SUNDAY12.01am: Head just starting to clear from ravages of Thursday night/Friday morning. Managed to drink unrelentingly through pre-match, post-match. Eurostar, return of the conquered heroes. Mistakenly stopped for a few hours. Bleurgh. Just reaching point of equilibrium again. "Eh! Crazy lady, you wan' more tequila, yes?" Jean-Luc comes in shoeless, topless, Gauloise- in-mouth, bottle in hand. My kinda guy. Manage to say, "yesh, grrrr, mmm," before Jean-Luc restarts full frontal assault on my weakened defence. F*** Vin-da-loo; this bit of Scotland scored one-more-than-you.
1.00am: Jean-Luc just about to score defining goal when doorbell rings. Grab a towel and run down to open door. It's Vikram and Dylan. "Nice strip," smirks Dylan. Tell him to piss off, which he interprets as "Come in, sit down and help yourself to Tequila." Just as I'm about to go back to bedroom and shove some clothes on, Jean-Luc emerges wearing nothing but a scowl before I field him back into the bedroom to the anthem of barely suppressed hysteria from D & V.
1.45am: Halfway down the duty free tequila mountain. Jean-Luc sprawled sulkily on sofa with legs splayed in some kind of macho "I own this little lady" statement. He hasn't said anything for about an hour but keeps trying to jam his hand down the front of my jeans. Doesn't understand that while this was totally OK in front of 200,000 total strangers in Paris, in front of two mates back home it's f***ing embarrassing. D & V are totally unperturbed, and seem to be settling in for a long night.
1.55am: Jean-Luc goes into kitchen to construct some canapes. "`kin' hell Anna, where d'you find that?" hisses Vikram. Manage to mumble, "Er, tagged onto me after the match, y'know." "Yeah, but what's he doing over here?" "Well, I asked him if he wanted to join the mile low club so I could hardly ask him to catch the next train back, could I?" "But the guy's, like, an animal," pipes up Dylan. I shrug. "Put it down to post- match Euphoria". "Yeah, Anna, but you lost."
2.15am: Jean-Luc emerges from the kitchen with a couple of shot glasses, lemon, salt and a fiendish grin. "Okay guys, `ow about a little France vs England match?" Start trying to explain that challenging D & V to a drinking match is about as wise as telling a Hells Angel that he looks lovely in pink. Jean-Luc raises himself up to his full 180cm. "You think I am not enough of a man for thees sons of beetches?" How do I find these guys?
3.15am: Bottle finished. V & D have decided they've discovered their new best mate. Jean-Luc has been regaling them with tales of his travels in Central America. Can already sense Dylan formulating his next herbal pilgrimage. "Is okay guys, we have other bottle in bedroom," beams Jean- Luc and bounds off. I glare at V & D. "For Christsake, call it a night!" "Quiet woman," huffs Vikram, "this is boys stuff. Right, had enough of this.
5.00am: Victory. V & D passed out. Jean-Luc gazing with unsteady admiration. "I always say you were crazy lady," he murmurs, eyes flicking shut. That's the problem with men; they pretend to enjoy it, but they never really understand the rules of the game.