May 2026: Coupe Nationale Finale: Lens v Nice 1

 As a teenager and well into my twenties, my footballing dream had always been to see my team at a cup final. As a young Newcastle United fan, cup runs had been and gone each year, with only two quarter-final appearances to show for all the heartache and disappointment. When I was finally priced out of watching Newcastle by the constantly rising costs and my own growing family, United qualified for not one but two FA Cup finals over the next two seasons, much to my frustration. The fact that they lost both of them 2-0 (to Arsenal and Manchester United) was cold comfort to me; I had missed out on living the dream with the cup runs and visits to Wembley. All the tales I had read about Newcastle fans heading to Wembley in 1974 and 1976... I would never experience those moments.

In 2009, when I fell in love with Lens, the first thing I looked at was the Cup situation. Yes, the French had their own Cups: an FA Cup format where smaller non-league teams were able to play their professional counterparts and a League Cup open to only the teams in Ligues 1 and 2. Although the latter was unpopular across France and would later be withdrawn from competition, there was still the chance of a final, played at the Stade de France. They too had a history of cup final defeats: in 1975, losing 0-2 to Saint Étienne, 1998, 1-2 to Paris Saint Germain. In 2008, they lost, to a controversial, late penalty, 1-2 to those pesky Parisians again. There was the small matter of a League Cup win in 1999, 1-0 against Metz, but basically, they were the French Newcastle: great support but little to show for it.

 Colour photos mesmerised me of 1970s Lens fans, complete with flares and multiple scarves wrapped around their wrists. They could almost be their Newcastle counterparts on their way to watch Liverpool, and Kevin Keegan, tear them apart 0-3 or Manchester City, 1-2, in the 1976 League Cup final. Same smiles hiding an acceptance that they were probably going to be beaten, but were determined to enjoy the day.

I had booked all the travel the moment Lens, in the 74th minute, took a 4-1 lead in the semi-final. How's that for confidence? The day before we set off, I finally managed to download my match ticket thanks to those amazing people at Lensois Online. Having to download it from the club app, I realised that my struggles all season to understand the Newcastle United app were similar to the Lens app and that finding any match ticket was a real test of endurance and determination: no matter which country you were in or club you supported. 

The Metro to Newcastle passed without a hitch; I even got to admire the nearly completed bridge at Whitley Bay station. Passing the Black Garter pub, it was comforting to hear that the karaoke and dancing had started already. It was 4:30pm and it sounded as if it had been going all day, with the participants averaging a young age of about 70. Keeping it classy for Newcastle. The other attraction in town that afternoon was a massive, snaking queue of students (mostly) waiting patiently for the opening of a new steak restaurant, called Iron. Apparently, 100s of free steaks were on offer. What a day to be a Geordie!

I decided that I had had way too many photos with Johnny Gielgud in St Pancras and exhausted the joke, so it was a statue outside of Newcastle's Central Station that received the honours, this time.

 

My trip to the final began on Thursday night, with an early evening train from Newcastle and a night's stay near Kings Cross. In an effort to save money, I booked the cheapest hotel I could possibly find: as long as it was clean and I was the only occupant in my room, then I would be happy. The hotel entrance didn't look too appealing as I dropped my bags off but the reception area was ok and the lad behind the desk seemed friendly and attentive. The shared shower and toilet also seemed fine, as long as you didn't look too closely at the shower curtain. Maybe, the room itself looked extremely bare, and the skirting board didn't stretch all the way around the walls; at least the bed was clean. I was fine with that. 

Nice! I had already slept in the bed, by the way.

It was 5:30am when I left the hotel, after a mixed night's sleep: London's heat and noise hadn't helped this quiet Northerner's rest. The whole of London seemed to have made the most of the warm weather while they could. The bathrooms above me also seemed to have a pipe that ran down the inside of the partition wall. This meant that every half hour, there would be the sounds of a sluice gate opening and water cascading. Not exactly very restful. Never mind having to smile at the concierge every time I needed to visit the toilet. A nice lad, but I'd rather he didn't have to know the timing of my internal workings. 

Nevertheless, I was raring to get on my 7am Eurostar. Although I was excited, I wasn't as excited as the American girl sitting opposite me, who decided that 6am was the perfect time to teach her friends some cheerleading moves. The packed Eurostar waiting area really made no difference to her as she strutted her stuff. At least it held the attention of several youth footie teams who were heading off on their own European adventures. This time, it was the turn of the amateur clubs.

Not daring to fall asleep and miss my Lille stop, I managed to keep myself awake by staring out the window with a pair of cocktail sticks propping my eyes open.

Alex was waiting for me, and a few minutes later we were hopping into Pierre's car: destination Paris! 

On the way, we were treated to numerous updates on the progress of the rest of the gang. It appeared we were all meeting at a park for a picnic. Finally finding our car parking space in an underground car park, we emerged into the bright Parisian day. It was going to be a scorcher, as the thermometer slipped past 30°C. This northern individual was certainly not used to such crazy temperatures.

Food was shared out between the group of us, cheese, ham and baguettes, the order of the day... and beers. Thankfully, David had left his pâté knife behind. Every Parisian walking through the park wished us luck, and throughout the day, car horns beeped at us as we walked along. Nobody wanted Nice to win; we were definitely the popular vote.  This was almost too civilised. Of course, virtually the entire population of Lens had decamped to Paris for the day (or so it felt). Everywhere we looked, we saw Lens fans. Maybe the estimated 50000 Lens anticipated was not exaggerated. Nice's fans had decided that they would not be travelling in anywhere near the same numbers. It certainly was a lot further to travel from Nice to Paris than it was from Lens. But then hadn't 7000 Lens fans made the journey down to Monaco for a midweek semi-final that was eventually lost 0-6? These Sang et Or fans were a different class, and they were out to prove it!

Post picnic pic

Some of the Nice ultras had already shown their colours the night before when there had been a brawl between Nice and PSG fans, supported by German and Belgian fans allied to either side. There were rumours that Lille fans would look to cause trouble at the various motorway service stations on the way, but we didn't see or hear of any trouble. Nothing was going to spoil our party.

The edited photo with a real Parisian Lens house... with added extra Yannick

Feeding one of the Parisian cows.

We wandered down to a fan park that had been set up for the Lens fans. Amongst the trees of one of Paris' parks, a sea of red and yellow bodies stretched in all directions. The food and drink stalls were doing a roaring trade. Dotted about, the different groups of ultras had formed their 'camps', separated only by their different style of cup final t-shirt. The Red Tigers had actually cornered the market with t-shirts by selling theirs for €5, as opposed to €15 for some of the others. As a result, it was rumoured that 20000+ had been sold. They certainly seemed to be the latest fashion accessory for your Lens fan about the capital.

Alex explores the only bit of nature we could find on the walk to the Stade de France.

The lads were getting itchy for a sit-down in a calmer environment and to not have to wait in massive queues for a beer. After much to-and-froing, a quiet bar was located, and the Lens Old Boys were reunited. A lone Nice fan had been found at the bar who was quite insistence there were more coming. Finally, true to his words, two more did appear sheepishly before slinking away in the direction of the Stadium. There were definitely going to be three Nice fans there!

Joining the cortége to the ground, we were delighted to see our 'mate': the young Kapo. This time leading the cries of "Aux Armes". Maybe it had been because he had got a bad case of sunburn with all the time spent shirtless, but today, his chest was covered up, but he was still just as loud. Alex and I also made friends with a fan, who was desperate for us to join him as he continued his drinking session, which, considering his state, had already been quite a lengthy one. 

We finally managed to get him to realise we weren't interested and preferred some food. The merguez Americain wasn't up to the La Loco standard, but it filled a gap. A quick trip to the outdoor block urinals saw us making more friends. This time, our new 'pal' was convinced we were Belgian, judging by our French accents. He was delighted when he found out where we had travelled from and excitedly told his mates. He hung around waiting for a photo. Sadly, my ancient waterworks wouldn't be rushed, and he eventually was dragged off by his patient friends: still babbling excitedly.

There was an excited roar as fans headed to look out onto the road into the stadium. The black Lens team bus was making its way patiently behind its police motorbike escort. Sat right at the front was a jubilant Florian Thauvin, the player we'd initially had reservations about; was he committed or not? The season and his face said it all. He was beaming, waving frantically at all the fans gathered on the concourse above. This was our captain and indeed, the man who had won the World Cup in Russia in 2018. Yes, he had signed for Lille at one point, but he had moved to Marseille without ever playing a game for them: was that fate? No divided loyalties there. He was Mr Lens! He loved us, and we loved him. His season had been amazing, and any ideas that he was just going to take it easy had been disproved. Unlike some of the players, who had already announced they would be leaving at the end of the season, Florian was here to stay.

The sun was shining on us! It was going to be our day!

After our tickets were checked three times in three different locations, we finally entered the Stade de France. The sight that greeted us will live long in the memory. My previous visit, in 2014, when Stade Bollaert was a construction site, had been to the top tier but the view from the lower tier was so much more impressive, with the stadium towering above us. The gentle slope to the pitch made our tribune seem so much larger. The first person we saw was Jean-Marie, our go-to-man for all our match tickets and president of Lensois Online. His regular emails with all the latest information from the French press are a lifeline for the displaced fans around the world. If there were a French equivalent to a knighthood, he'd get my vote... and Alex's. 

The vast ranks of Sang et Or , stretched across 3/4 of the way around the giant bowl, boasted every conceivable replica shirt and t-shirt... Shoppis, Auchans, Olas... proudly displayed, I'll not mention the Azerbaijan, Land of Fires dotted about. The Nice 'faithful' had done us a massive favour by not making the trip: we were at home, Chez Nous.

When Alex and I tried to find our seats, they had already been nabbed. We asked an extremely hot and sweaty steward who advised us to just find ourselves a spot and claim it... but not in the stairways: that was a definite no-no! He did add; there was going to be quite an atmosphere and really seemed to be enjoying himself. Despite not being originally seated together, we managed to find a pair of places along the row from Jérémie and his mates, who seemed to be very emotional as the brass band on the pitch played out Les Corons. With foil flags aloft, the stadium erupted, and Jérémie's tears rolled down his face. All around us, the scene was being repeated. I could well imagine the scene that was being acted out by Pierre and his daughters. This was the day that Lens fans had been waiting nearly 30 years for: the chance for their support to be rewarded with an ultimate prize. 

This wasn't a day of constant drinking and fighting; it was a day of friendship, community and pride. The Lens fans had done their town and team proud. Their singing and general noise were directed at cheering on the team. There were occasional shouts against the Nice fans, whom I'd described to my English friends as "Nice but not nice", but the Lens majority wanted only one thing: to celebrate their team's appearance and hopeful victory. Not only in the Stade de France but at a sold-out Stade Bollaert-Delelis and multiple outdoor venues around the Calais region, fans would be willing the team on. 

I remembered each of the defeats I had witnessed. The soul-destroying trips to Arsenal in the Champions' League, losing to Le Mans (1-3)  in Ligue 2, Brest and its subsequent pitch invasion, losing to Le Havre on my 50th birthday, all of them flashed into my memory banks. Today was not going to be one of those days. Today was going to be our day. No matter what happened, it would be our day! I'd never known confidence like it. 

The enormous model of the Coupe de France was wheeled off the pitch. We were finally ready to start. 

Maxi was certainly up for it today. He ran, danced, tumbled and shot throughout the opening minutes: a man on a mission. He clipped the bar from the edge of the Nice penalty area before racing past Maxime Dupe, the Nice keeper. Lens, Paris and the country held its breathe as the ball rolled towards the empty net. At the last minute, it was hacked away for a corner. We roared even louder, waved scarves and flags even more frantically. No-one could fault our effort. Whenever there was a lull, and we could hear the 20000 Nice fans singing, the atmosphere was cranked up even further. 

Udol, steamed down Lens' left wing, rolled the ball across the Nice penalty area to Thauvin. Captain Marvel took one touch, swung his left foot, and the ball rolled past the desperate Dupe and into the far corner of the net. Paris, Lens, Cambrai: all erupted in sheer joy. This was for us, the little team with a big heart that had dared to dream. Thauvin ran the length of the field to celebrate with his fans. With arms outstretched, he stood stoic; his heart racing as he soaked up our adulation. 

On his way back to the centre circle, he sank to his knees. I had no idea who he was thinking of, but that goal had been for them. 

With half-time beckoning, Maxi tricked his way to the byline and his cross was hacked clear. Thauvin's corner flew straight to the towering head of Edouard. The net at the far end bulged again. We were in dreamland. 

The joy didn't last long. First of all, Risser had to dive smartly to keep out Sofiane Diop before a Nice corner found the head of Djibril Coulibaly. We had the perfect view as the ball skipped past Risser and into the corner of the Lens goal. Surely this was just to make our day more exciting? Surely?

Half-time arrived straight away. 

Another rendition of Les Corons welcomed the players back, but now Nice had found their belief. Risser saved smartly and gratefully grabbed the ball after it crashed against his crossbar. Nice weren't finished yet. Both sides were producing a match worthy of a cup final. 

Still, we sang, driving our heroes on. With the clock ticking down, Sima managed to squeeze a foot further than two Nice defenders and squeezed it past Dupe. Everything was suspended as the ball rolled calmly into the net. Our night was complete. Could you have heard the roar in Newcastle? Yes, you could have been with Odessa as she celebrated with Jasmine in Whitley Bay. True devotion to Lens and I.

An extremely hot and bothered Gervais Martel appeared on the screen, flanked by Jean-Louis Leca, the architect of the team. We cheered at his shared emotions. Thank you for everything, I thought. A man who loved the club without question. As the final whistle blew, the tears of Martel, Leca and Parrot disappeared in their embrace. The players danced below us, and out came the enormous Coupe de France. Our Coupe De France. 

More tears as Thomasson was presented with the cup. He gave it to Gervais and Joseph, they both kissed it before it continued its journey from the stands to the team, who were waiting on a hastily erected stage in the middle of the pitch. 

The Stade de France erupted with northern joy. Yellow and red confetti flew into the air, followed by fireworks. Lens were Coupe de France winners for the first time in their 120-year history, and I had the privilege of witnessing it first-hand. 

May 2026 Lens v Nantes

 The joie-de-vivre was continuing. Lens were second only to QSG and apart from the odd blip (losing 3-0 in Lille), were the veritable dream to support. Exciting football was combined with great moments of skill, mostly from Thauvin, and from top to bottom, from president to players, everyone was singing from the same hymn sheet. Transfer deadline day had seen the unexpected arrival of another former Newcastle United player: St Maximin. 

One of my favourite players from recent times, a real character: dazzling at times, invisible in others. He had been playing in Mexico for Club America, but things hadn't worked out for him. When his family were subjected to racist abuse, he decided to leave South America and come 'home'. Maxi had been a bit of a nomad since leaving Newcastle, where he'd stayed for four years, until he was offered a megabucks salary in Saudi Arabia. He lasted one season there before moving to Fenerbahce and his short stay at Club America. Needless to say, the Mexicans were not best pleased with Maxi. A good amount of abuse followed him to Lens: not that that bothered us. How long before we were all wearing headbands and growing braids? Well, me at least.

The LFP had annoyed many in the Lens area and beyond when they decided to ease the pressure on QSG as they marched towards another Champions' League final. This time, the big showdown against Paris would now take place midweek, in between tonight's game and Lens' trip to Lyon. There was unrest amongst a good number of French footie fans; who didn't support Paris SG's mollycoddling by the Ligue 1 committee. Maybe there should have been a bigger outcry when Strasbourg, in the Europa Conference, weren't extended the same privilege. I'm sure there was a protest somewhere in France about it, but that must have passed me by.

I had more important things to think about, like getting a Coupe Nationale ticket. Pierre was bouncing around with excitement. Troyes had been dispatched 4-2 before the huge task of having to beat Lyon at the Groupama stadium. As the big quarter-final clash approached, the all-conquering Lyonnais had a slight wobble, losing in Strasbourg (3-1) then at Marseille (2-1). Only QSG and Toulouse had come away with victories at Lyon's home stadium, and that included the Europa League as well as Ligue 1.

Sage's boys tore into them and were 2-0 up with Thauvin and loanee Abdallah Sima scoring in a fabulous first-half display. Sage's tactical wizardry outwitted Lyon as Lens dominated play. A Yaremchuk goal for the home side was just reward for Lyon's second-half improvement and there looked to be utter heartbreak for the small collection of Lens fans who'd made the midweek journey when Rémi Himbert scored in the 94th minute to force a penalty shootout. Naturally fearing the worst, there was great consternation in many households when each Lens player perfectly converted their penalties before Lyon's Moussa Niakhaté saw his sudden death penalty saved by the growing legend: Lens' Robin Risser. It was, who else, but Thauvin who stepped up to put Lens into the semi-final.

A triumphant display at Bollaert to the tricky, and often under-rated, Toulouse saw Lens cruise 4-1 into their first Coupe Nationale finale since 1998. The victory signalled a pitch invasion and great celebrations that hadn't been witnessed since that League-winning year. Yannick's son, with his optimistic banner declaring Lens would get to the final, featured pride of place on the celebration photos as players took their turn to celebrate with his flag. If Pierre had been in dreamland before, he had certainly left the planet after this win. For my part, I had already had the discussion with Odessa about "What happens if Lens get to the final..." and that seemed to have gone well. She had seemed quite agreeable to the idea... but then maybe catching her at a moment when she was half asleep and would agree to anything as long as I let her sleep, was the best idea. Of course, she later denied any knowledge of the so-called discussion taking place!

Alex and I had booked this weekend with the expectation that it would take place, as had traditionally happened, on the Saturday. But no! QSG had to mess this weekend up as well! To avoid Paris being tired after their Champions' League Semi-final, ah bless, all fixtures would take place on the Sunday, which we hadn't booked for. Thankfully, because Lens were due to play Paris the following Wednesday, they would play their final home game on Friday night, which we had booked for. Ben from the RC Lens UK division had also decided to join us for the weekend and had to do a bit of rearranging, but as the weekend arrived, we were all organised for the Lens-Nantes game on the Friday.

Early Friday morning, a wife full of cold getting ready for work was furious with me after dreaming about how I'd been telling her how excited I was at seeing my new French girlfriend tonight. Thankfully I was able to reassure her that there was no hot Frenchie waiting for me and that Pierre, Yannick, Alex and Ben had no desires on me whatsoever, which she found surprisingly easy to believe. Next, a wasp flew into the shower room, and there was an incident with a bowl of blueberries and a flying spoonful of corn flakes. Both had to be dealt with before I left the house. However, I eventually caught the usual early-morning Metro to Newcastle and train to Kings Cross. For some reason, my organisational skills had not been what they normally were, and it was a last-minute change of train to replace my Friday trip from Kings Cross to Newcastle with a one beginning at Newcastle and vice versa for the return trip. Thankfully, I was able to find the correct tickets at a reasonable price: someone was smiling upon me.

Alex, on the other hand, was waking up in Lille after taking Thursday off as well. Lucky bugger! The team news was that Sage was resting the likes of Thauvin and Maxi and the midfield would feature a young Andrija Bulatovic partnered with Amadou Haidara, signed from Leipzig on the opening day of January's transfer window. Neither had featured much over the season so today was very much a suck-it-and-see scenario. Edouard was replaced by Sima. There was a starting spot for Saïd. It could either go spectacularly wrong or right. 

Eurostar check-in and customs was the usual chaos, especially when a male passenger flew into rage after rage when he was asked to remove one piece of jewellery at a time until the metal scanner would finally let him through. He was in a right grump as he plunged into the only available seat in the Eurostar lounge area. We were soon joined by many Southampton youth footballers, who arrived in particularly unattractive snot-green tracksuits. They were followed by West Ham youth in their more minimalist, but smarter, cream with blue trim and QPR's all-black featureless tracksuits made up the trio. Each group eyed up the other surreptitiously like the scene from Ron Burgundy where the different news teams all converge for a fracas. Thankfully, nothing kicked off.  It was Youth Euro Tournament season, obviously. 

When the platform number was announced, I shuffled along to board the Eurostar and for the first time ever, I was greeted by a completely empty coach. For that one moment, I was the only one that mattered in that enclosed space. The coach was 100% Lensois. it felt so good; if only for that one brief moment.

Arriving on platform 1 at Lille Flandres station, it was obvious that SNCF was going all out to impress me by bringing a touch of nature to this concrete and steel-dominated structure. I couldn't see evidence of this environmentally-friendly approach on any other part of the station, so I assumed that either it was for the benefit of the denizens of Lens or that it was the only platform with direct sunlight. I preferred the former, naturally.

I ignored the fact that both the palm tree and the Acer tree had been redesigned by the pigeons, but it was great to see they had made that effort: the SNCF and the pigeons!

Finally, I was on the final leg to Lens. The carriage was filling up with Lens fans. Like a secret society, disguises were discarded and "Allez Lens" exchanged. Once on the train, we were no longer on enemy soil so colours were proudly unveiled and furtive glances replaced by smiles and chat. The warm and fuzzy feeling grew as the train pulled out. 

Enjoying the sight of Lille disappearing behind us, I was drawn to the grasses bordering the train tracks, swaying in the train's wake but never daring to encroach on the track for fear of being crushed by wheels or thrashed by carriages. They reminded me of the Lens fans waiting on the touchlines at the semi-final, ready to charge onto the pitch to celebrate reaching the Stade de France and the Coupe Nationale final. I closed my eyes once again, fans streaming across my blurring vision. As I drifted off again, I was wrapped up in the joy of that unbelievable night. Yannick's son and his banner, Pierre's home-made Coupe, in true Blue Peter style: cardboard and tin foil from the kitchen. Old school for the old guys (and their kids).

La Loco was a sight for sore eyes, and so was Alex getting in the Ch'tis. 

A national holiday in France, Victory in Europe Day, the Lens fans looked to have made the most of the opportunity, and La Loco was packed. Nevertheless, two Ch'tis and a couple of Merguez Americains later, we were ready for anything. The sun beat down on 'our little town' to add to the building carnival atmosphere. 

It would be rude not to!

Outside the town hall, we met up with Ben, amongst the fans who were gathering for a 'final' march to the stadium. There was quite a throng around all sorts of stalls set up by the Ultras to occupy the growing masses before the procession began.

Rue d'Emile Basly was even more packed as we made our way to Chez Muriel for potentially the last time. A buyer had been found, and Muriel was retiring from the bar she had visited as a seven-year-old with her dad, drinking Lemonade, before owning the bar for 47 happy years. Thankfully, the bar would still keep going under the ownership of another Lens fan, originally from Portugal: José. Regulars were excited about the plans he had for the bar, but for now, it was still all about Muriel.

Bollaert glowed in the evening sunlight: a beacon drawing the faithful in. We entered the stadium after depositing our bags in the kindly Pierre's car: a great relief for our old backs. For some reason, I had decided that my woollen 'dreads' would make a return appearance, in honour of our dreadlocked hero: Maxi. Not wanting to jinx anything by reintroducing them at the cup final, I decided to use today's match as a tester. Bollaert was a little bit cooler, but the extra wool around my head was still not a completely pleasant experience. I'd started, therefore I had to see this one through: it was my contribution to the DIY football supporting ethos, and Mac seemed to like the sentiment.

During the usual 'melee' to get into the Marek, Alex and I lost Pierre and the gang, so we took our places at the Trannin end; unchaperoned. The atmosphere had picked up a few notches since our last visit, as it really should have done, considering the performances the sold-out crowds had witnessed and the position of the team in the league. Oddly, there was no sign of Jérémie and his gang either. We were on our own. Although there was some great one-touch approach play on the pitch, there was a distinct lack of goal-scoring opportunities. Bulatovic and Haidara looked reasonably confident in the midfield, so hopefully, it was just a case of them bedding in. 

Who says the youth of today are never off their phones?

Into the second half, we decided to stand at the front of the Marek at the Delacourt end, to avoid the flags obscuring our view of the far goal. As the game continued, we were treated to a fine example of an apprenticeship at work. At the front of the Marek, with his top off and chest out, scarf wrapped around his neck and baseball cap on backwards. He mirrored, exactly, every action the Capos did and his knowledge of every chant was precise. He urged the others above him (because he was small and also looking up at the terracing) with such fervour, there was no doubting what his chosen leisure time activity would be in adulthood. He was certainly putting everything into his role. 

On the pitch, the team turned it up a gear. Nantes, needing to win to stand any chance of staying in Ligue 1, found it hard to match the extra gear Lens had found for themselves. A disallowed 'offside' effort from Wesley Saïd was the first warning. This was followed by Abdallah Sima, signed at the start of the season from Brighton (after many loan spells around the UK and also Angers and Brest),  who controlled the ball, bore down on goal before sublimely slotting past Anthony Lopes, ex-Lyon stalwart goalie. Our friend went wild, as did we, even though he'd not seen a thing (too devoted to his duty). Then Mr VAR stepped in to disallow it because the ball had brushed against his arm, which was against his chest. Fury erupted from Mini-Capo. Outraged!

On came Mezian Soares, the son of Lens coach and former player Walid Mesloub. Bulatovic bustled his way into the box, laid the ball off to the substitute, who slid the ball past the veteran Lopes and into the far corner. First few seconds of his debut, first touches and first goal. Not bad. 

Bulatovic quite pleased with himself!

Finally spotted David and Pierre with the Lens' Old Boys flag.

This time, there was no stopping the celebrations. Soares, without a name on his back, only the number 41, enjoyed the final whistle more than anyone. His goal had guaranteed that Lens would be in the group stage of the Champions League, with the pay-outs that went with it, but also, sadly, relegated Nantes to Ligue 2. The contrast between the two sets of fans couldn't have been more marked. Lens players had to step around their respective fallen Nantes compatriots. It wasn't long before Bollaert belonged to only Lens and its jubilant fans.

 The Ligue1 title was beyond them, bar a Paris collapse with a 14-goal swing, but they would finish second, 9 points ahead of Lille. That was the point: the bigger boys, including their local rivals, had failed to match their pace with squads bought for four or five times more. No wonder there were fireworks to complement the return onto the pitch of the players: each throwing their moves to their particular choice of music. A sort of players' disco.

By the time we left the ground, it was nearly 1am, and as most readers by now will know, I'm not much of a night owl; especially if I've had to get up at 5am. Alex and Ben were also feeling the effects of their respective long journeys, although I think I had age as a possible excuse. Despite all this, we carried on gamely, with another Merguez Americain each. This time, at 2am, a mystery was solved. When I ordered, the guy serving me thought I had said chicken nugget Americain... apparently my strange French accent is to blame for that one! 

It was about 2:30 by the time the lads decided to call it a night. We gratefully headed to Pierre's for a well-earned rest. 

We would be back in a fortnight, for the biggest weekend of our supporting career. Tonight's dress rehearsal had gone well. Players had been rested, we'd qualified for the Champions League, seen the players' funky moves, and also stayed out well into the morning. 

January 2026 Dunkirk v Pau, Lens (W) v Strasbourg, Lens (M) v Auxerre

Alex and I were reunited after well over a year for this trip and we were both in shock. Apart from the usual defeat against Paris and a forgettable result at Metz, Sage's boys were on hyperdrive. Thauvin and co were knocking wins out for fun. Players, like defender Malang Sarr, were playing the games of their lives after having struggled the previous year. Each of the new signings clicked in a way the previous year's team hadn't. Everywhere you looked on the pitch, the team were fighting for each other. The world of French football and beyond were in shock as Lens had won nine straight league and cup games to jump above Paris into top spot. Since Christmas, les Sang et Or had remained there until now.

 The fitter and the tiler installing our new kitchen both knew who Lens were and how well they were doing. Of course the questions always started with "How come you ended up supporting them?" to which I would reply, "Its a long story."

For once, we'd been able to plan this trip as a two night stop thanks to the unusually forward thinking of Ligue 1's fixture committee. This meant that we didn't have to take the Monday off work: not that there was a whole lot of gardening to be done in January. 

I met Alex at Kings Cross. He was actually waiting for me as I got off the train which was a step up from the previous visit when he promised me a fry up breakfast and then met me at St Pancras having already enjoyed his. Admittedly he had already had his fry up this time but I was quite happy with a McDonalds breakfast in the time available. 

Lacking inspiration for the Johnnie B photo, I just decided on an old classic: everyone looking for inspiration and finding none. For once this wasn't the case with Lens.

Tonight's entertainment was to be provided by Ligue 2 Dunkerque v Pau. With both teams just below the playoff positions the prospects of a competetive match looked good. 

A short walk into town was broken up only by a polar bear attack. A much better alternative to Lille's shipping containers. Thankfully he realised he wasn't going to get much meat from eating me so we were able to hurry away.

We met Jérémie in a small sports bar that had wall-to-wall screens. He invited us to join in with his drinking of 10% Corsaire beer. It would have been rude not to. It was rather nice and we were certainly in a good mood when we headed to the ground. 

Dunkerque's Marcel-Tribut stadium certainly did the job. A modern, sleak, 5000 seater stadium, it boasted a DJ outside entertaining the masses as they queued to get into the ground but we were too old for all that nonsense so headed straight in for a pretty tasty hotdog (but no chips) and a surprise beer from Jérémie. 

A small group from Pau looked lost in their (relatively small) away enclosure while the rest of the stadium created a stirring atmosphere. I had been told to expect songs from the upcoming Carnaval by Pascal. I'm not sure whether the Dunkerque equivalent of Les Corons would be sung at the Carnaval but it was certainly well observed by virtually the whole stadium. Jérémie informed us it was called "La Cantate á Jean Bart". 

A ballad in honour of Jean Bart who was supposed to have saved France from famine at the battle of Texel. The story goes that Bart, in charge of eight French warships, sailed to rescue 120 grain ships captured by the Dutch during the Nine Year War.   We were impressed how impeccably it was sung. There was a real community feel to it all and endeared me to the club straight away. 

Pau were feeling very generous too, as their keeper passed the ball straight to Dunkerque striker, Thomas Robinet. He finished confidently then slid towards the home fans on his knees. Soon after, a neat passing move ended up with a goal for Anto Sekonga, who took the ball in his stride before toe-poking the ball into the bottom right hand side of the goal. 

Applauding the goal, we were interrupted by a lad with a baguette sandwhich who asked us if we had ordered it. The guy next to us piped up that he had before cheerfully munching on it. Food ordered to your seat? "What sort of witchcraft was this?" we wondered whilst thinking what a great idea that was!

Another half strike from Sekonga in the second half sealed the win for the home side, despite a late consolation for the eight Pau fans, who had travelled up from the deepest South of France. 

Dunkerque had been an extremely pleasant start to our weekend, we decided, as we wandered back past the harbour to our hotel. We managed to sneak in for last orders at a bizarrely decorated friterie: not often you get to meet Elvis and the Haribou bear in the same place.

On the way to the train station, we were able to admire the street art that we had bizarrely missed the previous evening. Dunkirk: we were very impressed: a town with some crackingly quirky architecture and art.

Lens women v Strasbourg women

The Lens lasses had been promoted to the top table, finishing second to Marseille on their head-to-head record: a 1-0 win for Marseille proving to be the deciding factor the previous May. 

They were finding life with the big lasses very difficult. A fantastic opener against PSG women at Bollaert saw 10000 roar them to a 1-1 draw with a late equaliser from Sherly Jeudy. Unfortunately, when the dust had all settled, Lens had fielded an illegible player and Paris were awarded the game 3-0. After that, they began a run of defeats and a descent to the bottom of the table. Their first top flight win came in December against St Etienne (1-0) and this was followed by a draw and a win to lift them out of the relegation zone. By the time it came to our visit, they were still just above the relegation zone. 

We were hopeful, after a battling performance had seen them lose only 1-0 at leaders Lyon: who had a 100% league win record and had beaten the Lens femmes 8-1 in October. Today's opposition, Strasbourg, would go second if they won, so not an easy game.

Another early start for our intrepid duo meant we had travelled from Dunkerque,checked into our hotel in Lille and managed to get to Avion with an hour to go before kick-off. Not bad after our Corsair fest the previous night. Sadly, the hope that there would be anything substantial to eat at the ground proved unfounded. A small, but tasty, croc-monsieur would have to do, washed down with a very agreeable La Chouffe, which, according to their website was very good with veal, chicken or veal. No mention was made of processed ham or cheese. You can't have it all!

We were going for a double today. The women were playing at 14h and the men 17h, which would mean we would have precisely one hour to get across town after the women's game before the men kicked off. 

Whether it was a good thing or not, we decided the best option was to order an uber to accomplish the task. This not only represented the first time I joined the youth, and not so young, of the day, in ordering an Uber taxi but it was a massive step into the 21st century for me. Somehow, with Alex's assistance, I managed to complete the task and an Uber was ordered for 16h. We could relax and enjoy the game.

Considering the closeness of the two Lens matches, there was a decent crowd in Avion. Jérémie had decided that it wasn't worth abandoning his pre-match routine for the women so we would see him later.

Although the first attack ended in a wayward header from Lens' Tess David, it was Strasbourg's Ines Konan who held off Lens defenders before slotting home under Lens' American keeper, Maddy Anderson just before half time. Up until that point the Lens lasses had struggled to make an impression going forward but looked pretty solid in defence. 

We had decided to wander behind the visitor's goal in the hope of enjoying the second half Lens fightback; and be nearer the exit when the Uber arrived. Although, the second half improved, there was to be no joy this time around and it was Anderson who kept Lens in the game with a smart save. The only success for us was that we would be able to play 'Where are the Wallies' after the match.

With the game petering out, the message came through that our Uber had arrived so with a quick farewell to all our friends we had made around us (ie none), it was outside to find the Uber and head for Stade Bollaert. 

With the match-day traffic crawling towards le Stade, we jumped out, after we'd paid of course. The driver's eyes lit up when I handed him the €50 the cashpoint had given me, for a €20 fare. 

We did give him a tip; just not €30.

Lens men v Auxerre men

We had an astounding 30 minutes before kickoff so there was time for Alex to show me the plaque he'd paid for outside the Marek.

What a proud lad he was! The only dissapointing point for me was that it would only be there for a few years. Newcastle had done the same thing but in the form of mini floor-tiles, outside the Milburn Stand. Sadly, they had now been stood on so many times some were becoming hard to read. Exposed to the elements, would these boards outside the stand entrances fade away? Maybe that was why they weren't permanent. Either way it was another way to get the fans' money. I would never  know the pride of seeing my name on either stadium... I was too tight to pay!

The size of our Croc Monsieurs in Avion meant that we needed some sausage action straight away. Into The Marek without any difficulty we headed past the crowds around the automatic beer dispensers and the various other drink stalls to the far end end, where two fricadelles sandwhiches were waiting unknowingly for us. Still no chips though: the sad price of our hectic footballing merry-go-round. 

It says something that I now know where to find Jérémie in the Marek and then soon after Pierre and co bustled past us with the Racing Old Boys flag that was based on the the Championship winning shirt in 1998. His mum had been beavering away with a group of her sowing circle for months, sewing, undoing and resewing until the flag had passed the group's high standards. I remember seeing photos of the flag in its construction and the 'flag committee not being happy with the distances between the stripes. The poor sewing committee were asked to unpick parts of it to satisfy the exacting demands of the flag wavers. I know if that had been my mum, she'd have told me where I could have shoved the flag.... and pole for that matter. 

 Needless to say, David was carrying it on his extendable flagpole. They breezed past us, returning our "Bonjours" , like we were part of the regulars: I took that as a compliment. Once they recognised us, there was a more welcoming greeting. 

One thing we'd been warned about was that the Kop was having another strike in protest at some of the Ultra groups getting banned by the club for naughtiness in letting off flares. Thus, for 15 minutes, the kop was relatively silent. Some joined in with Le Lensois, Lens' reworking of the French national anthem but all was calm. The Delacourt and Trannin groups gainfully carried on until the 15th minute when the Ultras decided the match had started. After that it was business as usual. 

The business was trying to get a record eighth straight league (10th league and cup) victory to leapfrog over PSQ into the giddy heights of top spot in Ligue 1. It was all extremely surreal having basically consigned this season to mid-table obscurity (something we'd have been delighted with in the dark days struggling in Ligue 2) to suddenly rubbing shoulders with the French aristocracy of Paris and Marseille. No-one was taking anything for granted. David's flagging-waving arms had grown tired and as half time approached he lowered the Racing Old Boys flag.

There wasn't much to say about the first half... six shots in total from both teams and only one home shot on target. The highlight for me was trying to work out what was on the back of Pierre's retro Lens jacket: I'm still none the wiser and I studied it for quite a while.

The second half was a complete contrast as 16 shots flew at the visiting goal with only two in reply. It was real pinball in the Auxerre box as Lens players took it in turns to blast the ball goalwards only to be blocked by desperate defenders. Finally, Malang Sarr collected a clearance to cross perfectly for Super-Wesley Said to control the ball with his chest before slamming it past Donavan Leon in the visiting goal. Their players complained he'd handled the ball but the referee wasn't having any of it and neither was VAR. Said's fitness was not an issue this season, for once, and that was demonstrated by his ever-present position in the team and also his eight goals and two assists. Whatever Sage was doing to keep him fit, it was obviously working : just when Lens needed consistent strikers. 

Thauvin jinked into the box and was dissappointed to see his shot skim the crossbar. Lens were ablaze with confidence and imagination... just lacked more goals. In the end, 1-0 was enough and a new Lens record for consecutive Ligue 1 wins had been achieved. Was this team better than the Seko Fofana group that narrowly lost out to Paris a few years ago? Although lacking in footballing characters, this team was showing France the true meaning of togetherness. Paris had lost the likes of M'Bappe and then won the Champions League the following season, so maybe this was the way forward for Lens. 

The Old Boys Flag was dutifully unfurled and raised as the team celebrated with the fans, this time under the stewardship of Yannick.

There was just time for a fricadelle and frites, at last, washed down with a beer afterwards with everyone at Chez Muriel. We were delighted to hear Chez Mu would stay open for the rest of the season as a new owner was found, Muriel putting her retirement on hold. This legendary part of Lens' footballing history would remain for the foreseeable future. If only I could win the lottery...

We were soon dashing off to catch the last train to Lille, on which we were entertained by a group of Lens and Auxerre fans singing their way back into enemy territory. For now, they had plenty to shout about. Top of Ligue 1 still seemed unbelievably crazy but there it was in the next morning's L'Equipe so it had to true.