, potentially anxious Metro journey to my accommodation. I needn’t have worried. Away from the ground there was less tension, Liverpool and Real fans mixing together without any problem, just good natured banter.
Inevitably the French interior minister is first out of the blocks next morning to blame us. As predictable as it was wrong. From what I saw, the behaviour of fans was exemplary in difficult circumstances largely created by UEFA and the French police. Validated by the views expressed by many, including Merseyside Police observers who stated they’d never been at a big event policed so badly. Yes, we heard a Liverpool fan on the train admitting to having a fake ticket and we saw him after he’d passed through a check point with it. But he was an exception. Whilst there may have been people who beat the system with a fake, there were many who had real tickets who were told they weren’t - some of those provided by players. It was a good thing that many celebrities, ex-players and journalists were also impacted. Henry Winter of The Times came down to Gate Y to see for himself what was happening and was pepper sprayed for getting too close to the fans! It meant it wasn’t just us making excuses. Reports also emerged of Madrid fans finding Parisians in their seats at the other end of the ground. This was incompetence on an industrial scale.
Where were the stewards or marshalls outside the ground to help fans, give advice, control overcrowding, provide reassurance? Given their knowledge, why were there no police outside to deter or contain locals causing trouble and trying to gain access without tickets? Why did security staff inside the ground have to be excessively aggressive? Was the random use of pepper spray and tear gas really necessary or appropriate? The checking of tickets at initial check points and at the gates of the stadium was so amateurish that you had to ask, have they ever organised a big game before? How do they expect people to know what’s going on if they don’t communicate anything?
So many questions, so much sadness and frustration. This should have been the pinnacle of the season, a highlight. Instead it will leave an indelible memory for all the wrong reasons. That 10cc song finished with the line ‘This night in Paris… may be your last’. For many people, it could have been. The organisation was so bad that there could have been lives lost. The risk management meeting? It must have taken all of five minutes.
Paul's debut novel is out now: Outside Lola's
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