Salut tout le monde, bah me voilà, bienvenue sur mon album qui va s’appeler euh My Ouai. Donc là, c’est Stéphane qui parle, c’est euh l’intro du premier morceau. C’est pas euh l’intro définitive du morceau, mais euh je me suis dit que ça serait sympa quand même de de vous parler en intro. Et euh voilà quoi! Donc je la fais en anglais pour ceux qui sont chaud là: So I was just saying that I’m So yeah it’s not the final intro of the track, but I thought it would be nice to have a talk. So, I’ll say it in Polish, for those who are Polish: No właśnie mówiłem, że…

Chui très bien comme ça, c’est bien très bien comme ça Ouai Chui très bien comme ça, c’est bien très bien comme ça       x3 Pourquoi changer tout ça, si chui très bien comme ça J'fais rien, c'est bien comme ça, ouai chui très bien comme ça Eh ouai ! Chui très bien comme ça, c’est bien très bien comme ça Ouai chui très bien comme ça et toi t’es bien comme ça Si toi t’es bien comme ça et qu'chui très bien comme ça On est très bien comme ça, tout va très bien comme ça Eh ouai ! Chui très bien comme ça, c’est bien très bien comme ça Sois pas triste comme ça. C'est rien, c'est rien tout ça ouai viens, viens avec moi, Regarde c'est beau tout ça, On est très bien comme ça, ouai bien, très bien comme ça Fais rien, c'est bien comme ça, c'est bien, très bien comme ça Pense rien, c'est bien comme ça, N'attend rien de tout ça T'es mieux, bien mieux comme ça, t'es bien, très bien comme ça On sera très bien comme ça, la vie, très bien comme ça

Eh salut, ça va ? Ça va et toi ? Ouai ça va ça va, Et toi ? Ouaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Ouai et toi ? Ça va, Et toi ? Ça va et toi ? Ça va, Et toi ça va ? Et toi alors ? Ok ok.

Eamon Dunphy stating “That’s Football, Baby”. The murderous eyes of Tim Sherwood (who was apparently better looking than Zidane then) weeping like it’s the birth of his first born. A giant YES sighs from the Kop. Alex Ferguson can’t hide his boner. Bill Shankly does a tumble in his ashes in carnival. And George Best offers me a smoke while explaining his poetry he biro-ed on the wall. Best is calm. Before all: The opposite to cocaine is peace of mind. Next door is Elvis, who was one of my fathers. Blue Moon, you saw   me pissing the bed and every word that you said is docu-de-mented. Bob Dylan is under my shoulder. He’s packing heat and is somehow menstruating his thoughts in solitude. Zimmerman is not the poet you would expect. He is quiet, shaggy and in a matching Fila tracksuit. Long gone are the days of moon-glasses and looking like Cate Blanchett. He is not dead like the most of Eden. He is an honoured guest. He beast-ily prefers his 12 sugars with coffee and cum. He is head over Kiels for Kurt Cobain. The two big notes of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’, the ‘de ne’ bit mark every hour as we wait for the Beatles to return. Kurt wants to be ignored. The scent of him is enough for speculation. Nothing is enough for Cobain. In a dream he shouts at me so loudly that I wake up with a wanted mental illness. He is, as Genie put it “A Twin”. Genie, my friend, my undercover father, somehow granny and John Lennon has been hiding in Eden forever. I become HER Paul. I try to give her time to believe in his self that it is OK to be a Beatle. Every day in Eden, I sing ‘Till There was You to John/Dad/Granny in that order. Hoping it would spark my Twin’s muse again. We wrote a song about Coconuts together on smuggled sugar paper from the art room. The art room was suspiciously positive. Jackie Kennedy, in a sling, is obsessed with chalk and pastels. It convinces me, now Columbo, that somebody spiked the art supplies. So Dara-noid I threw my mental - Mount Temple Rugby hoody in the bin symbolically ending my teenage-hood because I thought it was infesting me with day-time bed bugs. Being bugged in Eden was a regular worry. A game of chess with Hitler started and like Bobby Fischer in Iceland, I wanted to create an ugly board for my enemy. I only moved the black pawns forward until he was hit by a wall of diversion in which made him so uncomfortable that he conceded the round. We settled on a stalemate as I realised we wasn’t Hitler but a lonely bloke in his sixties who originally wanted to play checkers.  I jump back in to the secret monarchy whose blood runs through the garden and I am now Sex-ford’s own JFK and a dead brother to all of Eden. My knitted acquired hat and consistent dangerous positioning disturbs Auntie Mary. She is not famous but is the life of the dead. When I imagined my proposal to my three fiancées, she is in full support. “You need to find your own Beatles”. “You need yOUR Sucra-Babogs” and that lame statement, repeating “She is the Wind” to reset the tone. “Genie, you’re free” I’d regularly shout after a reoccurring made-up Yoga pose and smile at the sun to make it bigger, like shooting at the Sun in Grand Theft Auto. Genie, would tell me three things: 1.   Stay Celibate 2.   I’m suffering from this kip 3.   Am I free? We burst into laughter over the thought of being a couple. One night, we laughed so hard at the idea of him being the Buffy to my Angel. The trashy concept in Eden was accepted. Sadly, Mussolini was not laughing. I was his target. We shook arms not hands as his goal-scoring-gloves were cruddy. Speaking of Bosses, Bruce Springsteen was a Nurse called Tony.

Everything is going to be OK Just, All OK Don’t worry, Everything is going to be OK Everything’s going to be OK Just, All OK It’s all going to be OK

Me Revoilàààààààààààààààà x4 Ouai Ouai Ouai Stéphane, Ouai Stéphaaaaaane Me Revoilàààààààààààààààà x3 Ouai Ouai Ouai Stéphane, Ouai Stéphaaaaane Me Revoilàààààààààààààààà

Fair Enough, Fair Enough x7 Fair Enough, Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaair Ouai x24 Ouai x24 Ouai x24 Ouai x24 Fair Enough, Fair Enough x11 Fair Enough, Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaair Ouai x24 Ouai x24 Ouai x24 Ouai x18

Ouai x9

Ouai x65 Ouai Ouai Ouai x8 Ouai x65 Ouai Ouai Ouai Stéphane, Ouai Stéphaaaane Ouai x160 Ouai Ouai Ouai x8