In a turn of events that has left the French capital simultaneously uncorking vintage bubbly and battening down the metaphorical (and literal) hatches, Paris Saint-Germain’s latest victory has triggered a spectacle so gloriously, absurdly French that even the pigeons are wearing berets and shrugging with existential defiance. Your humble correspondent, having survived on a diet of stale baguettes and airport gin (the only truly reliable travel companion), was dispatched to the scene to witness the chaos firsthand. What I found was a city doing what it does best: celebrating with the fervour of a revolution and the grace of a mime artist falling down a flight of stairs.
Let us begin with the celebration. Oh, the celebration. The Champs-Élysées, that grand boulevard of dreams and overpriced car showrooms, was transformed into a river of blue, red, and white. Flags waved, horns honked, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and the faint, haunting aroma of Gauloises cigarettes. Young men scaled streetlamps like deranged mountaineers, while women danced on the roofs of parked cars, their heels striking a percussion of defiance against the metal. I saw a man wearing a PSG scarf as a loincloth. I saw a woman paint her face in the club’s colours and then proceed to headbutt a lamppost in what I can only assume was a ritual of joy. The French, I realised, do not simply celebrate. They perform a kind of anarchic ballet, a beautiful, terrifying dance on the edge of hysteria.
But as the sun set and the gin in my flask dwindled to a precious few drops, the celebration morphed into something darker. The confrontation. Because this is Paris, and no good thing goes unpunished by reality. Rival fans, perhaps, or those pesky, ever-present elements of society who view any public gathering as an opportunity to remind everyone that the world is, in fact, a flaming garbage barge. Scuffles broke out. I saw a gendarme attempt to arrest a man who was literally eating a wheel of Camembert with his bare hands. The man resisted, claiming, "I am celebrating my cultural heritage!" The gendarme, to his credit, responded with a Gallic shrug and a spray of tear gas. And thus, the delicate balance of joy and discord was restored.
Enter the British Foreign Office, those purveyors of cautious paternalism, who issued an immediate travel advisory. "British nationals in Paris are advised to exercise caution," the statement read, no doubt composed by a man in a grey suit who had never experienced joy in his life. "Avoid large gatherings, do not climb street furniture, and refrain from engaging in philosophical debates about the nature of victory with locals." I read this aloud to a group of PSG fans, who responded by offering me a cigarette and a glass of wine. I accepted both. I am a professional.
What does this all mean, dear reader? In the grand tradition of gonzo journalism, I must confess I have no earthly idea. But I can tell you this: Paris is a city that understands the beautiful, bloody nonsense of football. It is a city where triumph and turmoil are not opposites but dancing partners. And while the travel advisories urge caution, I urge you to ignore them. Come to Paris. Drink the wine. Watch the chaos. And for the love of all that is holy, bring your own gin. The airport stuff is rubbish.
Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off from a bar in Montmartre where the bartender is polishing a glass with a PSG scarf and crying. I think they are happy tears. I hope they are happy tears.
