Souness a Visionary of Violence

They don't make 'em like that anymore.

The incident that evoked it may be old news, but I'm still distracted by Graeme Souness' comment to the effect that if Joe Jordan and Reno Gattuso were locked in a room together, one of the pair - Gattuso - would leave on a stretcher. I think Souness is onto something. That said, I'd suggest that he's underestimated the potential popularity of such a spectacle. Why stop at a single bout? I propose a series of fights, featuring various niche divisions, to be held in summers without a World Cup or European Championship to entertain us. Divisions might include Dreadlocked Dutch Middleweights, Welterweight Full-backs Called Paul and Lightweight New Maradonas. Since the eureka moment belonged to Souness, he should officiate, resplendent in a black and white striped shirt (rather like fellow Scot John Anderson on Gladiators).

The event would be invitational, so who should receive the call? Well, Jordan and Gattuso are in, and presumably Steven Gerrard would fancy a crack at the 'pussycat' Gattuso. These three are - to greater and lesser degrees - Genuine Football Hardmen (a catch weight division and the most prestigious) and there are numerous players past and present to whom that tag is so persistently attached that they, of course, would merit an invitation: Patrick Vieira, Roy Keane, Diego Simeone, Big Dunc Ferguson, Andoni Goekoetxea... and all those guys from the seventies with nicknames that sound like the titles of slasher movies.

In the spirit of WWF/WWE, the gory stuff would be interspersed with some light relief in the shape of, say, a G. on P. Neville carve-up. Or perhaps a clash of the preening Frenchmen: David Ginola and Laurent Robert circling, each imploring the other, "Pas le visage!" Better still, picture Karen Brady pummelling Richard Keys with a very postmodern rolling pin.

The world of sport is changing. Cricket, rugby and even snooker are experimenting with sexy new formats. If football refuses to adapt, it could well go the way of skittles and Penny Farthing time trials. We can no longer afford to ignore the oracle that is Graeme Souness.

E

A match report with a difference in homage to French novelist Georges Perec.

This story is of a match won. A galaxy of stars on display for both host and visitor. Initial indications of an away victory. A wing-back had flown from Catalunya with a will to attack. Sagna and Rami anxious.

But Blanc's boys found a foothold. Gourcuff and Madrid's pup linking sharply, visitor Pato continuing to show his abundant gifts. Caught by this spirit too was Lucas. That said, Lloris was not in action, which might account for his poor kicking.

Frankly, though its samba-cancan rhythm was brisk, this show had no punch. A high foot just prior to halfway through did it. A gold shirt back on its hook, navy shirts off it. And soon, logically, a goal! Unhappy in Spain's capital, Karim was back on form last night, scoring thanks to first-class work from a Roman forward.

On a pitch by now awful, Hulk out to no avail. Sons of Gaul dominant until Mr. Stark's final blow. Auxiliary points? David Luiz was solid, as was Roma's Phil.

A Day in the Remarkable Life of Eric Cantona*

I detest alarm clocks. They are agents of conformity. My day begins at the whim of the birds. I may have a meeting at 9am, which I will miss if the birds do not beckon me from slumber. My contract with the Cosmos acknowledges this possibility. Equally, I am often visited by pigeons or a solitary sparrow at six o'clock, as the sun is rising. I ask, 'Why have you woken me? There is nothing I must do today.' The birds' response is always the same: 'Eric, today, you must live.'

I detest showers. Does the lion shower? Does the mighty polar bear shower? No, instead I bathe in rain water. In Manchester, I could bathe every day; in Provence, once a week. Here in New York, I have a penthouse with guttering which channels directly to my bathroom. Truly, it is magnificent.

Each morning, I drink at least six cups of black coffee. I detest milk. It is the very essence of blandness. As a new-born infant, I would recoil from my mother's teet, and reach instead for a small red beaker of pastis. When I think of that beaker, I weep.

For me, no two days are the same. If I look at the mirror and see a painter, I will paint. If I see a poet, I will write poetry. Several times, I have seen an armadillo. Those were black days.

My creativity knows no bounds. I have recently written a sonnet about Steve Bruce (a beautiful man) and a comic opera based on the life of Catherine the Great.

My role with the Cosmos will not interfere with my artistic output. On the contrary, I see myself not only as Director of Soccer but also as Artistic Director. In both capacities, I will shun convention: Cantona is an auteur. That is not to say that I am incapable of learning from others. I intend to establish an ambience that draws on both Manchester United's Carrington training ground and The Factory, where Warhol cultivated the talent of mon frère d'une autre mère Jean-Michel Basquiat, among others.

Of course, I do not compare myself to visionaries such as Ferguson or Warhol - nor to great footballers like Pele or Zidane. I see myself as a force unrestricted by métier, a modern Da Vinci. The question is not, 'What is Cantona?' The question is, 'What is Cantona not?' Or perhaps, 'What is not Cantona?'

I have a passion for lunch. My favourite dish is cassoulet; a stew with duck, goose or pork, and beans. Not your baked beans. I detest baked beans. They taste of the degradation of the human spirit. At lunch, I drink wine and toast my good fortune and that of all who have been touched by Cantona.

Afterwards I study my reflection once more. Perhaps now I see an actor and so I must act. I stay a while in front of the mirror and recite Molière or practice my impression of Des Lynam. It is getting quite good.

I will spend tea-time with my players, just as Sir Alex did with me. Here in New York, however, we will drink "java" (black, of course). I will endeavour to make every single one of my little cosmonauts feel like a million dollars. That, incidentally, is my daily wage.

My passion for dinner is even more intense than my passion for lunch. I have made love to dinner; I have stared at dinner, not daring to violate it; I have eaten dinner.

The evening is my most violently creative period. In December 1992, after an exhausting yet invigorating match for Leeds against Sheffield Wednesday, I returned home and immediately fell into a trance. 36 hours later, I regained consciousness to find a portrait of Gary McAllister daubed in blood on my living room wall. Whose blood it was, I have no idea. In the evening, it is simply impossible to resist the impulses that drive me.

And finally to bed, the theatre of dreams. I dream of art, I dream of Phil Neville and always I dream of the red beaker.

*As I like to imagine it.

Paris's Black Sheep

Despite its youth and a relatively meagre haul of silverware, Paris Saint-Germain FC is regarded as one of the great institutions of European football. The capital's other club, the imaginatively named Paris Football Club, was established in 1969 - a year before PSG - but was quickly eclipsed by its precocious sibling. While PSG has grown into a slick, commercial enterprise, Paris FC has roundly failed to fulfill the ambition of its founders.

In the two decades after 1945, Paris became something of a football hotbed: Red Star, Olympique de Paris, Racing Club de Paris, CASG and Stade Français all competed among France's elite. Ultimately, such abundance proved unsustainable as playing talent and public enthusiasm (and thus revenues) were diluted to the extent that by the end of the sixties, no Parisian team remained in the top flight. In a bid to rectify the situation, a dynamic group of industrialists and administrators conceived Paris Football Club. Their aim was to publicise the benefits of physical exercise and provide a boon to civic pride by uniting the city's erstwhile football enthusiasts under a single, dominant banner.

At the same time, negotiations were underway to merge Racing Club with the smaller Stade Saint-Germain. Crucially, the plan was backed by the mayor's office, which also volunteered a loan to the fledgling, which was christened Paris Saint-Germain. PSG would be based in the suburbs: the authorities were less enthusiastic about Paris FC's intention to reside at the Stade Charléty, just a stone's throw from the celebrated Rive Gauche.

So began the difficult relationship between PSG and Paris FC. Like so many sibling rivalries, it was rooted in the accusation of favouritism. PSG had been cast as favourite, consigning Paris FC to the role of the black sheep. Regrettably, as the clubs' respective fortunes have diverged, enmity has given way to indifference.

While PSG today lie second in Ligue 1, Paris FC are hidden in the depths of France's third division, National. Coach Jean-Marc Pilorget cites promotion to Ligue 2 within the next three years as his objective. Modest this may be, but the potential development of Paris FC seems decidedly limited given that attendance to matches throughout France has fallen dramatically in recent seasons - nowhere moreso than at the Parc des Princes, home of PSG.

Still, for romantics, there is an innocence inherent in Paris FC's perennial struggle to escape anonymity. It's surely appropriate that a football club located so close to Paris's literary heart embodies the darker aspects of the human condition, besides the fleeting joy of triumph. In the course of a season, fans of Paris FC can expect to experience joy, anger, disappointment and ennui in equal measure. I'll wager that Sartre would have found more of merit in that than in the happier tale of PSG.

Rugby. That's R-U-G-B-Y

Mathieu Bastareaud: pretty in pink.

Last night I went to watch a rugby match. Dear reader, such is the misery I am prepared to endure on your behalf. For those of you who didn't go to public schools and don't come from Wales, rugby is a variant of football, designed specifically for the obese. It involves a ball and some kicking, but the ball isn't spherical and is mostly carried. In rugby, there's no such thing as 'hand ball'. Rugby players do tackle but, again, they use their hands - or anything other than their feet.

I'm an open-minded fellow and was keen to sample the atmosphere of the Stade Charléty, permanent home to Paris Football Club* and occasional stomping ground for Stade Français. Since tickets to last night's match versus Leeds Carnegie were available for 5 Euros, I decided to partake.

In fact, the experience wasn't wholly nauseating. I saw plenty of tries and a satisfying amount of violence, all in what marketing people like to describe as a "carnival atmosphere". Stade Français is a club renowned for its efforts to make rugby "sexy" (those marketing people again), which explains the appalling selection of pop music and a kit so garish, it makes 90s goalkeeper jerseys seem tastefully restrained. After the final whistle, as the pink-clad macho men left the field to the strains of Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive', I was reminded that Stade Français is responsible for the Dieux du Stade calendar, which is a favourite among Paris's gay community.

So there you have it. Rugby: baffling, brutal and camp as Christmas.

*More to follow on Paris Football Club.

Transfer Targets: Sylvain Marveaux

Sylvain Marveaux was a guest of Liverpool at their match against Wolves on December 29th. Remarkably, he wasn't put off. An attacking midfielder who normally plays on the left-wing for Rennes, Marveaux bagged an impressive ten goals last season. Although that form took him to the periphery of Raymond Domenech's World Cup Squad, he wasn't selected and has so far been overlooked by new boss Laurent Blanc. Marveaux might not be fans' dream signing, but his pace and creativity would be a definite asset to the current Liverpool side.

Transfer Targets: Gueïda Fofana

Gérard Houllier has made no secret of his desire to bring teenage sensation Gueïda Fofana to Villa Park. Fofana captained France to victory at last year's Under 19 European Championship and is unanimously recognised as one of the most exciting prospects in French football. This lad can pass, tackle and carries the ball with the same authority as Patrick Vieira in his pomp. Houllier will face stiff competition from several Ligue 1 clubs - as well as the usual suspects in Spain and Italy - if he attempts to prise Fofana from Ligue 2 side Le Havre.