OOH, AAH, Cantona, ooh, aah, Cantona! I said Ooh, Aah, Cantona, ooh, aah, Cantona!

They shout his name as they shout the name of Sam Snort.

Sam, Sam, king of Poontang! I said Sam, Sam, king of Poontang!

Yeah, I’ve heard a fair bit of oohing and aahing in my time, and not just from smelly football supporters either.

My good buddy Eric Cantona hears them oohing and aahing from the terraces, but with Sam Snort, they’re a hell of a lot closer, they’re usually babes, and they have my pecker in their mouths.

But that aside, I am an ardent admirer of the man they call Cantona, a man whose lifestyle and attitude can justifiably be termed Snortian.

Yeah, that fucking Frenchman is up there in the pantheon, merci beaucoup.

Let us first clear up this piddling controversy over that “incident” at Crystal Palace.

If I can find any fault at all with his actions, it is only on the grounds of dubious provocation, and improper execution.

So this lump of human sewage tears down the steps to tell him to go and fuck off back to France. While Eric was perfectly entitled to give him a going-over, I felt that he stopped too soon.

Listen, man, Sam Snort has been to Altamont and suchlike – places where, if one of my buddies is being irritated by a punter, the fucking Hell’s Angels cut that punter up with a cleaver. It’s called Security.

“You didn’t like Keef’s solo? Maybe you like this better, cocksucker,” they explain, slicing the critic into rashers, which can later be consumed with a crate of Jack. Very tasty, too, I’m told. Excellent fare.

Perhaps Eric didn’t employ such sanctions because, like Sam Snort, he felt that the provocation was not quite sufficient.

BAG OF SHEET

Picture this: Sam Snort is playing a majestic game of football for Snort Athletic, and some primeval fucking dingbat runs down the gangway and shouts “twelve fucking inches!”

Now this is provocative.

What he is clearly stating is that the Snortian pecker measures a mere twelve inches in length. This demands a rapid response, of massive force.

In this scenario, Sam would approach the wretch with a menacing gait, and whip out King Dick, displaying its full 24 inches to maximum effect.

He would then proceed to beat the bastard over the head with the massive love-truncheon, almost certainly killing him with the third decisive blow.

Perhaps my man Eric felt like this too. “You can slander my country, but if you slander Hissing Sid, you are dead meat, monsieur.”

Still, what a character he is, eh? What a fucking diamond geezer.

Like Sam, he is a man of exquisite sensibility, indulging in a spot of oil-painting to while away the tranquil hours before poontang calls the great man to action.

Eric wears a deer-stalker hat, a check jacket, and jodhpurs, when he’s oiling the old canvas. Sam Snort just wears the deer-stalker hat. But he still feels like a soul brother to me.

He describes his manager as “a bag of sheet.” Like Sam, he calls it the way he sees it, he plays it as it lays.

In my world of rock ’n’ roll, there has never been a manager who has not been a fully-qualified “bag of sheet.” Only difference is, they still give me drugs.

Best of all, though, Monsieur Cantona states that he derives inspiration from one Monsieur James Morrison, of Les Doors.

Put it there, Eric, whack that big dick of yours on the counter next to mine, and let’s talk about old times.

ETERNAL VERITIES

With Jimbo as his inspiration, the surprising thing is that Eric doesn’t take the field in dark glasses and leather trousers, or celebrate a goal by dropping said strides and hoisting the only flag that matters. The flag of leurve.

Like Monsieur Sam, Eric is, of course, a distinguished man of letters, and not just the letters p, o, o, n, t, a, n and g, though they have their place right there at the top of the agenda.

The world of literature has been particularly impressed by the recently-published Philosophie De Cantona, a work loosely based on the immortal Philosophie De Snort.

It is great fucking stuff altogether, with killer lines like “football, she is art,” or perhaps it’s “art, she is football.” Hey, who gives a fiddler’s fuck?

The Philosophie De Snort is full of such profundities, like “chewing pussy, she is mighty fine,” or “24 inches good, 23 inches, not so good,” or “never look a gift of Horse in the mouth.”

I see myself and Eric as being similar to Sartre and Camus, the great minds of our time, pondering the eternal verities while all around us eat shit.

Only difference being that neither of us are cross-eyed geeks, like Sartre, or have a merely average dick-size, like Camus.

We are, however, great men.

Of that there is no doubt.

If there is any difference between us, it is that Snort is a slightly greater man than Cantona.

But hell, who would really dispute that? And who would live to tell the tale after facing the wrath that lurks within my trousers?

Mon Dieu! C’est magnifique!