August 2024: Manchester United v Lens (Friendly)
English football and Lens had always been separate entities to me. I had always been amazed by the tales from my Lens friends of the European adventures of the 1990s and 2000s. The one tale that they would come back to time and time again was Lens' win at Wembley. Every one of my friends had been there as Debeve slid in to give the Frenchmen a 1-0 win and earn his place in French footballing history. Coincidentally, my best man and best friend at university were there that night as Arsenal season ticket holders. The former enjoyed it as a spectacle, while the latter, allowed it to fester in him. Even though arsenal went on to win 8 FA Cups and 2 Premier League Titles, that evening remained engrained in his memory: an irritation that these Frenchies had come up trumps against his Arsenal.
When Lens qualified for the Champions' League, for the first time in 21 years, all these memories were rekindled. Thanks to a belting end to the season, Lens had finished second in Ligue 1, only one point behind Paris. Although, they were always playing catch-up, Lens' run-in to the end of the season was nothing short of miraculous. Only a 3-1 defeat in Paris stopped them overtaking the moneybags from the French capital. The downside of this great form was that the vultures had started circling and a number of Lens' key players were being targeted. Throughout the Summer, Seko Fofana, Lois Openda and Kevin Danso were being linked with all manner of clubs. In the end, Lens fans were dismayed to see Fofana depart for big wages (rumoured to be well over £15 million a year), but a relatively low transfer fee, to the Saudi Pro League. Openda headed to RB Leipzig for a big money (for Lens) move - €45 million. Bonkers money being paid for Lens players was becoming a regularity. It was extremely easy for fans to become a touch blasé with all these eye-watering amounts flying about.
A number of players were brought in to replace them... mostly young and inexperienced in respect of the Champions' League and some of Ligue 1. Andy Diouf arrived from Rennes, after a season-long loan at FC Basel, Morgan Guilavogui from Paris FC, Neil El Ayanoui and Oscar Cortes arrived from Millonarios in Columbia. The last deal was probably brokered because Millonarios and Lens shared the same President and owners: just a couple of the clubs Joseph Oughourlian, Lens' President has shares in or owns: a sad state of affairs that is creeping into the professional game. Lens, Chelsea, Manchester City and others found themselves being part of business portfolios of football clubs owned by rich individuals or organisations. Is this really for the benefit of the game?
For me, when the fixture at Old Trafford was announced, I had to make the grown-up decision to bow out. Odessa and I were off on holiday in France so I wouldn't be going. There were no screaming tantrums or holding my breath until she said we could cancel our holiday... no I accepted that it was not to be, in a manner befitting a 53-year-old man (I just swore a lot... no... honestly, I didn't!)
As it turned out, our camping holiday hit storms half way through and so it was a unanimous decision that we would wimp out and come home. It really was unanimous. I didn't even mention the impending Lens fixture! On our last night, the wind shook our little tent about. I ran in and out of the tent vainly repositioning tent pegs shaken out of the sandy soil; getting soaked in the process. The prospect of worse to come only firmed up our thinking on the subject. After slipping back inside the tent, weaving in and out of the growing puddles, Odessa must have taken pity on my soaked form. With a loving look she uttered the fateful words: "You can go to Manchester when we get back!" I played it cool, not wanting to take too much delight at our vacational misfortune. "Are you sure?" I replied, giving her the chance to change her mind but she didn't.
The only thing that surprised her was the speed with which I was able to book trains, register as a member of Manchester United's ticket office and purchase my dream ticket. I would be able to go to the ball after all!
It certainly made the torrents that beat us the next morning, as we pulled the tent down and drove back to St Malo for our rearranged Ferry to Portsmouth, a lot more bearable.
Matchday
You forget what a great feeling it is when you walk to a football ground. Every corner and turn introduces you to more fans and the growing buzz is intoxicating. It's especially invigorating when different accents are mixed with languages and this made more excited for the coming season and the prospect of Lens maybe being drawn in the same group as an English team. All those years ago, it had been Arsenal and that had turned out well: a 1-0 win at Wembley being the talking point for so many fans. They were all there that day, but then there had been 6000 away fans.
Photoshoot over with, it was into the ground, and my first visit to Old Trafford since the late 1980s and a 1-4 New Year's Day defeat. It had changed a bit, although the terracing I had stood on, behind the goal to my right, was now all seats!
The final score had been 3-1 to Man United but the fans score was 6-0 to Lens. That was the most important one!
November 2023 Arsenal v Lens Champions League
During the pre-season, it became clear that Lens were lacking a striker, since goals were in short supply. The search started with Middlesbrough's Chuba Akpom, who had allegedly agreed to hold talks with Lens for a £8 million price tag.
This transfer would have resulted in me having to sleep in the chicken coop on the orders of my Boro supporting wife, so I was obviously wary of getting too excited about it. However, after the initial couple of days when discussions were confirmed to be taking place, no more was heard. I began to wonder if it would take place. The prospect of losing my place at home, for a player who had only had one very good season, didn't appeal. Would Lens be doing Boro a favour? After a week of cold stares and shoulders from Odessa, I was relieved to hear that Akpom would be joining Ajax instead. The underhand way he talked to both Lens and the Dutch, probably playing the two teams off each other, left a bad taste.
A number of other players were inevitably linked with Lens until finally, Montpellier's youngster Elye Wahi arrived for a record fee of €35 million. The France Under 21 striker with a strike rate of a goal every 3 games looked the perfect replacement for Openda and there were high expectations when he finally arrived. The first two games he featured in, Lens were defeated 3-1 at Paris and then 3-0 at Monaco: not the games a young striker really wanted for their opening games. To compound matters, a defeat at home to Metz sent Les Sang et Or to the bottom of Ligue with a solitary point out of 15. A couple of goals for France U21s were a boost to him, as well as the winners against Arsenal (2-1) in the Champions League and Strasbourg. An equaliser against PSV Eindhoven (again in the Champions League) proved he could score goals for Lens as they began an unbeaten spell in both League 1 and Champions League.
Only a 1-0 defeat in the return at Eindhoven put a dampener on the Lens party but then a last minute winner against Marseille and a 3-0 victory against Clermont steadied the boat before the visit to North London and the anticipated return game with Arsenal.
Memories of Wembley resurfaced once again (they'd only been muttering quietly in the back of every Lens fans' minds). Even the match programme (a very thick £4 affair) featured that fateful evening.
As the gardening work continued to dry up, I decided that I would go down to London anyway, with or without a ticket just so I could meet the friends I hadn't seen since April and share in the pre-match activity. I had no expectation of getting a ticket but thought I'd go anyway. The UK Lens Division lads and I were all prepared for the general sale of the remaining away tickets after the associations had taken their fill, however when it came down to it, nobody was successful. A few hundred of the original 2900 tickets were gone in a flash although the system kept us believing there were tickets, for well over an hour, before it was announced they had gone. There was nothing for it, but for me to traipse off to the gardening job I had delayed in expectation.
A hopeful message on one of the major Facebook fan forums offered me 62 declarations of support and a mixed up lady who tried to sell me a ticket for the Marseille game as long as I picked it up from her house. It was only late on that I cottoned on to the fact that she hadn't read my original post.
Finally, with about a week to go to the game, that diamond Pascal, came up with, not only a ticket for me but also Alex. We were going to the ball after all! I would have done somersaults but for the fact it would have ended up very messy and ruined my chances of actually making the trip altogether. The other diamond, Pierre, said there was room for me in the dormitory they had hired in South London; Clapham to be exact. Near my old University stomping ground. So at Least I had a place to stay.
The ticket arrived in my inbox some days later, complete with the smallest terms and conditions print and a bewildering array of objects not allowed into the ground.
A cramped Lumo train made good time to London and afforded me a glimpse of my final destination.
I was dropped off in London and my first encounter with some Lens fans. Despite a lack of colours, it was easy to spot them outside a teeming Kings Cross Station and as we chatted they recognised me from my tattoo story. They were delighted to see me and I was able to help them negotiate the bewildering London Underground map they had been given. The writing was too small for my glasses even, so how on Earth they expected some pissed up Frenchies to make sense of it, I had no idea. An online pdf version proved to be much more popular!
In time-honoured fashion, the Lens players were greeted as heroes as they emerged: gladiators being thrown at Arsenal's 'lions'. There then followed, an intro to the match straight out of the over-the-top-whip-the-crowd-up-by-deafening-them handbook. The Lens fans held their scarves aloft in anticipation of singing the Lensoise but we were completely drowned out by the PA system so just held our scarves up defiantly. Next was the similarly OTT Champions' League theme which I had so looked forward to hearing, but seeing the players reverently standing to attention, as if listening to a national anthem, it made me feel uncomfortable and think of it as another tool for UEFA's corporate and all that was wrong with the game. The corruption, the power of money and the greed at the top end of the game: all show signs of getting worse under the current regime. Watching the Lens fans light up their illicit flares made me think that they were in fact holding them up in defiance at this corporate juggernaut that shows no sign of slowing down. Had I been that desperate to be a part of all this?
Still, once the PA had finished and the smoke from a 100 French flares had drifted across the pitch, it was still the traditional 11 v 11 on the pitch and 3000 v 60000 off it, fighting our own sonic battle.
The misgivings grew right from the first whistle as Arsenal stormed forward. Headers bounced wide and I thought it was all part of Franck's plan: lure them in and then hit them with the sucker punch. Sadly, Lens' attack was as potent as a wet lettuce. The defence was watertight as a sieve (with a massive hole in it) and the midfield were non-existent.
So it proved after 13 minutes. Samed headed a cross up in the air. When the ball dropped it was headed goalwards and Havertz tapped the ball embarrassingly past a floundering Samba. There then followed the ignominy of the Arsenal players rushing over to celebrate by the corner flag where the vast majority of the Lens Ultras were gathered. A few plastic cups were thrown at the jubilant gunners but they simply knocked them away.
Soon after Saka knocked the ball to Gabriel Jesus, who side-stepped a challenge on the edge of the area before drilling past a forlorn Samba. The silly Brazilian then cupped his ear and headed for the self same corner to celebrate further. Once again there were objects thrown and quickly cleared by the players themselves, as if to rub salt into the wounds.
Twenty three minutes gone, Martinelli charged into the penalty area, jinked then shot. Samba flapped and the ball bounced of Saka's chest and in. At least they had the good sense to celebrate in the opposite corner.
Barely four minutes later, Martinelli shot again and this time, his curling effort flew past the flying Samba. 4-0 in 27 minutes. Which corner did he head to? This time, there was hell on as bottles and a lit flare flew in his direction and also into the home fans on the side of the Lens contingent. I was disappointed that Saka, a player who I'd loved watching play for England and shared posts supporting him when racists attacked him after missing a penalty in the 2021 European Championship final, chose to wind up the Lens ultras with his celebrations. Yes they were out of order, and would eventually see the club sanctioned by UEFA, but he needed to show a bit more class, in my humble opinion. All said and done, his team were 4-0 up and the contest was over: Lens were beaten.
Hopes of avoiding complete humiliation were raised when, first Wahi's blistering shot was palmed away and then Medina's piledriver from outside the area crashed off the post. but that was as good as it got for us. Odegaard's volley slapped Samba on the stroke of half time: 5-0 to The Arsenal.
Yet still the Lens fans sang on. Into the second half, the match had become irrelevant as they strove to become top dogs on the terraces. Much like the on field match-up. The 3000 were more than a match for the library-loving home fans with their occasional chant of Ar-sen-al.
A stray elbow caught an Arsenal player in the face with four minutes remaining and Jorghino stepped up to score past the befuddled Samba. Our only relief was when the final whistle was blown. Lens had been utterly humiliated. Arsenal had had one of those nights. Out of six shots on target in the first half, five had gone in. Lens hadn't had a single corner yet possession had been 50-50. The home team had just been ruthless in converting. 6 - 0 the final score, as a number of Arsenal fans remind us of later.
Alex and I had not been amused. However, we had fared slightly better than Adrian, who had convinced his boss that they needed to go to London on business, which he readily agreed and the pair were sat amongst the home fans. He had been amazed at how many tourists there had been around them speaking a myriad of languages but not joining in with the singing. The price of success in the modern football world?
It was a quiet group who headed back to Clapham and finally fell into bed about 1pm. The highlight of the walk from tube had been the sight of an urban fox, who just watched us, paying her respects after our dreadful end to what could have been a dream evening.
There was only one thing to do the next day... annoy the commuters on our way back to Kings Cross by daring to travel at 9am with rucksacks. And they were annoyed!
December 2023 Lens v Seville (CL)
Arsenal had really shaken my belief in Lens and my ability to keep travelling to see them. I was fighting all sorts inner demons and struggling with the lack of work from gardening, the slow recovery from my Hernia operation (did I mention it was a double... and open?) and it was probably a combination of all these things that was causing me sleepless nights and making me completely paranoid about everything. Now there are probably people reading this thinking they had this, that or the other operation, childbirth being a big one of them, but I can only comment on my progress and it was out of my very limited comfort zone. I was not used to being unemployed and although I had plenty to do each day (parents and daughter moving, radio show, household chores to name but a few). Unfortunately, I was also spending my nights worrying about the most important things in life; Wahi's lack of goals, the impending end of Lens' European football, the impotence of Lens' midfield and the current injuries and suspensions situation. I felt lethargic during the day. Useful productivity was down. In fact, the one bit of gardening work I was getting paid for in December, disappeared out of my pocket somewhere between the job and Whitley Bay Lidl. I needed a holiday!
But was a holiday to see two potential repeats of the Arsenal game the tonic I needed?
My plan was to stay in London the night before and get an early Eurostar so that I could catch the Eufa Youth League between Lens and Seville. The ticket cost me €2: a princely sum, but worth gambling on in case I couldn't get there.
Arriving in London, I decided to search Camden Market for some last minute Christmas gifts. It was there I received the second good omen; the first had been finding Lens Wally in my coat pocket.
The sight of Umbrellas in the Lens colours (yes, I know there were orange umbrellas as well) lifted my spirits. It was a sign, I told myself with very little conviction.
Presents purchased, I returned to the site of my previous English breakfast (an Irish Bar on the Euston Road). I figured that after the enormous breakfast that had lasted me until teatime, a big meal would see me through to whenever football allowed me to feed. Although the food was fine (a pulled chicken flatbread), The miserable state of the bar manager and the staff member who served me was certainly not welcoming. The lack of any kind of interaction was disappointing. There was no thank you, or even a half-hearted nod of the head. A solitary "Yes?" was followed by a card machine being shoved at me. Eye contact was definitely avoided when the food was delivered. I had no intention in engaging in any kind of conversation if they were afraid of that, but a simple recognition that I existed and was contributing to their wages would have been nice. The price of modern living in the capital maybe.
I retired to my hotel room and was confronted with one of the drawbacks of booking a cheap hotel room: I had to share a toilet with eight other rooms and this one was full, literally! Later on, the blockage had been cleared, I was able to make use of the facilities and retire to my room that was comfortable in every other way.
Turning to the news on my phone as a form of distraction I read with incredulity that the Seville fans had been banned by the region's Prefecture: the day before the game. Another example of fans being abused by France's powers-that-be. They had decided that the 400 fans who had wanted to abandon the warmer climes of southern Spain for Northern France represented a safety hazard. Lens needed a win or draw while Seville needed a win to qualify for Europe's second tier competition. Their reasoning centred on the desperate need both teams had for the points. The response from the Red Tigers, and other supporters groups, was instantaneous and left a warm, fuzzy feeling inside me. They declared that the Seville fans would be welcomed into the ground in their place and they would give up their tickets so that the badly-treated visitors could attend. No respect had been given to the fact that travel and accomodation would have been booked in advance. Sadly it was nothing new to French football fans. As the Spanish authorities tried desperately to work on their fans' behalf there were rumours that the local police had said it was unworkable anyway and weren't going to bother enforcing the order!
First thing next morning, the nerves were growing so it was necessary to drag my bag to see the big man himself for some intervention from above. The usual picture took on a more desperate tone...
There was also a painful reminder of the precarious situation Lens were finding themselves in when my idea of a perfect role model was stood in front of me waiting for his Eurostar to Amsterdam and on to Eindhoven. My mate, Paul The Arsenal Fan, informed me that he was a familiar sight around the ground and he suggested I repeat his half and half trick with a couple of my Lens shirts. This idea was politely ignored then declined.
Once onboard the Eurostar to Lille, it was then I realised I would be arriving into Lens just 10 minutes before the Youth League Kick off and I would still have to get across town with my bags: a fete I did not relish. I decided my best plan was to eat then take the bus up to drop my bags at Pierre's before heading into town. So a Fricadelle Americain at La Loco it was.
I was glad to see that La Loco had gone all out on their Christmas display, with a few trees, some tastefully decorated, and a great set of theme-painted windows.
I was also quite taken aback by the welcome from the manager, who shook my hand, welcoming me back like a long lost friend. It gave a warm feeling. The trip was going well! In fact the trip was going really well because there was something I hadn't felt for quite some time and that was the warmth of a sun that beamed in the crisp wintery-blue sky. There was none of the drizzle that Whitley bay's sun had had to hide behind; I had forgotten how good it felt! Maybe it could be my winter retreat after all!
A bus was taken, bags were dropped at Pierre's then it was a familiar and welcoming route to the Stade.
It wasn't long before the lads started streaming into the town centre. The first to arrive was Code:Name Richard (that's only his facebook name I learnt) and after buying him a drink (or trying to), I took my seat in a relaxingly comfy chair to enjoy the entertainment: dog fighting!
It's always nice to have something to break the ice when I arrive in France and on this occasion, it was two dogs having a marvellous time playfighting. There was a big fluffy white one that reminded me of a wolf and another smaller one that didn't but was definitely the more aggressive. To be fair to the larger 'wolf' he/she was extremely patient; especially when the little pest managed to get its teeth around his/her neck where it proceeded to dangle.
Fun as it would have been to watch them all night, it was getting stuffy and there was a game to go to so we downed drinks and nervously headed to the stade. Gone was the sun and now there was a murkiness that I knew only too well. The rain was catching up with me again.
No sooner had I stepped through the turnstiles, I was assaulted by a policeman. This time, however, it was one of the lads from my Worldnet visits, it certainly had proved to be a great way of getting to know the great and the good of the Lens World. During our conversation, he said that the people of Lens were 'good people' and not very much trouble at all. This was based on his years as a policeman in the town and was comforting to know.
After finishing my socialising, I turned around to find Pierre, Code:Name Richard and the others had disappeared. A quick Facebook message failed to yield dividends so headed for where I thought there'd be and ran into Jérémie. I decided to make my debut at the Trannin end of The Marek and since Lens were attacking this end, I had grown enough confidence to think that I might be able to see some attacking action.
There were three Tifos tonight and I was under the largest one, calling for a continuation of the European adventure: even if it was in the Europa League. I remember discussing with a Newcastle United fan about the prospect of not playing in the Champions' League. I had said how delighted I would be to see Lens in the Europa but he couldn't think of anything worse! After all, it would affect their Premier League placing. The crazy money that gets handed out to teams in the Prem in England has such a detrimental effect on every other competition.
The only competition that can rival, or better it, financially is the Champions' League. Both of them leave me with mixed emotions. The big prizes for the top teams has created a haves and have-nots situation. Teams that get promoted from the Championship rarely do well and often get relegated a season or two after. The only exception to this is those clubs that have been regular top-tier clubs relegated through mismanagement. The riches on offer mean that competitions like the FA or League Cup can't offer the same rewards and this applies to the Europa League and its younger sibling the Europa Conference. As a result, their value has been massively downgraded.
However, you only had to look how excited West ham fans had been after winning the Europa Conference Final the previous year to know that money isn't everything. My friend the Newcastle fan was willing to trade the excitement of cup football for a higher league placing. You only had to look at how bonkers the town went when the Toon reached the League Cup final the previous February to know that Cup success meant more than just money. It also showed how Premier League-obsessed the various Newcastle boards have been when you look at the St James' Park trophy cabinet: it has been bare since 1969 (the year I was born).
Tonight, the Lens faithful wanted one thing: a place in the Europa League, a competition they had last graced in 2006. A fun fact about that particular season was that Odessa's Middlesbrough had reached the final only to be comprehensively beaten (0-4) in the final by... Seville. That was to be the first of their seven UEFA Cup / Europa League titles. The visitors position as the current reigning Europa League Champions made so many Lens fans nervous and that included the complete nervous wreck that had arrived on the Eurostar that morning.
The Marek and Xerxes weren't the only ones to be Tifo-tastic as the Trannin and Delacourt behind each goal got in on the act. As the three Tifos were gathered in, the atmosphere was ramped up throughout the ground.
My first night of Champions' League football hadn't been a pleasant experience as the Arsenal goals had sped in and tonight's didn't look as if it was going to be any better. A nervy backpass from Danso after 7 minutes that Samba had no option but to catch and give away a indirect freekick set the scene for the first half. With every extra corner and shot that Seville had contrasted with Lens's efforts to come up with anything of their own, home nerves were being torn to pieces. Samba had to leap athletically to tip over a swirling curler from the edge of the box by Rakitic. Looks like I had picked the wrong day to give up... each and every one of my bad habits!
By half time, my experiment of standing near the Trannin end (the end Lens were attacking) to see all the Lens goals fly in was looking wildly misguided. A corner count of 7-0 combined with a shot count of 6-1 in favour of Seville. Lens couldn't pass the ball or generate any sort of attacking plan, however thankfully, they'd managed to deny Seville many opportunities and that had to be a source of hope for the second half. I decided that I would have to change position. With that in mind, I was delighted to see Pierre coming out of the toilet so I joined him nearer the half way line in a much busier part of the Marek.
Into the second, nervous bladders emptied, the nervousness was still there. But, wait! Lens were on the attack... Wahi was clear on the right... but he shot into the side netting. It was still a sign! This was followed by the pesky Rakitic passing to the overlapping Pedrosa who flicked the ball nonchalantly onto the crossbar. Everyone watched its flightpath as it dropped... dropped... into Samba's grateful arms as Seville's forwards closed in.
Wahi was away on the left this time. approaching the Seville penalty area, he spotted Medina charging through the middle and layed the ball into his path. Medina's run was brought to an abrupt conclusion in a tangle of legs. I didn't dare mention that I thought he had tripped over his own feet. What mattered was the referee's decision and he thought it was a blatantly shocking penalty. What a fine fellow he was as he waved away the indignant visiting players!
It was up to Frankowski to do the honours... breathing stopped...
Never in doubt? Of course not. The ground exploded with joy. All except for the small pocket of Seville fans: what a time they were having!
There was soon something for the visitors to shout about and it was every bit as contentious as Lens' penalty. El-Nasyri's arm was delicately brushed by Medina and accordingly he fell like the proverbial sack of spuds, spinning with aplomb in a manner that any highboard diver would have been proud of. Up stepped Ramos and Samba dived to his right to beat the penalty away, then the rebound from Rakitic was similarly dispatched and the ball cleared. The joy that filled the stadium was shortlived as the referee ordered the penalty to be retaken after words in his ear from VAR. Brice had come off his line too early. This time, Ramos panenked Samba, who could only watch as the ball sailed over his head. 1-1. Seville had hope of the win that would give them qualification to their favourite competition. My faith in Lens' ability to get the point needed was being severely challenged!
The lads were looking tired suddenly and Seville had their danders up. They pushed forward but still the home defence held firm. Seven minutes of stoppage time was added and Lens hearts pumped even faster. Another attack was building in the 96th minute when Sotoca challenged and won a ball out on the wing. He ran full pelt for the Seville penalty area. His low pass in front of the onrushing Fulgini was perfect and the hero of the first game in Seville bore down on goal. With a coolness that reflected his freekick equaliser at the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán Stadium, he slid the ball past Seville's Dmitrovic. It rolled casually towards goal, bounced off the post and in. Mayhem! Lens were in the Europa League and once the chaos of the goal celebrations had been and gone, the party was in full flow. Eight points had been earned in the Champions' League and victories over Arsenal and Seville to boot!
At the final whistle, chorus' of "Merci Lensois" and "We are ze best" rang out. Although totally outplayed in the first half especially, Lens had weathered the storm and now the sun was shining on them. You could keep the Champions' League, that was for the moneybags clubs who could throw their cash about without any comeback from supposed fairplay rules. You only had to look at current winners, Manchester City and the investigation into possibly 120+ infringements of Premier League rules to see that the fat cats could do what they wanted. Losing so heavily at Arsenal had been a wake-up call. We weren't in the same class as them and I was glad of it. I loved supporting 'Little Lens' and its tiny 38000 stadium and the Europa League was their pinnacle.
Post script:
The following night, Newcastle lost 2-1 to AC Milan in the closing minutes of their final group game after leading 1-0. This was a result that deprived them of any more European football this season. At least my Newcastle supporting friend could concentrate on the Premier League. Sadly, it also meant there was no chance of a Newcastle-Lens tie to welcome my friends to, but there's always next season.
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.
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.
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!
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.
The celebrations began for the final home game of 2023. What a year it has been!
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.
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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!
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.
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).
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