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We'd avoided the touristy spots, although all of central Paris can be described as a touristy-spot really, so we weren't prepared for what we saw when we reached the top of the escalator.

We'd spent the day in the Jardin des Tuileries drinking the cheapest of cheap-lager.  Lunch was bread, carrot rapé and a soft-cheese that might well have been Brie. In deference to our hosts we had something red, which came in a large screw-top bottle and tasted a little bit like wine with that. I was smoking Gauloise for similar reasons.

The game kicked of at eight, so it was dark as we made our way to the Metro. I think that it was Coco who cracked the semi-obligatory, "won't have much fun in Stalingrad" Joke.

There were a few Jambos on the train and there was an, I thought typically-French-looking guy, sporting a St Germain scarf sitting in front of us.

"We'll follow him...", I pointed at the back of his bonce.

He swivelled, "I live on Dalry road".

"But you know which station to get off at?"

"Aye".

"Then we'll follow you then". I was tempted to remark on the stupidity of supporting a Paris team when you lived in Edinburgh. But when in France...you let these things pass.

We hadn't really thought too much about how many Jambos were going to be in attendance I suppose. Perhaps we might have suspected that there would be quite a few if we were considering people. But as the escalator lifted us up out of the depths of the metro we could hear the signing.

The square was a wall-to-wall of maroon and white clad Edinburgh folk. There must have been at least two thousand drunken Scots. All with at least one glass in each hand and jumping around like they were at the [what was, even then retro] school disco.

Away up in Gorgie at Tynecastle Park
There's a wee football team that aye makes it's mark
They've won all the honours for footballing arts
And there's nae other team to compare with the Hearts".

For the next three hours the only time that any of us stopped singing was when it was our turn to get the drinks in. [Yes! you could drink in the stadium, you've got to love the French.]

We got stuffed four-nil. But that wasn't the point. As fans we won hands-down. We ran through our entire repertoire. This may be just me time-travelling in my head, but I think that this was the first time that we sang the travelling-song.

"And Now, The end is near
We've followed Hearts from Perth to Paisley
We've travelled far, by bus and car
And other times we've went by railway

We hate the Hibs, they make us spew up
So make a noise you Gorgie boys
We're going to Europe

To See H - M - F - C
We'll even dig the channel tunnel
When we're afloat on some big boat
We'll tie our scarves around the funnel.
We have no cares, for other players
like Rossi, Boniec, or Tardelli
When we're overseas, the hibs will be in Portobelly".

[Sang to 'My Way'.]

Afterwards, the Scots boys-and-girls and the French boys-and-girls had much fun in the cafés.

I woke up in the Montmartre about four with, of all things, a nearly-full pint of Guinness clamped between my thighs. It took me ages to get back to the hotel.