As I woke up and match day I went through the routine I have become accustomed to when going to every big rugby match. First a shower and then putting on the jersey of the team I was going to support. As if it was my own futile attempt to lend power to my team the jersey added power to myself and my belief that my team would win.

It was a pretty cold day in Paris, the cold whip of the wind didn’t help any as I walked on one of the walking tours with four of the pretty American girls who were in my dorm room. They felt obliged to drag me out to the walking tour by using the promise of going to see skeletons in the catacombs to bribe me. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to steal a skull for myself, although I was exceedingly tempted. Anyway, the day itself was fairly reserved, if I saw a Frenchman wearing a France rugby scarf I would unzip my jacket and flaunt my Wallabies jersey to show my supremacy in my support of the almighty Australian rugby union team. Of course when seeing people wearing Wallabies gear throughout the weekend a hi 5 or conversation was in order. They were my people, we were one in a strange land to support the team and land which we loved so much.

On returning to my hostel I had about 3 hours to kill. I sat up with a revolving number of the pretty American girls, of which one commented on ‘I hope you have fun playing tonight.’ Needless to say they didn’t understand the size of Rugby union around the world, and were shocked when I showed them pictures of the crowd at the game. Anyway, I sat around drinking about a third of a bottle of vodka (until the bottle was empty) and listening to the Australian electro band ‘The Presets’, getting jointly nostalgic for Aussie music and to get me nice and pumped up for the night ahead.

When it was time to leave I headed down to catch the Metro, and this is where the adventures began. As soon as I got to the Metro there was a group of French fans, both male and female who were pointing at me and waving, so of course this was ideal time for a bit of ‘gamesmanship’ so I spent my time claiming that the Wallabies would win by 40. Perhaps not the most accurate margin but if I am going to attempt to stamp on the French fans ambitions I may as well go all out.

On the next stop I started talking to some more French fans and they were very cool people. I spoke to them about a variety of things, including the reason they were originally laughing at me was because I was only wearing my Wallabies jacket with a winter jacket, until one of them told me to watch my pockets, as some little kid was trying to pick my pockets, an occurrence which was entirely foreign to me. After that they wanted me to come with them for a bit of a pre game beer, which of course I obliged, as within the ground they only serve non alcoholic beer. (What’s the point?)

As I found my seat I sat down in the most magnificent ground that I have ever been in, it was definitely going to be an amazing night. The teams came out soon after finding my seat to sing the national anthems and to start the game. There is something about watching your national or regional side play in a match that always has almost a physical effect. As soon as the Wallabies ran out on the ground I was no longer supporting a rugby team, I was supporting Australia, the country of which I had left and the country of which I loved. Like seeing a long lost lover the emotion welled up, whatever happened in the game at least I had the privilege of spending time watching the team play, knowing that as they played for Australia, they were representing me. As the Australian national anthem started up I made sure to sing it as loud as possible, obscenely so, like every single Australian in that sea of Frenchmen made sure to do, we were proud of our country, and we would show as much. With my voice almost hoarse from ‘Advance Australia Fair’ I settled in to listen to 80,000 or so Frenchmen sing ‘La Marseillaise’. If I thought listening to ‘Flower of Scotland’ at Murrayfield was amazing ‘La Marseillaise’ was just out of this world. A brilliant national anthem with 80,000 Frenchmen singing their heart out is a situation which I had never been in, obviously because of the smaller size of past stadiums I have been to as well as some tendency of Australians at home to not even sing that loud, I know from experience some people mouth the words so as to not let the person next to them hear their horrible singing voice. Either the French sing brilliantly or they simply do not care how bad their singing is.

The atmosphere at the game was magnificent, through the crowd chanting ‘Alles Les Blues’ or their late game rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’. Although in saying that the French guy next to me was telling me Stade de France possessed a silent atmosphere compared to Toulouse or Marseille, whether that is true or not I don’t know but it is definitely something to arrange in the future, rugby trip to Toulouse perhaps?

Anyway, the game itself was a good result, I enjoyed myself, and returned bursting full of pride and honestly, I was buggered. Just like every good rugby match, watching it can sometimes take as much out as playing it. I would like to say that I went out and partied until 10am in the morning, giving every French rugby fan I saw a whole bunch of shtick, but honestly, I was content and ready to rest for another day.

Onto Cardiff, onto the Millennium stadium, another step to an illusive grand slam. Alles Australie!