For once the squeeze meant nothing. Yes, I was practically wedged up against the glass of the RER B on the way back into Paris from the suburb of St Denis. Yes, it was going to be a nightmare hauling my rucksack through the scrum onto my destination platform and yes, I was probably going to be more than a bit whiffy by the time I reached it. The only difference this time was that I didn't care and no-one else on that train did either.
The explanation for this totally un-parisian lack of Metro-stress was to be found in a colour not normally seen on this type of occasion - nor for that matter on my normally uber-trendy travelling acquaintances - shocking, bright, neon pink.
Enough of the intrigue. Last Saturday afternoon I had been lucky enough to be a part of the crowd at the Stade de France to watch the Top 14 (French League) match between the reigning league champions and perennial Heineken Cup star performers, Stade Toulousain and the Parisian boys, Stade Français, currently languishing down the wrong end of the table and whose flower-emblazoned shirts bore witness to the time-worn maxim that only real men wear pink (tough looking thorny tendrils had been added just in case). It had been quite an afternoon's entertainment.
Spilling out from the train at La Plaine (Stade de France) station at a quarter past two - 45 minutes before kick-off - I could already feel the buzz. There was pink everywhere. Not only on the replica shirts, but on scarves, berets (this is France!), tracksuit tops and, of course, flags; a veritable rose-tinted sea (dotted with splodges of Toulouse red and black) flowing toward the stadium on a tide of expectation. The fuchsia frenzy didn't stop when you got there either, even the entrance to the players tunnel and the posts themselves had been daubed pink for the occasion.
Just after locating my seat - barely six rows from the pitch and resplendent, to my excitement, with a free pink flag - I was almost knocked out by the huge, inflatable rugby ball that had been bounced down from the top tier of the stands. I watched as it made its way over various heads towards a small-scale, portable set of posts (pink, of course) that stood in front of the crowd. A spectator in the front row caught the ball and lobbed it, with some difficulty, through the posts. This achievement was greeted by a raucous cheer from our section of fans who, as I then realised, were in competition with the other sections as to who could score the most "goals" in a set time.
The pre-match madness didn't stop there. Ten minutes before the start a cardboard Moulin Rouge (yes you read correctly!) was wheeled onto the centre of the pitch. This was joined shortly by a troupe of can-can dancers from the eponymous show-hall who defied the icy cold by completing a high-kicking routine that ended with a further two of their colleagues emerging from the windmill to present the match ball to the referee. I could only hope the match lived up to this!
It did! Toulouse were expected to win this one comfortably, but after ten minutes found themselves 6-0 down to a brace of penalty kicks from the Paris no. 15 Jerôme Porical. They were further rattled when their prop Jean-Baptiste Poux was sin-binned. The stadium was really starting to warm up now (no mean feat in that weather) and it fair exploded when Stade Français rumbled the resulting penalty scrum up to the Toulouse line and number 8 - Italian rugby legend Sergio Parisse - controlled and deftly scooped up the ball to dot down for the opening try, 11-0 Paris!
It was at about this point that I noticed my neighbour, a bespectacled, a fairly ordinary-looking middle-aged lady. I noticed her because because she was shouting and she didn't stop! If I'd had a small child with me I would have stopped-up their ears because this woman was turning the pink air blue. No player or official was safe from the tirade and when Toulouse wing, and French international, Vicent Clerc got the luck of the bounce and pounced for his club's first try, I thought my own ears were going to melt.
Worse was to come when the giant black and red number 8, Edwin Maka, thundered over the Parisian 22 and brushed past the despairing lunges of rose-clad defenders to score. It all looked like Stade's great start had been little but a mosquito bite on the back of a now very angry southern French rhino. 24-14 at half time. Things were looking bleak.
All hearts were somewhat warmed by a half time show consisting of speedo-wearing pom-pom girls, a mini-rugby club parade and a penalty competition between two junior teams. Shortly after the break it seemed that the Toulouse players still had their minds on those pom-pom girls as their back line parted to allow home scrum half, Fillol, to gratefully fall over the line onto an unguarded through ball. Now the energy of my flag waving was more than matching the decibel level coming through my left ear - though this was now tinged with a distinctly more positive tone.
Stade Français were now putting more and more flowing moves together, but were still lacking that killer punch and with seven minutes to go were still three precious points down. Cometh the moment, cometh the legend and after another attack had seemingly broken down, Parisse was there at the right time and on the right shoulder to collect the right pass and gleefully trundle under the posts for the try that sent the crowd into ecstasy: "Allez, allez! Allez, allez! Allez, allez le Stade Français!". There was still time for finger nails to be put at risk during a frenetic finale as the champions threw everything they could at Stade, but the floral fortifications held firm. Final score: 28-24 Stade Français!
After the players had completed their lap of honour, greeted as they went by their furiously flag waving fans (myself chief among them), and the sun had begun to cast ghostly beams through the fading smoke of the ear-splittingly fabulous post-match firework display, it was clear that it was going to be a while before anything as mundane as a packed train carriage was going to bother anyone there. Well, at least until Monday morning.
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