Vive la France!

We planned to go out for dinner last night. "Is that wise?" I questioned my football-allergic boyfriend. "Why?" he replied. "Lo, England are playing France in Euro 2004 at 7.45," I answered, "and therefore there will be riots on the streets, and the rivers shall flow with blood." Of course, he did not believe me.

As we were walking back from Caffè Uno, a police Tactical Aid Unit van tore past us. "Lloyds Bar," I said, "bet it's a murder." Lloyds Bar it indeed was. A little further down the road, more police vans and ambulances came streaming past. "Footage," I said, "for sure." Although Stuart had assured me that the Footage would cause no trouble at all, it transpired quite clearly, when we walked past it, that there were seven police vans outside, one or two ambulances, a very definite trail of blood leading from the pub to the take-away, and some impressively broken windows. Going into our old workplace, the high concentration of police officers, flood of beer on the floor, stench of sweat, and upside-down nature of all the furniture, it seemed that, indeed, there had been something of a riot.

Never tell me that I gloat.