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.
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.
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.
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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.
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