Euro 2016, France… hell football needed the blissful Irish fans and, by God, they delivered

Amidst all the madness on Place de Clichy on Monday when green shirts and beer and songs filled the Parisian strip to its every inch, an older French fella got caught up in the merriment, swung himself around a pole and went crashing back-first to the ground.

Suddenly, everyone in his vicinity stopped. The singing silenced, the cans lowered and about six lads scrambled to the stranger's aid with the rest looking on, refusing to continue until they saw he was alright. He was lifted to his feet, held steady by a group of Irish men he had never met before, they even dusted him down, patted him on his back and he smiled. Everyone cheered. The dancing and jumping and singing started again. The French man was handed a can seemingly from thin air, he stuck one arm up to salute the crowd, started roaring atop of his lungs and the party continued. https://twitter.com/SportsJOEdotie/status/742360415594762240 Before Ireland's Euro 2016 opener with Sweden, you'd nearly have forgotten there was a game of football taking place. It was more that they flocked to Paris in their thousands as an obligation to show people a good time. One by one, hundreds by hundreds, tricolours, GAA jerseys, Connacht tops all filled the French air and what was almost a sense of relief from the capital met the buzz and excitement that was permeating through the city. It was the warmest, most Irish sentiment being offered to the locals. If ever a group or a party or a mob of football supporters said or sang in unison, 'don't worry, it'll be grand,' this was it. And the most amazing thing about it all was that the French loved it. They absolutely lapped it up. You'd think that the traffic at least would've eventually cracked. You'd think that after the ninth lorry was mounted, or the 13th motorcyclist was joined on his bike, or during the hours upon hours of endless standstills to watch hundreds of grown men and women sit down in the middle of the road for Rock The Boat or for young lads to do press-ups and planks in front of vehicles that, amidst it all, someone would've had enough. But as they manoeuvred their way through the flying footballs, the slaps on their windows and feet on their roofs, every one of them were smiling and waving and pumping their horns to the tune of a chant. Some of them were recording it on their phones as they drove through the sea of green and, all the while, good will and handshakes and roars of "Come on Ireland" were being exchanged in both directions. https://twitter.com/SportsJOEdotie/status/742617899387506688?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw French people stopped in amazement. Some looked on at the commotion probably wondering if some sort of trouble had broken out but, after 10 or 15 seconds of dancing and celebration and relentless singing, those fears turned to grins and those onlookers grew in their numbers. One woman was recording a group of lads jumping up and down to a Team of Gary Breens. She inched a little closer, a little closer, a little bit closer again and still didn't know what to expect. An arm came around her shoulder and pulled her into the huddle and suddenly she was involved. Suddenly she was one of them, she was bouncing and cheering and she flipped her camera to get into the shot with the lads, proof to show her friends that she was with the Irish. Everyone seemed to have that little itch to join in but they were apprehensive at first, like the kid who wants to make new friends playing football down the park. They wanted to play but they didn't want to ask. It took one of Limerick's or Mayo's or Derry's finest to just drag them into the action and take the decision out of their hands and, bit by bit, inch by inch, Paris was becoming one. The Swedes marched into Place de Clichy - the balls on them - and, without even a second's hesitation or a thought to the colour they were wearing, fans from different countries were locked in arms, singing ABBA to their hearts' content. https://twitter.com/SportsJOEdotie/status/742337745322926080 "Your country is great," the praise was coming non-stop once the assurances were made that everything was going to be grand. People were banging into each other, spilling one another's pints, and they were apologising and embracing; don't worry about it. There was a self-police element about the whole thing. Once the craic even hinted at going overboard or once the vans and cars were being held up for too long, a couple of fellas would step in with a sobering, "alright, that's enough." And, with monk-like discipline - well, sort of - everyone paid strict obedience to the concept of not taking things too far. Don't spoil it. The Irish fans have this glowing reputation worldwide and it was almost a duty to maintain that. When you put on that green jersey, this is how you behave. And this is how you definitely do not behave. They're just playing up to it now, some disgruntled onlookers on social media had their moan about people having a laugh. But, Jesus, amidst everything that happened in Marseille at the weekend, what a bloody stereotype it is to play up to. What's wrong with trying to be fun, trying to start a celebration the whole city was invited to, and trying to make sure that any badness wouldn't ruin it for anybody? Keith Andrews was running around amongst the crowd with a farmer's hat on, The Coronas arrived later on, and phones were being passed up to men standing on 15-foot generators to record the footage from above and they obliged every single time before returning the property, thumbs up, no bother at all, don't mention it mo chara. It didn't matter if you were an international footballer, a rock star, a Parisian or an Indian, you were part of this party, you were one. You don't have to be Irish to be Irish and, town by town, France is going to feel that and, town by town, France is going to love that. By the time people tried to mobilise themselves to the stadium, they had invited too many people along to get moving. The underground Metro became one big block of green but they stood there content, singing. They stood there content, together. https://twitter.com/SportsJOEdotie/status/742348559417286657 Others panicked though, they ran off back into the streets, freaking out that they wouldn't get to Saint-Denis on time. There were not enough taxis for the Irish folk never mind the rest of the world that they drew like magnets to Clichy, desperately searching for something to believe in. People from Dublin made their taxis stop at the side of the road when they saw a green shirt and men from Donegal jumped in with them. An old couple from Cork did the same and called out to their countrymen trying to flag down any car that would have them. A French man, some random, generous French man, stopped and told a group from Dundalk that he was heading in that direction. Everyone was looking out for each other, everyone was one. By the time they reached the Stade de France, it didn't matter who was sitting where and who was sitting with who, and the stewards and police certainly didn't need to worry too much about that either. For a day, Paris was united. For a day, football was one and Euro 2016 was the international celebration that it was supposed to be. For a day, the good people of France had something to smile about because, for a day, everyone was Irish. With all the tension in the air in parts of the country, all the riots, the threats of terrorism and the fear that police men standing on every corner with machine guns remind you of sometimes, it just took the Irish coming to town to tell everyone, for a day at least, that it was all going to be grand. It just took the Irish to put the smile back on faces and to force everyone to relax. It took the Irish to make us all one. And it just took the Irish to give this tournament, to give football, and to give France something to believe in again. Jesus, don't worry. It'll be grand. https://twitter.com/SportsJOEdotie/status/742348417532203009