November  - Lens v Caen

Cullercoats station - the journey begins.

For me there is a big link between music and football in the way that I enjoy them. Going to see either is all the more enjoyable if there is a lively crowd that is both loyal and loud, engaging fully with their team or band either by singing or applauding them throughout. To get the full experience I have to also be part of that singing by learning their songs / chants beforehand. Cds need to be listened to and YouTube videos watched so that the necessary preparation can be done. I hated the thought of not belonging!

I first heard of the alternative French band, Indochine, while listening to France Bleu Nord’s commentary of Lens games a few years ago. Their most famous song, L’Aventurier, about an adventuring hero called Bob Morane (great French name there!) who risks everything to save his girlfriend Miss Clark, often played during half time. In England you usually avoided listening to the commentary team talking nonsense by making a cup of tea or doing whatever jobs could be done in 15 minutes. I enjoyed the opportunity to have a break from the meandering Christian Polka. The fact that they asked an ex-professional cyclist to do their football commentary suggested how high football ranked in terms of the nation’s sporting priorities. Every week Indochine would get an airing and I felt more and more compelled to find out about them. Their combination of electronic keyboards and rock guitars reminded me so much of the bands I loved from the 80s such as The Cure and Depeche Mode. Sure enough my research showed they had begun in the same era and I was transported back to my youth – dyed black long hair and matching clothes. I gradually collected their back catalogue and when I finally got the chance to see them live in Brussels I decided to take the plunge during the October half term holiday. Extra tuition was taken up at school so that I could afford the trip and travel and hotels were organised. What would make it perfect? A combined trip to Brussels and Lens? Lens at home to Caen beckoned!

Again I had the the usual wait for the French football dates. Friday game? Saturday? Monday? I looked at the fixtures and decided to gamble on a Friday or Saturday game...after all Monday I was back at work so that was out. The gig ticket was booked in February, the bus ticket booked in June yet I had to wait until 4 weeks before the Lens fixture to know if I could end my trip in style!

I daily compared the league placings with the fixtures for November 1^st to see which could be the most attractive fixture and was delighted when Caen’s form took a turn for the worse so that there would be a smaller chance that they would be picked by Eurosport to show on the Monday night – when I would most likely be marking books or planning lessons. To my relief Brest – Troyes was chosen to be shown on the Monday while Lens would appear on the Saturday. The perfect trip was on!

The Metro ride to Newcastle was followed by the bus trip to London on the Wednesday lunchtime, with time for a burger in an under-construction Cafe Rouge in Victoria. By 16 00 hours the following day I was crashed out in my Brussels hotel room.

Indochine were sensational. The sell out crowd sang, clapped and whooped their way through a 2 ½ hour set that included l’aventurier and I thought of France Bleu and their role in delivering this experience for me. I was a teenager for those few hours and bounced my way through to the end, even after the concert when I realised I had no idea how I was to get back to Brussels centre. Thankfully a lady at a bus stop came to my rescue and I was soon back at the hotel –exhausted but ecstatic. This exhaustion carried on through to the next day when I had to brave the 1970s style Belgian local train carriages. The difference between them and the French rolling stock was immense – hard, uncomfortable plastic covering compared to the more plush and modern fabrics. I was taken back to the 1970s and 80s British Rail carriages that would be pulled out of mothballs whenever there was a football away special. The idea that you could trust football fans in those days with anything more than a cattle truck meant that they acted accordingly. Goodness knows what we’d have done if we’d had anything nearing comfort!

Seeing the difference between the double decker trains in the Nord Pas de Calais with their phone charging points, spaces for bikes and different coach layouts gave me an insight into the differences between France and the smaller Belgium. The rich and the poor?  It was something I’d never thought of before because of the British Isle’s isolation from the rest of Europe. All I’d had to compare it to was the difference between Scotland and England...and that generally boiled down to different accents. I remembered watching the film Rien a Declarer about the day the border restrictions were removed in Europe. Another Danny Boon classic – were the two nationalities like their stereotypes? The dour Belgians and the laid back French? I know which one I would have chosen to be!

My hotel for the night was in Lille so by the time I had crossed the city and reached it, the excitement of the gig was replaced by the effects of travelling over night so I staggered into my room, soaked from an evening’s downpour, not to emerge until the next day. When I opened my curtain I was shocked to find the Lille Stadium right outside. A grey monstrosity for a grey day! It would have been rude not to have tried to brighten it up with my Lens shirt – after all, today was match day and La Loco awaited me along with my friends in the Red Tigers! Today was going to be a good one, surely!

Within the hour I was in Lens and had spotted my chance for a photo with an away fan...it was now tradition! I remembered how friendly the Caen supporters had been when we had visited their stadium for the Coupe de la Ligue game the previous season while the family and I ate chips on the grass outside. Shame there was no fricadelle there but you can’t have everything!

On the way to Emotion Foot, my pride was hit as, weighed down by my backpack, I tried to leap over a particularly treacherous puddle only to slip as I landed. The three fans in front of me turned around and as I tried to dry my soaked backside they offered me the tiniest of paper hankies. It was the thought that counted! I decided to take the steps rather than the muddy slope outside Emotion Foot, my pride having deserted me with that fall. It had to be a lucky omen...didn’t it?

I felt like a returning hero when I reached La Loco. So many people knew me that I spent the first fifteen minutes shaking hands and kissing cheeks – the latter going against my English reserve. I met up with one of my friends, Antoine who often commented on the UK Lens division Facebook page. His English was superb and as much as I tried to speak French, it was far too easy to slip into bad ways. He, like so many other fans, regularly travelled from Paris for the games and it reminded how many Newcastle, Middlesbrough and Sunderland fans regularly did the same in England: all truly remarkable sets of fans when it comes to fanaticism – a common feature of northern football fans, whichever country you’re from it seemed to me. I was joined by Esteban, another long-range Lens fan from Valenciennes. His English was as good as my French but we still managed to communicate fairly well. I still had to break our conversations every time someone new arrived and eventually Antoine left to get his favourite spot on the Marek...the fact that I still hadn’t had my fricadelle meant I had to stay behind. For once I decided to ask what was in it and every time I did was given the same answer as Danny Boon’s character in Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis: “You don’t want to know!” As with black pudding in England, there are times when it is best not to know exactly what you are eating.

Esteban and I made our final stop at Chez Muriel where I was to meet Pascal. There I met Mac who had clearly enjoyed his trip out and managed to get the bar to sing in my honour. I was extremely flattered and would have joined in if I had had a clue what he was singing. Unfortunately half of the bar had no idea either yet they still joined in and as they sang I put my bag in the back of the bar, where Pascal had kindly arranged for me to leave it during the match.

Pascal soon arrived with his friend, who had only just stepped off a plane from America an hour earlier to be very willingly dragged off to bar then football. Dedication!

My previous encounter with Caen ended in a 2-1 defeat last season so when the game started I was greedy for a repeat of the Auxerre result. Standing with Pascal and Esteban in the Marek I was treated to the dream start: a crossfield ball was helped on its way to the young defender Gbamin who finished with style into the bottom corner of the net. Another cross this time found the head of Argentinian goal poacher Chavarria who started delirium in the stadium when he headed downwards and past the flailing arms of the goalkeeper.

Then things took a turn for the worst. An aimless ball in midfield was challenged for by Valdivia with first one foot then the other and he was duly sent off, to the disgust of everyone who hadn’t had a good view of the tackle. Things got worse in the second half as central defending rock, Aleddine Yahia, who had performed heroics over the last few games, had to be substituted. I could see my usual score for Lens visits appearing – 2-2. This would have put a dampener on my visit. The dreaded draw edged a step nearer when Caen pulled a goal back with a few minutes left. The whistles around the stadium grew louder and just when it looked like Caen were to ruin things the referee blew the final whistle.

Once the crowd had calmed down, I was then treated to my first example of the traditional Lens clapping that was led by the young Gbamin in honour of him scoring the first goal. A hush fell over the stadium as first Gbamin followed by his team mates approached the Marek then the defender stepped toward the fans. All eyes were focused on the youngster. As he lifted his arms above his head, the whole stadium did likewise. An unnerving stillness followed as we waited and just as it seemed we would not be rewarded, he clapped once above his head and shouted “Lens”. As he did so, the stadium copied. Another pause. Another clap and “Lens”. Then another...this time quicker and with each new clap their frequency increased until the word ‘Lens’ was being shouted repeatedly. A final cheer greeted Gbamin when he finished and the players made their way off the pitch and we happily returned to the town’s bars.

I was pleased to meet up with Jeff, my English friend who moved to the region ten years earlier and has similarly experienced the generosity the Ch’ti have to offer. He accompanied us and for the first time in a few days I didn’t feel guilty for speaking English.

The now familiar route back to Lille started with my reluctantly taking off my Lens colours to avoid any unwanted attention in enemy territory. After all I would have five hours to wait there before my bus left and at that time of night Lille Flandres seemed to be a magnet for peculiar individuals. The sort of individuals I didn’t want to attract by wearing the wrong colours. I settled myself down in one of the bars and watched first Arsenal against Liverpool followed by a Spanish then Italian game. I chatted to, or simply made comments about the football to really, the only other person in the bar as I enjoyed a few Desperados before heading off for my traditional feast at Bashir’s take away emporium. He recognised me from my visit in August and I finally admitted my love for Lens. I felt honoured when he put my pizza on his best crockery!  We chatted about England, France and how much he loved the English. I had warmed to my new friend and when I said I wanted a photo of him he insisted in darting into the back of the shop to get his cap to complete his purple outfit: another entry in the growing book of people who had restored my faith in human nature. I finally bid him farewell and headed off to the Boulevard de Leeds to wait for the Eurolines bus.

There was now half an hour to left and yet again I had had a fantastic trip. It would be six months before I could come back so I sat in the warmth of the waiting room at Eurolille soaking up my surroundings. The young traveler charging her phone as she studied her emails, Facebook or Twitter, the homeless man sleeping in the corner, the smartly dressed elderly man waiting for someone to arrive: all could been from any big city yet there was something about them that made them European and not British. Was it the colour, fashion sense (or lack of..) or the way they sat or held themselves?  Where would they be ending up? Certainly not in Newcastle that was for sure.

Newcastle was a world away at that point yet was only two bus rides away: bus rides that would soon pass as I slept. I would sleep before the French passport control at 3 00am when I would have to remove my bag from the bus’s hold, followed by the presentation of my passport to them as my bag was x-rayed. This would be followed by the short drive to the English customs officers who would glance at my passport, check the computer before sending me back on the bus: their thrill at getting the night shift extremely evident.  Back in London, the trip to McDonalds in Victoria station at six o’clock in the morning, queuing with the all night clubbers would follow. Finally there would be the wait for the Newcastle bus and home.

It was a journey I was growing quite familiar with and although not as quick as the train and Eurostar was certainly a lot cheaper and that made Lens a lot more accessible for me.