When travelling, in no real hurry, the 670 kilometres from Calais to Carnac in Brittany, the fine city of Caen is the perfect place to break the journey in two, particularly if SM Caen are playing at home. So it is that I find myself with my wife Paulene on a Friday evening stood at the Bellivet bus stop in the centre of Caen, waiting for the free shuttle bus (navette) out to the Stade Michel d’Ornano in the suburbs of the city. The bus is due at seven o’clock, but it’s barely six forty-five yet; we weren’t sure how long it would take to walk from our hotel on the Quai de Plaisance, not long it turns out.
We stand on the pavement outside the bus shelter, which is well populated with people who don’t look like they’re going to a football match, but then, the stop is served by several other bus routes. A man in his early thirties turns to us and asks if this is the stop for the navette (I think he must have deduced from the Ipswich Town badge on my T-shirt that we are football fans). We tell him that’s what it says on the football club website, and we believe it. The man is from Caen but has never used the navette before; he is going to the match with a friend who is also Caennais, but has lived in Paris and has never even been to any game before; they are taking the bus so they can have a drink before and after the game., which seems to be the main point of the exercise. The man who has lived in Paris reveals that when he was a teenager, he stayed in Ipswich on a student exchange scheme; they were good times he says, even though he never made it to Portman Road.
Time passes. Seven o’clock passes. Several buses stop, passengers alight and others get on. A ramp slides out from under one bus and a woman in a powered wheelchair backs along it onto the pavement. “Oi Ipswich, my friend here is a Norwich fan” says a rich Welsh voice. “No I’m not, I’m from Cardiff” says the tall grey-haired man standing next to me. “Have you got your match tickets?” asks the first Welshman. “Yes” I tell him “But I don’t reckon you’ll need them for the bus, the driver isn’t going to want to check everyone has got one.” The first Welshman asks if we had been to the ground earlier to buy them, but we tell him we bought them on-line. “See, I told you we could have got them on-line” says Welshman number two to Welshman number one. “Well, I looked” says Welshman number one, “But it was all in French.”
We talk some more and tell the Welshmen how we were in Cardiff last year to see Haverfordwest (Hwlfordd in Welsh) play their two European Conference League qualifiers. They ask why, and I tell them I was born in Haverfordwest. “You’re Welsh then” they say. Welshman number two then tells us he’s obsessed with going to new football grounds and after asking us to guess how many he’s been to, he reveals that he’s visited over seven-hundred. It’s about a quarter past seven now, and an articulated single-deck bus hoves into view bearing the destination “Allez le SM Caen”, At last, it’s the navette, and about forty of us pile on before the bus lurches and twists off up the street, past William the Conqueror’s castle and on past the eleventh century l’Abbeye aux hommes, the Hotel de ville, and the palais de justice all of which miraculously survived allied bombing in World War Two. On the bus ploughs, on a stop start journey past the more recently built palais des sports, and through the heavy traffic heading for the Caen international fair (Foire International de Caen), which begins tonight.
It’s gone twenty to eight by the time the bus disgorges its load at the oddly named ‘Silicon Valley’ bus stop, directly opposite the Stade d’Onano, and Paulene and I head for the club shop to add to the pointless collections of cuddly club mascots, fridge magnets and T-shirts that clutter up our home back in blighty, although I do wear the T-shirts. After then joining a queue for Gate 7, six flights of stairs take us to the top of the Tribune Caen from where we have to descend the steep gangway to our seats (24 euros each) in the front row of the top tier of the stand. Within moments of our sitting down the game begins, tonight’s visiting team AC Ajaccio from Corsica getting first go with the ball, which they succeed in keeping to themselves for much of the first minute of the game. Ajaccio are wearing red and white striped shirts with white shorts, reminiscent of Stoke City and Signal toothpaste. Caen meanwhile are kitted out in blue shorts and blue and red striped shirts, but the stripes are wavy, reminding me of the sleeve of the Cosmic Roughriders LP ‘Enjoy the Melodic Sunshine’. Caen are kicking from right to left, back towards the city centre, whilst Ajaccio are aiming more in the direction of the Bayeux tapestry.
Unexpectedly, the ground seems very quiet as the game begins, possibly because in four matches in Ligue 2 so far this season, Caen have not won, only succeeding in losing three times. Whenever a Caen player crosses into the opposition half however, I think I can hear a muffled murmurs of “Allez, allez, allez” all around me, and when Caen win an early corner rhythmic clapping breaks out. With not much happening I take the opportunity to visit the buvette back at the top of the stand where I buy a bottle of water (2 euros) and a merguez sandwich (6 euros). I return to my seat in time to witness a twelfth minute shot from a Caen player strike the Ajaccio cross bar. Before three minutes later a blizzard of paper planes rain down on to the pitch from behind the Ajaccio goal, possibly as part of the ongoing protest against Ligue 2 matches being moved to Friday nights this season at the behest of Bein Sports tv. Banners behind the goals read “Le foot le Samedi pour des stades en vie” (Football on Saturdays for lively stadiums) and “Boycott Bein”.
To our left, I count thirteen Ajaccio supporters in their enclosure behind the goal and I think of the Last Supper, before noticing that the Ajaccio number twenty Mohamed Youssef is so short that his socks meet his shorts, creating the effect that he is wearing puttees. The first half is half over as Caen build a move down the left before wasting all the effort with a shot over the crossbar. Nine minutes later Caen’s number seven flicks the ball up inside the penalty area before crashing a spectacular volley directly at the Ajaccio goalkeeper, who is in two shades of green.
The game is one-sided with Caen monopolising possession and attempts on goal until six minutes before half-time when Ajaccio have their first shot at goal, a curling effort from number 99, which nevertheless curls straight into the arms of the Caen goalkeeper who admittedly is not easy to miss because he is all in orange. The first booking of the game follows soon afterwards when Ajaccio’s number thirty-one chooses to tug at the Caen number nineteen’s shoulder rather than attempt to tackle him in the conventional manner. Two minutes of added on time are added on, to little effect, and at half-time the score remains blank. In a sense therefore, Ajaccio are winning.
Paulene and I move seat during the break because I have been having to duck my head whenever the ball has been in the Caen half due to a large, blue, metal safety rail at the foot of the steps, which extends in front of my seat. The half-time break passes with people trying to kick a ball into a box for money, and two teams of children in red and blue kit taking a shoot-out competition. The red children all seem about twice the size of the blues and predictably they win, although the only girl in the competition is a blue and she scores her goal.
Now, with a clear view of the whole pitch we see the game re-start at nine o’clock and suddenly the stadium is full of enthusiasm and chanting. For no apparent reason the home supporters are singing “Allez, Allez, Allez” to Verdi’s Triumphal March from his opera Aida. The effect is almost instantaneous as a ball into the box results in claims for a penalty, albeit somewhat specious ones. But a corner satisfies the more realistic supporters, which leads to a shot and another corner and more urging chants of “Allez, Allez, Allez” as the Caen fans loudly live up to what one would expect of their mascot, Vik the Viking.
Only five minutes of the half have gone and now number seventeen Kyheremeh is shooting straight at the Ajaccio goalkeeper before number nineteen heads over the cross bar from a corner. Sadly however, the score remains blank and for a while the game descends into a Keystone Cops style knockabout with players falling over and colliding with abandon. Paulene and I begin to notice the advertisements around the ground for the likes of Entreprise Bacon, Calvados the departement or County, as opposed to Calvados the apple brandy, and the interestingly named Twisto, the local transport company who brought us here this evening in one of their articulated buses. Off to our left, I can only count eleven Ajaccio fans now and wonder if two have had to leave early to catch a ferry, or whether they just gave up hope.
Only twenty-five minutes remain as Caen’s Kyeremeh is through on goal, but he chooses to run wide and cross low to the near post where the ball is saved at the expense of a corner. “Allez, Allez, Allez” sing the home fans again, but this time to the tune of the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine, not Verdi. Thirteen minutes remains and Caen’s number four has come on as a substitute only to quickly get booked as he struggles to influence the game. Three minutes later however, comes the decisive moment. Caen’s number ten, Bilal Brahimi, who has been neat but nothing more for most of the game, suddenly has space outside the Ajaccio penalty area from where he unexpectedly launches a shot into the top right-hand corner of the Corsican goal; Caen lead one-nil. “Bilal, Bilal” chant the Caen fans as his picture appears on the scoreboard and the stadium announcer tells us who scored.
Ajaccio have made little effort to score themselves and now they might have left it too late. Ajaccio substitute number twenty-one Ivane Chegra is brought on to add flair by the look of his Marc Bolan style coiffure, and number twenty-two Moussa Soumano succeeds only in getting booked as the match rolls on into five minutes of added on time. The added-on time is of no consequence however, and with the final whistle the relief for Caen’s supporters having won their first match of the season is plain to see.
With a bus to catch we don’t linger to join the ensuing love-in, and that bus is almost full and ready to leave as we board it. Down the streets beyond stadium vivid, sudden flashes of light appear and soon there are spots of rain on the windows of the bus as it weaves its way through the post-match traffic. By the time we reach the city centre a heavy downpour is drumming against the roof of the bus and the streets are awash. With the bus windows steamed up and streaked with rain I have to ask a fellow passenger to tell me when we’re back at Bellivet bus stop. It’s a dramatic end to the evening and an uncomfortably wet walk back to the hotel, but I don’t think we’ll forget our night in Caen.
so. There is no one much about. I cross the small, weak bridge over the disused railway on Princes Street, a metaphor for Paul Hurst’s reign as manager. It’s half past one, but Portman Road is quiet. Men in day-glo jackets fail to stop a small Vauxhall with a barricade of wheelie bins. As usual a cluster of over-zealous individuals wait outside the Sir Alf Ramsey stand for the turnstiles to open, a habit that by the look of them they
began forty five years ago or more before seats, when claiming your spot on the terrace was a necessary ‘thing’. A man heads towards the door of the ticketing information office, “Don’t waste your money” someone shouts out to him. Polythene bags full of crisps, sweets and the local paper lay on the street awaiting purchase for a pound. In the club shop there is a stock of ITFC
branded ‘With Sympathy’ and ‘Get Well Soon’ cards; somewhat ironic given the club’s currently moribund situation at the foot of the league table, but otherwise rather tasteless.As ever I seek pre-match solace at St Jude’s Tavern, which is fuller than usual and I detect that blokes with Lancashire accents are responsible. As I recall from the corresponding fixture last year, Preston North End supporters would seem to have the greatest appreciation of real ale amongst Town’s Championship rivals, and I salute them for that. At the bar the moustachioed barman serves me a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50) which today is Mr Bee’s Pollen Power. I sit at the only available table, in the corner by the door, and await the arrival of Mick. I am approached by a man with a Lancashire accent who recognises me from last year when we chatted in this very bar. I am unsure whether to be flattered or worried that someone has recognised me from a single meeting a year ago. The man who I learn is called George seems very happy to renew our acquaintance and I share his enthusiasm for this entente-cordiale between fans of ‘rival’ provincial clubs at different ends of the country. Ipswich and Preston are not so different; two clubs stumbling along in the Second Division but both with the illustrious histories to forever raise them above the likes of Norwich City and Blackpool.
public art at La Défense. We each drink another pint of the match day special before we part and I head down to Portman Road at about a quarter to three. A sign outside the church around the corner refers to disciples and it seems appropriate as the crowd congregates for the match. The quiet of an hour and a half ago is gone and I detect the smell of tomato sauce wafting its way towards me from the burger vans in the car park. The floodlights are already illuminated although in Portman Road the afternoon still seems bright, but inside the stadium the East of England Co-op stand, which oddly is on the west side of the ground casts a cold, damp, dark shadow over the pitch. I buy a programme (£3.00) out of a desire to remember the occasion with a souvenir, but can’t help immediately regretting the expenditure.
nasty red trim aiming at the goal closest to me Pat, Phil and Elwood. Preston North End, nickname the ‘Lilywhites’ or ‘Proud Preston’ are wearing all yellow and play in the direction of Henley where my grandfather was born; he survived the First World War with damaged lungs from gas, and shrapnel scars on his shoulder and the back of his head.
by the late arriving Maxwell. Mr Woolmer ignores the “Off! Off! Off! requests from the crowd, Maxwell is booked along with protesting Prestonian Daniel Johnson, Freddie Sears scores from the resultant penalty and Portman Road is awash with joy. The Town team are warmly applauded from the field as Mr Woolmer gets a second thing right, successfully interpreting the information on his watch and blowing for half-time.
trippingovertheball 