But what's the spread like - part 3

Ace

Continuing the breakneck tour of the press rooms I've been in we land, spent but happy, at:

Leeds (Leeds, Leeds) United:
This was when Leeds had just got relegated to what is now the Championship but then was probably the First Division. Sorry to the anonymous commenter on the previous two instalments of this who started to cry when he saw I'd got the location of the Fulham press box wrong.
I don't really remember Leeds that well, the press lounge was alright though, and Elland Road is an ace ground.
This was during the Ashes in this country - not last time but the one before - and everyone missed the kick off as they were watching 'snakehips' Shane Warne's last ball. There's probably a Liz Hurley joke there but I can't think of it.
All the fielders were funnelled up either side of the batsman like some guard of honour. Either way, I had some sarnies.

Leyton Orient:
This was after they'd put those flats in each corner of the ground but, I think, before they'd got planning permission for them. So they were all empty and I couldn't really see the appeal anyway. What if you were on nights on Saturday?
The press box was at the back of the stand (presumably the big one) I think, and I vaguely remember it being a turd of a climb to the top. No memory at all of the grub though.

Liverpool:
Top drawer. In front of me as I picked me brief up was rock star Chris De Burgh who had a brief chat with the security guard who then turned to me and said: 'I love his music you know,' in some kind of bizarre confessional/coming out. I had no alternative but to give him the stinkiest of eyes.
Inside it was like Goodison only red and with loads more trophies. There was a nice spread of sarnies and stuff, and a brew. Some old boy sidled up to me, possibly to defend the south side of the buffet as I had a right plateful.
He asked which way my farthing was going today. I replied the other lot. Can't remember who Lipewlfubbleclub were playing but there was a minute's silence (I know) which the crashing halfwit from BBC Radio Merseyside - not Alan Jackson, the other one who presents the football - answered a phone call in the middle of.
And this wasn't on his mobile, this was an old BT phone which he let ring for a bit. I'd made double sure my phone was on silent as I didn't fancy the solemnity being punctured by a tinny version of Z-Cars.
Benitez was the manager at the time, but this was before he went mad.

Muzzies everywhere

Manchester City:
Now you're talking. Hot food before the match, sarnies at half time AND after - a few fellas were filling their pockets. And beer too!
Some people don't like City's ground but they're idiots. The view's good, there's leg room - what more do you want?
The press box is good, quite low down on the same side as the TV cameras are, with the press lounge big enough to cope. The managers do the press conference in a weird chapel-like room (which may be a chapel) where you can often, if you're lucky, see Alan Nixon in his meffy black leather jacket. When he's not making up bollocks transfer stories like. Or maybe he does some of them there - just think, you could see the magic happen.

Previously:
Part 1
Part 2

Hats off to... Eric Cantona (may contain inaccuracies)

Cantona, two minutes after full time

There are some footballers who are so ace they transcend the tribal rivalries of club support - or there were, I can't think of any of the current lot who I wouldn't cheerfully pummel in the face with a lit bag of horse shit.
One such fellow is Eric Cantona, the magnificent French bastard who thumbed his nose at a trial for Sheffield Wednesday, helped Leeds United to their first Championship in yonks, and then defected in the deal of, arguably forever, across t'Pennines to Manchester United, whom he also helped to their first Championship in yonks, for fifty quid and a bag of bibs.
I remember the day Cantona joined the Salford wretches. I jumped the bus to town for slurpage, where I met me mates who said United had just signed someone and I would never guess who it was.
I rattled through a load of names before arriving, inevitably, lips trembling at the mere mention of my hero of the time. 'Not Beardsley?' I whimpered.
'Non!' came the reply and they revealed Cantona's arrival for a pitiful £1.2m.
I couldn't believe it - he was so good for Leeds, he seemed such a perfect fit - surely they'd never let him go? But famously they did during season 1992/93 - the dawn of time, according to Sky - and the rest, as they say...
Everything Cantona did dripped with self-belief. He was better than everyone else and he knew it, but more than that, they knew it too.
I can't stand United - I hate their nobhead supporters and their total lack of self awareness. Their horror at the corporate cock their club sucked for so long eventually spunking on them. But they have been something else to watch for a long time now, and there's been some fine players in there but none matched Cantona.
I think maybe it's because I was much younger then, in my early/mid 20s, a time when death seemed like something that happened to other people. I was playing in a group (getting nowhere but enjoying it) and doing a shit job, but going out and going the match, it was a carefree time. And while I'm happier now than I've ever been, there's something about the past that's magic - maybe because we write it ourselves.
At that time Cantona seemed to represent everything I wanted to be - a strutting, moves-at-his-own-pace king - where I was more shambling and hurried, and going nowhere. Slowly.
There's too many ace goals to go through but if any one piece of footage sums Cantona up, it's this (you already know which one it is before clicking). Brian McClair, a superb player himself, looks almost embarrassed to congratulate him. Even Cantona looks momentarily surprised.
When he walked out at Middlesbrough (I think he was captain) to clinch the 1995/96 title, chest puffed, the contempt for those who would dare to try and stop him etched across his being, you knew United would win. What a feeling that must be - to step out needing a win (or draw, whatever) and knowing, absolutely, that you would do it.
I wonder how many players at the top really appreciate how blessed they are - virtually none it seems. Because we attach ourselves to, and in some cases live through, our clubs, we're impotent. We can have an at best tangential impact, in terms of atmosphere, but our vicarious glory is all down to them. I think Cantona probably does know how lucky he was. He certainly played as if it meant something to him.
During one of Everton's routine bummings at the hands of United a long ball was hoisted into the Everton box. Keeper Paul Gerrard (I think) leapt to intercept as Cantona lurked at his shoulder. The next thing you know, Gerrard's in a heap on the floor and the ball's in the back of the net. Only on seeing a replay did it become clear - the keeper had mis-judged and leapt under the ball (again!), allowing Cantona to stroke home from about two yards. He did this, of course, without breaking his stride.
The night he bashed that Palace nobhead up I was round at a mate's house and he had the match on the radio. Even without pictures it didn't look good. And so it proved. He was out for eight months, which meant he missed the FA Cup final, thus allowing Everton to triumph 1-0 and gain some revenge for the 1985 defeat courtesy of Norman Whiteside's (admittedly ace) extra-time winner.
He can ponce about reading poetry and making films all he likes, but for those of us of a certain age, he was as close to genius as football gets. Except for Leeds, Liverpool and Sheff Wed supporters, who all think he's a wanker.

Previously:
Stacey Solomon
Jim Broadbent