Valenciennes v Lorient

Do you want to die for your EFW?

Valenciennes 0-0 Lorient (26:02:11)

Andy Hudson with part one of a two-part series looking back on a French European Football Weekend with Andrew Gibney. Mr Gibney himself will pick up the baton for the thrilling finale on Sunday....

Gibney slowly put his drink down and looked him straight in the eye.

“I’m just having a beer” said Gibney.

“Do you want to die for your beer?” came the question from him.

“Are you alright?” I asked him.

“What a stupid question. Are you a fool?” he came back with.

Rewind twenty hours and I was boarding a London bound train from Newcastle. It was 4.40am and the platform was bustling with suited drunks awaiting transport south following a night out amongst the Geordie party crew. I settled into my seat and took a book from my bag. The next hour was spent listening to four suited chaps screaming “cheese and wine”. It certainly beat a variation of “remove your décolletage from its corsetry for the delectation of the gentlemen present”; it was certainly irritating. At Kings Cross I met up with Andrew Gibney who was embarking upon his first European Football Weekend. The destination: Lille; let the fun times roll.

We walked out of the station and found ourselves on a French street as the clouds burst. After spending ten minutes getting soaked we momentarily gave up on locating the LOSC boutique and instead settled down for a beer; the rainwater dribbling down my face and into a puddle on the table. We checked the map print-outs and set-off, eventually finding the shop and the source of Gib’s delight.

After playing Supermarket Sweep we headed off to our hotel: the racy ‘hotelF1’. Luckily I’ve been to T In The Park so I was prepared for the toilets there. I’ve also been camping so I was prepared for being confined to claustrophobic sleeping arrangements. We left the room as soon as we could, almost throwing our bags through the beds and rushing down the street, for we had a date with bière and Valenciennes.

With a couple of hours to spare before the Valenciennes train we found a bar for some food. French cuisine is rated amongst the very best in the world; French cheese is rated as amongst the very best in my world. What could go wrong? Order a bloody hamburger because you’re too bloody lazy to try and translate the menu; that’s what. The grey slab of meat was placed on the table within 360 seconds of ordering with a processed cheese slice limply clinging to the bun. We left without finishing the meal. Happily the next bar was much better and we downed a few beers before rushing for the train and a short powernap as we sauntered along the track to our destination 45km away.

Bonjour mes amis

We'll support you evermore until tomorrow. Gib shows his colours.

We ventured into a few pubs between the station and the Stade Nungesser before entering the ground shortly before kick-off. The teams were in the tunnel; a small section of fans in the stand on the right touchline were singing; a larger group of fans in the section along to our right were singing and waving flags; the group of eight travelling Lorient fans behind us acted hard behind the fence. Our first Ligue 1 game of the weekend was about to start.

The two scoring forwards playing in France who qualify for the national team were on display: Lorient’s Kevin Gameiro and Valenciennes’ Grégory Pujol. There should be goals and perhaps some entertaining, end-to-end football. Gameriro was bright in the first half, forcing Nicolas Penteau into a fine save after earlier having a goal disallowed when netting while offside, but struggled during the second half after Lorient were reduced to ten men after 51 minutes following a Francis Coquelin sending off.

By this time we had swapped our seats for a standing position amongst the home fans in the same stand. The atmosphere improved due to being amongst the wilder kids even though the looks they were giving us and our  monster bag of chips suggested food would destroy any noise. Valenciennes, pressing Lorient back, were encouraged by Megaphone Man perched on the net but could only find the net through the second disallowed goal of the evening; this time Mamadou Samassa failing to time his run. Despite pressure the away defence held firm as the home side ran out of ideas and the lack of a goal was more galling as it meant that we wouldn’t hear the delightful tones of the pre-match announcer lady. I may not understand French but I like what I hear.

'Je le répète - has anyone noticed an Englishman and a Scotsman standing next to you?'

The away fans hadn't rolled in on the Lorient Express to sit on the fence, oh. 

Mr Hudson Gannin' Away to Valenciennes, tick. 

As the match finally stopped drifting to a close we headed out of the ground with some time before our return train to Lille. Side-stepping a three-on-one fight in the street we found a supporters’ bar for a beer. We were soon in that zone where it was too long to wait for the train but not quite enough time for an enjoyable beer. Luckily Valenciennes had noted that and provided a plan of her own. As we approached the door of the next bar Gib was stopped and told it was private members only (we think at least). As I left the bamboo structure outside of the door I swerved around a piece that was sticking out; Gib failed to follow suit and the whole structure, intricately woven together to provide shelter to the poor smokers, came tumbling down. Right onto the bonnets of two parked cars. We quickly walked on. The next pub again refused admission because Gib had trainers on; I also had a pair on and was already in the pub but had to complete the walk out. Passing another bar a guy leaving asked us what the score was. We had 15 minutes before the train arrived. The door was locked. It opened and we tumbled in, ordering a couple of beers to neck down quickly. We were quickly-disappearing customers as we drained the last drops from the glass just as we were being steamrollered into getting a lap dance in Valenciennes’ premier (possibly) strip bar. We hurried for our train.

Back in Lille we hunted down some more bars. At midnight, and with little idea of where we were heading, we stumbled upon a bar. Talking together at our table we heard mumblings over our shoulders. As we relaxed his voice violently broke in: “Do you want to die?”

To be continued...............

The Stade Nungesser

Named after the ace pilot Charles Nungesser of course. (nod to Wiki - Ed).

Providing they didn't actually die, you can follow Andy Hudson and Andrew Gibney on Twitter

Mr Hudson also owns the fantastic Gannin' Away

Mr Gibney is the proprietor of the excellent Gib Football Show

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European football road trip

Alan Shearer, Beyonce and Lille

We like the cut of Jamie Cutteridge's jib here at European Football Weekends. So when he offered to write on his recent road trip to France and Spain; we ran the hoover over the red carpet and rolled it out for him....

All good stories begin with a hope, a dream, a vision. This one begins with me sitting up one morning and deciding that I wanted, nay, needed to see Lionel Messi do his thing at the Nou Camp. The desire was one purely born out of lust and desire and hence a plan was made and tickets bought for a weekend in Barcelona to see the side play Bilbao in late February with the plan to sort out flights and accommodation nearer the time.

Simple enough but too simple some would say. Soon after, the Champions League draw was made and threw Lyon and Real Madrid together, putting the Lyon leg a few days after our trip to Barcelona. Consulting a map we saw that this wasn't a million miles away from being off-route and hence plans of a European road trip were formed with a call put out on twitter for those that were keen. Plans to swing by Lille and Zaragoza for games were thrown in as well as a day in Paris, and we were set to go, joined my friends of mine Ben and Andy and friends of the internet Tom Goulding and Chris ‘The Equaliser’ Mann, Europe was ours to conquer in a way not seen since the 1940s.

Of course all great journeys need a vehicle worthy of such a voyage, and far from the expected plane, ours became an old Honda estate nicknamed Beyonce (It has a big boot(y) and can get ‘junk in the trunk) but also known as Emile (Big, slow, not as good as it was 10 years ago but still vaguely useful).

  I don't think we were ready for this Jelly

I could fill many a piece with anecdotes, hilarious comments and japes that we got ourselves into, but in reality, they would never be as amusing in print and it would just be a little bit smug wouldn’t it. Instead, here are some highlights, a taste of our trip, the good, the bad and Alan Shearer’s autobiography.

  The man loves scoring goals

And Shearer’s autobiography seems the perfect place to start. Picked up at Dover Ferry terminal on tape (Weirdly, the only cassette they were selling) for the bargain price of £8.99 is served as the perfect soundtrack for our drive to Paris on glorious French afternoon. Highlights include Shearer’s puzzle at a 20-word ‘brainteaser’ (his word) as a child about why he wanted to meet Kevin Keegan, his meetings with Alex Ferguson to discuss a transfer under the guise of a Bryan Adam’s concert, the wonderful hostess that is David Platt’s mother-in-law and the one point of genuine interest that Shearer was offered the player-manager’s job at Blackburn in an effort from Jack Walker to keep to him at the club.

Carried upon the wings of Alan (who for your information ‘just loves scoring goals’) we arrived in Paris before retracing our steps back up north to Lille for that evening’s Europa league fixture between the hosts and PSV. An interesting fact about Lille is that they are currently ‘between stadiums.’ The old Stade Metropole is currently a pile of rubble, whilst the new one, baring the same name, is currently under construction. In the meantime Lille occupy another stadium which, in their infinite wisdom, they have given the same name to this interim ground, but surely there would be enough information on the interweb to avoid confusion?

No. No there is not. So after a two-hour drive to Lille we arrived at the Stade Metropole, sure we were 40 minutes before kickoff, but the area seemed quiet and the ground was a pile of bricks, being men full of nous we immediately realised that this would not be the scene of a game that evening, and so panicked and drove around Lille for a while searching for any sign of life, or floodlights. Eventually the ground was discovered just before the game was kicked off, but another interesting fact about Lille is that all car parks around the ground require a match ticket for entry. Once we eventually dumped the car nearby our fate was sealed by another fact, that UEFA regulations prevents tickets being sold after kickoff. Yes, our trip to Lille was wasted, a desperate search for touts resulted in two tickets, but solidarity between the five us prevented us taking them and despite seeing one goal through a gap in the fence we departed Lille having failed to take in our first game of football. Not even a re-listen of Alan Shearer could lighten our mood on the way back to Paris (Yes map fans, a silly route), it was easy for Alan, all that mattered to him was scoring goals, we couldn’t even make it around France....

Here's what I think of your world famous art gallery

Day 2 arrived and was the only day of our trip with no sport planned, and hence if you’re reading this site you probably won’t care about our time in Paris, however, as you may expect, football reared its beautiful head. The day was spent perusing the sights of France’s capital (or in the case of Jamie flicking Vs at the famous bits “Showing them what I thought of it”) and we decided to round off the day by hiring bikes and cycling up the Champs Elysees Tour De France style (an unnamed member of our party shouted that they were a ‘more virile Lance Armstrong, and by unnamed, I mean me), round l’arc de Triomphe and down the Eiffel Tower. Two of us decided to catch the metro to the tower, avoiding the bikes, and so when we reconvened under the tower we were delighted to find they had bought a football. It was kicked around a little bit before 5 French lads came over and challenged us to a game, England/France style, an offer too good to refuse.

Game 1- England 1-0 France

A perfect setting under the Eiffel Tower for this game as the touring England side took on the home team. The visitors  stayed compact early, putting men behind the ball and sticking rigidly to their formation in a way that would have Sven purring. Les Blues tested the keeper early on but eventually the ball broke to Cutteridge (1 international cap - 1 goal) who slotted the ball away with aplomb to give England the lead. England then defended their lead not offering the French a sniff of goal, until the game was halted by a Frenchman with a gun (I should note he was part of the police) giving the English a famous victory on foreign soil. 

For Queen and country

The success was celebrated with a trip up the tower followed by beer, snails and steak in the heart of Paris before the overnight trip to Barcelona began.

Spain came into view as we drove through the mountains with the sun coming up on a glorious morning, enough to banish any remnant of Lille-based depression. A long drive fuelled by shifts at wheel, uncomfortable drives and energy drinks gave way to windows down and summer music on the stereo and within a blink of the eye we were in Barcelona, outside the Nou Camp picking up our tickets for the next day. After a quick look inside the gift shop (complete with Jamie showing his vintage Villa shirt with pride) fatigue set in. Rather than stay in the centre we made for the outskirts of town and our hillside hostel, knackered after a long drive and knowing that our first game of the trip was that evening.

  Here's what I think of your tika-taka

 

 Game 2 - Real Zaragoza 0-1 Atletico Madrid

Living in England it is sometimes easy to forget that other countries are bigger than our own, and so when looking at a map of Spain, Zaragoza does not look too far from Barcelona, close enough for a quick nip across country for an evening of football, in reality, it is a long 3 hour drive, but for football? Well worth it. Myself, Tom and Chris made our way through the Spanish countryside whilst Ben and Andy headed for the centre of Barcelona for an authentic Spanish evening spent in the, erm, Hard Rock Cafe.

A lovely bit of Spanish glamour

After seeing in the day in the car as the sun rose driving South, as the sun set we were heading West with a less picturesque view as the rain fell. We arrived in Zaragoza and made our way to La Romareda where (Thanks to Danny and this site) our press passes were waiting. Clearly the fact we were English was enough as no names or ID was asked for and we were shown to our own press box (some seats behind a bench) complete with passes and teamsheets which was all well and good until we realised that we had no pen, nor paper to at least create a pretence of being ‘press,’ and so a Tom headed back to the car in search of anything to make us appear legit. With the wi-fi code secured (relief for our mounting 3g bill on our phones) we were ready for kickoff between two teams having less than stellar seasons. Madrid lay in mid-table despite having one of the most talented front partnerships in world football of Diego Forlan and Kun Aguero whilst Zaragoza were situated perilously on the edge of the relegation zone.

Actual match action

The first half was lively and played at a really high tempo, Zaragoza controlled a lot of possession with the midfield pair of Gabi and Ponzio impressing whilst Madrid looked more threatening despite an odd long ball tactic towards such a skilful strike due. The one clear cut chance fell to Aguero but he couldn’t quite find enough space to squeeze it past the keeper and so at halftime it was scoreless. Clearly the best two players on the pitch were Forlan and Kun and the big question in the second half was whether Madrid could get them the ball enough to win the game.

 Food and drink was needed, however as I went to order I suddenly realised quite how limited my grasp of the local language was meaning I inadvertently ended up with 2 ham sandwiches and 2 cokes, I have no idea what I wanted, but it was not that.

Fully fed and watered we were ready for the second half as were Zaragoza as they pushed straight from the off, somehow the ball didn’t go in following a goal mouth scramble and Madrid went straight up the other end, Forlan feeding the ball to Aguero who beat his man (the aforementioned Ponzio) and belting on into the far corner from a tight angle. It was just about deserved, and came from a touch of class that the hosts lacked.

The rest of the game comprised of heaps of pressure from Zaragoza but very little to show from it until the last few minutes where they managed to hit the bar twice, from subs Uche and Bertolo, by far Los Blanquillos most exciting players. Nay it was not enough and Madrid saw out a win that they hoped would shoot them upwards whilst Zara were forced to face downwards. A fine evening’s football and due to ridiculous kickoff times in Spain a long drive back to Barcelona after a midnight finish that was entirely uneventful aside from Chris almost falling asleep at the wheel. Sleep was welcome, with more football to come over the coming days, with 3 of the planets greatest teams to see. Kerouac may have driven more, but he never came across Leo Messi on his travels and that smug satisfaction saw us cosy in our beds.

 In Part 2, which is coming soon, Mr Goulding takes us through two games featuring players from the adverts. 

Follow Jamie Cutteridge on Twitter. 

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Liverpool v Sparta Prague

Origins of symmetry

Liverpool 1-0 Sparta Prague (24:02:11)

Esteemed author Nick Davidson brought us so much joy with his Readers' Lives article on Borussia Dortmund v St Pauli last week, we invited him back... 

I like symmetry. My last UEFA Cup tie was on Wednesday 23^rd November 1983, over TWENTY SEVEN years ago. It was the beginning of the end of Watford’s six game European adventure, a 2-3 home defeat at the hands of Sparta Prague was followed by a 4-0 routing on an icy pitch in the Czech capital two weeks later. So, when my co-author of Modern Football is Rubbish suggested a trip to Anfield to watch his beloved Reds in the Europa League against, you guessed it, Sparta Prague, I jumped at the chance.

It didn’t quite have the glamour of the knockout stages of the Champions League, but it was still a chance to sample one of Liverpool’s famous European nights, and gave me the opportunity to tick Anfield off my list of grounds (shamefully, I wasn’t at Anfield in ’99 to witness Tommy Mooney’s strike in Watford’s 1-0 win over the Reds, and I didn’t have the balls to bunk off school in 1985 when Watford were applauded off the field after an enthralling 4-3 defeat on a balmy, end-of-season, Friday night in May.)

We might not be traversing the nether-regions of the continent, but there was still the obligatory train trip, this time just a straightforward hop from Birmingham to Liverpool Lime Street. The 6pm kick-off meant we didn’t have time to dawdle and before we knew it we were standing outside our hotel, the excellent and individual Parr Street Studios, waiting for a taxi to the ground. We were soon joined by an Australian Liverpool fan on his first trip to Anfield. A few minutes later our number was bolstered by a Sparta fan who had travelled from Prague to Liverpool for £30 less than it had cost our Australian friend to get here from London by train. If the taxi didn’t turn up soon, we’d have to upgrade to a mini-bus.

As it happened, the taxi journey to the ground turned out to be one of the highlights of the night. It was like an impromptu world football summit, I’m convinced that in the 30 minutes it took us to battle the rush-hour traffic we solved most of the games ills. I’m also sure Jim Davidson (no relation, fortunately) could have conjured up some deeply un-PC joke about a taxi containing two Englishmen, an Australian, a Czech and a Pole, but we made do with setting the (football) world to rights, with expert contributions on the state of Polish football from our cabbie delivered, albeit, between ‘ambitious’ overtaking maneuvers. The highlight for me was discovering that our Prague fan was exactly the same age as me and had been at the Letenský stadion to witness Sparta’s demolition of Watford’s youth team all those years ago (we were decimated by injuries and, as a paid up Junior Hornet, I was gutted not to make the bench at the very least.) Eventually, the traffic ground to a standstill and we took our leave: £6 for one of the most entertaining and informative taxi journey’s I’ve ever had.  Before long, we said our goodbyes to our Prague supporting friend and headed for the turnstiles.

The Kop. I was intrigued and excited to take my place in one of the most revered ends in football. My perception has been influenced by years of football folklore and a few fanciful tales told by our resident scouser, Jimbo, at university many years ago. My first impression was a good one. The concourse under the stand was bright and spacious, the toilets vast in comparison to those I’d queued for in the Westfalenstadion only a few days before, but this isn’t Grand Designs and I’m no Kevin McCloud, so onwards and upwards to Block 203 high in the Kop end.

Wavin' Flag(s)

Shaun, trying to impress the new owners in a winning combination of LFC/Red Sox attire

Class warrior: First class, the travel, not the football. (And look, it was a special promotion, we are not normally so decadent!)

We got to our seats with 20 minutes to spare and the place seemed to be filling up nicely. Away in the distance, the Sparta fans looked up for it in the Anfield Road end. As kick-off approached, it was time for my second sing-a-long a YNWA of the week. It was pretty atmospheric, and too close to call which version I’d enjoyed more – Anfield or Dortmund. I enjoyed holding my St Pauli scarf high in the Kop and didn’t get any disparaging comments from the home fans – although, it helped being sat next to Shaun, bedecked in a variety of vintage LFC paraphernalia. The flags down the front proudly proclaimed the club’s European heritage, although, again, after watching football in Germany the previous week, they couldn’t compare to the opening choreo provided by both Dortmund and St Pauli fans. Indeed, now watching the bulk of my ‘live’ football on the continent, the visual impact of English fans is light years away from their European counterparts. The lack of huuuuuge flags and banners must be health and safety related, but then again, I’m sure I saw some pretty impressive banners from the Aris Thessaloniki contingent at the City of Manchester stadium later that same night.

The atmosphere inside Anfield started well, with the Kop going through its full repertoire of songs and the Sparta fans contributing well from the other end of the stadium. Unfortunately, the game dragged everyone down, frustration crept in on those Liverpool fans around us, and it wasn’t solely directed at the luckless David Ngog either. Fortunately, the ever industrious, Dirk Kuyt broke the deadlock and saved us from extra-time. Just as well ‘cos I needed a wee.

I guess for King Kenny, it was a case of ‘job done’ without having to risk too many of his big name stars (Gerrard was sorely missed in midfield in a below par midfield.) But you couldn’t help thinking how far Liverpool’s European stock has fallen in recent times. Here they were struggling past Sparta Prague – a side that, our contact had informed us, lacked quality and had been shorn of it’s two best players in the January window – when just a few seasons before they had been beating the likes of Real Madrid and Barca in their own back yards. Still, the Kop had the decency to applaud the Sparta players off the pitch and then, a few minutes later, exchange applause with the fans who had traveled from Prague and who’d been relentless in their support of their team all night.

It hadn’t been a classic Anfield European night by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been an enjoyable experience. To my mind, both the fans and the team were grinding out a result, with neither reaching top gear, but if they make it all the way to Dublin in May none of that will matter.

Due to the tedious nature of the football, we spent much of the second-half continuing our Grand Designs riff coming, up with increasingly improbable suggestions to extend Anfield’s capacity. New stadiums are all very well, but I really think it will be a big blow to English football if Anfield is bulldozed. It holds too many great memories. For us though, it’s the taxi ride to the ground and the night in the hotel bar that we’ll remember. It might not have been ‘European’ in the strictest sense, and it certainly wasn’t the weekend, but it was great sharing a cab with an assortment of knowledgeable football fans from all over the globe. And, of course, there’s the symmetry of seeing two UEFA Cup games involving Sparta Prague, nearly 27-years apart. Neat.

 Modern Football is STILL Rubbish by Nick Davidson

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