Paris Goes Green: Among the Irish Contingent at Euro 2016

It's lunchtime on Saturday 11 June and the Boulevard de Clichy is beginning to fill up. A growing mass of green-shirted figures are sloshing their drinks on to Parisian pavements, singing in unison as they spill out on to the street beside the bars. Sorry, pubs. Irish pubs. This is Paris, but for three days at the start of Euro 2016 it may as well be Sligo, Ballina or Tralee. As if to make them feel entirely at home, the weather is shit.

The Irish have earned a reputation as ardent followers of their international football side, but they weren't hugely experienced at it until relatively recently. The Boys in Green first reached a major finals with qualification for Euro '88 – memorably beating England thanks to a Ray Houghton goal in Stuttgart – then went to back-to-back World Cups in 1990 and '94. It was the two global competitions that really fired their enthusiasm: Ireland were quarter-finalists at Italia '90, and the roots laid at that tournament are now firmly entrenched. The song for Jack Charlton's side, "Put 'Em Under Pressure", is still sung by fans today.

For Euro 2016 they have been handed a tough group: a Sweden side led by Zlatan Ibrahimovic in the opener; Belgium's array of Premier League talent in game two; and the always dangerous Italians to conclude. Pre-tournament, most felt that Martin O'Neill's side would struggle to make the second round; with just the Italy game to go, that hunch has been proven correct.

But at the start of the tournament hopes were high, or at least yet to be sapped by the realities of what happens on the pitch. The Sweden match – which took place at the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, a suburb to the north of Paris – was recognised as crucial. With two big sides to follow, this was a must-win for both teams.

The Boulevard de Clichy consists of two roads running parallel to each other, with a pedestrianised strip down the middle. It's a famous and tourist-heavy area, hence the two Irish pubs – The Harp and Corcoran's – that sit near the corner where the Boulevard de Clichy meets the Rue Caulaincourt. At the other end of the street is the Moulin Rouge, its neon-lit red windmill offering a beacon to the green-shirted Irish fans. On the opposite side of the road from this, there is a row of shops with a distinctly adult theme: Fantasy DVD Store, Porno Shop, and another that simply has the word 'SEX' blazing in 10-foot neon letters above the entrance.

By Sunday afternoon the area has been fully taken over by hundreds of Irish fans. The pubs are near impossible to enter, unless you want to get up close and very personal with about four lads in football shirts and cargo shorts. A rain shower of biblical proportions means that this is no longer a choice, with even the hardiest Irish fans forced into the pubs. "Fuckin' sunny back home and pissing down here. What are the odds, lads?"

Corcoran's is showing Northern Ireland's Euro 2016 game against Poland on a small screen in the corner, but the GAA fixture between Roscommon and Sligo is visible on several other, larger TVs. It's clear which is getting most attention – several people are wearing yellow Roscommon shirts, which resemble Sweden's kit. There is little affection for the North; later, Irish fans cheer at their conclusion of their neighbours' 1-0 defeat.

The inside of Corcoran's becomes slightly tense during the rain-enforced squeeze, but outside the atmosphere is jovial, fans singing and drinking with enthusiasm. 'Put 'Em Under Pressure' – or at least the refrain of "Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole" – gets plenty of outings. So too does 'Come on You Boys in Green.' Chants of "We all dream of a team of Gary Breens!" – a celebration of their largely average former international defender – ring out as well. But most common is 'The Fields of Athenry', a melancholic Irish folk song that was adopted as a sporting anthem during Italia '90. It will also be played and sung ahead of the Sweden match (the Swedes, in contrast, get a thumping house anthem, all part of seriously confused in-stadium entertainment).

The Harp and Corcoran's sit at the bottom of eight-storey apartment buildings (the "American bar", James Hetfeeld's, is in the middle). Figures sometimes appear at the windows, peering down bemused at the crowd below them. A portly man receives a huge cheer each time he walks out on to his balcony. He seems uncertain at first – what has he done to receive such adulation? – but quickly gets in on the gag, disappearing and reappearing to a rapturous reception.

Another local, a woman about to depart the area by bicycle, admits that the fans are noisy – she could hardly deny it – but seems unfussed: "I have not slept for three nights now, they are always singing!" she says, gesturing at the green shirts around her with a smile. "But I do not mind. They have nice voices. I don't mind if they sing."

This opinion may not be shared by all of her neighbours. Many, however, will have taken the Euros as an opportunity for a trip away. Certainly anyone living in an apartment above a row of Irish pubs would have been wise to get out for at least a few days. The number of Irish shirts and flags hanging from balconies suggest that the locals have cashed in and rented their homes out.

Numbers grow so much on Sunday that fans are now blocking the road outside the pubs entirely. Few cars are seen, with those that do appear opting to drive in the opposite direction to avoid the melee.

But one man is having none of it. Piloting a small Peugeot, hunched over the steering wheel, he slowly drives at the hundred-strong group of supporters. They cheer, block his way with even more enthusiasm. And so he reaches for the weapon Parisians love best: the horn. In Paris, cars beep at each other as a matter of course. Perhaps they are not beeping at each other, but rather just doing so because you can't feasibly go more than 60 seconds without doing so. Now, however, the man in the small Peugeot clearly has good reason. He beeps, and the fans cheer loudly. "Ole, ole, ole, ole." They're banging on the windows and waving at him joyously. He reverses, and they step away almost apologetically, as if they have accidentally hurt him. But the man is just angry. He drives forward again, this time fully resoled to make it through. The fans keep cheering, keep singing, keep banging on his windows, but they're less arsed now and don't want to be run down at slow speed by a small Peugeot. He makes it through and disappears, presumably swearing loudly in French.

If that sort of thing sounds like a borderline public order offence, it's not registering with the police. The gendarmes are present, but not in anything like what you'd call numbers. This is Sunday evening, the day we read news of England and Russia fans clashing violently with the gendarmerie in Marseille. But, in the capital, things are peaceful. This is not simply an Irish gathering, either. Swedish fans have begun to mix into the crowd, and they're greeted with enthusiasm. In the fan zone across the city, supporters of many nations – England included – keep it cool. The police stroll past the mass of Irish looking largely relaxed. There is no reason for them to be anything else. There's no violence, no aggression – just a vast and growing mess on the streets.

The Sweden game is scheduled for 6pm on Monday. Several hours before, the area around the Boulevard de Clichy is completely full and overflowing on to neighbouring streets. The road has ground to a near standstill. Police are directing traffic where possible, but struggling with the fans' lack of fear when it comes to stepping in front of moving vehicles. The entrances to every Metro station in the area are overflowing; it's difficult to tell if fans are trying to get in, or leaving because there's no way on to the trains. In the panic, some green shirts can be seen standing bemused on trains running in the wrong direction, alone on sparsely populated carriages. Some fans jump in taxis, which if they're planning to head all the way to Saint Denis – 7km from this part of Paris – is not going to be cheap. A group of lads are attempting to negotiate passage in the back of a truck, undeterred by the driver's almost complete lack of English.

The rest are battling on towards Metro carriages. Trains arrive near empty – this is 3.30pm on a Monday – but are filled to capacity by Irish fans, plus a small number of Swedes. As the signing starts up again, some passengers elect to simply get off the train rather than live through the noise. A small child covers his ears, clearly distressed at shouts of "Come on You Boys in Green!" His mother clutches him close to her.

A group of three fans wearing German shirts are huddled in the corner. They are headed for the game and have taken the strange (but not uncommon) decision to wear their own colours while watching two other sides. They are quickly reminded of their last meeting with the Irish.

"Oi, lads, what was the score last time we played Germany?" shouts one fan, followed by a carriage-wide chorus of "1-0 to the boys in green!" The German supporters get it at intervals all the way to Saint Denis. The little boy shrinks further into his mother's arms.

Stade de France hosted the 1998 World Cup Final, providing the stage on which Zidane and co. beat Brazil 3-0. As a setting, however, it's about as luminous as Gary Breen. The local area is grey and sparse, a flyover offering perhaps the most scenic view. It's like Wembley – away from the centre of town, heavily concreted – but without even the comparative excitement of a nearby Wimpy.

The Irish fans are now joined by their Swedish counterparts, giving the area a much-needed splash of colour. The Swedes are as happy as the Irish to indulge in stereotypes: for every leprechaun hat there is a Viking helmet. The Swedes roar and pull menacing shapes, then settle back into looking friendly. The Irish pull grins before resuming sterner, more weary faces.

The game itself satisfies neither set of fans. Ireland create the two best chances of the first half, but go in level with an uninspired Swedish side, Zlatan looking largely ineffective. Wes Hoolahan gives Ireland a deserved lead on 48 minutes, but an own goal from Ciaran Clark levels the scores and somewhat redeems Ibra. It's not wholly reflective of the match, but nor is it entirely unfair. Both sides look as though they'll struggle against more potent attacks; Ireland's subsequent 3-0 defeat to Belgium seems to confirm as much.

With blazing bars in Marseille and Russian hooligans wearing GoPros while they beat people in Lille, it's easy to wonder why France – why anyone, ever – would want to host the Euros. Sure, there is the economic benefit of bringing tens of thousands of people to your country and encouraging them to eat and drink a lot, but that is somewhat offset when your restaurants are on fire and the beer is mixing with pools of blood in the streets.

But Euro 2016 has not been characterised entirely by depressing episodes. There are plenty of fans – you'd be tempted to say the majority – who just want to drink beer, have a sing-song, and watch the football. Most of us can get along with that.

The Irish are among those, but certainly not alone: their Swedish counterparts were equally cheerful and had a similar air of not wanting to fight anybody, while plenty of other fanbases have managed to neither burn nor assault anyone during Euro 2016. No set of supporters is perfect, mind. The area around the Boulevard de Clichy was an appalling mess by Monday evening, with a sea of discarded cans, bottles and assorted other crap covering the ground. The clean-up operation must have been like something from a disaster movie.

Still, these fans do bring something unique. For a few days, parts of Paris felt like Ireland; other areas became Swedish enclaves. Then both sets of fans left for new cities, taking their colours and their songs elsewhere, and others arrived. No sooner had the Irish left than cries of "Polska!" rang in the streets, and Swiss tracksuits were spotted at bars, and Northern Irish accents heard enquiring about the distance to the Metro. This year's Euros have not been perfect. Nor have the fans that the tournament has brought to France. But when a distinct fan culture pops up in a foreign city, it can feel like an enriching experience. Just don't try to sleep while the Irish are outside.

@Jimmy_Weeks