August 2022 - Lorient (h)

The day after the Rennes game was a Sunday and what a glorious day it was in Lens! The sun was beaming down upon a town that was top of Ligue 1, again. Thanks to Lens playing before the majority of the other teams, they could sit proudly for a few hours more with a near perfect points total of 10 / 12. 

Alex was heading home to York so I would have to fend for myself for the remaining three and a half days of my holiday. Thankfully, Pierre had offered me the use of one of his gites, which I gratefully accepted. 

A relaxed wander down to the local Patisserie was followed by the delightful sensation of freshly cooked pain chocolat melting / crumbling in my mouth. An experience I don't think I will ever grow tired of. 

I walked Alex into town to get his afternoon train back to Lille and on the way discovered a unique pub serving a local beef hotpot dish. It would have been rude not to have visited! Obviously choosing the chips option, the stew itself was made with a local beer and was so jam-packed with beef that we must have had a couple of cows each... not exactly good for our carbon footprint but hey, it was gorgeous!

The pub was decorated in the vintage-style of many local hosteleries. The centrepiece, a 1920s motorbike, was surrounded by various hommages to the era, including an interesting metal advert featuring a blindfolded young lady driving a motorbike with her smiling young man grinning as she drove sans-mains on the handlebars, presumably just before they plummetted to their triumphant ends. They certainly were different times!

My other favourite was the bikini-clad Vespa rider who was enjoying her holiday and showed no signs of donning leathers or, in fact, any kind of protection from being caked in dead flies as she flew along the road or dislodged tarmac being lascerating her. She didn't even have any shoes on! I was shocked... and that's coming from a latchkey kid of the 70s and 80s who was left to run wild! Those crazy French kids... blindfolds and bikinis... I'm sure they would have had some great stories to tell, if they'd lived long enough!

A leisurely walk back under the shadow of Terrils 11/19 took in the walkway and park that surrounded Louvre-Lens. The temptation to sit in the yellow or red deckchairs placed strategically next to the pond, proved too strong as ducks and a wide range of other wildlife frollicked across its surface. If only the miners of the past could see what had been created here... a veritable oasis in the midst of their town. 

After the hectic weekend I'd had, this was just what the doctor ordered. That night, I joined Pierre in watching Paris leapfrog over Lens into top spot. Marseille's 3-0 win over Nice also threatened to put a dampener in things but being 3rd was an amazing situation to find ourselves in... not bad for the 12th budget in Ligue 1.

For the next three days, I was the quintessential writer / videographer in recluse. I visited the Patisserie each morning, walked or ran, wandered, explored, wrote blogs and created videos from my base in the heart of town. Pierre popped by when work permitted: a thoroughly enjoyable few days that led up to the final game against Lorient.

Matchday morning continued in the same fashion, patisserie, breakfast on my little veranda...

... followed by a chilled morning packing the things I didn't need. Around about 3pm I ambled down to the town where the fans were starting to to appear. Despite there still being five hours to go, and a weekday, the matchday bustle was beginning anew. An early tea at La Loco, the usual, was followed by an hour people-watching with a glass of Ch'ti Beer in the sun. My friends soon started arriving and the usual conversations began: predictions, fears, hopes, transfer rumours. With hours to go to the latest transfer window, the big fear was that Sefo Fofana would be whisked away. 

The visitors, Lorient had started off strongly and I didn't feel confident that I would witness another victory. I didn't think tonight could top the emotions of Saturday night. How wrong I was to be proved. 

Yes, there were Pascal, Pierre, Yannick et al but no-one wanted to be more optimistic than predicting a 2-1 win, and when we heard the news that talisman Seko Fofana was not going to be playing, we feared the worst. He was being rested because he was being transferred for megabucks. Every possible destination was mentioned, including those new Northern moneybags, Newcastle United.

A nervy start saw the ball whizz past Brice Samba but the 'goal' was disallowed for offside, thankfully. Suddenly, Lens woke up and when the ball flashed across the visiting goal, there was the dependable Sotoca to sidefoot home. Four minutes later, Wesley Said doubled Lens' lead. Was this the face of the post-Fofana Lens? If it was, they were doing pretty well!

Within nine minutes, either side of half time, Lorient were level. Yet, the fans weren't going to let that get to them! Never missing a beat, the three standing tribunes roared the team on. New-boy Samed scored his debut goal. On the edge of the penalty area, the ball was steered back to him. He guided it out of the reach of the the flailing Yvon Mvogo to restore Lens' advantage. 

The drinks went flying and fans tumbling as new-boy Lois Openda, the replacement for Kalimuendo, tucked away the fourth; only for VAR to rule it out for offside. So it was up to stalwart Sotoca to flick the ball over Mvogo for the actual fourth before Openda skipped his way to the fifth. 

The Stade was overflowing with the joy of 38000 Ch'tis (and me). There were a few chants of "We are ze best" and "Allez Allez Allez..." then we were told to stay where we were. The floodlights were switched off and everyone's phones lit up. Thousands of mini-stars illuminated the pitch and tribunes... something big was afoot!

In true pantomime fashion, a picture of someone's phone flashed up on the screen. It was a message from Fofana!

"Lens Public, I have something to say to you..." it read.

"Ok, Seko, the best thing is to come talk to us at Bollaert!" the anonymous texter replied. "In the centre circle."

Was it goodbye? Thanks for the memories?

A table appeared in the middle of the pitch and two chairs. The rest of the players, obediently remained at the edge of the pitch as Seko marched into the centre circle, where President Joseph Oughourlian, super Franck Haisz and director Arnaud Pouille waited. 

As Bollaert held its breath, the drama unfolded... Fofana was signing an extension to his contract until 2025. On completion the captain was engulfed by his teammates and the stadium erupted once more. This had certainly topped Saturday!

From that moment, every single Lens fan had the broadest smiles as the celebrations went well into the early hours of Thursday morning. Espace Bollaert, the largest bar in the town, rocked to the supporter chants and they even sang of reaching the Champions' League. I suppose we can dream! And why not? 

The drums and trumpets rang out in Autumn's first morning but for the Lens fans, it was still summer. Third in the league, their talisman was staying and all was good in the world. Although my train to Lille would leave in a few hours time, I didn't care, swept along by the positivity that was growing in the little town that had stolen my heart. When a strange man you've never met declares he loves you as well as cats! What more could you want?

It was a bleary-eyed Englishman who took the bus to Lens train station, a few hours later, but a happy one. This last week had been my best ever trip. What would the rest of the season have in store?

And what could I possibly read on the way home?

I'll stick with L'Equipe....

Watch the video here.

August 2022: Lens v Rennes

 Unbelievably, Lens had briefly gone top. Even so, they were third behind Paris and Marseille: not bad company. 

The writing had been on the wall when Doucoure went to Crystal Palace and Clauss ended up at Marseille. The €40 odd million was spent upon a range of players: Brice Samba arrived after helping Nottingham Forest get into the Premiership after a Wembley Playoff penalty shootout. Jimmy Cabot arrived to replace Clauss from Angers, the Poles: Lukasz Poreba and Adam Buksa arrived from America and Poland. Salis Abdul Samed arrived from Clermont to replace the Douc and Belgium starlet Lois Openda arrived from Bruges after setting the Dutch top league alight, not literally, with 28 goals for Vitesse Arnhem in 68 appearances. 

The big surprise was that superstar Seko Fofana had not gone but until the transfer window closed, nothing was certain. The rumours of English clubs sniffing about were numerous!

In the first three games: the vastly underrated Sotoca had grabbed a hat-trick against last season's bogey boys, Brest (3-2), a heatwave ruined any chance of football at AC Ajaccio (0-0) before Monaco were absolutely hammered 4-1 in the Principality. 

Tonight's opponents had jumped ahead of Lens in the last two seasons and the lads were definitely out for revenge. Of the new forwards, Openda has scored his first goal of the season at Monaco but Polish wonderboy, from MLS outift New England Revolution, had been injured in the Summer, representing Poland, and hadn't played for his new club. 

This game, for me, was to be the first of two consecutive games and to say I was delighted to be getting to two games was an understatement. After a relaxing night spent with Alex in Lille, it was off to Cambrai to see the amazingly friendly but absolutely mental folk of Cambrai. 

Nico was kind enough, once again to put me up, and after a tasty meal at a new pinza restaurant (amazingly like a pizza restaurant) there was to be no early bed for me as the crew took great delight in dragging me to another nightclub: the private club B19. My hopes were raised when the bouncers told us they didn't like to admit people wearing shorts. But sadly my chums weren't to be denied their chance to watch me squirm as they waved us in, patting everyone on the back and bonsoiring the lot of us! 

Not my kind of music

My first (and lasting) impression was of a nightclub for my mum and dad (even though they can't stand any non-classical music). The number of over 60s and 70s on the dance floor was disturbing, especially as the insisted on Salsaing their way though various dj mashups of French hits. I was however impressed with Pipo's mum, who, well into her 70s, seemed to be having a whale of a time and was the life and soul of the party. Delighted that I had told her she was a fashion-setter for wearing odd shoes, she decided to drag me onto the dance floor. However, my lack of connection with the music made me look like the worst of dad dancers and she soon gave up on me. Things went from bad to worse when a vodka platter appeared, complete with glasses, orange juice, coca-cola and ice cubes. Remembering how things had gone downhill when vodka was introduced at a nightclub in Boulogne, I managed to convince Yannick to extract himself from the corner he had hidden himself in and so, at the early evening hour of 2am (for Cambrai), we wandered through the busy streets of the beautiful town. 

The others followed at 5am.

In the morning, I felt reasonably sprightly. The sun was shining and it was matchday! Although it was a 9pm kick-off, we set off just after midday for Pierre's, where Yannick took the opportunity to peruse through our host's collection of 80s Lens shirts. Eventually, he decided upon a rather fetching yellow Europe 1 1985 shirt.
 

Shirt chosen, it was time to make our way to La Loco for a leisurely lunch and drink. A venue that we hadn't visited in quite some time, it was good to be back. Both myself and Alex decided upon the healthy option of Merguez sausage baguette and chips while our French counterparts decided upon salads. We are class acts indeed!

 Next, it was Chez Muriel, and I was delighted to see that there were a good number of visiting fans who had beaten the blockade the police had erected around the town. In their wisdom, they had decided that the thousand or so visiting Rennes fans were likely to run amok around the town centre so had decided they would escort them straight to the stadium. I'm glad to say, this failed completely. What a nice bunch they were, chatting away with everyone, and a great reflection upon their region.

It was also great to see our old mate Kim the Kortrijk fan, who was finally making his first visit to Lens, accompanying Jeremie. When I asked them, where they would be standing, Jeremie quickly informed me they were meeting other friends in the Marek! I tried not to take it too personally.

There was just time for the traditional (ish?) lighting of the flare that had been held by a rather nervous child. THe youngster seemed only too happy to hand the industrial-sized firework over to any adult that would take it.

It was also good to see that shorts and miner's helmets were still in fashion....

Inside the ground, there, directly in front of us, were Kim, Jeremie and and all his friends. 

The game itself was a bit of an anti-climax, yet the Marek, ably supported and complemented by the Delacourt and Trannin stands roared the team on. There certainly had been an increased volume to the ground as the lower levels of these two had been declared as standing areas. They jumped, bounced and sang as loudly as the Marek, despite the paucity of chances. 

At half time there was an appearance from Rennes' new €20million signing, Kalimuendi. The player had been omitted from the visiting team sheet and gave a heart-felt thanks to the Lens fans for their support over the last two years. Everyone hoped that Openda, signed for half that, would prove that Kali would not be missed. Nevertheless, his words were well received: a really decent bloke!

In the second half, it was as if a switch had been flicked. Lens set about their illustrious visitors. Chances started to be created by the home side but there was no way anyone could have anticipated the quality of Fofana's strike.

This was followed by a great piece of trickery from Openda. We were in dreamland, Jeremie and co were on the floor, while Kim could only stand and scream his respectful delight. 

However, Rennes showed their class, with a string of chances that either rolled past the post or were dealt with by the impressive Samba in the Lens goal. Just when we thought it was going to be our day, Rennes pulled one back. The crowd whistled and shouted their way through the final minutes before the referee blew the final whistle. 

Lens had won 2-1 and in the process leapt to the top of the league... for a few hours at least!

The team engulfed Seko Fofana as the fans showed their appreciation for the captain's performance. We could only hope that it wasn't a sign he was on the way out.

There would be a few days to recover before my final game of the trip against Lorient.

Watch the youtube video: https://youtu.be/Jq1rbCB3XXQ

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21st May 2022 - Monaco (h)

 There's something about the last day of the season: games played on the same day, at the same time, all over the same country! Genius move. If only someone had thought of it before!

It conjured up memories of fans crowding around tinny, crackly transistor radios, usually belonging to the strangest, scent-natural members of the crowd (yep that was me!) waiting for the inevitable updates that would seal your team's fate. 

These were the same individuals who used to shout out random scores throughout the season, which were usually met with complete indifference. Nevertheless, they soldiered on regardless and final day would be their reward. Their day in the sun. It is an image that belongs in the 60s to 80s when transistor radios descended upon the young and-not-so-young. The calls for hush as results were relayed to the crowd via the chosen tranny-man (they were usually male). Endearing image? 

Mobile phones and staggered kickoffs, at the request of tv companies, has meant those individuals have lost their power as the oracle of vital matchday information. In these modern times, there are usually hardly any other matches to relay results about and those pesky mobile phones will tell you straight away what's the crack. No crackly reception or inhaled body odour as you leaned closer to hear! Such a shame. 

The one exception is the final couple of days of most countries' football seasons when the authorities decided that in the element of fairness, all the games should start at the same time. Grrreat.

The final evening of the season hoping for promotion or playoff qualification were behind Lens for a second successive season, thankfully, but all the memories of what might have have been still niggled at each fan. Today's goal was the amazing prize of European football: not the Champion's League or its less popular brother, the Europa League but the afterthought Europa Conference. The big clubs considered both Europas as beneath them but for Lens, it would mean the difference between losing or keeping a good number of our top performers. As always, I travelled in hope rather than expectation: "Blind faith, it'll be okay?"

Friday

Friday morning's plan were generally smoothly operated. The Metro successfully delivered me to a packed Newcastle Central Station at 7:30am. Sunderland had reached the playoff finals and their fans were there en masse, dreaming of Wembley victory. Even though I was brought up a Newcastle fan, my years living in London and working in Sunderland means I have a strong desire to see every North east team do well, for the simple reason, it sticks two fingers up at the South, which (IMHO) patronises or ignores the region in equal measures, unless it wants something. It's a bit of a bugbear to me so I often mention this. Oh, and yes, I did vote labour in the last few elections. Don't get me started on the Red Wall!

Getting off my political soapbox and taking a few sedatives... the journey down and across the channel went fairly well. The French customs official was a Lens fan and wished me well and there was another supporter on his way home and he was going to the match. We carried on a conversation every time our passport queues looped past each other. Like distant voices in the darkness of passport control.

Ignoring each other!

With only a few delays to the train to Douai, where I was to meet Nico, the journey was relatively painless. I was delighted to see him sporting the Whitley Bay FC polo shirt I had bought for him last time. He's a class act, that one!

I was never going to get away with a quite night in Cambrai once the phrase, "just 5 minutes" had been uttered. Even though Pipo was working and Thomas had the homme-flu, Yannick and Nico still had plenty of friends to call upon and we were joined by Will the policeman and his manic wife, Blandine, who instantly bonded with me as a fellow disgruntled teacher. For the first half of the evening, we moaned about our respective educational lots. Then I was led down the memory-lane steps: The Metropolitan Club-Bar! 

Just those few steps down into the depths and the way the solid metal door swung open, seemingly by itself to lure us in filled me with dread. I was fading fast. The fantastic food and drink combined with a long day of travelling was now draining my old bones. 

Blandine, however had rediscovered a new lease of life and she was pulling out the shapes from every corner of the room. Nico gamefully joined in but I was glad to see that Will the policeman had also last his energy, He did have to go to work the next day, policing the match, so I felt he had good reason to want to find the sanctuary of his bed. But Blandine and co weren't having it. 

Will maintains his manly stance
at the bar despite his fatigue!

And you'd want to do that because....

Being positioned right outside of the club's Fumoir meant that we could have a view of the majority of comings and goings in the club. Those Frenchies certainly still enjoy a tab!

 Like a magnet, it drew the revellers to it. Its nicotine-laden delights meant that the door had to be closed at all times. No drinks were allowed in and had to be left outside. Its a good job nobody spikes anybody's drinks in France!

Finally, the draw of the fumoir and the never-ending beats, that everyone agreed were not to their tastes, wore off.  I finally got the chance to lay my tired little head down, at 3:30am, as the sound of Gallic arguments drifted away below me.

Saturday

Cambrai was bathed in a golden sunlight when i surfaced.

To add to this piece of meteorological good fortune, there was also the fact that my body had survived the previous evening's onslaught. The switch to cokes had done the trick. I would be able to enjoy today's excitement. 

On my way to collect breakfast, I walked past the scene of last night's finale.

The Metropolitan looked so innocent in the daylight. Its sturdy doors hiding the scenes of any great drunken debauchery that might have taken place. It was like on a horror film when the vampire's crypt is visited in the daylight by the heroes. If I could have forced open the doors, would I have found its denizens all sleeping, waiting for the night to return? I decided that it was probably better to move on and gat my breakfast... I certainly wasn't going to share any of it!

Yannick arrived a little later than planned and I was extremely glad he decided not to insist on the morning run he had suggested. It was off, instead, to hero Pierre's house for a barbeque. A much more sensible option.

In between sausages, the main attraction was Pierre's collection of retro Lens shirts from the 1980s and beyond which led to an impromptu fashion show...

Maybe a life as a male model is awaiting me... they said they'd let me know.

The one thing about making arrangements to meet people when I go to Lens games is that everybody I know seems to want to meet at opposite ends of town. Trying to meet up with Jean-Marie to pick up my ticket then Pascal was proving as difficult as ever. The BBQ crew were quite happily chatting, while Pascal kept texting every time he moved location. When we finally arrived in town, Pascal had headed off to join the Red Tigers' ceremonial march to the stadium. With Jean-Marie also on the move, I decided the best bet would be to meet him outside the ground an hour and a quarter before kick-off. That just gave me time to follow Yannick and his mates to the hotel where the players were having their 'siesta'. 

Their chances of getting any rest and relaxation definitely looked remote as a few thousand fans had turned the street outside into a veritable party. Joining the throng, we waited, sang and generally enjoyed the sunshine. Eventually the lads emerged, heading over the road to the waiting bus.

Before the players could get across the road however, there was the little matter of a 2 foot barrier to overcome. Being professionals though, they took it in their stride, awkwardly howking their wheeled club luggage over it, as fans reached out just to touch their heroes. It was bizarre to think of players worth millions risking an unnecessary injury just an hour or two before a game... do Real Madrid or Liverpool players have to do this? This is just proof of how grounded each and every one of this squad are. They are treated like heroes but are still accessible to the ones who have made them what they are. Professional football without fans would be non-existent, something the bigwigs who run the game often forget. 

Kalimuendo's final farewell.

The last time for Jonathan Clauss?

This is what Lens is all about for me. Humility. All my years watching Newcastle all over the country and players were rarely seen by fans away from the pitch but occasions like this strengthen the bond between both sets. The town, team (including the board of directors) and fans all in it together: what better recipe for success can you have? When one part feels it is bigger than the others, the problems begin. At the moment, in Lens, the perfect equilibrium exists. It hasn't always been this way.

Once the players' bus had disappeared into a swirl of red and yellow smoke, we joined the throng on its picturesque walk to the ground, a route I haven't taken for a long time. Passing the new mural dedicated to the heroes of these last two seasons... it really was a new treat artistic around each corner. A contender for the nearby Louvre Lens?

I arrived at the meeting place with Jean-Marie just as the Tigers appeared with their fanfair and flares. Chances of finding him dropped dramatically in that instant. After shouting at each other over a phone call, I thankfully spotted him. Profuse apologies later, I had my pass for the sold-out game.

Ticket in hand, I realised that the others had disappeared and there was no sign of Pascal. I would have to brave the turnstiles on my own!

Memories of previous escapades with sniffer dogs, suspicious riot police and the rest suddenly gripped me. I would just have to be brave! As it was, there was none of it. I was straight through. My reward was the smiling face of Pascal! A sight for sore eyes!

We'd been promised a spectacular tifo and it was a bit unusal to see that yellow and red flags had been taped to the Marek terracing. 

We've done this before, I thought but as we waved them, the effect for L'Epagnot opposite would prove to be spectacular. Like a rising sun, the old Lens badge rose, shedding its yellow and red rays across the Marek and Xerxes. It was a belta!

Picture courtesy of Facebook group:
 Si toi aussi tu es supporter du Racing Club de Lens et fier de l'être

The sense of anticipation filled every part of the stadium and every touch, tackle and turn was greeted with roars of delight as the lads pressed for the all-important goals. Monaco were being swept away in a tidal wave of yellow shirts. Despite calls for phones to be ignored for the duration of the game to focus on the team and its efforts, the temptation for some was too much and news began to filter through: Reims were winning 2-0 at home to Nice. Then the goal came. 

Jonathan Clauss charged forward then crossed. Alexander Nubel palmed the ball away, but only into the path of Frankowski steaming in from the opposite wing. His shot beat the forlorn keeper, bouncing up into the top of the net via an unfortunate defender. Bollaert erupted.

Then came the news that Marseille were beating Strasbourg. In disbelief, I turned to Pascal: 

"We're fifth?" Like the veteran he is, and really I should be, he replied:

"Ce n'est pas fini!" 

How right he was!

Sadly the euphoria died just four minutes later when Benoit Badiashile forced the ball home during a moment of panic in Lens' six-yard-box. Like a pin popping a balloon, the atmosphere fell flat. Try as they might, the Capos couldn't raise the volume back anywhere near its previous level. The ground was in shock.

Into the second half and with results still going our way, the crowd was lifted once more. Just one goal was all that was needed. The shock of going behind had been replaced by a determination to push the team on... whatever the result. The Capos led and we followed. At times, even the Capos were mesmerised by the soap-opera opening up before them as we filled in the gaps they had left for us to sing.

But the lads were struggled to make clear-cut chances and were certainly not troubling Nubel too much. Then, it happened. A quick break up the wing, a cross to Monaco's annoying top scorer (I don't like the Musketeer tiny beard and moustache thing he has going on there), who stooped to head past Farinez: 1-2. 

Europe was now a long way off for us and Monaco were in the driving seat to finish second. You'd have understood if the Lens fans had given up, especially when the news filtered of a goal back for Nice, yet, if anything, they grew louder. All four stands (a lot quieter in the posh seats, obviously) pushed disappointment to one side and roared the team forwards. 

David Da Costa, whose tiny frame belied his competitiveness, battled on but eventually joined Sotoca and Frankowski on the bench as their best efforts came to naught, yet we still hoped. On came Corentin Jean, whose highlight of the season had to be his late equaliser to delay Paris' coronation as Ligue 1 Champions. Kali came off and on came Ganago. None of the other substitutes had a recent track record of scoring. All seemed lost, yet still Bollaert sang and danced. 

Into injury time. Nice's Andy Delort, who had at one time seemed destined to join Lens, had inspired Nice to a match-winning hat-trick in little over 15 minutes. Bollaert didn't miss a beat.

Stoppage time ticked by, 4 minutes... 5 minutes... A free kick in the 6th minute, close to the Marek touch line was fizzed in, and when the ball landed at Ganago's foot, he didn't waste the opportunity to blast in the equaliser. 2-2. 

This third time I had witnessed this exact scoreline between these teams became the sweetest. Monaco players dropped to their knees as we celebrated. They would have to settle for third place and a qualifier to get into the Champions League. They had deprived us of European football twice in the past two seasons, knocked us out of the cup but the last laugh was ours. 

Bollaert was determined to celebrate and celebrate we did. This small town team, with the 4th smallest budget in the league and achieved so much. Three derby victories out of three. Unbeaten against Paris. Winners in Marseille and Monaco, lead superbly by the indefatigable Seko Fofana, their never-say-die attitude had rescued so many late points. Their points tally had been the highest since the early 2000s. this was a team to celebrate. A team with humility and loyalty. Each and every man lined the tunnel entrance as Captain Cahuzac left the field for the last time as a player, his retirement confirmed weeks before at the ripe old age of 36, they applauded him, the fans applauded him. His manbun had driven the team forward in the Ligue 2 days and he had earned this accolade. 

Long after the players had disappeared down the tunnel, the fans were still partying all over town. Shame I had an early Eurostar the next day... but that is another story!

Sing-a-long-a- car park?

Chez Muriel still going strong at 1am.