Surreal days and nights in France

It was only 6.30am last Monday when one Northern Ireland fan, still very much the worse for wear after a night that may not have ended, spotted a couple of guys from south of the border wearing their different shades of green and felt the urge to cover the length of the train station concourse in Nice in less time than an Olympic sprinter to have his say, writes Brendan O’Brien.

“Sweden till I die, I’m Sweden till I die…”

Not the most original of barbs by any stretch of even his non-existent, alcohol befuddled imagination but, as far as turns of speed go, it was infinitely more impressive than anything his rather pedestrian team had managed against the Poles in their opening game the night before.