Racing Métro 14 - 3 Stade Francais

The atmosphere before this game was one of the most intense that I have ever experienced. Again, this was one of the games that stood out on the fixture list when I perused it in a balmy Edinburgh summer evening instead of revising. A win was all we were looking for, all that we cared about. And so it arrived after a drop-goal and 2 penalties from myself and a try from the big 2nd row. We didn't play especially well, but we really didn't have to. This sort of attitude is worryingly prevalent in our team. We seem to raise our level just high enough to win, and no more. Stade were poor, turning out to be everything they were said to be - individuals, flaky when the pressure came on.

The first half was tight, just an exchange of 3 points. But with a favourable wind in the 2nd half, and a surprisingly nice pink ball with with to play territory, we began to turn the screw.

There was a titanic battle in the scrum and I truly believe our props had thought of nothing other than the Clermont humiliation since that sad day and this brought them to a crazy level of scrummaging. Personally, it was the usual, flashes here and there but littered with silly mistakes. At times I became like a forward with the lines I ran, still inexplicable to me. Perhaps a moment of madness caused by a brain strained by the colour in front of me.

I wrote earlier about what Stade would be wearing and they didn't disappoint.

They were fairly big, and powerful when they wanted to be. But we were the more disciplined, tight-knit team. We really should have won by more.

Pretty in pink, which the fans were too. This was our biggest crowd of the season, the pitch flanked by adidas tracksuits with three stripes in pink. One guy had brought a vuvuzela.

If you look closely you can see that I am putting in very little work here, our France under 18 number 8 is pulling more than I am pushing, though I put a good face on it.

The ultimate individualist full-back, odd socks 'n all.

Extraordinary array of colours, flowers, lightning bolts...

The two old foes go head to head with the typical backdrop of the, at times, grim, north Parisian suburbs. The traditional combative play of the ciel et blanc, with our pure, unadulterated shirt won out over the colourful, razzamatazz, yet individual and mentally weak Stade Francais. On Sunday, Paris turned Blue and White, not pink, and we absolutely loved it.


(pictures taken by Charlene Panis...)