Ipswich Town 3 Bristol City 2

March 7, 2024July 9, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

One of my favourite books in my embarrassingly large library of books about football is the Observer’s Book of Association Football, a handy pocket-sized publication which is invaluable whenever I want to pretend it is still the early 1970’s. The page on Bristol City begins with the sentence “Nothing they have achieved since can compare with Bristol City’s performances before the First World War”. Unfortunately, for the club from what before 1^st April 1974 was the biggest city in Gloucestershire, despite the Observer’s book of Association Football now being over fifty years old this sentence still holds true, and Bristol City have an even emptier trophy cabinet than Norwich City. Tonight, Ipswich Town play Bristol City at Portman Road, and after five consecutive victories for the Town I have been increasingly looking forward to the match, safe in the knowledge that all Bristol City’s best players must by now be at least one hundred and thirty years old. Oddly enough, had he not died in 1971, possibly at about the time when I was first enjoying the Observer’s book of Association Football, today would have been the eve of my grandfather’s one-hundred and thirty-fourth birthday, although as far as I am aware he was only ever associated with Shotley Swifts.

A week-night football match as ever makes the working day a little more bearable, and despite today otherwise being depressingly dreary and wet, my lunchtime was unexpectedly and inexplicably brightened by the discovery of the Bristol City team bus in the miserable, puddle-bound temporary car park on West End Road. I do like a team bus. I escape work at a bit after half past four and head for the club shop to buy a programme (£3.50), noticing on my way a posse of what look like nightclub bouncers at the back of the Sir Bobby Robson stand who wear coats bearing the name Achilles Security. It’s an odd choice of name for a security firm I think to myself, and one which doesn’t inspire confidence, suggesting as it does that despite being mostly strong, ultimately they also have a fatal weakness.

Worrying about how much Ipswich’s purveyors of security services know about classical mythology I leave beautiful down-town Ipswich in order to spend a bit more than an hour drinking breakfast tea and discussing current affairs with Mick, who is sadly unable to get to the match tonight because he is convalescing after an operation on his right foot, although not on his heel. Mick hopes to be fit enough to re-enter the fray of spectating from the West Stand in early April. From the cheery parlour of Mick’s Edwardian, suburban home I proceed to ‘the Arb’ to practice the all-important pre-match ritual of drinking, albeit on my own, sad and friendless as I now am. Shockingly, there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride on the beer menu tonight, so it is a pint of Lacon’s Fireside (£3.96 with Camra discount) that I clutch in my cold right hand as I head for the beer garden, where I sit alone and read my programme whilst waiting for a dish of “Very French” thick-cut chips (£8.00), which come doused with bacon, brie and onion marmalade as if I and they were in Le Chambon-Feugerolles or Fontevrault-l’Abbaye. Having eaten my chips and sunk the Fireside, I again make for the bar for a pint of Moongazer Harewood porter (£3.96 with Camra discount). Returning to the beer garden I discover that the table where I had been sitting has been taken over by two women and three men who engage in witty conversation about nothing in particular and what they’ve watched on the telly. None of them seem to have watched S4C’s Sgorio, so I lose interest and return to my programme and the haven of my private thoughts.

I leave for Portman Road at about twenty to eight , politely returning my glass to the bar as I depart. It’s a cool and damp evening and at the bottom of Lady Lane a young woman stands on a tree stump like an animated statue, gazing out across the adjacent car park looking for someone who she is speaking to on her mobile phone. Hoping this is a new art installation, I break my stride for a second, but then walk on, realising I am more drawn by the lights of Portman Road than the promise of the Avant-garde. Portman Road is busy with queues for the turnstiles. Two policemen gaze down at their mobile phones, probably watching the girl on the tree stump on tik-tok when they should be watching for football hooligans and people needing to know the time. I join the queue at turnstile 62; next to me in the queue for turnstile 61 is a man I know called Kevin, who asks “Why turnstile 62?”, and then tells me he uses turnstile 61 because it was the year in which he was born.

The queue at turnstile 62 moves quickly, although not as quickly as that at turnstile 61, but before I know it I’ve drained my bladder , waved to a woman I know but whose name I can’t remember and am hearing Pat from Clacton say “Here he is” as I shuffle to my seat next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game. With the game on Sky TV tonight we are treated to erupting flames and momentarily warmed faces as the teams and their acolytes stream onto the pitch. I half expect to detect the smell of singed hair and melted polyester but fortunately never do. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams and as ever almost gets half way through the team before he gets out of sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. I shout the surnames out as they appear on the screen nevertheless, pretending to be French. If there was a lycee or Conservatoire for stadium announcers Murphy would be in the remedial class.

At last the game begins, Town having first go with the ball and mostly directing it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow fanatical ultras in our cheap, mass produced blue and white knitwear. Town are of course in blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Bristol City are also wearing their traditional signature kit of red shirts and white shorts, although their shirts are adorned with white stripes, which are too thick to be pinstripes and too thin to be real stripes. With their goalkeeper in all black with multi-coloured day-glo squiggles, there is vague 1990’s vibe to their couture.

The game seems slow to start and I miss nothing when Fiona hands me a birthday card to sign for Adam in the row in front, who turned eighteen earlier in the week. “Many Happy Returns to Portman Road” I write, confusingly. Town win an early free-kick, but it is poor and easily forgotten. Nine minutes elapse and Bristol look like they have the games first corner, provoking a single chant of “Come On You Reds” from the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand , but it’s not a corner and they’ve wasted their breath on a mere throw- in. But Portman Road is cacophonous as Blue Action in the Cobbold Stand and two sections of the Sir bobby Robson Stand all seem to be singing different songs. But all the same, it sounds better than the usual “When the Town go Marching In” dirge.

Seventeen minutes have gone forever, and all Town have done so far is have a hopeless free-kick, which I haven’t forgotten after all. From the stands, the songs sound sort of slurred as if everyone’s been in the pub all afternoon, perhaps they have. Five minutes later, Towns first shot on goal sees Sam Morsy put Keiffer Moore through, but the ball dribbles weakly to the goalkeeper. “Carrow Road is falling down” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, which in terms of wit and cutting humour is on a par with “Jingle Bells, Delia smells, The canary laid an egg”, which I actually prefer.

It’s the twenty-eighth minute and Bristol City win a corner, hastily pursued by another, and the Bristolians chant “Come On You Reds” just once, as if it’s rationed. “We’ve got super Keiran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need” sing both ends of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, but not at the same time so it sounds like they’re singing rounds, which in fact would be really good if they could pull it off. Drizzle is falling, appearing through the beams of the floodlights like a fine cascade over the roof of the stand. Occasionally I feel a drop on my face and hands. “You’re quiet tonight” says Pat from Clacton, and she’s right. “There’s not much to make a noise about” I tell her to my shame, believing that that’s exactly when crowds should make most noise. On cue, Town win a corner and I’m able to bellow “Come On You Blues” repeatedly from the time Leif Davis begins to walk to the corner flag until his kick falls disappointingly short of the near post and is easily cleared.

There are eight minutes left of the first half. “What a save!” exclaims the bloke beside me, and a second later so does Adam in the row in front of me, meanwhile Vaclav Hladky has just caught a diving header. Just four minutes until half-time now and there is a prostrate Bristol player thumping his hand on the lush Portman Road turf, using what has become international sign language for “Pay me some attention, I’m hurt, but I’m only putting it on really”. I tell Fiona how last night I saw a David Attenborough programme about animals and sound, and how Kangaroo Rats will thump their feet on the ground to ward off snakes. Fiona hopes there aren’t any snakes on the Portman Road pitch.

The game resumes and from the far end of the ground comes an Oasis song which I can’t recall the title of, and then a chorus of “Lala, lala, lala, lalalala, la, Keiffer Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” to the tune of “Baby give it up”, a song in which in the original lyrics the singer seems to be pestering a pretty girl for sex. It was a UK number one for KC and the Sunshine Band in 1983. Just when it seems the half will end, Murphy announces that there will be at least another four minutes, close to the end of which Bristol win another corner after Town carelessly give the ball away and once more there is a solitary chant of “Come on your Reds” from up in the Cobbold Stand .

The break in play is a relief, after one of the less enjoyable halves of the last two seasons. Ray and I analyse the reasons for this and decide upon Bristol’s constant harassment of Town players and a weak referee, who doesn’t know a foul when he sees one. We’re not unduly bothered though as Ipswich pretty much always seem to win in the end, whatever happens. As we chat, two boxers ponce about on the pitch and one of them reveals that he is wearing a Norwich City shirt, which is what can happen if you get punched in the head a lot. Quite a few people are hurling vitriolic abuse at the poor man, seemingly having missed the point that they’re part a pantomime for grown-ups.

Despite having welcomed half-time, I’m now pleased to have the football back, although things don’t improve much, with repetitive chants of “Red Army, Red Army” from the Stalinist Bristolians and I decide that Mr Webb is spoiling the game by allowing their teams gulag-style rough house tactics. Then, with nine minutes of the half gone things get even worse and Bristol score, as their number eleven Anis Menmeti is allowed to run at the goal until he’s close enough to easily shoot past an indecently exposed Vaclav Hladky. Worse almost follows five minutes later as Bristol’s Sam Bell strikes the Town cross bar and some other bloke in a red shirt misses an easy looking header as he follows up. Town’s response is quick and decisive with the biggest mass substitution ever seen at Portman Road as Jack Taylor, Wes Burns, Ali Al-Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento usurp Massimo Luongo, Omari Hutchinson, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Keiffer Moore and Marcus Harness. Bristol make a substitution too but nobody notices before Leif Davis shoots and Ali Al-Hamidi flicks the ball over the goal, line possibly with a deft touch, or possibly because he simply couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Town are level.

Bristol resort to even more blatant fouling as Wes Burns is steamrollered, although Mr Webb refuses to reach for his yellow card and I am reminded of the previous two season’s games against Cheltenham Town, who like Bristol City are from Gloucestershire, wear red and white and are also known as the Robins; Bristol City it seems are just a slightly upmarket version. “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand summoning the combined powers of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which earns Town a corner before Murphy announces tonights’ attendance of 28,001 including a fairly meagre 410 Bristolians.

Things have taken a turn for the better with the the arrival of Wes Burns and Ali Al Hamadi, who are running at the Bristol defence. But just as I start thinking all is right with the world again Anis Menmeti hits the Town cross bar and only moments after Harry Clarke replaces Axel Tuanzebe, Leif Davis misjudges a punt forward allowing it to bounce up for Eric Sykes to stretch and hook over to Russ Conway who appears from the subs bench to loop a header into the top corner of the Town goal. Only thirteen minutes of normal time to go and we’re losing again.

With ten minutes of normal time left however, and following a foul on Al-Hamadi, which must have been a really bad one because Mr Webb books the perpetrator, Leif Davis crosses the free-kick to the near post and Conor Chaplin heads a second equaliser. The roar from the crowd is the sort to lift roofs and worry any passing Tyrannosaurus. Pat from Clacton begins to look forward again to her pre-bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer cheesey Combos and then Town have a penalty as Wes Burns is fouled by someone called Pring. After much debate, standing about on the penalty spot, and a booking for the Bristol goalkeeper, Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to take a very poor penalty, which the miscreant goalkeeper undeservedly saves. There’s no time to be disappointed or down-hearted however, and, because we are watching Ipswich Town, it isn’t really a surprise when three minutes later the ball goes forward, is nodded on and Leif Davis runs onto it, dodges a burly Bristolian and shoots past the Bristol goalkeeper; there’s another Bristolian on the goal line to get the final touch, although he needn’t have bothered, it was going in anyway. At last, what we had all expected, Ipswich are winning and I’ve not known celebrations like it at Portman Road since the play-off semi-final against Bolton Wanderers twenty-four years ago.

Added on time sees Town win two more corners, narrowly lose a game of bagatelle in the Bristol penalty area, have Jack Taylor hit a post with a shot, and have shots from Sarmiento, Chaplin, Burns and Al-Hamadi all blocked or saved as Town pack a game’s worth of attacking intent into just eight minutes.

The final whistle brings relief and glory and a realisation that this has been one of the most extraordinary games I’ve ever seen. Bristol City might have run Town close for eighty-four minutes tonight, but happily there’s still no reason for anyone to re-write their page in the Observers book of Association Football just yet.

FC Lorient 3 FC Nantes 2

September 19, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

To Ipswich Town supporters like me, FC Lorient is known as the club from which the Town bought Ulrich Le Pen, a slight winger who was injured just minutes after coming on in a match against Bolton Wanderers and only ever featured in one other first team game, an FA Cup tie which I can’t remember. To the wider world Lorient is France’s second largest fishing port and home of a French submarine dockyard which grew out of the massive reinforced concrete U-Boat docks built by the Nazis during World War Two. Sadly for Lorient, the town was mostly flattened by allied bombs as the Nazis were pushed out of France in 1944 and whilst the re-built town is well laid out with buildings in a quiet, modernist style, it doesn’t have the architectural verve of Le Havre or Amiens, or even, come to that of Plymouth and Bristol.

Today however FC Lorient host their Breton neighbours from 170 kilometres away (1hour and 51 minutes up the E60 according to Google maps) FC Nantes, but my wife Paulene and I have travelled a mere 40 kilometres from the campsite where we are staying in Carnac. Car parking in Lorient on a Sunday is a curious affair as most of the town centre car parks are closed as is much of the town centre itself, including the tourist information office. There is plenty of street parking however with the usual restrictions being suspended. The Stade du Moustoir, home of FC Lorient is in an eminently sensible town centre location much like Ipswich’s Portman Road, and it is somewhat remarkably within 50 metres of the Hotel de Ville (town hall) and just a short walk from the main shopping streets, railway and bus stations. The purpose in closing the car parks would seem to be to make people travel responsibly by bus, train, bike or on foot, although some parking can be pre-booked by those signing up to a car sharing scheme.

Paulene and I have arrived in Lorient in plenty of time to nab a handy street parking place. Our short walk to the Stade de Moustoir affords a sneak preview of the stadium with the already illuminated floodlights being visible between the gaps between the buildings in nearby streets. Near the railway station a bar has been requisitioned by visiting Nantes fans; a group of police stand a discreet distance away but there is no hint of any bad behaviour and we see many Nantes and Lorient fans walking to the stadium together. Reaching the stadium early, we are in time to see the home team alight from their team bus wearing their horizontally striped, Breton-style jumpers or training tops. A crowd are waiting to see the players arrive and a ‘welcome arch’ has been erected as the gateway from the bus into the stadium. The frontage of the Stade de Moustoir is clad with vertical strips of timber and looks every bit like a modern office or block of flats. Whilst outside the ground, I get my first glimpse of the unusual club mascot, Merlux le Merlu (pretty much ‘Hakey the Hake’ in English) as he welcomes the players off the bus.

With the team in the stadium, the turnstiles open and Paulene and I enter also, but are surprised to be lectured by an officious man who tells us that we cannot take a bottle of water into the stadium, although he can exercise discretion with regard to Paulene’s bag. Paulene had had an asthma attack as we approached the stadium and the very kind security man on the door at the club shop had arranged to get me a bottle of water for her. I had returned to the club shop to source vital souvenirs of our visit but found that some of the items I might buy such as a mug or cuddly hake would, like the bottle of water, not be permitted in the ground. Had I seen the e-mail the club sent me this morning I would have known that the LFP (French football league) had banned the carrying of virtually anything into football grounds this season, presumably in response to Marseille’s Dimitri Payet (known by me as the Very Hungry Caterpillar due to his ‘haircut’) getting hit on the head by a plastic bottle at Lyon last season as he went to take a corner.

Having located our seats (20 euros each) in the Tribune Credit Mutuelle de Bretagne, a quite small single tier stand with a fabulous shuttered concrete roof and light steel and glass doors redolent of a 1950’s school hall, I set off to explore and perhaps look for beer. I am quickly amazed and overjoyed to find that I can walk right the way round this stadium through the concourses of each stand. Behind the goal, the stand has access to the club shop which is now shut to the outside world. The concourses are regularly punctuated with a variety of food and drink outlets and the club markets these as Les Corners du Moustoir. Having passed by the Tavarn Lancelot, I stop at the Tavarn Morgana for an organic beer called Lancelot IPA (4 euros 50), brewed by the Breton Lancelot brewery. I mainly choose this beer so that I can pronounce Lancelot with a French accent (Lon-slow), something that has never failed to amuse me ever since seeing director Robert Bresson’s film Lancelot du Lac on BBC2’s Film International one Saturday night back in the 1970’s. Having consumed my beer, I return to my seat clutching two free eight-page match programmes and a Breton flag; there were piles of them on the floor beneath the programmes with a sign urging me and everyone else to take one.

At a quarter to three a ship’s siren sounds three times and the scoreboard tells us there are fifteen minutes to go until Coup d’envoi (kick-off); the build up to the match begins. As an opening act in the pre-match ritual an enthusiastic woman strides about the pitch in front of the main stand and sings the Breton anthem, whilst the whole crowd wave their Breton flags and club banners in a show of regional, celtic pride. On the fabulously named Tribune B&B Hotels (B&B Hotels Stand), where the central section of the lower tier is occupied by the loudest Lorient ultras, an orange and black tifo folds down from the top tier to cover the whole stand. As the teams process onto the pitch to stand before the Ligue 1 banner and club crests, fireworks are set off on the pitch, more banners are waved and the Nantes fans, who fill the away enclosure in the corner between the Tribune Mutuelle de Bretagne and the Tribune Lorient Agglomeration wave a few flares about, making me wonder if they managed to smuggle in any bottles of water too; it’s all rather thrilling.

With the pyrotechnics and flags cleared away the game begins with Nantes getting first go with the ball and kicking towards the Tribune B&B hotels. Nantes are in their signature kit of all yellow, whilst Lorient sport their traditional orange shirts, black shorts and white socks. The atmosphere inside the stadium is wonderful, it has all the excitement of a ‘local’ derby game, but as well as the Nantes fans in the away enclosure there are plenty of them sitting with the Lorient supporters in all four stands and there are dads with sons, and dads with daughters, and mums and dads with whole families and every family combination, and then there are the ultras standing on their seats and singing and mostly stripped to the waist showing off their rippling beer bellies. Brittany has its own cola called Breizh Cola, and my favourite name of one of the ultras groups is Breizh Tango.

Nantes start the match better than Lorient who look a little wobbly like a new-born foal or perhaps a young hake. It’s still a bit of a shock however when in the 13^th minute a Quentin Merlin corner for Nantes is headed into the Lorient net from close range at the near post by Ignatius Ganago. I have come to this match today to support Lorient and am wearing my orange Ipswich Town shirt in solidarity, they are supposed to win, but they are losing 0-1.

Lorient are fortunately stung into action by the goal as if Nantes had been a jellyfish and just six minutes later Stephane Diarra embarks on a dribble down the right and is literally ‘hacked down’ close to the edge of the Nantes penalty area by Andrei Girotto. It takes a little while for the free-kick to be organised, but its worth waiting for as Dango Ouattara steps up to curl the ball beautifully over the defensive wall and into the top left hand corner of a stationery Alban Lafont’s goal. It’s a goal that will be a joy forever and the score is one all.

The football flows back and forth and Lorient have grown into the game with their pacey wide and forward players constantly threatening, but Nantes are strong and well organised. In defence for Nantes, the huge Nicolas Pallois strides about with his shorts hitched up showing off his massive thighs, which greatly impresses Paulene. A 33^rd minute corner goes to Lorient as a Stephane Diarra shot is deflected, but a minute later Ignatius Ganago runs onto an Evann Guessand through ball; he looks way offside, but he rounds the Lorient ‘keeper Yvon Mvogo and it is not until the ball is rolling over the goal line that the linesman puts his flag up. It’s a ludicrous piece of assistant refereeing, although we then have to wait whilst the VAR people confirm that Ganago was offside – of course he was!

As Lorient begin to look more dangerous in attack, Enzo le Fee, who after the Arthurian theme with the bar and the beer makes me think of Morgan le Fey, and the incongruously named Bonke Innocent both have shots blocked for the home team. Dango Outtara, a 20-year-old from Burkina Faso is also making some fantastic speedy runs for them too, inspiring repeated chants of “Allez Lorient, Allez Lorient” from the home crowd. Five minutes of normal time remain in the first half and Nantes’ Moses Simon is the first player to be booked by referee Johan Hamel as he reduces Enzo Le Fee to a quivering heap on the turf with what appeared to be a well-aimed slap in the face. The final minute of the half sees Nantes’ Ludovic Blas cut in from the right and have a decent shot tipped over the cross bar by Mvogo and then, as Lorient break way from the ensuing corner Pedro Chrivella scythes down Diarra to become the second Nantes player to have his name recorded by Monsieur Hamel. A minute of time added-on is played and it is mi-temps (half-time).

Disappointingly mi-temp fails to offer up the spectacle of supporters attempting to toss a hake into a yoghurt pot or any similar test of skill inspired by local sponsors, but happily I am on the end of the row and close enough to the stairs to make it quickly to the toilet before pretty much anyone else, and that’s good enough for me. Paulene takes a chance on the queues for the ‘ladies’ having subsided with a couple of minutes to go until the game begins again. She returns late for the re-start and asks if she has missed anything, but I can’t in all honesty say she has.

The match resumes and the first action of note sees Lorient’s current top scorer Terem Moffi delight the crowd with an excellent dribble into the penalty area. Even more impressively, he wears the number thirteen shirt. Denis Appiah becomes the third Nantes player to be booked after fouling Moffi and then just twelve minutes into the second half Lorient boldly make two substitutions with Julian Ponceau replacing Bonke Innocent and Stephane Diarra making way for Yohan Cathine. Three minutes later and the scoreboard announces that it is the 56^th minute. “Faites un Bruit” it then says (make a noise) and at least some of the crowd do so, although to be fair it’s been pretty noisy all along. As an Ipswich supporter this apparently random entreaty to the fans across the whole ground seems like a good idea. In this case it seems to work too, because there is some response and four minutes later a superb passing move down the Lorient left climaxes with Yoann Cathline sweeping the ball majestically into the top right-hand corner of the goal net from about 20 metres out, and Lorient lead 2-1.

Stade du Moustoir is now a cauldron of noise as Lorient fans celebrate, and like the best supporters should, Nantes fans get behind their team too, when they need it most. “Allez, Allez; Allez, Allez” echoes around from tribune to tribune and it’s hard to tell if it’s the Lorient or Nantes fans singing it, but it’s probably both. It is certain however who is singing “Lorientaises, Lorientaises”. With the home crowd exultant, it feels like good timing when the scoreboard announces today’s attendance with the words “Vous etes 15,081” (literally “you are 15,081”). It’s a figure close to the capacity of this ground which somehow feels and looks bigger than it is, whilst at the same time feeling compact and intimate; the orange colour scheme and all orange banks of seats doubtless help to create this effect. “Lorient, Lorient” shout the crowd, punctuating the words with three successive claps.

Less than twenty minutes of normal time remain, and Lorient make a double substitution, replacing Moffi with Ibrahime Kone and Laurent Abergel with Adil Aouchiche, a recent signing from St Etienne. The impact is immediate as Kone and Outtara exchange a couple of passes, the last one of which puts Ikone through on goal with just Alban Lafont to beat, which he does, side footing the ball left-footed into the far corner of the goal. I can’t help it, but I leap up in the air along with everyone else wearing orange. Lorient lead 3-1. Surely Les Merlus can’t lose now, although an iffy pass almost gives Nantes a run on goal, resulting in Julian Laporte being booked for his efforts to recover the situation, and then Kone also lunges in and is booked too. The crowd chant “Lorientaises, Lorientaises” to celebrate their lead and to give the team an extra bit of support; and they need it as Ludovic Blas produces an excellent dribble to the edge of the box before sending a shot against the foot of the goalpost, which rebounds out and is cleared. The Lorient supporters remain joyful and confident however, even complacent, and a Mexican Wave begins, but fortunately not many join in and it quickly peters out.

Five minutes of normal time remain and Nantes are pushing forward all the time, but without success; they don’t really seem to have the guile to get through the Lorient defence. If Nantes are going to score they will need some luck and that is what happens as Moses Simon seemingly mis-hits a shot which trickles towards the goal, appears to hit a post, roll along the goal line and somehow goes in. The goal is barely deserved, and Nantes only come anywhere near scoring again once more as Ignatius Ganago’s header is saved by Mvogo. Unusually for the losing team, it is Nantes who make the late substitutions, and if it is an attempt to give the team and supporters a late fillip by increasing the amount of time added on it doesn’t work as time additionelle of just two minutes is announced.

The two minutes pass without further incident and the final whistle confirms Lorient’s win. Paulene and I both agree that this has been a very good match and we have been impressed and a little surprised by Lorient’s slick forward play in particular. But the whole afternoon has been wonderful, not just the football. From the Arthurian themed, locally brewed organic beer to the mingling of home and away fans in such a fine, small but spacious stadium under warm blue skies it has been a joy to be here. Full of happy thoughts we head for the club shop to buy that cuddly hake.