English soccer fans on a motorbike displaying the St. George's Cross flag face a line of anti-riot police in the Old Port district in Marseille in this photo from June 14, 1998, during a series of riots and running battles between English and Tunisian fans in the southern French city. Photo by GEORGES GOBET /AFP archive

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It’s as real as yesterday. In some ways, more real. 

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The fear, the panic, the adrenaline rush, the smell of tear gas, the sight of blood, the knives, the bricks, the bottles. 

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Yes, funny what you recall. 

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So many bottles flying through the air, missiles with labels. 

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Evian. Heineken. 

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Every World Cup, and especially when England plays in the World Cup, I can’t help but think of Marseille in 1998. 

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I remember Chris Nelson, my boss at the paper, telling me to get on the next train out of Paris going south, the train to the French port of Marseille. 

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He says there’s trouble. Rioting. Violence. Bloody battles waged in the street. 

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Ugliness broadcast around the world. 

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England was scheduled to play Tunisia.  

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Before the match, English fans square off against Tunisians and local North African youth in a city with a lot of local North African youth. 

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On the train down to Marseille there’s Darren, a carpenter from Lancashire, explaining what’s what. 

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“Police get a bit strong, the locals come to have a go, some lads get beaten up. There’s always a reason.” 

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There is going to be more trouble. 

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The train arrives. I score a ticket from a scalper who is persuaded by two tough lads to sell it at a reasonable price. 

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The atmosphere at the game is brilliant. The singing. The flag waving. 

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Strangers coming up and asking if you’re from Manchester or Sunderland or Barnsley. 

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And England wins the game. 

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England captain Alan Shearer (at left) heads the ball to score the 1-0 lead for his team as Tunisian goalkeeper Chroki Al Quaer fails to make the save at Velodrome stadium in Marseille during the 1998 World Cup. Photo by GEORGES GOBET /AFP archive

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But the nastier battle of Marseille is far from over. 

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Before the final whistle, bottles fly from the Tunisian stands. 

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It is a preview of what is to follow. 

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At the train station, hoping to get back to the calm of Paris, all hell breaks loose. 

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A bomb explodes.  

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There’s the ee-ah, ee-ah of emergency vehicles. There is smoke in the air, lots of it. 

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A stairway at the train station is full of people. It is hot, scorching hot and a world away from anywhere else. 

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On the stairs and at the top of the stairs are mostly the English.  

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At the bottom of the stairs are the Tunisians and local North Africans. 

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English soccer fans cover their faces to protect themselves from tear gas in the Old Port district in Marseille. Photo by GEORGES GOBET /AFP archive

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What’s this?

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A riot cop jumps out of a police car and tosses a canister. People yell it’s CS gas. They’ve seen this before.  

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It stings. Then there’s the taste.

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Bottles fly from both sides. 

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“When they’re throwing bottles, we’ve got to defend yourselves,” says William of Southampton, who promptly throws a bottle. 

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The English try to charge down the stairs. The French riot police swing their batons with maximum force to push them back. 

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There is violence on many streets in the city turning them into carpets of glass from all the bottles and smashed windows. 

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A bottle hits a car, a driver and passenger flee and the car is set on fire.