My first trip overseas for almost a year (due to my new life as a father of twins) was a journey to Lille to watch the Ireland v Italy group stage game at Euro 2016.
I had originally applied for seven matches, six of them in the south of France, but in the end was thankful that the only one I was successful for in the ballot was to a city just over the channel. A short hop, not requiring much time away (30 hours) and an enticing game with something riding on it.
I met Mark P, Mark B and Jon at St Pancras' Eurostar departures early on the Wednesday and had a smooth 90 minute train ride directly into Lille city centre. It couldn't have been an easier 'away' game to get to.
We checked into our hotels - mine a small b&b round the back of the station - and wandered into the old town.
I'd been to Lille with Everton in 2014 so it was all very familiar and easy. It also meant I wasn't desperate to go and tick of all the sights, instead deciding to kick back and have a leisurely 24 hours of eating, drinking and watching football. What life is about, surely?
We ate lunch in the same restaurant as that trip in 2014, meeting up with Phil, Mat, his mate Pete and Mark T. The food was as good as last time and the drinks were flowing.
The afternoon was spent in a couple of backstreet bars in the old town, plus a sun-drenched church square.
We happened to be missing the game of the tournament (Portugal v Hungary, being shown on screens just too far away to see) but preferred to people watch and chat as the hours counted down to our game.
On a walk back through the city centre to my hotel I went through the main square which was overrun by Irish fans. Empty bottles strewn everywhere, flags up on the balconies and expectation in the air ahead of a must-win match.
I spent some of the afternoon trying to offload a spare match ticket via Twitter but had no joy, so when we boarded the packed metro to the ground it was still in my pocket.
I thought there'd be no shortage of takers for it in the city, but all the fans we spoke to had tickets.
Outside the stadium I managed to offload it to a bunch of shady-looking teenagers for about 25 euros (50% of cost price) and, following a slightly farcical queue/scrum, we got in the ground just as the anthems were starting up.
I'd lost Mat and Jon by this point and couldn't find the section where my ticket was. I may have had a drink or two by this point but - to be fair - the stadium layout was confusing everyone, stewards included.
It didn't matter though. I stood in the Italy section for their anthem - always a highlight of any major football tournament - and then spent the match perched in two or three other spots in the lower tiers. You could walk anywhere inside the ground, including executive boxes.
I spent most of the second half with a great view of the goal that Ireland were attacking. I was stood in among their green-shirted mass of support, enjoying the songs and the tension as they urged their team on.
With ten minutes remaining, Ireland should have scored but Hoolahan passed up a golden opportunity. The fans thought that was it.
Into the last five minutes and a cross was swung into the box. Robbie Brady jumped, headed, scored.
Bedlam.
I ended up five rows further down, swept along by a tide of grown men and women going doolally in a sea of limbs.
It was a great moment, and I heard people saying afterwards that it was arguably Ireland's most important goal in their football history. Not a bad game to be at then.
After the match, with both Ireland and Italy qualified for the next round, the city was in a jovial mood. We headed back to the church square where we'd spent some of the afternoon, and then Mat, Pete and I took in a couple more bars on the way home.
Irish fans were several dozen sheets to the wind by this point; signing, stumbling, making friends with the locals and basking in a passage booked to the last 16.
I finally left my drinking partners in the strangely-named African Children's Bar at about 2am and headed back to the hotel.
After a mammoth mission to find some food, I stepped over the Irish fans sleeping on the pavement outside my hotel and crashed.
The following morning, Mat, Pete, Mark T and I gathered for a standard cheese-and-ham breakfast by the station.
A couple of hours later and we were back in London where I had to turn down a final drink in the Betjeman Arms and head back to the family.
I couldn't have picked a better overnighter in which to take in a small slice of the Euros, catch up with some mates and enjoy one of the footballing moments of the tournament.
As the song goes: Come on you Boys in Green.
I had originally applied for seven matches, six of them in the south of France, but in the end was thankful that the only one I was successful for in the ballot was to a city just over the channel. A short hop, not requiring much time away (30 hours) and an enticing game with something riding on it.
I met Mark P, Mark B and Jon at St Pancras' Eurostar departures early on the Wednesday and had a smooth 90 minute train ride directly into Lille city centre. It couldn't have been an easier 'away' game to get to.
We checked into our hotels - mine a small b&b round the back of the station - and wandered into the old town.
I'd been to Lille with Everton in 2014 so it was all very familiar and easy. It also meant I wasn't desperate to go and tick of all the sights, instead deciding to kick back and have a leisurely 24 hours of eating, drinking and watching football. What life is about, surely?
We ate lunch in the same restaurant as that trip in 2014, meeting up with Phil, Mat, his mate Pete and Mark T. The food was as good as last time and the drinks were flowing.
The afternoon was spent in a couple of backstreet bars in the old town, plus a sun-drenched church square.
We happened to be missing the game of the tournament (Portugal v Hungary, being shown on screens just too far away to see) but preferred to people watch and chat as the hours counted down to our game.
I spent some of the afternoon trying to offload a spare match ticket via Twitter but had no joy, so when we boarded the packed metro to the ground it was still in my pocket.
I thought there'd be no shortage of takers for it in the city, but all the fans we spoke to had tickets.
Outside the stadium I managed to offload it to a bunch of shady-looking teenagers for about 25 euros (50% of cost price) and, following a slightly farcical queue/scrum, we got in the ground just as the anthems were starting up.
I'd lost Mat and Jon by this point and couldn't find the section where my ticket was. I may have had a drink or two by this point but - to be fair - the stadium layout was confusing everyone, stewards included.
It didn't matter though. I stood in the Italy section for their anthem - always a highlight of any major football tournament - and then spent the match perched in two or three other spots in the lower tiers. You could walk anywhere inside the ground, including executive boxes.
With ten minutes remaining, Ireland should have scored but Hoolahan passed up a golden opportunity. The fans thought that was it.
Into the last five minutes and a cross was swung into the box. Robbie Brady jumped, headed, scored.
Bedlam.
I ended up five rows further down, swept along by a tide of grown men and women going doolally in a sea of limbs.
It was a great moment, and I heard people saying afterwards that it was arguably Ireland's most important goal in their football history. Not a bad game to be at then.
After the match, with both Ireland and Italy qualified for the next round, the city was in a jovial mood. We headed back to the church square where we'd spent some of the afternoon, and then Mat, Pete and I took in a couple more bars on the way home.
Irish fans were several dozen sheets to the wind by this point; signing, stumbling, making friends with the locals and basking in a passage booked to the last 16.
I finally left my drinking partners in the strangely-named African Children's Bar at about 2am and headed back to the hotel.
After a mammoth mission to find some food, I stepped over the Irish fans sleeping on the pavement outside my hotel and crashed.
The following morning, Mat, Pete, Mark T and I gathered for a standard cheese-and-ham breakfast by the station.
A couple of hours later and we were back in London where I had to turn down a final drink in the Betjeman Arms and head back to the family.
I couldn't have picked a better overnighter in which to take in a small slice of the Euros, catch up with some mates and enjoy one of the footballing moments of the tournament.
As the song goes: Come on you Boys in Green.
