Notes from a large Île
- I’m beginning to think that the rugby match is a penance that must be gone through in order to enjoy the rest of the weekend in Paris. People keep telling me that it was a great game. No it wasn’t. It was torture, compounded by how victory briefly appeared inevitable. A 30-point defeat is a clean cut to the soul. A narrow one after a surprise comeback is a cruel botch job.
- It was, without doubt, the worst rendition of Ireland’s Call yet. The male voice choir went a capella, starting with a low groan and then setting off at a random pace. You wondered how any team could avoid being enervated by it, never mind inspired.
- A truly great national anthem is one that makes even your enemies sing along. I haven’t been at a Paris game yet without hearing a few Irish voices join in with La Marseillaise. All together now, Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Naaaaa-Na-Na…
- Blue skies, warmth in the sun, the cafés and markets buzzing, the bars open all night. When you come back to Dublin, you feel immediately inadequate.
- The smoking ban seems to be working pretty well. But the French are still a nation of smokers.
- Charles de Gaulle airport is so expensive it triggers a condition we should call “Sudden Onset Till Shock”.
- I was happy to see a kid let through security with a plastic sword, because, as he approached the guards, one of my travelling companions told about the time he saw a lightsaber being confiscated from a child before he could board a US flight. Which is daft, because the last recorded lightsaber death happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.



An expensive way to stand out from the mainstream masses
2:37 pm
It’s funny that you say that about the Marseillaise- my French friends all insist Ireland’s call is better…
Comment by red