Edgeley Park, May 6, 2001

Now I'm not saying I hate the French. Far from it; I know plenty of people from France and they are all lovely, plus I have a massive crush on Audrey Tautou, and my favourite football of all time is Zinedine Zidane. You could even say I'm a Francophile (or does that mean I like General Franco? Not sure I'm happy with that). Either way the bicycle riding, stripy top wearing, baguette carrying lovelies from across the channel get a big thumbs up from me. But it wasn't always like that.

Back in May 2001 I was struggling through a French A level (and by struggling I mean not bothering to turn up to the lessons and then wondering why I was failing all the tests), plus my French teacher was a complete 'salope!' - one word i did remember. So I wasn't a big fan of it, it's fair to say. And one of the main reasons my head was not in a French book was the perils of my club Crystal Palace. I was a wide-eyed 16-year-old, with gangly limbs and dyed blond hair (don't ask) and was into my second year as a season ticket holder - and was head over heels in love with all things CPFC.

Thanks to the club's slide towards the Second Division, I was tearing my peroxide locks out, and anything else was pretty much off the table, concentration wise. A run in the League Cup that had taken Alan Smith's side to the semi-final where they were unceremoniously dumped out by Liverpool 6-2 on aggregate, only masked some terrible league form as the Eagles slide towards the drop. There were some shockers; scraping a 2-2- draw with Gillingham, losing 3-2 to Portsmouth after being 2-0 up, losing at home to Wolves in the final home game of the season and being so shit, supporters threw their season tickets on the pitch.

So when the penultimate game of the season rolled around down at Portsmouth I was half way out of the door, heading for the train station, when Mum stopped me in my tracks.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "Er…Portsmouth," I said "Not tonight you're not, tonight is when Ali arrives."

Merde! Putain! I'd totally forgotten that I was to host a French exchange student for the week and he was due on these shores the same night Palace were potentially about to throw away their First Division status. I hated him already.

I trudged back up stairs and put the radio on - really loud. When Ali did finally arrive we were into the second half and I was in a much better mood - with Palace 4-1 up - although still refused to say a word to him while the game was being played; the two of us sitting either side of my room in silence. Him making sympathetic faces, me staring at the radio. Of course, Dougie Freedman made the difference for what was to turn out to be the second time in four days as he scored a brace as Palace ran out 4-2 winners. It meant a win at already relegated Stockport on the Sunday would be enough to stay up.

There was absolutely no way I was going to miss that so I quickly arranged for a match ticket and coach space for Ali and the two of us were soon on our way to Edgeley Park. Ali was a softly spoken, nice lad from the suburbs of Paris and was a keen football fan, but had yet to ever attend a live match, so I tried to take him through the rituals: jump when I jump, sigh when I sigh and for the love of god, don't eat the burgers.

We took up positions just behind the goal on the terraces and watched potentially Palace's last 90 minutes of First Division football. Ali seemed to enjoy himself, he joined in with the chants (even the rude ones) and was pretty much a fully fledged Palace fan by the end of it. I, on the other hand, was hating my time in Stockport. I kept looking at the clock as it ticked down to 90 minutes and we still hadn't scored; Ten minutes, seven minutes, SHIT three minutes!

Palace had not played particularly well, Greg Berhalter's good early form had disappeared, David Hopkin looked overweight and uninterested in his second spell at the club and Alex Kolinko was, well, Alex Kolikno.

Of course, the Doog pulled it out of the bag in the 87th minute and the rest is history. Like the immature idiot I was - and still am - I piled onto the pitch as news came through that Huddersfield had lost and Palace were safe. I hugged Aki, I kissed the ground where Dougie had scored, hell I even stole a little bit of it and it sat in my room for months before mum discovered it and thought I had a marijuana problem. But then panic struck me! Ali! Shit! I'd lost him. I turned around to search the terrace only to see his relaxed smile right behind me. "Cool" he said.

The whole bus journey home he recounted - in broken English - details of the game while I tried to get my heart rate back down to normal. I never saw him again once he went back to France, but I like to think somewhere in Paris, there is a man in his late 20s who has a soft spot for Palace.

THAT goal is below...