Dec 20, 1995	Cantonian Rhapsody
Jan 12, 1996	Cantona's Diary 

=======================================
From: davida@MIT.EDU (David Achenbach )
Date: Wed, 20 Dec 95 14:09:07
Subject: NAS Holiday Humor

I know this is strictly speaking not North American soccer-related, but I 
thought it was funny, and as today finds me at work when many others in 
Boston are home because of the snow (wimps!) I feel like laughing and 
invite others to do likewise.  If you've seen it before, well then, you're 
seeing it again:

     Cantonian Rhapsody (sort of fits into the Bohemian Rhapsody tune)

     Is this the Moss Side? Or is it fantasy?
     Taught by the lies from Matt Busbys Theatre of Dreams
     Open your eyes, look right through the lies and see
     He's just a french git
     deserving no sympathy
     Because he's hit them high
     hit them low
     Karate kick or body blow
     Anyway the sod goes doesn't really matter to me
     to me.

      Mamma, just kicked a man
     put my studs in his chest
     Then I slapped him round the head
     My career had only just begun
     But now I've gone and thrown it all away.
     Mama, je suis merde, didn't mean to blow my top
     If I piss off to spain some time tomorrow,
     Carry on, carry on, 'cos ze Mancs dont really matter.

     Lately I have done wrong
     Thats what I tell the press.
     But I really couldn't care less
     Goodbye everybody, I'm due in court
     But by the start of October I'll be back

     Mama ooooooo
     I don't wanna sign
     I sometimes wish I'd never left
     France at all.

     I see a little leather jacket on a man
     Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu! I will kick his f*cking head in!
     Addidas and Nike might take all those ads off me

     Manchestero (Manchestero)
     Manchestero (Manchestero)
     Manchestero, I've got to go (so pay me moooooooooore)

     I'm just a french boy, nobody loves me
     (He's just a french boy from a french family, cant blame the parents
     for this monstrosity)
     Easy come, easy go - a red card you will show
     Referee? NOOO!
     You must not send me off! (send him off)
     Referee?
     He's going to send me off (send him off)
     Referee? He's gone and sent me off (sent him off)
     I'll have my early bath (early bath)
     Another early bath (early bath)
     NON! NON! NON! NON! NON! NON! NON!
     Man United Man United Man United will not let me go
     Dementio has a pay rise put aside for me, for me, for meeeeee

     yes I think I can kick them and spit in their eye
     Yes I know they hate me and I dont care why
     Oh baby, I would like to join AC
     I'd like to sign, I'd like to sign for Milano

     Nothing really matters, anyone can see
     None of all this matters, nothing really matters to me.

     Anywhere that pays well....

Happy hanukkah, christmas, kwanza, winter solstice, new years!
David Achenbach


=========================================
From: "Nick Youle" 
Subject: Cantona's diary
Date: Fri, 12 Jan 96 15:26:13 GMT

This is doing the rounds, it's long but I thought you might like it . . .

An excerpt from the soon-to-be-released Cantona Diaries.


      I wake from a temperamental genius of a sleep. A brain-rest full of
artistry, brilliance and flamboyant Gallic flicks comes to it's conclusion
after interruption from 500 fans sleeping in my garden. They follow me
everywhere with adoration but giving me a round of applause for simply waking
up is a little irritating.

     I stroll to the window, open it, look down on my people like Caesar and
they chant ...

     "He's red, got cred, he's out of fucking bed. Cantona, Cantona."

I fill my mouth with garlic-phlegm and hurl it at the mob. They cheer as they
get covered in my inspirational gob. I shake my head and close the window on
these cretins. Their lives are so empty and I mourn for the audience that
awaits me at my grass stage. I stroll across the bedroom, tread on one of the
kids stuffed toys and stamp on it until my foot bleeds.

     In the bathroom I shower alone, pushing out my proud chest to meet
head on jets of water. I juggle the little Zest soap on both feet, on my head,
on my shoulder, then bicycle kick it back into it's dish.

     I step out of the shower and three hand-maidens towel me down, rub talc
over my gifted body, dress me, so that my shirt collar stays up around my
neck.

     I receive a phone call from Alex Ferguson, asking if it is at all
possible that I might show for training this morning. I remind him curtly that
"I play. I don't train." I have no need to punish the skills that seep out of
every pore, by running round a pitch with clod-hoopers like Bruce and
Parker. I cannot understand why they want to be footballers, because every
time the ball comes near them they hit it as far away from them as possible.
Me, I love to caress, stroke, tease and make love to the ball. That is why I
get so enraged by defenders coming up behind me, trying to halt my
love-making. I see it as 'Soccerus Interuptus'. No-one likes a man trampling
over you as you satisfy your woman and who wouldn't return the favour with
vengeance ?

     I even retaliate with flair. A flick here, a stylish trample there and
a flying acrobatic two-footed lunge everywhere.

     I grab my sports satchel and have a hand-maiden place it exactly on my
back, so that it falls into the arch crated by my magnificent posture. I strut
out of the house as the hoard of my fans drop to their knees, hailing my exit
by bowing Wayne's-World-Like. I run over their bodies stamping on their heads.
They yell "Ooh Aaagh, Cantona." Then they run round madly showing each other
the cuts and bruises I have inflicted on their skulls as if they are works of
art. And of course they are.

     I get into my sports car and I am immediately under assault from toilet
rolls, which bounce off the roof. To my great delight, members of the
Cantona Worshippers Suicide Club, apologise profusely then stab themselves
through the heart and die before my eyes. I nod arrogantly to the rest to take
note of their now deceased fellows and make the point even further via a
hand-brake turn and drive through the crowd.

     I look in my rear-view mirror to see them chasing after me singing
"He's knocked us all down in his car." These stupid English people.

     My arrival at the training ground is greeted by a trumpet fanfare and a
chairlift from my team-mates. Ferguson gives me the thumbs up as a sign of
thanks for simply allowing him to play me in his over-rated side.

     Roy Keane asks if he can stand by my side as I slowly get dressed. I
explain to him that he's only in the side as my body-guard and that I have
little respect for midfielders, as they are simply a means to my end. My end
has been linked to some delicious females but I treat that as all part of the
business. Only I know who I entertained. I make love to a woman, she
faints and I sneak off into the night before she stirs again. She has been
touched by "Ooh-Aah, Can-to-na" and that should be enough without ever waking
by my Adonis-Like side.

     By the time I have changed, the training session is over and I get
dressed again to go and paint some hillside in a manner that is probably
undeserving of a mere God's handiwork. I carry a shotgun to my easel and blast
away at the irritant supporters who cheer and sing at every stroke of my
brush. I shoot seven of them screaming "Do not interrupt a genius at work."
Tiresomely they start another of their chants ...

     "He feints, he taints, he even fucking paints, Cantona."

     I feel in my blood it is time to move onto another country. There is
noone left in Britain, that I haven't touched, insulted, moved in some way or
pissed off. I need a new group of people to toy with, but MU will never
sell me unless I can sleep with a player's wife. Now that's something to get
up for tomorrow !!!