Filed under: News, Opinion | Tags: Eric Cantona, Factory, Noel Gallagher, Retford, Ronnie Wallwork, Sam Ashton, Tony Wilson
There are moments in football where you can look back and say with pride that you were there. Moments so beautiful, or so rare, that it will be a proud boast for years to come that you were there to witness it. And when Sam Ashton scored from 107 yards out against Retford, I turned to my mates and said “Shall we get another pint, or are we going to watch the match?”. Indeed, the first I heard about Sam’s goal was from a steward as we battled our way out of Retford’s club house, leaning 45° in to the howling gale. Luckily for myself, and the other few dozen of our well liquored support, the ever excellent Neil Boo caught the moment on his film-video-camcorder thingy, and uploaded it to YouTube, where so far half a million people have viewed it.
Half a million! The video has been seized with frenzied glee by the likes of Nuts, talkSPORT and goal.com, as well as the Daily Sport (oh, the humanity!) and a cameo role in North West tonight. Not bad for a lucky, wind-carried punt. Not so, says Sam – who just a week previously was making headlines against BPA in a more orthodox fashion for a goalkeeper: “No-one can believe it. The lads are saying it was a fluke, but it wasn’t – I meant it!”
But it’s not all good news. Sam’s wonder strike has now ensured we have to put up with three tedious seasons of the MRE shouting SHOOT! SHOOT! every time he gets the ball.
Elsewhere, Eric Cantona has become Director of Soccer at New York Cosmos. The role appears to be as meaningful as the job of trophy polisher at Eastlands, given the Cosmos don’t have a team, a stadium, or a league to play in. Still, it didn’t stop Eric phoning it in at a press conference, mumbling some trite and meaningless bullshit about the club being a mixture of football and art, before having his photo taken sitting in a throne.
Fuck’s sake, Eric. Stop tarnishing the memory. What with your hard to justify cosying up to Rupert Murdoch’s evil Sky empire this last summer, your constant and terrible appearances in adverts, and your role as ambassador and director of an online gaming company, I can’t help but begin to wonder if you haven’t, you know, sold out a little bit?
Christ. What am I saying? Three hail Erics and a back to back viewing of the ‘Au Revoir Cantona’ DVD and ‘Looking For Eric’ will reaffirm my faith.
Former Manchester United, errr, starlet Ronnie Wallwork has been charged by the police with ‘conspiracy to conceal criminal property’. I don’t really know what the fuck that means, but it’s a sad comedown for Wallwork who looked to have a long and bright career ahead of him when, as a 21 year old, he was given a life ban from football for grabbing Belgian referee Armand Ancion by the throat.
Anyone who was in CYCM prior to that FA Trophy match against Hinckley United may have heard music journalist Mick Middles give an excellent talk about the local music scene. He mentioned the new book he had been involved in, ‘Mr Manchester and The Factory Girl’, written by the ex-wife of Tony Wilson. I’ve just finished the book and can thoroughly recommend it. It fairly rekindled my interest in the Factory story, sending me back to the four CD Factory box set, where I skipped track after track until I found something half listenable, usually by Joy Division, New Order or the Happy Mondays. Anyhoo, I was delighted when over on A Fine Lung they linked to a Granada documentary about Madchester and all that guff. From there, YouTube suggested I watch a BBC documentary about the Stone Roses called ‘Blood On The Turntable’, and within minutes the subject of Factory appeared.
Colossal professional embarrassment Noel Gallagher had his say: “All the people who worked for Factory were fucking squares. They were the grey overcoat mob. Banging on in coffee bars about poetry, and going to watch films wit subtitles. Very fucking dodgy people.”
Yeah, that’s it Noel, anyone who has an interest in literature or foreign cinema is a dodgy person, you thick as fuck, anti-intellectuallist cunt. Better to wallow in your own ignorance reading nowt more than the Sun newspaper, and endlessly watching fucking Steven Seagal films on Channel 5. Maybe if you’d tried to broaden your horizons a little, opened your mind to the great writers, artists, philosophers and thinkers of the world, you’d have produced something more than seven albums of dire, pedestrian, three-chord pub rock, you stunted, mono-browed fuckwit.
I mean, if he’d just have come out and said they were all vainglorious, ego-driven cunts, you’d have found it hard to argue. But having a pop because they’d had the temerity to educate themselves? Fuck me. Says all about him, and nothing of them.
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