Ooh-ah, ooh-ah

Tippler back again.

OK, cos I'm a journo amd meet loads of famous folk in the course of my job, I never ask for autographs. It's just too silly.

However, to every rule there's an exception. And the entire Manchester United team is it.

I've followed United since the age of six and for most of that time, up until the 90s, we were shit. But they're my team and you get what you get. Which is why I have sympathy for the Leeds mob right now - even though they utterly hate us.

Anyway, United had drawn at home to Sunderland in the FA Cup and the replay was to be held at Roker Park - the year before the Black Cats moved to the brand-spanking new Stadium of Shite.

A drinking buddy of mine, Guy Mowbray, who is now a BBC Match of the Day commentator, was working at York's independent radio station, Minster FM, as sports editor. The station was partnered by Sun FM, based in Sunderland, where Guy covered the local team's matches.

Knowing I'm a United fan, he offered to drive me up there and let me sit with him in the commentary box for the match. I jumped at the chance, of course.

To reach said rickety old Sun FM pitchside box, you had to walk through the famous north eastern club's treasury, which was located next to the visiting team's dressing room. So there we sat, waiting for the game, me reading the match programme.

At the end of the first half, Sunderland were deservedly 1-0 up and kept their lead well into the second period. I proved my worth to Mowbray by slipping him a note in the 65th minute saying that Alex Ferguson would, without a doubt in these circumstances, bring on Paul Scholes on or around the 70th minute. The young Scholesy was then our 'super sub'.

Guy trusted me and predicted the substitution live on air. Two minutes later the ginja ninja enter the match on cue - and we duly won the game 2-1. I recall that Andy Cole got the winner, his first goal in ages and one that probably saved his United career.

After the match we went through the treasuryvto go find the bar and bang, there was the United squad signing autographs for grubby little kids being pushed forward by their dads.

I couldn't help it. Into the melee I went, pushing pen and programme toward the likes of Ryan Giggs, Ferguson, Cole, Gary Pallister, Steve Bruce, Scholesy and a young, baby-faced David Beckham. They all happily signed it.

And then He was suddenly right in front of me. Taller than I expected and built like a brick shithouse. Our Number Seven. Glorious in that shirt, supremely confident in his own gifts, Eric bloody Cantona.

I've lived in Brussels for seven years and my French is still crap. Back then, it was fucking atrocious. But I thought 'Bollocks'. 'Monsieur Cantona,' I said, 'S'il vous plait...' and handed him the programme.

He looked me straight in the eyes, intensely, for what seemed forever but was probably only about three seconds. Then he signed and handed it back. As he did so, he looked at me hard again, it was like a challenge. "Merci beaucoup," I squeezed out. "C'est tres gentile."

At my second offering of French the big bastard did it again. He didn't nod, didn't say anything. Just stood stock still and looked deep into my soul with those eyes. A couple of heartbeats more and I'd have started singing 'Sur la pont d'Avignon' at him.

To this day I don't know whether his reaction was by way of saying 'thanks', an acknowledgement that I was trying to speak his language.

On the other hand, what he was wordlessly trying to tell me could well have been "you useless fucking philistine, you are butchering my mother tongue. Stop it right now, you twat."

I suspect the latter...

But I didn't and don't care. I'd met God.

(There is a postscript to this story. Guy and I went out in Sunderland and yours truly got utterly shit-faced. Mowbray, driving, was on the Cokes. He eventually dropped me off at my girlfriend's place in York at silly-o-clock and I fell into bed, leaving my precious programme on the chest of drawers in the bedroom.

At eight in the morning, my girl brought in a cup of tea, plonked it down on the programme, realised what she'd done, yanked up the cup in panic and promptly spilled half of its contents all over my Holy relic.

I was oblivious. A few hours later I woke up to find a cold cup of tea and my programme drying out on the radiator. In panic, and still pissed, I grabbed it.

It was at that point I discovered that the pages were stuck together like those in a much-loved and oft-abused wank mag. It was totally ruined, autographs and all. And I'd had it less than 12 hours.

Oh well, it's a funny old game...)

Comments

[Angelalala]

My ex brother-in-law looks exactly like him. And he's french too.

[The Aunt]

It was the butchering the mother tongue thing.

Sorry, but it was.

[SpanishGoth]

You butchered your Mothers tongue? Yikes. Did you make much?

[Clare]

I'm from York. And I think he fancied you. But I only just got that far, as up to that point all I read was footballfootballfootball and couldn't make much sense of any of it...