September 2024 - Nice (h)

 Gardening seemed to be agreeing with me, however the popularity of my new career meant that I was unable to take time off during the summer to get away to Lens. Therefore, I had to wait until the end of September, when I hoped it would be quieter workwise; it wasn't, but I went anyway. 

For the first time since the Lyon game in 2022, top man Alex would be joining me. This Northern Lensois stalwart hadn't had the pleasure of me snoring/dribbling on his shoulder for over two years and he was delighted to be able to once again experience this pleasure. As it was, I managed to stay awake throughout the Eurostar journey. We thrilled each other with our wit and repartee!

Alex had abandoned the Northeast of England after moving from York to Bournemouth amid rumours that the temperature up North hadn't quite been to all his family's liking. Because his train arrived in a few minutes before mine, I expected him to be excitedly waving at me as I stepped through the Kings Cross barriers but he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he had been so non-plussed about me arriving, he'd headed off to St Pancras to get himself something to eat: even though we'd arranged to have a lads' brunch with extra bacon and sausage! 

Managing to keep calm, despite his betrayal, I ordered him up to visit John B to ask for forgiveness.

Favouring the toga look for JB, it was off to Marks and Spencers to placate my raging hunger. Although an M and S chicken and bacon wrap is always a treat to this north of england lad (and most northern lads tbh), it wasn't the same as the massive fry-up breakfast that I'd been expecting (and promised). The silver lining was that M and S only sell massive bags of crisps and Alex didn't want any... what else could I do but snaffle the lot? 

The crisps had long since been hogged down by the time we arrived into Lille Eurostar. In spite of the rain that battered us the second we left the cover of Lille International Station, we were in good spirits. The journey was going smoothly and we were soon tucking into Merguez Americains at La Loco... or so we thought. Our order must have been lost in translation as two chicken nugget Americains had arrived. However, hunger took over so we settled for our baguettes, nuggets and chips with great gusto. This was all washed down with a Ch'ti and a Triple Karmeliet. 

Pierre joined us before we retired to his house to hopefully watch Paris (QSG) get beaten by Rennes. They didn't; but that wasn't going to spoil our evening. Neither was the fact that ex-Lens and Rennes favourite Benny Bourigeaud had followed Seko Fofana and co. to the money on offer in Saudi Arabia. Why would he want to do that? So he could afford those big bags of Marks and Spencers crisps? 

The Lads

The next morning, the sun was shining as Pierre and I set out for a jog along Pit 9's former mining railway line. This was followed up by a patisserie trip and a couple of pain chocolats.  Nice.

For the first time in many years, my local team had grabbed hold of my attention. Not that I had been ignoring Newcastle United but just that I couldn't get that excited by the men's team and the Premier League: I just couldn't stand the inequalities that existed and were getting worse, between the haves and have-nots in English football. The crazy prices being asked as well weren't helping either. Long-gone were those days, in 1994, when I had objected to paying £20 for a midweek Coca-Cola Cup tie populated mostly by United's reserve team. 

The takeover of Newcastle by Saudi Arabia's Public Investment Fund et al had meant even if I'd wanted to get to a game, tickets were like gold-dust, never mind my moral misgivings about human rights abuses; which I won't go into now. One good result of the takeover was the return of Adidas kits: the kits I had sported in Newcastle's glory years of the 1990s. They were amongst my favourite kits for both Newcastle and Lens and still looked great after all these years, something that couldn't be said for the current Puma kits.

Today's run saw me sporting my home team's colours for once. Not that anyone noticed.

Next stop: drag Alex from his pit before our wander into Lens. The sun beamed down on us as we wandered into Lens. Autumn colours lined our route. I was in full Lens-love mode.

Taking advantage of the weather, we had a drink in the beer garden of L'Imbeertinence. Pierre and co had said they would meet there so we  stretched out and relaxed.

Alex in full Englishman abroad mode: 

hands on lap, crossed lags and

Lens scarf in cravate mode ignoring the 

shell of an abandoned car in the background.

I've long given up trying to meet people before Lens games as I always end up racing about from place to place so it was no surprise to me that the others had decided to get some food at the new Momo's restaurant. The friterie from Bienvenue Chez Les Ch'tis fame was going up in the world... I think. It certainly looked impressive although in the style of a 1980s Wimpy.

Highlights of the pre-match actvities, on top of the Momo's visit, included: some beers, a glimpse of the new white Puma trainers for the princely sum of about €67 and a selfie with a dinosaur and a bee... I think. Although at this point my understanding of my whereabouts was getting a bit random.

Beer

shoes 

...dinosaur and bee?

Befitting our age, we headed for one of the ends of the Marek to enjoy the match and the opportunity to hang my Northern Lensois flag near the Trannin/Marek corner flag. The Northumbrian flag's red and yellow combination was certainly a sign that I was at home (#2). 

Lens' home games were still selling out but the early jubilation and expectation from the Franck Haise era was continuing to show signs of wear and tear. Without Fofana and Openda, the team had managed to scrape into the European Conference spot at the end of the season. Qualification for the group stages had depended upon victory in a playoff against Greek giants Panathinaikos. The home leg was won 2-1, Frankowski and Said establishing a 2-0 lead, despite Medina being outrageously sent off. However a goal for the visitors early in the second half made things tricky for the second leg in Athens. A missed Sotoca penalty in the first half of the second leg was a bad omen as two second half goals ended Lens' Euro adventure before it had begun.

"We're concentrating on ze cup" was Pierre's plan and it seemed like a good call. With a drop in TV money, after Amazon Prime Video had withdrawn from broadcasting, French football generally was struggling. The whole of Lens must have breathed a collective sigh as Wahi's short career at Lens came to an end. His transfer to Marseille meant he was someone else's problem. He had sparkled in spells but never consistently. Unlike Kalimuendo and Openda, his predecessors, I felt he'd never taken to the club and that feeling for him from the fans was reciprocated. Unfortunately, the lack of a replacement meant Lens were struggling for goals. 

Big money transfers for Neil (a great Moroccan-French name) Al Ayanoui to Monaco and Kevin Danso to Roma had broken down for medical reasons (a knee injury and heart problem respectively) and so there was not too much money to strengthen the forward positions.

Franck Haise left Lens when he found out his good friend Arnaud Pouille had been sacked (apparently for wasting money on Wahi) and that a new era of austerity was around the corner. Fans were mixed about his replacement Will Still. An Anglo-Belgian, he was renowned for alternating team talks between French and English as well as getting into football management from playing the game Football Manager. The previous season he had been spotted at the Lens-Arsenal Champions League game videoing the the fans singing Les Corons: his name was the only one seriously mentioned with regards to the vacant job. 

Of course the subject on the lips of most Lens fans was; What will happen to the idiot with the Franck Haise tattoo? I made the front cover of the clubs posh quarterly magazine: Sang et Or.

The title was certainly right: Unusual Supporters, a glimpse into some of the weirder members of the Lens fraternity that included yours truly. Alongside me was the airline pilot exiled in Sweden, the Belgian who fell in love with Lens 26 years ago, the Tifo makers, the fan with the massive flag and the guy with a Lens-decorated garage. All Lens nutters in their own way. 

As for my tattoo, I knew the day would arrive when he left the club. He had given many Lens supporters some great years, myself included, at a time when I was emotionally and physically at a low ebb. I would always remember those years but now they were in the past. The tattoo of Franck applauding fans after beating Lille was a reminder that there are ups and downs in life and football. I would remember both but not allow either to make me lose perspective of either. As for Will Still being the subject of my next tattoo: he's got some work to do first!

Of course today was the return of the 'prodigal son'. Franck's Nice were visiting and my main hope was to see a repeat of my only other game against the South Coast boys: a Jemaa backheel in the last minute to win the game. There wasn't much made of Franck's return as the game slipped into its usual vibrancy. A genuine hug between Will and Franck and the match began.

There was almost the perfect start as Fiorentina Loanee, N'Zola spun and shot. His effort was confidently turned onto the post by Nice's Bulka. The first 30 minutes was all Lens and there was no sign that the visitors would repeat the previous week's 8-0 victory against St Etienne. Despite all the pressure, Lens still couldn't turn their chances into goals: a familiar story.

Super Brice Samba had to be on his toes to turn away Bouanani's control and blast as the visitors looked to have weathered the storm. Lens certainly had done all they could in the first half, with 65% possession and 15 shots to 4. The second half was a different affair as Nice came back into it. Former Lens favourite Jonathan Clauss drove forward at every oppertunity; desperate to silence the whistles whenever he touched the ball. 

It looked like Lens wastefulness, in the first half especially, was coming back to bite them in the bum as VAR reared its ugly head. A non-existent foul was followed by a theatrical dive from Boudaoui. VAR spotted something the ref had ignored. Off the ref obediently trotted to the pitchside screen and there was delight when Mr Letexier waved away Nice's pathetic pleas. 

But our luck was out when new boy, signed from Burnley, Anass Zaroury was sent off for standing on Rosario's foot. Down to 10 men, the lads did well to cling onto a point. 

For me, my favourite moment of the day came when Franck was given the chance to applaud the Lens fans (something fate had deprived him of). His chanted name was mixed with warm applause from every corner of the ground. Once he'd left the pitch, there was a rare moment of support for Will as the remaining fans chanted his name, as if to say "You've not been forgotten". I think he knows he has still a lot to do to win over the home fans but it was a nice touch. 

It's all been too much for Pierre!

Still applause. Nice touch!

The mood at Chez Muriel was surprisingly upbeat with drunken congas aplenty: after all, against the odds, Lens were still unbeaten in Ligue 1 and in the hunt for European places. 

Leaving Chez Muriel, our attention was drawn to a small group shouting and being beeped by the passing cars. First thoughts were of Nice fans causing trouble... but no, it was a stag do and the groom was wearing a particularly bedraggled wedding dress.

The Lasses

My home allegiances had shifted to the women's game. For the last 3 seasons, I had been a season ticket for Newcastle United Women. The matches were extremely affordable, family orientated (not that my family were that bothered about joining me) and not populated by the blow-a-gasket-type of fan who glowed red at the slightest decision they didn't agree with or felt the best way to express themselves was with a string of non-sensical expletives. In my old age, I wanted an atmosphere without the aggression. There was also the irony that despite women's rights being restricted in Saudi, they were funding a women's team in Newcastle. As a father of two women, and a husband, supporting the women in Newcastle might be a small two fingers up at the Saudi establishment. My seasons supporting the Newcastle lasses had been very productive, witnessing two promotions. Now, Newcastle had reached the Championship: the English second division. It was also the same level that Lens women were playing at.

I'd never been able to combine a trip to see both Lens men and women but this weekend changed all that. Alex and I were heading for part 2 of our Lens v Nice double header: it was the women's turn!

 Lens women had originally been Arras FC Féminin. Founded in 2001, they became the women's team for RC Lens in 2020. Alex and I were returning to the site of a particularly cold April afternoon spent watching Lens' reserves lose to Arras but avoid relegation to National 3. Thankfully, there was no need for any fears of frostbite or numb toes as the sun beat down.

We took the opportunity to revisit a hotel that we had both once (and never again) visited. For me it was a return to the balcony and the smallest toilet in the world that Odessa and I had endured as part of my 50th birthday celebrations. (See: Le Havre August 2019)

Alex's memories were none-too-fond either and revolved around the disastrous 2008 coupe de la Ligue defeat to Paris, when the 'home' team were awarded an extremely dubious penalty in the last minute of the game to win. Finding himself dropped in the middle of Lens at three in the morning by the supporters coach, the bright lights of Le Jardin had drawn him in. Stepping over a couple of slumped bodies on his way to his room hadn't endeared him to the place and he had been relieved to escape in one piece the following morning.

Memories successfully evoked, and pushed to the depths of our minds, we headed for our train to Arras. 

We couldn't have asked for better weather, Autumnal sunshine greeted our arrival. The welcome at the ground wasn't, at first, quite so warm as we were told we couldn't bring our bags into the ground. Thankfully a kind steward told us we could leave them in the ticket office. After buying our tickets, we were then told to squeeze everything through the narrow slit in the window which caught the lady in the ticket office by surprise but she kept smiling as we piled our rubbish into her reluctant arms. A quick "Au revoir and merci" and we left our saviour to struggle with our bags. 

I had brought my Newcastle 'Howay the Lasses' women's team flag (crafted with a £3 England flag and a Blue Peter-style set of sharpie pens). So after hanging it up with my Northern Lensois flag, had a wander around to the far side of the ground to get the essential photo of my happily fluttering flags. 

Taking aim, with my phone camera, I was distracted by the referee and lines people, who had formed into a lovely trio, so I could take their photo. I never get that treatment at Bollaert!

Mind you, there's no way I'd want the equivalent photo of Turpin or any of his mates!

There was a solitary Nice fan who, in complete contrast to the polite applause from the home fans, treated everyone to his complete repertoire of his South Coast adulation. It seemed rude not to applaud him, although most adopted the French past-time of mild disinterest.

His enthusiasm was rewarded with a penalty and Rachel Robert converted perfectly after 14 minutes. Surprisingly, once his second bout of Nice-glorification had ended, he sat meekly, applauding appreciatively. Mind you, his team soon found out that the Lens Lasses weren't going to take this lying down and they began to prise their way into the game. A breakaway resulted in Laurine Pinot, recently arrived from Bordeaux, smashing home a great effort. After being congratulated by her team-mates, she then raced to head coach, Sarah M'Barek.

 The home crowd, bouyed by the young girls' team chosen as mascots, led by a twelve-year-old girl with a petite 'megaphone', found their voices. 

Next up, it was a home penalty that was dispatched by Aude Gbedjissi: the kids loved it.

Throughout the first half, I had been very grateful to number of the 'choir' as they kindly sorted out my unruly flags in the increasing breeze. The cheapness of the material for my England flag meant it was forever getting tangled around the railings but without fail, my young assistants untaggled it so that once again dance in the breeze. Into the second half, a different set of youngsters patiently unravelled it. One even taking the time to study them, wondering who on Earth could have brought these and what they meant. 

There was little time to breath in the second half. Five goals flew past a bewildered Nice defence: Gbedjissi completing her hat-trick. 

There was even time for a bit of argy-bargy after an over-zealous Nice tackle. My friend, the referee, did her best to calm the two adversaries and finally calm descended. The altercation had been out of the blue as the rest of the game carried on in a competitive manner.

There was great jubilation at the final whistle as the Lensoise secured their first win of the season. Not a bad result for my first women's game!

The announcer joined the team on the pitch and there were speeches from M'Barek before a quick Chicoté. Alex and I decided to go fetch our bags and eventually our friend from the ticket office emerged with them. She wondered where we'd come from and why we were here and as we explained in French, she seemed to be impressed with our efforts. After thanking us for coming, she admitted that hearing Englishmen speak French gave her the shivers! Egos expanded to ten times their normal size, we floated off to the station. 

Although, the men's game had been enjoyable in the usual manner, it was the women's game that I'd enjoyed the most. Although not as popular as women's football in England, it was great to see the same types of effort being made to encourage girls to play as there are back home. The local girls teams invited to be mascots and compete in the same run-and-shoot competition had contributed to the atmosphere and hopefully would be back regularly. I did think the distance to run for each team should be shortened, however.  They now had female role models to follow. I couldn't help compare my two teams: Newcastle and Lens. Both constantly sold out the men's games and had women's teams doing well in their respective Second Leagues. Although a few hundred had turned up to watch them, compared to Newcastle's few thousand, both had the support of their male counterparts and were essential parts of their clubs. A state of affairs that hadn't been the case until recently. "The future's looking bright!"

During the next international break for the men, a contingent of Lens supporters followed the womens' team in their away cup fixture, roaring them to victory. Seeing my two women's teams doing so well fills me with such pride.  I can't wait to go back and now proudly display my joint colours at Newcastle Women's games:

Taken at England women v Switzerland friendly match (23,000+ attendance)

April 2024 Lens v Le Havre

 This would be the first time I had been to five Lens games in a season. Thanks mainly to two games in England and a double visit during December's quiet gardening period. My new life as a gardener was having its advantages. 

My record of two wins and two defeats looked pretty even but then I had chosen to ignore goal difference (the 6 goals conceded without reply at Arsenal definitely tipped that balance). For this journey, Odessa was coming with me. She hadn't been to a game since my 50th birthday weekend in 2019, nearly five years and an epidemic ago. It was also true that she was still to see Lens win in the flesh. This was to be her tenth game and her record to date stood at Played 9 Won 0 Drawn 5 Lost 4. On the plus side, she had never witnessed a goaless draw and had enjoyed no less than four 2-2 draws: anything but dull! This was also going to be the third time she had seen Le Havre. For some reason she was drawn to them and their Barbarian fans! 

We'd first crossed paths with them on a warm Summer evening in Tours. The bare-chested Barbarians (the name of their fan group btw) on that day had looked likely to celebrate a Coupe de La Ligue victory until a young Olivier Giroud rescued the Loire valley team in the last few minutes with two unlikely goals. The next occasion, Le Havre had ruined my 50th birthday, winning 3-1 at Stade Bollaert. This weekend, I demanded revenge on them and also a first win for Odessa to reward her devotion to the cause (including all the dross I had made her sit through on television).

Odessa, ever the devoted wife, humoured me with the traditional John Betjeman photo. On this occasion we went for the classic different directions shot but I will need some inspiration for next season's photos!

After a largely uneventful journey, we arrived in Lens and were delighted to see that we hadn't brought along the rain that had battered the Northeast of England for the last few months. It was nice not to see fields under a layer of floodwater. In fact the weather forecast for the weeekend was pretty hopeful, with the bizarre idea that temperatures could reach 23℃. Odessa had insisted on buying some sun lotion at Newcastle train station... only hope was that we would get to use it!

Friday was indeed a warm day, and we did use our lotion as we visited the Land of the Dogues (Lille). Our visit included a trip around the zoo, in glorious sunshine...

A day is always complete if you get to see a Red Panda and an empty Lille club shop. Because it was hot work wandering around town, we had a real thirst... the type of thirst that could only be quenched by a can of our new favourite drink... Sado! You've got to love European drink names.

The evening was spent with Pierre, his girlfriend and their teenage daughters. We were joined later on by Mika from Normandy who had also fallen in love with Lens. His family were now season ticket holders and regularly made the journey North. The evening was relaxed as we chatted in English and French and Pierre supplied both the food and drink. He was, as always, the ultimate host, although his mood darkened slightly when I informed him that Odessa had never seen Lens win in the flesh! Thankfully, he regained his positivity as he reminded us... "Until now!"

The following day, the sky was cloudy. Pierre, Mika and I started with a run around Terrils 11/19. The numbers related to the mine number so I had to assume there had been two different mines nearby.

Three amigos... thankfully you can't see my borrowed shorts!

By the time I had showered and eaten the breakfast Pierre had anonymously left by the gite we were staying in, it was almost 11am and time to wander down to meet not one but two visiting Englishmen.

James was returning for his second visit to Lens and a new Lens visitor, Ben, was coming for his first ever. An Englishman who lived in the Dordogne valley, Ben had an English Dad and French mum. He had fallen in love with Lens after their Championship winning season in 1998 but had never known anyone to go to a Lens game with. A member of the RC Lens UK division Facebook group, we had agreed to meet up for the game.

Once the two of them had arrived and Ben had checked into his hotel opposite the station, there was no other place to start but food and drink at La Loco. The Ch'ti beer went down nicely. the other place to take visitors was Emotion Foot. The last time we'd visited, James had invested in a home shirt but Ben conservatively decided on a scarf. To be fair he wasn't the footie shirt type and looked dapper as he wore his scarf: cravat-stylie 

The last few weeks, Lens had struggled to get wins. Their European adventure had ended at Freiburg. A 0-0 game at home had featured a late disallowed Lens goal because of an offside toenail. In the return leg, on a night when I had been leading a running session at my local club, Lens had been 2-0 ahead and seemingly coasting. That was until the German side laid siege to their goal, finally scoring an equaliser in the 92nd minute and a winner in extra time. Despite turning in a stellar performance in beating Lyon 3-0 on the road, the performances began to slide. A lucky 1-0 victory at home to surprise package, Brest, was followed by defeats away in the Derby du Nord 1-2 and at home to Nice (not nice) 1-2. 

We needed a reaction today if Odessa and I were going to have the win! My expectations were raised when I studied Le havre's recent form... one win and seven defeats! Surely Franck would have the lads whipped into shape ready for our visit? When Wahi's early effort was saved and his overhead kick struck the crossbar, my hopes grew.

Unfortunately, there was no score in the first half, even though Lens had shaded it and created more chances but I noticed that the atmosphere on the Marek lacked its usual togetherness and passion. Okay, we were at the Trannin end of the home terrace but there was definitely a tension around us. Despite the best efforts of the Kapos and their buddies at the front, there was a reluctance amongst a number of fans to join in. Yes they joined in the chants but it seemed half hearted. The usual passion was being consigned to whistling when things didn't go their way. There was initially great delight when Sotoca turned the ball home but this was replaced by derision, and more whistling, when VAR disallowed the goal because of another toe nail being offside.

Soon after, there was indeed great delight when the super-Pole, Frankowski, managed to loft a long-range effort into the visiting goal. VAR was forgotten. However, having taken the lead, Lens began to look nervous. Le Havre sensed this and suddenly looked like a half-decent side playing with a bit of confidence, not a side that had dropped down the table in the last few weeks. Although the play on both sides was poor, the visitors looked the more composed and Lens nervous. 

The Marek and the two tribunes behind each goal were doing their best, but it was almost like their efforts were being swallowed up by the night sky. Inspiring the rest of the stadium was going to be a tough ask, like wading through the proverbial treacle. The optimism of the previous season had slowly been siphoned off. The team were in the European places but there wasn't the belief that they could stay there. Whereas Fofana had taken games by the scruff of the neck, setting up the powerhouse Openda, this year these two attacking options were sorely missed. 

Wahi was struggling with his form and confidence and the midfield lacked presence, composure and experience. Samed had struggled through the first half and was sorely missing his old sparring partner. Fofana's replacements, El Ayanoui and Diouf, were showing potential but their lack of strength and experience was telling. Neither could hang onto the ball in the same way Seko had. 

Both fans and home team grew even more frustrated as the lads failed to put the result to bed. The fear of an equaliser grew. When Lens' Aguilar went up with a Le Havre attacker, it was the latter who flew like a salmon after the slightest bit of contact. During the warm-up, Odessa had warned me about laughing at the referee, as he took great pride in his coordinated warm-up with his linesmen. Now it was coming back to haunt me as he pointed to the spot for a penalty to the visitors. 

Odessa hopefully informed me that this was going to be the perfect opportunity for Samba to dive and save the penalty. Sadly, he dived the wrong way as Sabbi stroked home to level with seven minutes to go. And that, as they say, was that. There was to be no win for Odessa (or me). 

Medina was not impressed...

...and neither was security.

It was disheartening to see the stands quickly empty; even quicker than I had known before. Yes the result hadn't gone their way but a large proportion of the supporters seemed too desperate to get away. The days of the Chicoté were long gone but so was the union with the fans. The players did a quick circuit of the ground then disappeared. For me, the body langauge of the two big players for the team, Danso and Samba told me all I needed to know. I didn't expect to see them at Stade Bollaert-Delesis next season.

The former was tipped for bigger things in Europe while Samba was hinting at a return to England: having arrived from Nottingham Forest. Their form over the last couple of seasons had certainly provided them with a number of suitors for the new season. Would Lens manage to find suitable replacements for them? For the first time in four years, Lens' scouting network had not lived up to its own high standards. Would the young players grow into their roles in time to guarantee European football next season? Would Wahi rediscover his scoring boots? 

The mood around town didn't fill me with hope. The European adventure and its subsequent exit were  being blamed for the dip in form, yet I feel the team had over-achieved. From the very first game at Brest, when they had led 2-0 only to lose 3-2 to a Brest team that looked likely to finish in the top four places, they had lacked the experience and drive of Seko Fofana. He had been the heart and soul of this team and we needed that heart back. We, and I'm including me, want to believe but believing in greatness sadly doesn't come easily. 

My last visit to Stade Bollaert Delesis had ended in disappointment. 

I had attended my first two Champions League games with contrasting results, seen Lens take the lead at Old Trafford, beat the Europa League Champions and a talented Reims side only to finish things off with a disappointing draw to a relegation-haunted Le Havre. 

The one thing that had made every visit so special was the friends who had looked after both myself and Odessa. The following day, we journeyed to Orchies and more fantastic hospitality, this time from Pascal who hosted a barbecue for the Paris-Roubaille bike race. The whole day was a fantastic affair. From the massive sausages on offer to the race itself which we watched finish in a packed tent (the race didn't finish in the tent by the way, just there was lots of people in the tent). Ch'ti hospitality at its best! 

Our journey home was delayed by animals on the line getting from Orchies to Lille Flandres followed by an emergency on the London to Newcastle line. However, we finally arrived back in a, for once, dry  Whitley Bay. Work demands meant I had no option but to load up my bike and trailor and spend the next three hours mowing the town's lawns before more rain arrived. No rest for the wicked!

Bike ready ... time to mow!

December 2023 Lens v Reims

 

My week in Lens between the two games had been a mixture of running and writing. With a backlog of blogs, there was plenty for me to do, plus I had a radio show to record for Saturday. Staying at one of Pierre's gite was the perfect way to do both. On one of my runs, I managed to find my way to Le Parc de la Glissoire: the former sight of Fosse 5 (a former mine) and not far from Lens' training ground in Avion. The run itself was an 11km round trip  so I decided that my legs would only stand a brief tour of the park but just like the growing nature trails around Le Louvre-Lens showed the work that had been done to transform the town's mining image. First begun 35 years previously, the park now boasted 6 lakes and as i trotted around a couple of them, I could see that there were places to fish and play water sports as well as a habitat to a number of wild birds, although the ducks and geese I spotted looked quite serene.

I, however was having my own problems with wild animals: Pierre's cats! Not a great cat-lover because of my asthma, I was peturbed to see them appear at the door demanding to be let in whenever I sat down to recording or writing... or just opened the curtains.

There were four stages of cat domination. 

1. Muster on the outdoor table to begin the assault but feign complete disinterest in your target.

2. Send forth the scout with the blue eyes to bewitch your target into submitting to your will.

3. If that fails, assume the tallest possible stance to intimidate your victim.

4. Finally attack the door in the hope that it could be opened. 

It was a modern day version of the harpies of Ancient Greek mythology, luring hapless sailors onto rocks so that they could devour them. If I had given in to their cries, I would probably have fared little better than those poor wretches of old!

Thankfully, Pierre had built my gite with two possible escape route so it became a game of cat and mouse (I was the mouse), when they appeared at one door, I would head to the other. I'm completely certain that if I had stayed longer, they would have learnt to split their forces; positioning a cat at each entrance. 

Thankfully I survived until the Saturday and matchday #2

The win over Seville had been unexpected and, it had to be said, extremely fortunate. The goals had come at opportune moments in the game. Could the team raise themselves once against a reims team managed by the Belgo-Brit Will Still? Rumours were circulating that my neighbours, Sunderland, were interested in stealing him so maybe this could unsettled the visitors. They had won two of their last five (Strasbourg (h) 2-1 and Nantes (a) 1-0) but had lost to the likes of Nice (a) (1-2), Rennes (a) (1-3) and Paris (h) 0-3. 

In comparison Lens were undefeated in Ligue 1 since September (a surprise 0-1 home defeat against Metz) and a match which was the final of three defeats at the start of the season (Paris (a) 1-3 and Monaco (a) (0-3)) but featured 31 Lens attempts on goal compared to two efforts from Metz. Despite being unbeaten, Lens had managed to grind out results without looking anything like the Lens of Fofana and Openda. The play had been workmanlike and there had been more draws than the previous year. The newboys were still to really make their mark. Wahi's four goals had been great moments of skill but a mixture of poor service from the rest of the team and composure on his part meant there weren't more. He had drifted out of too many games and lacked the confidence to re-impose himself. 

Mayby all that would change! The simple reason for that: a new English friend was joining me at Le Stade Bollaert. The son of my good pal, Wednesday Chris (he's a Sheffield Wednesday fan) was coming up for the game. James followed his dad's leanings (despite his mum being a Newcastle fan) but lived in Paris. He had decided that after 12 years under a Conservative government, there had to be better places to live in Europe. He had managed to get a cyber security job in the French capital and not looked back. 

I really needed a job working for the Lens tourist board bearing in mind my love for the area and so today, Matthew, I was going to do just that: unpaid but enthusiastic. First stop... La Loco! Being vegan, he was immune to the lure of both mergez and fricadelles but the chips were definitely to his liking. Despite ordering the large portion (I did try to warn him) he stuck manfully to the task and still had room for another 500cl of Ch'ti lager. His tour continued to Terrils 11 and 19 and Pierre's house before we decamped to Emotion Foot and Chez Muriel. 

He actually understands what 

everyone is saying!

Just like Matt, James had an advantage over me. His French lessons at school and year in France meant he could converse more confidently and also, more importantly, when the lads got into full speed with their footballing discussions, he was able to comprehend most of what was being said. My O and A-level school French lessons had taken place over 30 years ago and, I'm afraid to say, I had failed to apply myself to my studies. As a result, when a 40-year-old Richard had tried to refresh his knowledge, his brain had shut down in many regards. I've been playing catch-up ever since with varying degrees of success. James, however, fitted right into the group and I was delighted to show them his purchase: a Lens home shirt! None of my English friends had shown any inclination to do that! James was my instant favourite!

He was delighted to be visiting Stade Bollaert: once again he hadn't been bored by my obsession during family get-togethers. Strange lad! A man of the 21st century, he had mastered the art of Airbnb and found an appartment opposite Chez Muriel. After putting the luggage he had been trailing behind him all day into 'his pad', it was time for the walk towards the ground. 

A proud moment it was for both of us: James entering the mythical stade for the first time and me taking the paternal role, sorry Chris, but I'll do the same for you one day, hopefully. 

Proud day!

Pascal's 'London' cap

We were joined on the Marek by Pascal, who had abandoned the very stylish Lens cap he had worn at Arsenal after that heavy defeat. It was a new range that the club had started for the man about town who didn't want to be instantly recognised as a Lens fan and featured only the outline of the club's logo. I had eyed it enviously in London but having thought about it; that's not me. I normally shout out loud about my obsession: I'm definitely not a man about town. My style is yellow and red: not what Odessa would call stylish, that's for sure! Debonair not being in my dictionary. 

The first thing we had to explain to James was that there was going to be a 15 minute strike by the Lens ultras in protest at the government's decision to ban away fans travelling to certain games on a regular basis, including the fiasco against Seville. We told him not to expect too much for those 15 minutes. Having seen the same things carried out in the past, I hoped it wouldn't spoil the occasion for James. Unlike the time the Ultras refused to take their place on the Marek until the game had started, this time, they were there: just silent. Some even scowled as the Lensois was sung at the start: a habit that can only be described as second nature!

There was a large amount of tinsel in the Trannin terrace but even that remained under wraps until the 15th minute. At that point the crowd sprang to life, having counted down from 10 (obviously in French). The yellow and red Christmas tinsel was unfurled while fireworks exploded from behind the scoreboard away to our right. It was worth the wait!

Smoke...

Tinsel...

... and fireworks!

A video later showed a number of masked figures, standing on the train line that runs behind L'Epagnot stand, launching a stream of fireworks from what looked like bazookas. I'm sure British health and safety would have had something to say about that but what a spectacle it made! Hopefully they had consulted the train timetables!

Bollaert was in full swing. Thomasson, one of six changes from Tuesday night thanks to suspensions and injuries, drifted in a cross that was palmed away by Diouf in the Reims goal then Reims surged forward and Nakamura's drive stung Samba's fingers as he pushed clear. The match was much more open than Tuesday. When Reims' Abdelhamid flicked just wide, I wished the home defence wasn't quite so open. Lens were being outshot, despite their dominant possession. This was every bit as nervy as Tuesday night!

Reims caught out the home defence and Reims' Daremy slid the ball under Samba for what seemed to be the opening goal. But no! The linesman flagged offside. Replays would later show it was another one of those toenail jobs. But we didn't care... his toenail was offside and that's what counted. James was bringing his own magic to the evening. Samba looked in trouble soon after when he did an impression of a brick wall, trying to deal with a one on one in the penalty area. Sadly his wall was man sized and very immobile but thankfully the rest of the defence were there to smother then clear the ball. 

Two minutes before half time Joseph Okumu headed the ball away from his own keeper's clutches on the edge of the Reims penalty area. The ball fell to a delighted Wesley Said, who thrashed into the roof of the net from an extremely acute angle. The injury-prone striker was enjoying sharing the limelight with Wahi (or stealing it really) , who had played in midweek and was rested. This was his third goal in five appearances and each of them had shown how skillful he was: if only he could remain injury free!

The makeshift Lens defence, without the injured Gradit and suspended Medina, were at full stretch in the second half. Ito flashed wide as did Abdelhamid. Each time, Samba was flatfooted.

On came Oscar Cortes, for only his third appearance for Lens and within seven minutes he had settled the tie, diving to flick past Diouf for his first goal and suitably, he was mobbed by the rest of the team.

Applause for Cortes: 2-0.

The celebrations began for the final home game of 2023. What a year it has been! 

Danso loves Lens!

So do we!

At the final whistle, the players toured the stade, applauding the fans. They looked knackered but had come up trumps once again. Although I missed the players coming over to the Marek to sing Chicoté or shout Lens! Lens! Lens! I understand why they don't do it any more. The club is more than the Marek. With every home game this year having sold out, it was about everyone. As easy as it is to dislike the money men and women in L'Epagnot, they were the ones driving the club onwards and upwards. However, if it is to really succeed, the club needs to recognise every single Lens fan: rich / poor / young / old. The ultras may be there on a wet night in Le Havre but everyone contributes in their own way. As long as everyone is recognised and respected then the future for Lens is bright. The major failing of the Premier League is that it cast aside the poor: mostly the young. I wonder: will this come to bite them in the future? 

For James and I, we felt included and part of a club moving forward. Isn't that what being a football fan is all about?

On the way out, there was a chance to sneak into the Delacourt to enjoy their own celebrations. 

James couldn't wait to come back.

Epiloque:

Just like the 1950s tv dramas, this story has an epiloque: a little unexpected add-on to tantalise and titillate (but not in a sexual manner). 

Having discovered that my Eurostar back to London left Lille at 8:35, I booked a hotel room near the stations for Sunday night. After an afternoon nap, I am getting on a bit, I set out to find something to eat. There were many options for a change as most shops were still open, even on a Sunday, in the run-up to Christmas. 

A can of Crazy Tiger 

to keep me going?

Maybe not.

Option #1: Raptor Burger... too much of a bite for me.

Raptor Burger... so well known?

I wasn't in the moody for anything swishy.

 I was in the mood for pizza (cause I'm well classy) but didn't want to go through the rigmarole of sitting down on my own so I looked for a takeaway. Google maps directed me towards an innocently named Pronto Pizza. This brought back memories of the first pizza delivery company in Tynemouth in the early 1990s. London, where I was studying for my teaching degree, was filled with them, but the Northeast of England was slow to catch up. 

Trip down memory lane over with, I stepped inside and felt there was something familiar about it all. Had I been there before? The man behind the counter was friendly enough and asked me if I was going to eat in... the lure of a the window seat and a stool's view of the dark, Lille street proved too much. It was actually one of only three seats in the place but just what I needed to complete my solo mission for food. 

The counter man asked me if I was English: even when I speak French I still have an english accent he told me. There was something familiar about this conversation! A young trio of students arrived and he chatted away to them as he prepared all the pizzas. Mine arrived on very posh crockery (it had a pattern on it) and once again my memory circuits began buzzing. Checking through my previous blogs, I found an entry from 2014. I was getting quite nostalgic and emotional. Memories of Lens' promotion under Kambouaré and the fall out from Mammodov sprang to mind. Also springing to mind was waiting until 11:30pm for the Eurolines bus back to London Victoria. I asked the man if he had worked here long. At first he was guarded... was I a health inspector? I could tell he was wondering. I reassured him that I wasn't and showed him a picture of my friend Bashir from nine years ago. His face lit up... "C'est moi!" Reunited once more! 

Bashir in 2014

Bashir in 2023: still going strong!

Feast fit for a King!

What an end to my visit; another old friend. The warm feeling wrapped me up in its pizzery sauce and carried me through the streets of Lille, past the scary-looking men with their bottles of god-knows-what and less-than-gentil-looking free-roaming dogs who had decamped in front of the door to my hotel. The hotel was accessed through a shopping centre and via a keypad. I made sure I could remember the code before beginning and was relieved to slip past unnoticed by all four and two-legged bodies. I would not be leaving my room until morning I decided. The homeless in the big cities are now becoming a sad reflection of modern society; Newcastle, London, Lille... The saddest aspect of it is that they are just people, people who have fallen on hard times, but people all the same. They have the same needs we, the lucky ones, have but greater obstacles to access them. My supply of change had long since been given away: a sobering end to my visit. But what else could I do? I'd like to think that 2024 would be different for us all. who knows, maybe it will. 

"Blind faith it'll be okay..." sang the Levellers. Voices in a howling wind.