Let’s not mince words, the 1998 World Cup was a circus. France hosting meant baguettes, too much wine, and stadiums that smelt like stale cheese – a bloody nightmare for a lad who just wanted a decent pie and pint before the football. But the football? Chaos. Zidane headlining with that shiny dome of his, England bottling it (no surprise), and Ronaldo looking like he’d been smacked in the head with a frying pan before the final. It was proper carnage, and I loved every second of it.
England’s tournament summed up in one word: shite. Beckham got sent off for kicking out at Simeone – the lad couldn’t handle a bit of needle. Argentina laughed, the tabloids crucified him, and us lot were left muttering into our warm lager. I’ll never forget watching that penalty shootout, Shearer smacking it in like he was leathering a door shut, before Batty and Ince fluffed theirs like clowns at a kid’s birthday. Typical.
The French, meanwhile, strutted through Paris like kings. Zidane rose up in the final, nodded two past Brazil, and the whole of France nearly drowned themselves in cheap champagne. As for Brazil, their talisman Ronaldo looked like he’d spent the afternoon chasing butterflies rather than preparing for the game. Rumours of seizures, conspiracies, Nike deals – no one knew what the hell was going on. All we knew was that Cafu and co were a shadow of themselves, and France made them look like mugs.
For us Scousers watching, the scran wasn’t much better. Every bar seemed to be serving plates of cheese and bread. Cheese! Absolute filth. You want proper scran at the footy, not a lump of dairy sweating on a plate. No wonder the atmosphere was half wine-bar, half morgue, until Zidane decided to liven it up.
And yet, despite the shambles, France ’98 had magic. Michael Owen tearing through Argentina with that wonder goal – a proper Scouse lad showing the world how it’s done. Croatia battering Germany with Davor Šuker looking like he’d nicked his shooting boots from the gods. And Laurent Blanc snogging Fabien Barthez’s bald head like it was the last pint on earth. Madness, all of it.
Looking back, France ’98 was peak World Cup drama – heartbreak, chaos, and a reminder that football makes fools of us all. But one thing’s for certain: it still boils my piss thinking England had a chance. We never learn, do we?
– Digby