I will never forget my first taste of teargas

As soon as I emerged from Marseille train station, it was obvious that here was a city on the edge, so very different from the genteel Paris I had travelled from on the eve of England’s opening match at the 1998 World Cup. My taxi driver looked decidedly nervous as I asked to be taken to my hotel in the Old Port area. He dropped me off as near as he could and I hardly had time to pay before he stepped on it and fled. The whole port area was chaotic, with police and people all over the streets. I checked into my hotel next to an armed guard on reception and then headed off to capture “the atmosphere”.

All the ingredients were there for the pressure-cooker of Marseille to boil over. On one side you had the England fans with hooligan tendencies, tanked up and over-ripened by the hot sun, wanting to make some sort of impression on the tournament. On the other side you had thousands of local north Africans supporting Tunisia and ready to take out their grievances following years of abuse from the local establishment. In the middle were the ranks of nervous, hyped-up police, prepared and eager for confrontation.

Sure enough it all kicked off and what emerged was this three-sided battle along the waterfront area of the Old Port. Bottle throwing mixed with flag burning, teargas mixed with baton charges. I had never seen anything like it. I didn’t know where to stand to be safe as I was totally unprepared for a riot, with no helmet or mask. My first taste of teargas was something I will never forget.

But the image from that afternoon that will always stay with me is one of a silver-haired old lady insisting on walking her poodle through the massed ranks of kitted-up riot police by the port. She couldn’t have been more French if she had tried. Tom Jenkins, Guardian photographer

It turned ugly when England took the lead

Alan Shearer, second from right, scores to give England the lead against Tunisia. Trouble then flared at a site where fans were watching on a big screen. Photograph: Doug Mills/AP

France 98 was the first big overseas tournament for England of the Premier League era and, as such, attracted the best and worst of the old and new among English football’s fanbase. Above all else, England’s following in France that summer was massive, but still accompanied by foreboding about a hooligan reputation that had not been shed.

That trouble would erupt in Marseille on the night before the Tunisia match was wearily predictable, but it did not deter our group of friends, staying just outside Montpellier, from making the day trip for the game. Even though we had no tickets, past and present tournament experience led us to believe some would be obtainable. As it turned out, they weren’t, but it would still be worth soaking up the atmosphere in a tournament that had thus far felt festive and convivial in its other host cities.

For half of the day Marseille did not feel so different. We made our way out to the Prado beach, a mile or so from the Stade Vélodrome, where the match was being shown on a big screen. Initially the atmosphere was raucous but friendly – English and Tunisian fans backslapping each other and posing for photos – but it turned ugly when England took the lead. Bottles were thrown from a temporary stand housing mainly Tunisia fans on to the celebrating (and among some elements provocative) England supporters below. People began to scatter along the beach. Police arrived, indiscriminately spraying teargas. A particular memory – one highlighting the differences between types of supporter present that year – is of fleeing fans being berated amid the mayhem by an old-guard hoolie for not standing their ground. “We’re England, we don’t fucking run,” he yelled to a largely unresponsive audience. We were, and we did.

The scariest part of the day, however, came after the match, on the walk from the beach to the Métro station, when local youths came out of the estates lining the street to pelt us with stones and rocks, which necessitated hiding behind bins around the back of a block of flats until things had calmed down. A day that had began with England’s enduring social problem in the spotlight ended with some of France’s being experienced first-hand. Tom Davies, England fan

‘Why do the English do this? Why?’

An England fan is restrained by French police in Marseille in 1998. Photograph: Sean Smith/The Guardian

That sinking feeling. Most English football fans in the 1980s recognised it. Us. Again. Wreaking ugly havoc.

For the journalists covering the game at the Stade Vélodrome, with England edging their opening group match against Tunisia, we didn’t know too much about the rioting outside during the match itself. In the age before social media, with dial-up internet a luxury to be used sparingly, the grapevines worked considerably slower than today’s instant imaging. Immediately after the game we watched as the televisions in the press centre broadcast the scenes from downtown Marseille, where the mood amongst a large gathering of fans watching a big screen and drinking in the afternoon sun had suddenly turned.

It was a kind of predecessor of what would become the fanzone idea. A big patch of land for fans without tickets to congregate. There wasn’t much in the way of security, though, and the cocktail of two opposing fanbases didn’t mix.

I remember a journalist from Romania reading my nationality on my accreditation badge and asking me, “Why do the English do this? Why?” His expression was of pure bewilderment. I remember the frustrating and confusing sense of shame by association. The notion that I should be able to explain the psyche of the average hooligan just because I loved football and was born in England was a tough one to stomach.

Heading into Marseille for something to eat later that night, the atmosphere around town was weird. An edgy version of calm after the storm. This atmospheric city became strangely quiet. Amy Lawrence, Guardian reporter

There was blood and shattered glass on the pavements

Marseille locals feel the effects after teargas is used to try to control rioting fans in 1998. Photograph: Sean Smith/The Guardian

News of trouble involving locals on the city’s streets had made English national radio news on Sunday morning as my flatmate and I headed to Waterloo station for an early start on the Eurostar, with a single change at Lille, but that was pretty much the last we thought about it until we left the platform at Marseille seven hours or so later. We were greeted by the sound of sirens and sight of gendarmes racing along with riot shields as we headed for a side exit to await a lift from a French friend who had offered to put us up for the night.

We saw pockets of trouble as we headed to her apartment and later on Sylvia offered to take us to her favourite fish restaurant a few kilometres out of town and overlooking the Med. There was an excellent sunset, the food and wine were great and towards the end of the meal our host said that on the way back we could drop in at her father’s bar in the Old Port area of the city as he was known to my flatmate from a visit to England several years before.

On hearing this, the restaurateur implored us not to go as he had heard the local radio news and it was now reporting full-blown trouble in Marseille. We drove there anyway as Sylvia was concerned about her father and arriving at 10.30pm perhaps, the area was like a ghost town with broken windows at ground level in just about every building in a 10-minute walk from the car to the bar, half-empty glasses lying on tables and walls and blood and shattered glass on the pavements, with the occasional English drunk on the scene “looking for my mates”.

We got to the bar and thankfully Sylvia’s father had boarded it up early and gone home. A smidgeon of embarrassment was avoided but admitting to being English and having been present at the Tunisia match became very difficult, even after I arrived in Montpellier the next evening. Mark Tallentire, England fan