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In Northern Kazakhstan, where pine forests meet open steppe and blue-grey hills fade into mist, sits a football club whose badge carries industry, legend, and deep steppe memory. FC Okzhetpes are not just a provincial side playing out of the small city of Kokshetau – approximately a three-hour drive north of the capital – and set among some of the most beautiful forests and lakes you will ever find. They are a club shaped by factories, horses, mountains, and a story about freedom that is stitched into their soul. On the pitch, Okzhetpes have never been a dominant force in Kazakh football, but their story includes a fascinating footnote that only football can produce. In 2008, they finished ninth in the Kazakhstan Premier League. Ordinarily, that would have meant nothing more than survival. Instead, through a combination of UEFA licence denials and the withdrawal of higher-placed teams, Okzhetpes found themselves entering the inaugural UEFA Europa League qualifiers. They lost 3–2 over two legs to Moldova’s FC Zimbru Chișinău – but they can now boast having competed in Europe. So, let’s #GetTheBadgeIn – and see what lies behind this team with the blue horse on its crest. Like many clubs across the former Soviet Union, Okzhetpes did not begin with a poetic or ancient name. It began as the rather more industrial Torpedo. In Soviet sporting culture, club names reflected industry, labour, and state purpose. Torpedo was not about weapons. Instead, it was used for teams linked to mechanical and engineering plants, especially those producing cars, engines, heavy machinery, and precision metal parts. The most famous example was Torpedo Moscow, backed by the ZIL automobile factory, but the name spread everywhere. Kokshetau followed the same pattern. During the Second World War, the town became a place of evacuation and survival. In the autumn of 1941, factories were dismantled and moved east to escape the advancing German armies. Sewing machine plants from Podolsk, factories from Ordzhonikidze, and military hospitals were relocated to Kokshetau. Workers, engineers, and skilled labourers arrived with them. It is likely from this industrial pool that the original football team emerged. Football, as ever, followed work. For decades, the club carried that industrial identity. But after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Kazakhstan began reshaping not just its politics, but its symbols. Cities were renamed. Languages were reasserted. History was reclaimed. Okzhetpes was chosen – a name not from industry, but from legend. Okzhetpes refers to a dramatic cliff formation overlooking Lake Auliekol in the Burabay region. The name means “an arrow won’t reach.” According to local tradition, in the 18th century Ablai Khan, the last of the Kazakh Khans, faced a dilemma. A captive young woman was among the spoils of war, and the khan could not decide which warrior should marry her. Instead, he allowed her to choose. She climbed to the top of the highest cliff and declared she would marry whoever could strike her shawl with an arrow. None succeeded. Rather than submit, she leapt into the lake below, choosing freedom over ownership. The lake became known as Auliekol — the “holy lake” — and the cliff was remembered forever as Okzhetpes. This is not a story about victory. It is a story about choice. That matters in Kazakh culture. Freedom, autonomy, and dignity sit at the heart of steppe identity. The word Kazakh itself comes from a Turkic root meaning “free person” — someone who lives beyond fixed authority. Okzhetpes, as a name, carries that same meaning. The city name itself, Kokshetau, comes from Kazakh words meaning “smoky-blue mountain” — kökşe (bluish) and tau (mountain). The name refers to the way the nearby hills always seem to turn blue in the haze, especially at a distance. The club’s colours and the blue of the horse are a natural follow-on. Only a team in blue could come from the Blue Mountains. This region sits close to Burabay National Park (also known historically as Borovoye), a landscape of pine forests, lakes, and granite outcrops that feels almost out of place in the flat steppe imagination. It is one of Kazakhstan’s most beautiful natural regions — and is dotted with luxury hotels and spas that cater to the capital’s wealthy on day trips. The final piece of the badge puzzle is the horse itself. On the Kazakh steppe, horses were never just transport. They were survival. Horses allowed people to move vast distances, migrate with the seasons, and respond to danger. They were central to the economy — used to herd livestock, traded across Central Asia, and providing food, milk, hides, and status. Wealth was counted in horses. Honour was proven on horseback. In war, horses turned steppe fighters into fast, flexible forces capable of striking and disappearing. This tradition linked the Kazakhs to earlier steppe powers: Scythians, Turks, and Mongols. Control of horses meant control of space. Culturally, the bond ran even deeper. Horses appear constantly in Kazakh poetry, folklore, and ritual. A rider and horse were seen as a single unit. Skill on horseback marked adulthood. Losing horse culture under imperial and Soviet systems was felt as a loss of freedom itself. FC Okzhetpes are not the richest club in Kazakhstan. They are not serial champions. But their badge holds together layers of history that stretch from Soviet factories to steppe legends, from wartime evacuation to ancient mountains, from industrial Torpedo to Kazakh cliffs.

Here in the deep south of Kazakhstan, where the steppe softens into orchards, trade routes bend towards Uzbekistan, and history weighs heavily on the land, sits a club whose very name carries a unique national meaning. FC Ordabasy are not just a team from Shymkent. They are a footballing manifestation of unity, survival and cooperation. So let’s #GetTheBadgeIn and take a closer look. FC Ordabasy are based in Shymkent, Kazakhstan’s third-largest city and one of its most important historical crossroads. The club plays its football at the Kajymukan Munaitpasov Stadium, named after one of Kazakhstan’s greatest sporting heroes — a multiple-time world champion in Greco-Roman wrestling and a symbol of strength, pride, and resilience. The club itself was formed through merger rather than sudden invention. Ordabasy emerged from the union of two existing sides, FC Zhiger and FC Tomiris, both of which carried long Soviet-era histories and identities. That act of merging matters. It mirrors the very idea behind the name Ordabasy: different groups coming together for a common purpose. Since adopting the Ordabasy name in the early 2000s, the club has established itself as a consistent presence in Kazakhstan’s top flight. Between 2011 and 2022, they collected two Kazakhstan Cups and a Super Cup, carving out a reputation as serious competitors rather than background participants. They may not dominate headlines like clubs from Astana or Almaty, but they carry a deeper, symbolic weight. Every nation has places that sit central to their national story. For Kazakhstan, Ordabasy is one of those places. Ordabasy is a real location — a hill and region not far from Shymkent — but it is also a moment in history. In the early 18th century, Kazakhstan faced catastrophe. The Dzungar a tribe from modern day Mongolia and Russia invaded from 1723 to1727. They devastated the steppe in a period remembered as “Aktaban Shubyryndy” — the Years of the Great Disaster. Kazakh tribes were forced to flee, barefoot and starving, leaving behind land, herds, and homes. It is a trauma still deeply embedded in Kazakh national memory. In 1726, representatives of the three Kazakh zhuz (tribes) — the Great, Middle, and Little hordes — gathered at Ordabasy. This was not guaranteed. The zhuz were often rivals, divided by territory, politics, and lineage. But at Ordabasy, they put those divisions aside. They met and formed a kurultai — a steppe tradition of discussion, debate, and collective decision-making — a tradition that continues today in Kazakhstan’s National Kurultai that sits besides the government, gathers together different groups and offers advice to the leadership. Back in 1726 this meeting led to a decision to unite the Kazakh tribes against the Dzungars. It was a turning point. Ordabasy became the place where survival trumped rivalry, and unity replaced fragmentation. That idea runs deep in Turkic steppe culture. Leadership was not absolute; it was negotiated. Authority came from agreement, not walls or capitals. In that sense, Ordabasy fits into a wider steppe political tradition — one that also echoes in places like Ukraine’s Cossack councils (called Rada). That comparison is not accidental. The word “Kazakh” itself comes from the Turkic qazaq, meaning free man or one who lives beyond authority. The same root gave rise to the word Cossack. Kazakhs and Cossacks share ancient steppe origins. That shared past helps explain why events in Ukraine resonated so strongly in Kazakhstan: there is a sense of shared experience, shared trauma, and shared frontier history. After Putin’s invasion – Kazakhstan doubled down on its own identity – and the trend now is to call the country itself Qazaqstan – which is the latin translation from the Kazakh language – not the Russian. But this is only one part of the club’s heritage. Shymkent as a city sits on the ancient Silk Road routes that once linked China, Central Asia, Persia, and beyond. This was a city of movement long before borders were drawn. It is also one of the natural homes of the wild tulip – which explains the club’s crest (and the city’s own modern tourist branding). Long before tulips filled Dutch fields and triggered speculative bubbles in 17th-century Europe, they grew naturally in southern Kazakhstan. The Silk Roads that passed near Shymkent made tulip bulbs ideal travellers — hardy, portable, and valuable. From here, tulips moved west through Persia and the Ottoman world before reaching Europe, where they would eventually fuel Dutch tulip mania. That botanical journey mirrors the cultural one. Shymkent has always been a place where ideas, goods, and traditions came together and were exchanged. Like much of Kazakhstan, Shymkent bears the marks of empire. Mongols, khanates, Kokand rule, Russian conquest, and Soviet industrialisation all reshaped the city. Factories arrived. Railways followed. During the Second World War, industry was evacuated east, and Shymkent became a manufacturing hub for the Soviet war effort. Lending the city some working class grit – and therefore the easy origins of a footballing tradition. FC Ordabasy’s badge and name pull all of this together. In a league increasingly shaped by capital wealth and modern branding, Ordabasy stand slightly apart. They represent regional pride, historical memory, and national symbolism grounded in real events and real places. They are a club from Shymkent — but they are named for a moment that belongs to the whole country.

Here on the northern edge of Kazakhstan, close to the Russian border and wrapped in long winters and wide skies, sits a club whose badge carries far more than football ambition. FC Kyzylzhar are a team shaped by riverbanks, empire, steppe tradition, and a bird that has ruled the Kazakh imagination for centuries. This is a club named for a place before it was a city. For a landscape before borders. And for a symbol that still soars over the modern Kazakh state. So, let’s do it properly. Let’s #GetTheBadgeIn. The name Kyzylzhar translates directly as “Red Bank”, a reference to the reddish cliffs and riverbanks along the Ishim River (known in Kazakh as the Esil). Long before maps labelled this place Petropavl or Petropavlovsk, Kazakh nomads knew it as Kyzyl-Zhar: a natural stopping point, a trading location, and a meeting place on the northern steppe. The Ishim flows through northern Kazakhstan and into Russia, and today it links Petropavl to the capital, Astana, further south. But for centuries, this stretch of river marked a frontier between worlds: nomadic Kazakh lands and the expanding reach of the Russian Empire. FC Kyzylzhar’s name anchors the club firmly on the Kazakh side of that story. Even as the modern city grew around it, “Red Bank” remained the local name — one that survived empire, Soviet rule, and independence. You can still hear it spoken today, and it lives on through the football club more clearly than anywhere else. Like many clubs in Central Asia, FC Kyzylzhar’s history is one of renaming, restructuring, and survival. Founded in 1968, the team passed through a long list of identities — Avangard, Metallist, Yesil, Aksess-Yesil, and others — each reflecting the industrial sponsors and Soviet-era structures of the time. The turning point came in the post-Soviet era. As Kazakhstan established its own league and football identity, the club eventually settled on the name Kyzylzhar in 2009 — a conscious return to local heritage and Kazakh language. That choice matters. It re-centred the club in place and history. On the pitch, FC Kyzylzhar are founding members of the Kazakhstan Premier League and twice runners-up, finishing second in both 1999 and 2000. While they have not dominated domestically like clubs from Astana or Almaty, they have remained a consistent presence at the top level — a northern standard-bearer in a league often shaped by southern and capital-based teams. They play at Karasai Stadium in Petropavl. That name too, is stepped in Steppe legend – Karasai Batyr was a 17th century warrior and commander who led the fight against the invading Dzungher Khanate (a tribe from modern day Mongolia/Russia). National symbolism therefore seems appropriate for this team. Which brings to the most striking feature of the FC Kyzylzhar’s badge – the eagle, set in Kazakhstan’s national colours of yellow and blue. Eagle hunting — known as Bürkitshi — is one of the most respected traditions in Kazakh nomadic life. For centuries, hunters trained golden eagles to hunt foxes, hares, and wolves across the steppe. It required patience, trust, and mastery of both land and animal. A good eagle hunter was admired not just for skill, but for discipline and balance. The eagle itself became a symbol of strength, freedom, and vision — all qualities valued in steppe societies where survival depended on reading the land and acting decisively. That symbolism lives on today. The golden eagle appears at the centre of the Kazakh national flag, wings spread wide beneath the sun. It also dominates the interior of the National Museum of Kazakhstan in Astana, where a vast golden eagle sculpture stands as a statement of national identity and continuity. By placing the eagle on their badge, FC Kyzylzhar align themselves with that deep tradition. This is not a borrowed European heraldic bird. This is a steppe eagle — a hunter, not a decoration. The blue and yellow reinforce that message. These are the colours of modern Kazakhstan, but they also echo sky and sun, freedom and endurance. The badge quietly bridges past and present: ancient nomadic culture rendered in clean, modern lines. Petropavl’s history explains why this symbolism matters so much. In 1752, the Russian Empire founded a military fortress on the site of Kyzyl-Zhar, naming it after Saint Peter. The location was chosen carefully: steep riverbanks, natural ravines, and access to trade routes made it defensible and valuable. From here, Russia could project power south into the Kazakh steppe. Resistance followed. So did compromise. Over time, the city grew into a major trading and administrative centre. Kazakh khans negotiated with Russian authorities. Merchants moved goods between Central Asia and Siberia. Railways arrived in the late 19th century, tying Petropavl into the Trans-Siberian network. The Soviet period deepened the city’s industrial role. During the Second World War, factories were relocated east to escape Nazi advances, and Petropavl became a manufacturing hub producing heavy machinery and military equipment. Waves of deported communities reshaped its population. Russian language and administration dominated public life. Yet the old name never disappeared. Kyzyl-Zhar endured quietly — in local speech, in memory, and eventually in football. Since independence in 1991, Kazakhstan has worked to rebalance that history. Names have shifted back towards Kazakh forms. Symbols have been reclaimed. Identity has been reasserted without erasing the past. FC Kyzylzhar sit squarely in this story. They are a modern professional club, playing in a national league, but their badge, name, and colours deliberately root them in Kazakh culture rather than imperial legacy. The eagle looks forward, but it also looks back — to the hunters of the steppe, to the riverbank where nomads once traded, and to a place that has always been a meeting point between worlds. In that sense, FC Kyzylzhar are more than a football team from northern Kazakhstan. They are a reminder that identity is not just built in capitals and megaprojects. Sometimes it survives on a riverbank, in a name that refuses to disappear, and in an eagle that still knows how to fly.

Here on the far edges of UEFA’s map, where the floodlights glow against endless grasslands and winter temperatures can stop a ball dead in its tracks, sits FC Astana. This is a club born not just of football ambition, but of place. Of geography. Of empire. Of roads that once stitched together the ancient world. Astana itself is a young capital built on very old ground. Today it is all glass towers, bold curves, and award-winning architecture rising sharply from the flatlands. But long before skyscrapers and state wealth funds, this was Bozok — a small yet vital waypoint on the Silk Roads. The steppe here stretches for thousands of miles in every direction, a vast natural highway where horses could refuel on lush grass and caravans could move faster than anywhere else on Earth. That sense of motion still matters. From their modern 30,000-seat stadium, FC Astana are one of Kazakhstan’s dominant sides, pushing out from the steppes into European competition. Along the way, they have picked up a curious recurring rivalry with Celtic, the two having crossed paths often enough for it to feel more than coincidence. Ancient tribal routes meet industrial Europe. So, it’s time to do this club — perched on the fringe of UEFA but anchored in deep history — the honour it deserves. Let’s #GetTheBadgeIn. The badge itself, in its modern form, is a simple but effective nod to its place in the modern national story (the colours are taken from the Kazakh flag) and its long held agricultural connections, dating back to the early days of man – and through the Soviet and modern eras. So to understand FC Astana, you have to start with the land. The Eurasian Steppe isn’t empty space; it’s a highway. For thousands of years, it linked China to Europe, allowing people, goods, ideas, and armies to move at speed. It was these same routes that Genghis Khan and his armies thundered along, reshaping history from Korea to Hungary. After Genghis Khan’s death, his empire fractured. From its western remnants emerged the Kazakh Khanate, heirs to the Golden Horde. They thrived here by controlling movement and trade, becoming renowned horsemen and skilled blacksmiths. Their saddles, weapons, and tools travelled far, valued across the steppe world. Then came empire again. In the 18th century, Russia pushed outward. Westward into Ukraine. Eastward into the Kazakh lands. Fort by fort, logistics followed muskets. One such fort, Akmoly, was built on the banks near modern Astana, intended to secure imperial control over the region. But the people of the steppe do not submit easily. In 1838, a Kazakh leader named Kenesary Khan, who could trace his lineage back to Genghis himself, led a rebellion. His forces attacked Akmoly, burned it to the ground, and drove the Russians out. It was a powerful moment of resistance — but ultimately a temporary one. The Russian Empire regrouped, returned, and eventually absorbed the region. The 20th century brought new upheaval. As the Russian Empire collapsed into the Soviet Union, Kazakhstan became part of that vast communist system. During the Second World War, the cost was brutal. Around 1.2 million Kazakh men were sent west to fight Nazi Germany. Roughly half never came home. The Soviets spared little thought for the lives of these brace Steppe warriors – sending them against Nazi machine guns and artillery with little more than the clothes on their backs. At the same time, the steppe once again became a place of refuge and movement. As German armies advanced into Soviet industrial heartlands like Ukraine’s Donbas, entire factories were dismantled and relocated east, piece by piece, to the safety of the steppes. Akmoly grew as an industrial and logistical hub, while deported communities — including so-called “Russian-Germans” — were resettled across the region. Post-war, agriculture followed the industry. The Soviet “Virgin Lands” campaign turned vast areas of grassland into wheat fields, and the sheaves that still appear on the badge speak to that transformation, as well as sporting glory. All of this history feeds quietly into FC Astana’s identity. The club itself is modern, but it is rooted in the new Kazakh nation. Formed from the merger and relocation of clubs from Almaty, it moved north when Astana became the new capital. Initially named Locomotiv Astana, the club reflected its ownership: Kazakhstan’s state wealth fund, which also controls the national railways (who were the team’s sponsor – hence the name). Soon, the club was folded into a wider vision. Under President Nursultan Nazarbayev, Astana became the centre of a multi-sport project known as the Astana Presidential Club. Football sat alongside cycling, basketball, and ice hockey — including Barys Astana, who compete in the KHL, a league dominated by Russian teams but stretching deep into Asia and China. With this shift came a visual reset. FC Astana adopted the clean white, teal, and yellow palette of the wider Astana brand — modern, corporate, and state-aligned. The badge followed suit: minimalist, controlled, and deliberate. Nazarbayev’s name remains on the crest, a reminder that this club is as much about national projection as domestic success. And yet, when Astana step onto a European pitch, all of that symbolism collapses into something simpler. A team from the steppe. A city built on ancient routes. A badge carrying empire, resistance, industry, wheat, rails, and ambition. They’ve faced giants. They’ve travelled vast distances for group-stage nights. And against clubs like Celtic, they’ve shown that the fringes of Europe are never really the edges at all. Because Astana has always been a crossroads. Long before UEFA coefficients, before floodlights, before skyscrapers, people passed through here on horseback, carrying silk, stories, and steel. FC Astana are simply the latest travellers to follow those routes — pushing west once more. Seeking glory.

No one likes us – we don’t care. Millwall. At the height of the football hooliganism phase in the late 1960s, Millwall were singled out by the media as some of the worst culprits. London newspapers written by society’s bigwigs decided the working class of the East End obviously had to be at fault somehow. That reputation has stuck for decades. But there is far more to this club and its heritage than just a handful of dockers beating unfortunate fans black and blue in cul-de-sacs on away days. Millwall is a club born in a factory, shaped by the docks, and carried by a working-class community whose identity has always been central to its badge. So let’s #GetTheBadgeIn and take a clear look at how Millwall came to be so notorious — and why on earth there is a lion on their badge. Millwall were founded in 1885 on the Isle of Dogs, not in Bermondsey where they play today. Their origins lie in J.T. Morton’s jam and preserves factory. Morton’s was not a local company; it was originally founded in Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1849 to supply sailing ships with preserved foods. When the firm opened its first English processing plant on the Isle of Dogs in 1870, it brought with it a large Scottish workforce, especially from the Dundee dockyards. These workers — many of them young, skilled, and used to physical labour — formed Millwall Rovers, the club that would later become Millwall FC. They adopted the dark blue and white of their nation’s colours, and it stuck. The first players were dockers, labourers, engineers, and lightermen — classic East End trades. Millwall grew out of these communities, and the club’s reputation for toughness was shaped long before it became a media stereotype. The Isle of Dogs was more than warehouses. It was a major centre of shipbuilding and heavy engineering, including the Millwall Iron Works, which produced steel and armour plating used in Royal Navy ship construction. At the Battle of Jutland, the largest — and most vicious, if inconclusive — clash of the battleship age, the Royal Navy threw over 1.5 million tonnes of steel into the fight. Much of it was moulded, beaten, and welded by Millwall fans. Crowds were difficult to build on the Isle of Dogs because few people actually lived in the area. After a series of basic early grounds, the club moved in 1910 to The Den on Cold Blow Lane. The Old Den became one of the most intimidating stadiums in the country, where the noise level and the closeness of supporters created the famous “Millwall Roar.” In 1993, the club moved a short distance to the New Den, the first all-seater stadium constructed in England after the Taylor Report, which stated that following the Hillsborough Disaster, grounds must provide more seating and be safer. It lacks the closeness of the Old Den, but that does not stop the supporters turning it into an intimidating place for visiting teams. So why The Lions? The common myth is that the lion comes purely from the Scottish founders. The truth is more mixed. Millwall were originally known as The Dockers, which makes perfect sense given their factory and shipyard background. The lion badge only appeared in the early 20th century, 30-40 years after the club was founded. It was a time when nationalism and pride in “Britannia” were booming after the bruising experience of the Boer War (where Britain initially got its arse handed to it by a bunch of Dutch farmers – before mass mobilisation of Britain’s workers levelled the score). The lion was the animal at Britannia’s side. It suited the club’s emerging identity, and over time the lion replaced the Dockers nickname. The artistic origin of the lion is a bit cloudy. The version used from the 1970s onwards may have come from an illustration in the Lion comic by Geoff Campion, but the club could not trace the original artist when trying to trademark it, forcing later redesigns. Others suggest it comes from the long tradition of the Red Lion pub sign in Britain. The red lion appears on royal coats of arms (today shown in yellow on a red background). Scottish heraldic lions were also popular — the Scottish FA fly a red lion, and Middlesbrough’s own red lion has similar Scottish roots. Millwall’s badges have taken many subtly different shapes. A single rampant lion (standing on its back legs) was used from 1978, though its quality varied on replica shirts. In 1992, Bukta introduced a roundel crest featuring the lion within a circle spelling out the club’s name. Later versions returned to more traditional shield designs with two lions and a football, before the modern rampant lion — almost reaching out of the badge and looking a little like the Detroit Lion’s badge — became the club’s long-term crest. Despite changes in shape, the underlying identity remained the same. Millwall is a club founded by Scottish migrants working in a London jam factory, shaped by the docklands and ironworks of the Isle of Dogs, and carried south of the river by supporters who walked through the Greenwich Foot Tunnel to follow their team. Their reputation — good and bad — is rooted in their industrial origins: hard jobs, strong communities, and a straightforward outlook on life. Nobody likes them. But they don’t care. With thanks to research from whatsbehindthebadge.com.

There’s a lot of club badges out there to cover and I do try and complete them in some sort of order – but occasionally when trawling through Twitter I see something that catches my eye and it screams out for attention – Herne Bay’s badge was just one of those. It's a cracker. Founded in the early 1880s, Herne Bay FC has been part of the town’s fabric for well over a century. Today they play at Winch’s Field, competing in the Isthmian League Division One South, and they’ve had plenty to celebrate along the way — Kent League titles in 1992, 1994, 1997, 1998, and 2012. Like their town, the club has weathered storms — quite literally. Coastal erosion, floods, and changing fortunes have never dulled the local enthusiasm. So let’s do them the honour and #GetTheBadgeIn for their striking crest. The waves on Herne Bay’s badge are a clear nod to its relationship with the sea. Herne Bay stares out into the Thames Estuary and has shaped its fortunes. From the tourism of the 1800s to the megawatts of energy coming ashore today from the massed ranks of wind turbines – Herne Bay and the sea rise and fall as one. Before tourism, Herne Bay was a small shipping community, ferrying goods and passengers between London, Canterbury, and Dover. Fun fact – this sort of coastal trade (when conducted by a foreign-flagged ship) is known as cabotage (from the French caboter  – ‘to sail along the coast’). Which is one of my favourite words. It sounds like a ploy to sabotage a nation’s vegetable supply. Anywho – when Victorian investors built the pier in the 1830s (try getting planning permission for something that ambitious these days…), the town became a seaside sensation, catering for well-to-do Londoners seeking a weekend escape. Like Southend, Herne Bay was purpose-built for pleasure — complete with its own pier, promenade, seaside gardens, and later the world’s first freestanding clock tower. Which brings us neatly to the most striking emblem on the badge… The Victorian Clock Tower, one of Herne Bay’s defining landmarks. Built in 1837 and financed by Mrs Ann Thwaytes, a wealthy widow from London. Ann and her husband loved holidaying in Herne Bay and when he sadly passed away she funded its construction in his honour. In 1902 it was affixed with the names of the volunteers from the town who had fought and died in the Second Boer War. The tower was the first of its kind anywhere in the world: a freestanding clock tower built purely for public use. Rising proudly above the seafront, it has ticked through the town’s entire story — from the steamboat era to the present day. Its inclusion on the club badge is more than civic pride. When supporters see that tower stitched onto their shirts, they are reminded that they represent not just a club, but a community that has built successful industries and chosen to fight for its country abroad – a town that has withstood the tests of time (…sorry). Above the waves on the crest sits a white bird. To me it looks like a heron - and the rare 'purple heron' is occasionally spotted along the coast. So it’s a fitting emblem for a town that is home to one of Kent’s key wildlife reserves, the Reculver Country Park, just east of Herne Bay. This stretch of coastline is designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest and a Special Protection Area for birds. Thousands of migratory and native species feed, nest, and soar above these waters — and it is a famous site within the bird-watching community. Herne Bay sits neatly between Whitstable and Reculver, about six miles north of Canterbury. The name “Herne” comes from the Old English hyrne , meaning corner, reflecting its position on a crook of the Kent coastline. The Victorians saw potential in that corner — a chance to build a perfect coastal escape — and Herne Bay became one of Britain’s earliest planned seaside resorts. By the late 1800s, its population had doubled, the pier stretched an impressive 3,600 feet into the estuary, and elegant gardens lined the shore. People came for the fresh air, the concerts, and the spectacle of the clock tower marking time against the tide. Herne Bay’s story mirrors the rise and fall of many British seaside towns. Its pier, once the second-longest in the UK after Southend’s, drew crowds and steamers from London. Holidaymakers filled the hotels and gardens, and the town thrived as the Victorian middle class embraced the joy of sea air. But as foreign travel grew and storms battered the coast, Herne Bay’s heyday faded. Yet, just like their football club, the town refused to give in. Regeneration projects in the 1990s restored much of its charm, from the Victorian bandstand to the Neptune’s Arm sea defences, and today Herne Bay is finding new life in heritage tourism and coastal conservation. Herne Bay also claims, quite fantastically, to be home to the world’s first roller-hockey club. The Herne Bay Roller Hockey Club dates back to the early 1900s, and while I am a little unsure I believe it was the very first, in a very uncrowded market, I am sure, it has a good claim. The town’s history is written in layers — from Roman ruins at nearby Reculver to modern wind farms gleaming offshore — but its heart remains the same: a welcoming coastal community proud of its roots, its wildlife, and its football team.

Right now #ChelseaFC are playing a team in the #uefachampionsleague with a quality name and a superb badge with a fascinating, if tragic, history. So let's do Azerbaijan's finest the honour and #GetTheBadgeIn for the Horsemen of @FKQarabaghEN Futbol Klubu. The club was founded in 1951, when Aghdam’s new city stadium was completed. At the time, the Soviet Union’s local sports system relied on state and agricultural cooperatives, and the new team took the name Mehsul, meaning “Product” or “Harvest” in Azerbaijani. The name reflected the town’s agricultural character — Aghdam was known for vineyards, fruit, and horse breeding — and symbolised productivity and local pride. Mehsul first entered the Azerbaijani SSR Championship in 1966, finishing fourth. The club spent several seasons in local competition, its best finish being second place in 1969, before financial problems forced its withdrawal in the early 1970s. Revived later as Shafaq (“Twilight”) and then Cooperative Society, the club finally adopted its enduring name, Qarabağ, in 1988. That year they won the Azerbaijan SSR title and gained promotion to the Soviet Second League — the highest point of their pre-independence era. The name Qarabağ comes from the Turkic qara (black or large) and Persian bāgh (garden) — a term meaning “black garden” or “great garden.” It captures the region’s natural richness and deep cultural layers. Karabakh lies between the Kura and Aras rivers, stretching from low plains to the highlands of the Lesser Caucasus, and has long been home to mixed communities of Azerbaijanis and Armenian. A little like Ukraine, it was known for its deep dark soil that allowed for huge harvests. Following the collapse of the Russian Empire after World War I, both new republics — Armenia and Azerbaijan — claimed the area. When the Soviet Union took control in 1920, the Bolsheviks decided that Karabakh would remain within Azerbaijan. In 1923, the highland area, where most of the population was Armenian, became the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast (NKAO) within the Azerbaijan SSR. The Armenian-majority NKAO had cultural autonomy but remained politically tied to Baku. Periodic petitions to unite it with Armenia were rejected, but the issue never disappeared. In 1988, as the Soviet Union weakened, the NKAO parliament voted to join Armenia. The decision sparked unrest and armed clashes that escalated into the First Nagorno-Karabakh War after independence in 1991. By 1993, Armenian forces controlled most of Nagorno-Karabakh and seven surrounding Azerbaijani districts, including Aghdam. Aghdam was destroyed, its 40,000 residents displaced, and Qarabağ FK’s home ground, the Imarat Stadium, reduced to ruins. Their manager and former player, Allahverdi Baghirov, was killed in the fighting. Four UN Security Council resolutions later called for Armenian withdrawal, but the occupation remained in place until the 2020 ceasefire, when Azerbaijan regained much of the territory. From 1993 onwards, Qarabağ FK became a team in exile, based in Baku — representing a city that no longer existed. The two rearing horses on Qarabağ’s badge refer to the Karabakh horse, a breed native to the region and one of the oldest in the world. Known for its speed, endurance, and distinctive golden-chestnut coat, the Karabakh horse has been a source of national pride for centuries. It symbolises grace, resilience, and connection to the land — qualities that have come to define the club itself. Coming from Ipswich, who proudly have their local breed, the Suffolk Punch on the badge - I very much approve of this equine symbolism. Even in exile, Qarabağ FK’s spirit endured. In 1993, the same year their home town of Aghdam fell, they won both the Azerbaijan Top League and the national cup. In 1999, they became the first Azerbaijani club to win a European match abroad, defeating Israel’s Maccabi Haifa. Sponsorship from Azersun Holding in 2001 gave the club stability, and under long-serving manager Gurban Gurbanov, Qarabağ rose to dominate the domestic league. Their historic qualification for the 2017–18 UEFA Champions League group stage marked a milestone for Azerbaijani football — the first time a club from the country had reached that level. Today, Qarabağ FK, still in exile, play their home matches in Baku’s Azersun Arena and Tofiq Bahramov Stadium. Every time the Horsemen take the field, they carry the memory of Aghdam with them. Each game carries more than sporting meaning: it is a reminder of Aghdam’s history and of a people’s determination to keep their heritage alive through football.

There is something special about African football. So often their nations are riven by identity crisis – in part caused by those pesky colonial types that drew whopping great straight lines across the continent – splitting cultures, nations, languages and religions as they went. What these nations need – are unity. And this is what the indomitable lions of Cameroon can provide – almost uniquely.   Unity is what Cameroon is all about. It is what is strives the most for. That colours in its flag – the star in the middle of that flag, and its most famous monument that adorns the away kit… are all named after unity.   So, let’s do the Lions and the fascinatingly beautiful and complex nation they represent the honour  - and #GetTheBadgeIn for the Cameroon national team.   The badge of Cameroon’s national football team proudly mirrors the national flag — three vertical bands of green, red, and yellow, centred by a single golden star. The green represents the deep southern forests, the yellow the blazing northern savannahs and life-giving sun, and the red the unity that binds the nation together. The yellow star, known as the Star of Unity , symbolises the coming together of peoples once divided — a shining emblem of Cameroon’s journey from colonial separation to proud independence.   This sense of unity is also reflected in the Indomitable Lions’ away kit , which features a design inspired by the Reunification Monument in Yaoundé. Designed in the 1970s by Gédéon Mpando and Engelbert Mveng, the spiral monument represents the merging of the British and French Cameroons. Its upward twist embodies the nation’s ongoing ascent — from hardship to hope — and reminds players and fans alike of the strength that comes when a people stand together.   Cameroon is often called “Africa in miniature”  — and nowhere is this truer than in its landscape. The green of the flag reflects the lush tropical rainforests of the south, part of the vast Congo Basin. These forests are teeming with life: towering trees, chattering monkeys, hidden gorillas, and countless bird species. Among these marvels leaps one of the nation’s most extraordinary creatures — the Goliath Frog, the largest frog in the world. Found only in Cameroon and parts of Equatorial Guinea, it can grow over 30 centimetres long and leap nearly three metres in a single bound.   Further north, the yellow stripe of the flag represents the golden savannahs and the energy of the sun. These dry grasslands stretch across the Adamawa Plateau and towards Lake Chad, home to herders, farmers, and ancient trade routes. Together, these two landscapes — forest and savannah — show the incredible diversity of the country’s environment, united under one sky and one flag. The red band connects them both, symbolising the blood and spirit that bind Cameroon’s people, while the star gleams as a promise of continued unity.   When the Portuguese first arrived in 1472, they found the Wouri River alive with prawns and called it Rio dos Camarões  — the River of Shrimps. The name became Cameroon . Later came the Germans, who ruled the territory from 1884 until the First World War, when Britain and France divided it between them.   The French took the larger eastern section; the British governed two smaller western territories. French became the language of one side, English of the other. Two systems, two schools, two cultures — all within a single land.   When independence came in 1960 for French Cameroun and 1961 for British Southern Cameroons, the dream of reunification finally became reality. Together, they formed the Federal Republic of Cameroon, later united under a single flag and government. The Reunification Monument in Yaoundé still stands as a testament to this hard-won unity — a spiral of concrete and faith, rising like a lion’s roar above the capital.   Cameroon’s history is marked by outside powers carving lines across a land that had once been whole. Yet, through this, Cameroonians have forged something extraordinary — a shared identity that transcends language and region. The Reunification Monument reminds every citizen that unity is not a given; it is built, protected, and renewed every day.   In a country where over 250 languages are spoken, and where colonial divisions still echo, the message of the Star of Unity  is simple and powerful: Together, we rise.   If the Reunification Monument is unity cast in stone, then the Indomitable Lions are unity in motion. Football is Cameroon’s great unifier — the heartbeat that syncs every region, every tongue, every faith.   From Roger Milla’s joyous dances at the 1990 World Cup to Samuel Eto’o’s era of brilliance and Rigobert Song’s leadership, football has given Cameroonians something rare and precious: a shared story. When the Lions roar, the nation roars with them.   Recent history has continued that spirit. The team’s triumph at the 2021 Africa Cup of Nations on home soil reignited national pride. Players from the English-speaking west and the French-speaking east stood together, arm in arm, singing the anthem before packed crowds in Yaoundé. The Lions’ comeback victories reminded Cameroonians of who they are — resilient, fearless, and united.   The national team’s green, red, and yellow kit carries more than colour — it carries memory. Each match becomes a new chapter in Cameroon’s ongoing story of togetherness, echoing the very purpose of the Reunification Monument.   Cameroon’s badge tells a story that stretches from rainforest to savannah, from the depths of history to the roar of the football pitch.   The badge, like the nation itself, shines under the Star of Unity  — bold, bright, and unbreakable.

Toronto is buzzing again. For the first time in thirty-two years, the Blue Jays are heading back to the World Series – and they’ve just made an incredible start! Winning their first game 11 - 4, helped in large part by Canadian born Vladimir Guerrero Jr, who signed a jaw-dropping $500 million contract with the club. His father, Vladimir Guerrero Sr, spent his own career chasing a ring with the Montreal Expos — Canada’s lost team. The son now vows to win that title and hand the ring to his father. But. Before we go any further – who exactly are the Blue Jays? Why are they one of the most iconic baseball teams in the world? And what even is a Blue Jay? Let’s do this year’s World Series contenders the honour – and #GetTheBadgeIn.   The Blue Jays appeared back in 1976. Toronto was awarded a Major League Baseball expansion franchise and it needed a name. The City turned to its citizens and asked for ideas - thousands of entries poured in. The winning name, Blue Jays, delivered on representing the city’s identity in a number of different ways: the connection ran through birds, beer and tradition. Let’s take each in turn. The blue jay is no ordinary bird. Common across eastern Canada, it’s intelligent, noisy, social, and fiercely territorial — a tiny bundle of personality in cobalt and white. Scientists say its feathers aren’t even blue; they only appear that way because of light refraction. In a sense, it’s a trick of the light — dazzling, clever, adaptable. These birds are also builders - blue jays hoard and plant acorns, helping new forests grow. That quiet symbolism of growth and community made them the perfect emblem for a young Canadian franchise trying to plant roots in the world’s biggest baseball league. Then there’s the Labatt Blue connection — an undeniable nod to one of Canada’s most famous brewing houses. Founded in London, Ontario, in 1847 by John Kinder Labatt, the company grew from a small provincial brewery into a national giant. By the 1950s its pale lager, Labatt Blue, was the best-selling beer in Canada, and its blue label had become as familiar as the maple leaf. The connection? Labatt was the Blue Jays’ first owner, and the overlap between the beer’s colour and the team’s kit was hardly an accident. The inclusion of the red maple leaf in the logo – identical to the icon on the Labbat Blue beer can – cemented the connection. It also helped that Toronto’s other big clubs — the Maple Leafs in hockey, the Argonauts in football — were already draped in blue. The Blue Jays simply extended that identity. Toronto is blue. Toronto as a city was perfect for the new team. By the 1970s it was shifting from a regional capital to a global metropolis — a place of art, business, and bold growth. The Blue Jays’ arrival gave the city a team to match its confidence, and with it, a sense of identity distinct from Montreal, Vancouver, or New York. The franchise became a national symbol — Canada’s only MLB team, a shared flag for a whole country of fans. Every home run, every World Series appearance, carried that sense of national pride. The victories of 1992 and 1993 defined an era. Now, in 2025, the Blue Jays have landed once again in the top game of the sport.

Situated between Southampton and Portsmouth on the English south coast – upstream of a creek (Fareham Creek) – this town could not have anything but a rich heritage given its location. The football team is also proving itself to have some deep wells of support in the local area – in the Isthmian League South Central so far this year they have the third highest attendance – this is despite a slightly rocky start to the season. Their badge immediately drew my attention on Twitter because of the two red roses sitting either side of the crossed keys and sword. Red roses are usually seen ‘up north’ in Lancashire – Southampton FC have a white rose embedded in their badge – so how did a red rose, two in fact, get onto the south coast? Well, there is an easy answer for one – and an interesting connection for the other. So, without further ado, let’s do the #Creeksiders the honour and #GetTheBadgeIn – because they have a beauty based on the town’s coat of arms. Let’s start with that ship. As you would expect, Fareham has long had a strong maritime connection. In medieval times, ships loaded with Hampshire grain sailed to France and returned with wine. Imports such as coal, salt, and hides arrived at Fareham’s quays, while exports included timber, leather, bricks, pottery, and grain. In the late 18th century, shipbuilding thrived in Fareham – and while smaller boats were, and still are, constructed at Fareham – its role was mostly to ship out the vast amounts of timber needed for the Royal Navy, building its ships during the 18th and 19th centuries in Portsmouth. Fareham sits in the middle of some large forests and estates, making it an excellent source of this vital ingredient that powered Britain’s rise. The town today boasts some beautiful Georgian architecture and houses built at around the same time as the top brass of the Royal Navy and their families moved into the area – far enough away from the busy dockyards to be idyllic but close enough to oversee operations. The ship in gold is striking against the black background. According to the Fareham Town Council website, that is by design, as the black itself has deep-rooted meanings. Fareham has notched up some impressive industrial innovations in its time, and this black, the colour of coal and industry, is meant to represent that. In the 1780s Henry Cort introduced a new method of smelting iron, known, funnily enough, today as the Cort process. He found that by taking low-quality and ‘crumbly’ pig iron and placing it into a coal-fired ‘reverberatory furnace’ (which means the fuel is burnt in one chamber which heats the roof of the chamber in which the metal is placed) you could turn it into wrought iron. Wrought iron was of high quality and could be fashioned into railway tracks or used for shipbuilding. However, the story goes a bit deeper. Cort, while responsible for introducing the process to England, did not actually invent it himself (despite holding the patent). He learned of the method from his cousin, who traded with the slave island of Jamaica. There, a group of black metalworkers had devised this new method, which Cort’s cousin witnessed when visiting the island. So, thanks to Cort – and those innovative Jamaican slaves – Fareham was able to keep up with the changes in shipbuilding and once again become the source of the Royal Navy’s essential materials, from timber to iron. However, Fareham’s exports and innovations did not stop there and were not confined to developing for export either. Looking inward, the new building boom triggered by the Industrial Revolution required large amounts of bricks. Again, to the rescue came Fareham. Bursledon brickworks and others in the area took advantage of the area’s naturally high-quality clay and began producing en masse. There was plenty of clay at the new Bursledon site, along with excellent transport links by rail and river. At first, the clay was dug by hand from deep pits, some nearly 40 feet deep, located close to the factory. It was then moved using small railway wagons. As the nearest pits were exhausted and the digging moved further away, this method became less practical. In the 1930s, mechanical diggers were introduced, and eventually, the clay was transported to the works by an overhead cable system from more distant pits. The bricks made from the local clay soon became known as ‘Fareham red brick’ and were used in many buildings – notably, the Royal Albert Hall in London was built with them and still retains its iconic Fareham red brick look today. Moving up in the badge, we have the crossed keys and sword. This represents the church that sits at the centre of Fareham – the Church of St Peter and St Paul. St Peter is often referred to with the symbols of the crossed keys (which is why so many pubs are called that too), as he was the holder of the keys of Heaven. St Paul, who wrote much of the Bible, is historically referred to as the sword of Christ – but in his case, his ‘sword’ was his pen. The crossed keys and sword symbolism crops up a lot in England and is also on the school badge of Cranleigh private school in Surrey, which is not a million miles away from Fareham and has its own church of the same name. So then, finally, to the red roses which sparked my interest in the first place… The red roses are indeed those of Lancaster – but in a rather roundabout way. Hampshire also has the red rose symbol on its flag because it is connected through John of Gaunt to Lancaster. John was the fourth son of Edward III and rose to become one of the most powerful men in England (but never king). He was titled ‘Duke of Lancaster’ and was the OG ‘Lancastrian’ (one of the houses that would tear England apart during the Wars of the Roses). However, despite holding significant lands in the north, he also held estates in Hampshire – hence the red rose also appearing down south. So, there you have it. Warships, iron, red bricks, and red roses – the powerhouse behind the Royal Navy and the Industrial Revolution. There’s a lot going on with these #Creeksiders.

Bayer 04 Leverkusen: The Factory Team that Perfected the Formula In 2024, Under Xabi Alonso, Bayer Leverkusen , the club claimed its first ever Bundesliga title, ending Bayern Munich’s 11-year dominance and completing a domestic double with the DFB-Pokal. They did it with style: unbeaten through the entire league campaign, and setting a European record of 48 matches without defeat before finally falling in the Europa League final to Atalanta. For a club once nicknamed “Neverkusen” for its screw ups, it was redemption.   To understand Bayer Leverkusen’s success, you have to go back to the origins of the town and the company whose name the club still proudly wears – so let’s do just that – and #GetTheBadgeIn for these newly rejuvenated German giants.   Leverkusen lies on the eastern bank of the Rhine in North Rhine-Westphalia, midway between Cologne and Düsseldorf. Today it’s part of the dense Rhine-Ruhr industrial region, but for centuries it was a scattering of quiet villages. The area is crossed by the Wupper and Dhünn rivers which helped get the regions exports to market.   But the story of modern Leverkusen is not about the beating of hammers or the drilling of coal mines like other German industrial teams such as Borussia Dortmund. Their industrial revolution was altogether more refined one. A world of flasks, beakers, Bunsen burners and lab coats.   It all began in the mid-19th century when the chemist Carl Leverkus established a dye factory at Wiesdorf in 1861. He produced artificial ultramarine blue (the natural version was an extremely expensive and rare colouring that came from rocks mined mostly in Afghanistan!) and named the settlement around his factory Leverkusen, after his family’s home in Lennep. When the Bayer company later purchased the site in 1891, they kept the name – but it applied only to the district where the workers lived – when they made the football team they took that name. But by 1930, the surrounding villages merged into one municipality and they named the entire region Leverkusen, recognising the town’s dependence on Bayer’s presence. So, in an unusual twist, the football club would bear the city’s name before the city itself officially existed.   The company that gave the town — and club — its identity was founded earlier still. In 1863, a dye salesman named Friedrich Bayer and his partner Johann Friedrich Weskott, a master dyer, opened a small dyestuffs workshop in Barmen.   By the late 19th century, Bayer’s laboratories had turned their attention to pharmaceuticals. In 1899, they trademarked Aspirin, based on acetylsalicylic acid — one of the most widely used medicines in history. A few years earlier, they had also introduced heroin, at the time marketed as a cough suppressant and supposedly non-addictive alternative to morphine. The later product didn’t catch on (well, it did…) but the former one began all world conquering (and legal).   Bayer’s “cross” logo was registered in 1904 and soon stamped on every aspirin tablet — four intersecting letters that became one of the world’s most recognisable symbols. The illuminated version still shines over Leverkusen today.   In 1925, Bayer joined several firms to form IG Farben, then the world’s largest chemical company. Within it, scientists such as Gerhard Domagk discovered Prontosil, the first widely used antibacterial drug and a forerunner of modern antibiotics. After the Second World War, IG Farben was dissolved because of its wartime role, and Bayer re-emerged in 1951 as Farbenfabriken Bayer AG, rebuilding rapidly in West Germany as the Allies sought to rebuild Germany at speed as a bulwark against the Russians.   In the post-war decades, Bayer has diversified into polymers, crop science, biotechnology and consumer healthcare. The firm remains one of the world’s largest pharmaceutical groups, even after difficult mergers such as the 2016 acquisition of Monsanto. From a single dye workshop to a global science powerhouse, its trajectory mirrors the rise of industrial Germany itself.   Against this industrial backdrop came a simple idea from the factory floor. On 27 November 1903, a worker named Wilhelm Hauschild, supported by whopping 180 other colleagues, wrote to the company directors requesting permission to start a sports club. Bayer agreed, and on 1 July 1904 the Turn- und Spielverein Bayer 04 Leverkusen was founded. 04 for the year in which it was founded.   At first, it promoted gymnastics and general fitness, but on 31 May 1907 a football department was formally created. The footballers soon split and formed their own branch in 1928 as Sportvereinigung Bayer 04 Leverkusen, taking with them handball, boxing and athletics, while the gymnasts continued separately.   Through the 1930s the team played in regional leagues, earning promotion to the second tier in 1936 — the same year the club first wore the Bayer Cross on its shirts. Post-war, Bayer 04 appeared in the Oberliga West in 1951.   The link between company and club runs deep - Bayer provided facilities, funding and community support, and the club in turn became a social pillar for thousands of employees. Over time it grew into one of Germany’s largest multi-sport associations.   Leverkusen’s modern identity is most visible at the BayArena, the club’s home since 1958. Originally the Ulrich-Haberland-Stadion, it has been steadily expanded and modernised, most notably between 2007 and 2009. The stadium’s defining feature is its circular roof, a light, cable-supported structure 215 metres across made from translucent polycarbonate — a material produced by Bayer itself.   With a capacity of around 30,000, the BayArena reflects both practicality and precision. It is compact, symmetrical and designed to shelter every seat from the rain — an engineer’s solution to comfort rather than grandeur. The glowing roof ring above the stands gives it a distinctive, almost scientific aesthetic, a stadium that could only belong to a pharmaceutical factory club.   Bayer Leverkusen’s rise under Xabi Alonso was absolutely staggering. His calm leadership and modern pressing style turned a struggling side into a record breakers.   Their unbeaten 2023-24 campaign was not built on spectacle alone, but on intelligent design — players interlocking like the gears of a laboratory machine. They won the Bundesliga by a margin rarely seen, finished the domestic season undefeated, and for the first time, truly fulfilled the promise of being Germany’s “Werkself” — the Factory Eleven.   Every badge tells a story, and Bayer Leverkusen’s brings its history full circle. At the centre stands the Bayer Cross, symbol of the company and the city’s industrial birth. Flanking it are two red lions, taken directly from the coat of arms of Leverkusen. The lions represent the old regional nobility, but in the context of the club they also suggest strength, courage and guardianship — protecting the proud emblem of science that made the town possible.   The old protects the new. I quite like that symbolism.   The illuminated Bayer Cross still shines over the Rhine, a beacon of invention. Beneath it, the red and black of Leverkusen continue to represent what can happen when human curiosity, industry and teamwork share the same formula.

They did it. They blimmin’ went and did it. Thursday just gone, October 9th 2025, The Ipswich Witches (@ipswichspeedway) finally broke a 26-year wait to reclaim British speedway’s biggest prize. In front of a bumper Foxhall crowd, the Witches edged out the Leicester Lions 46–43 on the night and 93–86 on aggregate to win their first Premiership title since 1998. Former world champion Jason Doyle top-scored with 10 points, sealing the club’s 11th major trophy since its foundation in 1950. For team boss Ritchie Hawkins, who took charge when Ipswich sat bottom of the second division, it was the culmination of a decade’s persistence. “There’s massive expectation here,” he told BBC Radio Suffolk. “Every week we have the best crowds in the country and the best supporters.” For those of you who may not know what on earth I am talking about this is Speedway. Four riders. Four laps. Dirt Track. One Gear. No Brakes. Steering? Sort of. They call it broadsiding – jumping and cutting into the dirt to get leverage to propel them forwards – and ahead of their rivals. 2 riders in each team. 3 points or first, 2 for second and 1 for third. 15 heats. On the straights, they can reach speeds of up to 70 mph, kicking up a haze of shale (coating nearby spectators) and noise that defines a summer night at Foxhall and can be heard all across Ipswich. The sport began in Australia in the early 1920s, spreading rapidly to Britain in 1928 when promoter Johnnie Hoskins and a group of riders introduced it at High Beech in Essex. By the 1930s, speedway had swept across northern Europe, with Britain, Poland, Sweden, and Denmark becoming its modern strongholds. Speedway came to Ipswich in the post-war reconstruction boom. Foxhall Stadium was purpose-built for the sport in 1950, and after a few postponed meetings the track opened officially on 14 May 1951 when Ipswich faced Yarmouth in a challenge match. The club joined the Southern League the following year and adopted the nickname “Witches” – more on which in a second. Through the decades, Ipswich have been one of the most iconic teams in British speedway. Their crisp black jackets with fluorescent yellow trim stand out from a mile away and are by the far the best dressed Speedway team in England. They dominated the 1970s and 1980s, winning league titles in 1975, 1976, and 1984, and adding a string of Knockout Cups. The Louis family became synonymous with the club: John Louis, an Ipswich native and former England international, led the team to success in the 1970s before later managing the national side. His son picked up the family tradition and Chris Louis starred through the 1990s, helping Ipswich to a famous treble in 1998 alongside Tony Rickardsson, Tomasz Gollob, and Scott Nicholls. Today Chris promotes the club with team manager Hawkins, continuing a family legacy that stretches back half a century. So then, on to the badge and that name… The Witches. Ipswich and the surrounding East Anglia countryside was one of the most active centres of witch trials in seventeenth-century England, a time when fear, religion, and politics collided to spook the people into vigilante populist nonsense...(hmm). In an age of poor harvests, plague, and civil war, belief in the Devil’s work ran deep. It was here, in 1645, that two figures—Matthew Hopkins, the self-proclaimed Witchfinder General, and a local woman named Mary Lakeland, also called Mother Lakeland—crossed paths in one of the darkest episodes in Suffolk’s story. Hopkins, a lawyer’s son from just across the Essex border in picturesque Manningtree, claimed he had been sent by God to uncover the Devil’s subversion of the good lady (and some men) folk of England. With his assistant John Stearne, he toured towns across Essex, Suffolk, and Norfolk, charging local authorities for each “investigation.” The pair used brutal methods—sleep deprivation, endless questioning, and the so-called swimming test where suspects were bound and thrown into water. Dozens were hanged after dubious trials and more than a hundred in total would die. Let’s not get bogged down into the economics of Hopkin’s trade… there is a sort of inevitability to finding someone guilty when you’re being paid to do so… A bit like how that feller in Scooby Doo always dresses up as a ghost to lower house prices… Ipswich, wealthy from exporting cloth out into Europe, was high on Hopkin’s list of potential markets. In August 1645, five women from the town were accused of witchcraft. Records show Hopkins and his agents were involved and received payment from the town council (I strangely suspect this would probably go down better on local Facebook comment threads than some of the more innocent things the Council tries to do today…) One of those accused, Mary Lackland (or Lakeland – different accounts use different spelling), faced a fate even worse than hanging. Mary Lackland was an elderly widow of a barber. She fit the stereotype of a witch—outspoken, eccentric, old, poor, and alone… on reflection, and if that’s the criteria, I rather fear for my wife once I’m gone. But I digress, Mark Lackland confessed (under some significant ‘pressure’ from Hopkin’s men) to making a pact with the Devil and to commanding animal “familiars” who harmed neighbours that had crossed her – in particular a dog (I mean come on… what are the odds of a dog hanging around…) Among the charges, she was accused of killing her own husband by witchcraft—a crime defined not only as witchcraft but as petty treason (love that concept…). It was this that sealed her fate. While most convicted witches were hanged, those guilty of petty treason were burned at the stake. On 9 September 1645, Mary Lakeland was taken from Ipswich Gaol to Rushmere Heath, just beyond the town. There she was tied to a stake and burned alive. I imagine if this happened today the kids riding the Route 66 bus that drives past the heath probably wouldn’t even look up from their phones to notice. Mary’s death marked the last execution for witchcraft in Ipswich, and one of the last burnings in England. Why did the good subjects of Ipswich get wrapped up such hysteria? And without even a vital meme promoting such nonsense in sight? The mid-1600s were years of turmoil: civil war between king and parliament, economic hardship, bloody French pirates periodically raiding the coastline and stealing ice creams from the promenades, disease, and religious extremism. Witchcraft offered a simple answer to complex fears. Misfortune could be blamed on neighbours rather than nature. Women—especially widows or healers—were easy targets. They were such simple minded fools back then, imagine if we simply blamed all our problems on one grou…. Oh. However, Hopkins himself died only two years after all of this, in 1647 – supposedly of of tuberculosis, aged 27. Was this curse? Did Lackland have the last laugh? Do the Ipswich Witches still live on? They do indeed. Although some may feel that they can probably be better seen in the Town today on a Friday night falling out of Vokda Revs – the true Witches – have gone from fire to floodlights and settled in Foxhall woods. A symbol that once evoked fear and division, that badge now unites. The Foxhall crowds that roar on the Witches every summer celebrate resilience, not superstition; determination, not persecution. The broomsticks are steel frames now, broadsiding around that track to glory. The Ipswich Witches have been around for centuries. Come on you Witches. Let’s win it again next year.