'Phil Brown's Diary - The Year of Our Lord 2011'

[Dentonboy]

The Year of Our Lord 2011:

"I watch the television in the corner. The picture washes over me like a lucid dream. The lighting strobes and I hear my own breath draw in and out, deeper and deeper, faster and faster...the moving pictures reflected back and forth within my glasses.

I watch the television in the corner. It's all coming back to me. The plight. The peril. The predictability of my poor Preston North End's locked embrace with relegation.

I watch the television in the corner. But I am not watching it. Whatever is on I cannot see. My mind is elsewhere, my brain's great depths overflowing with synapses sparking off like Roman candles. The memories of those golden Premiership years return. Geovanni. The wonderful Brasilian I snatched up, that mercurial wizard. Then there's Ashbee. My glorious leader. My voice. My vessel. Big Boaz Myhill. My rock. My Yashin. All the boys. Those sensational, striped, glorious Northern boys.

I watch the television in the corner. Now the darkness returns. The horror. The horror. Those trips down the lonely M1. Those trips to that there London. To that there Arsenal.

Still stinking of spilt Bovril. Straight into this abyss. Cartwheeling down that vivid memory is that day. Freefalling into despair. That team. That match. That player. Francesc Fabregas Soler. Francesc Fabregas Soler, captain of Arsenal Football Club. The Arsenal.

I remember. The Year of Our Lord 2009. The FA Cup. The hallowed cup. Onto the gaping pitch, striding like a mounted policeman. Trainers. Hoodie. Leather jacket. A snarling smile cut across his mouth like a switchblade. He approached my lad, my Brian. And, like a cobra, spat at his shoes. Two minutes too bloody late, I arrive. Fresh from the shock of Arsene Wenger snubbing my outstreched hand of goodwill in the previous league game, he's now swanned off down t'tunnel like a prairie dog, leaving me hanging, leaving me to go off down the tunnel alone (although pictures showing me shaking his hand were clearly doctored by Mike Riley), to see that Iberian, that loose cannon, that unruly hooligan, swearing, jeering, mocking, bullying my heroic, innocent boys. No class. No respect. And to crash out of t'FA Cup like that haunts me. Like a spectre at my shoulder, it looks over me and I hear it. Hear it laughing. See it pointing. See it arm-in-arm with that genial Frenchman. Arsene. Arsene bloody Wenger.

I look at my television. 'Hamburger Hill' has finished. I can relate to the Vietcong. The underdogs. The underdogs fighting against a stronger enemy. Like the NVA, I took a hit. Took the FA fine. Took the warnings. And now, now, three years on, three years from being kicked from pillar to post office, I am at the bottom. But I see the light. I see the crdits rolling and I know. Know. Know deep down, I will be back. Will be back with my brave Preston boys. I am from the North. The North, where we do what we want.

I drag myself up off the chair. Mrs Brown, asleep opposite on her bean bag, lifts an accusing eye at me as I switch off my Television/DVD combo'. My Preston tracksuit is dripping in sweat. The visions are always waiting. The image, seered into my subconscience, will haunt me to my retirement. Francesc Fabregas Soler. Captain of Arsenal. Wearing trainers. Wearing a hoodie. Wearing a leather jacket. Running. Running on a football pitch. Celebrating. Celebrating a victory."

[LDG]

:haha:

Denton :bow:

Great to have Phil's Diary back.

[Flavs]

:lol: you have to blog this when the mods get it going, we might get some wandering PNE and Hull fans on board

[IBK]

The Year of Our Lord 2011:

"I watch the television in the corner. The picture washes over me like a lucid dream. The lighting strobes and I hear my own breath draw in and out, deeper and deeper, faster and faster...the moving pictures reflected back and forth within my glasses.

I watch the television in the corner. It's all coming back to me. The plight. The peril. The predictability of my poor Preston North End's locked embrace with relegation.

I watch the television in the corner. But I am not watching it. Whatever is on I cannot see. My mind is elsewhere, my brain's great depths overflowing with synapses sparking off like Roman candles. The memories of those golden Premiership years return. Geovanni. The wonderful Brasilian I snatched up, that mercurial wizard. Then there's Ashbee. My glorious leader. My voice. My vessel. Big Boaz Myhill. My rock. My Yashin. All the boys. Those sensational, striped, glorious Northern boys.

I watch the television in the corner. Now the darkness returns. The horror. The horror. Those trips down the lonely M1. Those trips to that there London. To that there Arsenal.

Still stinking of spilt Bovril. Straight into this abyss. Cartwheeling down that vivid memory is that day. Freefalling into despair. That team. That match. That player. Francesc Fabregas Soler. Francesc Fabregas Soler, captain of Arsenal Football Club. The Arsenal.

I remember. The Year of Our Lord 2009. The FA Cup. The hallowed cup. Onto the gaping pitch, striding like a mounted policeman. Trainers. Hoodie. Leather jacket. A snarling smile cut across his mouth like a switchblade. He approached my lad, my Brian. And, like a cobra, spat at his shoes. Two minutes too bloody late, I arrive. Fresh from the shock of Arsene Wenger snubbing my outstreched hand of goodwill in the previous league game, he's now swanned off down t'tunnel like a prairie dog, leaving me hanging, leaving me to go off down the tunnel alone (although pictures showing me shaking his hand were clearly doctored by Mike Riley), to see that Iberian, that loose cannon, that unruly hooligan, swearing, jeering, mocking, bullying my heroic, innocent boys. No class. No respect. And to crash out of t'FA Cup like that haunts me. Like a spectre at my shoulder, it looks over me and I hear it. Hear it laughing. See it pointing. See it arm-in-arm with that genial Frenchman. Arsene. Arsene bloody Wenger.

I look at my television. 'Hamburger Hill' has finished. I can relate to the Vietcong. The underdogs. The underdogs fighting against a stronger enemy. Like the NVA, I took a hit. Took the FA fine. Took the warnings. And now, now, three years on, three years from being kicked from pillar to post office, I am at the bottom. But I see the light. I see the crdits rolling and I know. Know. Know deep down, I will be back. Will be back with my brave Preston boys. I am from the North. The North, where we do what we want.

I drag myself up off the chair. Mrs Brown, asleep opposite on her bean bag, lifts an accusing eye at me as I switch off my Television/DVD combo'. My Preston tracksuit is dripping in sweat. The visions are always waiting. The image, seered into my subconscience, will haunt me to my retirement. Francesc Fabregas Soler. Captain of Arsenal. Wearing trainers. Wearing a hoodie. Wearing a leather jacket. Running. Running on a football pitch. Celebrating. Celebrating a victory."

Best one yet. Outstanding!

[Dentonboy]

'The Year of Our Lord, 2011:

Phil Brown is laughing. The salty tears flow down my eyes. That bastard. That cheating, violent, hooligan bastard has left. Left Phil Brown's glorious England.

Francesc Fabregas Soler. Assaulter of my Brian. Cheater of my beautiful Hull boys. Gone. Departed. Or as he'd say, au revoir.

Off to Barcelona. Bustling, grubby, thieving Barcelona. Made for each other. I remember it well...

It was the Year of Our Lord, 1992. Barcelona's Olympics. Me and Big Sam were there. On Las Ramblas. Me, a soldier (wearing Sean Bean's 'Sharpe' uniform - it were too big for him as he'd lost so much weight on the set of 'Lady Chatterley') and I was sprayed silver, a sparkling metallic silver, I looked like a 'Quality Street' tin. Big Sam (as ever), a magnificent Victorian organ grinder, complete with his monkey (no, not me), a crafty, thieving Iberian Macaque that we'd won in Gibralter after a street pimp and his Toms took me and Big Sam on in an ill-advised game of 'Ker-Plunk'. That were no laughing matter. And neither was it where them marbles ended up. Bet that Tom could shatter car windows afterwards if she weren't careful.

Big Sam and I played the Las Ramblas crowd. Played it like a punt upfield to a big target man. Me, statuesque, posing lifeless on the sidelines, as tourists and the muggers that follow them like pilot fish, took picture after picture. Occasionally, I would sing brief 'Beach Boys' choruses, bringing whoops of delight and impromptu Flamenco dancing outside la Boqueria market. Big Sam and that thieving, brooding, miserable bastard of a monkey, grinding his organ, his large, thrusting organ as I stood, glinting in the Catalan sun, as the foreign money poured into our doffed caps. Eating out of our glorious Northern hands.

I digress. The long and the short of it is that some bastard robbed us. I don't know if it was during Big Sam's ill-fated dalliance with that lobster, or when I was distracted by several bottles of Sangria, or when we decided to become Baroque jack-in-the-boxes and got wedged into our hiding places, but some thieving bastard stole our hard-earned. The monkey deserted us, and sodded off back down the poxy coast, it were last seen playing with itself in front of a bar in Tarragona. Me and Big Sam trudged back home; me to resume my star-turn at Bolton Wanderers - England's greatest un-capped right back I'll have you know, Big Sam to his second glorious stint at Preston North End, now my Preston North End. Bonded we are. Bonded like that thieving city and that hooligan bastard Fabregas.

So Cesc Fabregas is welcome to the place. And they're welcome to him.

Phil Brown will just laugh. Laugh at that poor sod who now has to live there, in that shite-hole of a city.'

[Niall_Quinn]

Or as he'd say, au revoir.

:lol:

[Darth Vela]

:lol:

Always a pleasure to read.

[Flavs]

Or as he'd say, au revoir.'
:lol:

[Coney]

:bow:

I'm looking forward to the eventual boxed set of 'The Brown Diaries'. :lol:

[Niall_Quinn]

Fear and Loathing in Grimsby fish market.

[Dentonboy]

Cheers! Apparently, David Peace is a fan. Said so in 'The Blizzard' as he read it on 'Sabotage Times'. Boxed set..? Am waiting for Film adaptation. Casting ideas?

[Dentonboy]

'The Year of Our Lord 2011.

That's me done. Finished. Halted. Stopped.

The dark, dreary clouds of unemployment hang low over my furrowed brow. I knew it were coming. I knew it were round t'corner. "We, the Board of Preston North End Football Club regret to inform you that your services as manager are no longer required. Please remove your personal belonging's from the Manager's Office, kit from the Manager's Locker room and spray tan curtain set from the changing rooms and leave the facilities by 12 noon." Bollocks. That curtain was put up tight and proper.

I call Big Sam. We contemplate meeting up in That There London. Shite. Utter shite. Big Sam in Cockney land, lording it up, leering it up with Brady and lairing it up with Sullivan. Not for me. Not for Phil.

My trusty FiloFax opens in front of me like a moth out of hibernation. I scan to 'E'. ESPN. Stubbsy.

Stubbsy is annoyed. Stubbys is incandescent. Stubbsy is so royally pissed off that he wants me to call him Ray. Shite again. What's up with the man? Ahh, he were on Talksport with Irani this morning from six AM. Yeah, yeah...that'll do it. Poor bastard. Bloody Irani in the mornings. Poor bastard Stubbsy. But. but no, he can't have me on to commentate on D.C United vs Real Salt Lake City. Bollocks. I fancied a Christmas USA trip...Oh, studio based. Hammersmith. Shite.

Sod it. Sod it all. I call up Colin. It's come to this. "Yes Colin, Sunday at six PM is fine. No, thank you Colin. Until then. Ta-rah." I'll be getting my pink Kashmere jumper down to the dry cleaner's then. MOTD2 it is for Phil Brown; football manager. That should be a shirt...I phone t'printers; "Yes, that's right me lad. I want 'Phil Brown - colon - Football manager' on t'shirt in bold print. Cheers. Ta-rah." Can't wait to see that.'

[LDG]

:haha: :haha:

Legend :bow:

[Flavs]

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/16178900.stm

The official version

[fakeyank]

'The Year of Our Lord 2011.

That's me done. Finished. Halted. Stopped.

The dark, dreary clouds of unemployment hang low over my furrowed brow. I knew it were coming. I knew it were round t'corner. "We, the Board of Preston North End Football Club regret to inform you that your services as manager are no longer required. Please remove your personal belonging's from the Manager's Office, kit from the Manager's Locker room and spray tan curtain set from the changing rooms and leave the facilities by 12 noon." Bollocks. That curtain was put up tight and proper.

I call Big Sam. We contemplate meeting up in That There London. Shite. Utter shite. Big Sam in Cockney land, lording it up, leering it up with Brady and lairing it up with Sullivan. Not for me. Not for Phil.

My trusty FiloFax opens in front of me like a moth out of hibernation. I scan to 'E'. ESPN. Stubbsy.

Stubbsy is annoyed. Stubbys is incandescent. Stubbsy is so royally pissed off that he wants me to call him Ray. Shite again. What's up with the man? Ahh, he were on Talksport with Irani this morning from six AM. Yeah, yeah...that'll do it. Poor bastard. Bloody Irani in the mornings. Poor bastard Stubbsy. But. but no, he can't have me on to commentate on D.C United vs Real Salt Lake City. Bollocks. I fancied a Christmas USA trip...Oh, studio based. Hammersmith. Shite.

Sod it. Sod it all. I call up Colin. It's come to this. "Yes Colin, Sunday at six PM is fine. No, thank you Colin. Until then. Ta-rah." I'll be getting my pink Kashmere jumper down to the dry cleaner's then. MOTD2 it is for Phil Brown; football manager. That should be a shirt...I phone t'printers; "Yes, that's right me lad. I want 'Phil Brown - colon - Football manager' on t'shirt in bold print. Cheers. Ta-rah." Can't wait to see that.'

I fell off my chair laughing when I read that part :haha:

[Master Splinter]

:haha:

And Phil Brown :pal:.

[Dentonboy]

'The Year of Our Lord 2011.

The darkness still hangs like early morning mist. Elliott Smith has been on repeat for the last 18 hours and my head, my poor, decimated head, my tender, throbbing head is going out of its mind. I have obliterated my head on drink. The bottle Bailey's I bought for the neighbours topped off the drinking session that had started 19 hours ago underneath my old desk in my old office in my old club. As I sat there rocking, slinging the Advocaat down my throat, a strange thought crossed my mind...why doesn't the good guy ever get ahead? From under the duvet I have draped over my dining room table, I contemplate my darkest defeats...

I lost the scrap with Cesc bloody Fabregas. Got a fine. Got a bloody fine after he had the audacity to celebrate a win wearing a hoody, a hoody and bloody jeans, and bleedin' trainers too.

I lost my Hull. My Hull City - the Tigers - my glorious Tigers.

I lost my Preston. My Preston North End. My glorious, er, End.

I lost my Big Sam. My lovable Big Sam. Gone to the Cockneys. Eating jellied eels off of Brady. Drinking Babycham with Sullivan. Watching 'EastEnders' with Gold.

Buggeration.

Phil can't catch a break. Lost the Christmas Karaoke at Hull City to Geovanni. Lost it this year at Preston to Jimmy Armfield. Lost my pink Kashmere cardigan in t'changing rooms of Football Focus too. I swear I saw Crooks wearing it last week. And Claridge the Saturday before that. Bastards.

So, here I am. 'Miss Misery' is playing in the background. Again. After that, 'See You Later' will fade in...again. Bless you Elliott. Bless you Bailey's. Phil CAN get through this. Just a blip. Going to have to post the old CV out again. Gonna aim big. Gotta aim big. Am applying to Cruz Azul; I bloody love Corona, Santos - can't beat Brahma - and heck, even bloody Sparta Prague can get Phil Brown's famous CV plus glitter through t'post too. I am a sucker for absinthe...

So, as I write the final entry into this year's diary; The Year of Our Lord 2011, from under my dining room table fort, nursing a brutal Bailey's hangover, I await 2012, await managing in new lands, teaching the Mexicans how to play football, or the Brasilians, or even the Praguians too.

Phil out.'

[Coney]

:lol:

Keep writing. Can't wait for the book to come out. :good:

[Dentonboy]

'The Year of Our Lord 2012.

Today, Phil Brown is in the proverbial. Twitter is ablaze with mis-understanding. On fire with pure fury. It wasn't my fault.

I were drunk. Yeah, that's it, drunk.

Spiralling, sinking, plunged into the groggy despair of spirits, liqueur and lager. It's the only feasible explanation.

I speak the truth when I'm trollied. I am a saint of the chapel; cleansed, clean and fresh of tongue. It is because of this, that I said those things about Andrea Pirlo. And let's face it. Let's look at it head-on. The guy is called 'Andrea'. What did they think I'd say after three Bailey's, a Snowball and a cherry beer?!

Now. I've been to Italy. Been there. Done it. I've stalked the corridors of the Florence citadel. I've prowled like a predatory cat along the streets of Livorno. I've ducked into the dingy, dank, grotty holes of Pisa. I have stained myself in the cultural tomato juice bath of Italy. I once met a man called Andrea. His long, flowing leather coloured hair strewn across his tanned, chiseled face as the breeze whipped along the Ponte Vecchio. I stood by a jewellers, mouth slack, tongue dry, knees no longer sturdy, as he slinked past me in a haze of Aqua Di Parma, tight, torso-hugging Armani shirt and snug, bleached Diesel jeans. I had never lusted, lusted like a primal animal, for a man, no, Gladiator, before that halcyon moment.

After a long, drawn out transfer process, a longer period of stalking, my Andrea refused to come to t'Championship to be with me. I couldn't sway t'board to hire him to replace Mabel the tea lady. So Andrea stayed. Stayed to sway and lounge along the sunbaked corridors of Florence, to catch the eye of red-blooded heterosexual beings like myself. And then they ask me, ask me, about Andrea Pirlo.'

[Flavs]

:haha:

:bow:

[V-Pig]

:bow:

[Coney]

:haha: :clap:

[Kano]

Found it.

Denton, we need an update on Phil's travels.

[LDG]

Denton :bow:

[Maestro]

Come back Denton

Could the mods PM him please and tell him to come back

[Dentonboy]

"The Year of Our Lord, 2018.

Instagram. Snapchat. Twitter.

Snapchat. Twitter. Instagram.

New replaces old. But is new better than old?

Hull City to Swindon Town.

Premier League innovator to League 2 King maker. Phil Brown is still there. Still chipping away. Still bringing the beautiful game to the beautiful North. The North: where we do what we want.

Is Swindon The North?! It isn't London. It isn't Islington. It isn't Corbyn. It isn't Arsenal. Arsenal, The Arsenal. Cesc Fabregas. Jeans. Leather jacket. Goading. Mocking. Dripping poison. I'll not forget you and your undermining of the great institute that was The Arsenal. No, it is not London.

How my heart ached when I saw Big Sam thrown to the press pack wolves of London. Wolves who patrol the streets of this squalid Sodom and Gomorrah, ignoring the squalor, stench and sordidness and instead hounding the likes of my Sam, my Big Sam, England's Big Sam, from his rightful place on St George's bench.

Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat.

Bebo. MySpace. Ask Jeeves.

Where once was Sam, there is a Southgate.

Where once was Phil, there is a Guardiola.

Like the cascading, diminishing sands of time, so slips by the standing of the English manager. The Northern English manager. Phil. Sam. Phil and Sam.

My phone pings. Snapchat. Ironic. Sam. My Sam. My Big Sam. A picture. A portrait. An art work. My Big Sam. Sam, eating a Fray Bento's pie. Downing a pint of red, his face in orgasmic ecstasy as he scrolls through the artwork of 'Cold War Steve', Big Sam eating pies as he looks at Big Sam eating pies. Glorious. Heavenly. Pure.

Phil Brown will rest well tonight. "

[LDG]

Yay!!!

Denton :bow:

Phil Brown’s diaries :bow:

[Letters]

:lol:

Denton :bow:

[Dentonboy]

Discarded.

Cast aside.

Darkness, my old friend, welcome me back into your familiar embrace.

"Your employment has been terminated with immediate effect."

Swinden. On this day of days.

Remember me. Phil Brown. I will not be forgotten.

[Letters]

Phil Brown :rose:

[Dentonboy]

I wait by the phone. Coiled. Constricted.

He's gone. Adios. A good ebening for Big Sam. A good ebening indeed.

What they need. What The Arsenal need. What The Arsenal need, in a bottom of the table scrap, is Big Sam.

And if Big Sam takes the reigns, takes the wheel of The Arsenal, he'll need a number two. The brownest number two you've ever seen. A Phil Brown shaped number two. So, here I am, in The Witching Hour, waiting by my phone. All the bars, all the battery, volume up, waiting. Coiled. Constricted. Waiting.

Big Sam and Phil. That there London. Home to those Cockney bastards. Me and Big Sam, rampaging through Shoreditch cereal bars, pissing in Trafalger Square and taking selfies on London Bridge. It. Is. Happening.

It's 4am now. I am waiting. I am coiled. I am constricted. Ready. Waiting. Ready to pounce. Ready to follow Big Sam into the Abyss. Into the Abyss and beyond. Into...London.

It's 6am now. Mrs Brown is stirring. I do not use my phone to turn the sunbed on. I do not use my phone to order a Deliveroo Subway breakfast. I do not use my phone to place a cheeky bet on Big Sam replacing Bruce Rioja. No. I am waiting. Waiting for my man.

I. Am. Waiting.

[Letters]

:haha:

You should post more, dude.

[IBK]

I wait by the phone. Coiled. Constricted.

He's gone. Adios. A good ebening for Big Sam. A good ebening indeed.

What they need. What The Arsenal need. What The Arsenal need, in a bottom of the table scrap, is Big Sam.

And if Big Sam takes the reigns, takes the wheel of The Arsenal, he'll need a number two. The brownest number two you've ever seen. A Phil Brown shaped number two. So, here I am, in The Witching Hour, waiting by my phone. All the bars, all the battery, volume up, waiting. Coiled. Constricted. Waiting.

Big Sam and Phil. That there London. Home to those Cockney bastards. Me and Big Sam, rampaging through Shoreditch cereal bars, pissing in Trafalger Square and taking selfies on London Bridge. It. Is. Happening.

It's 4am now. I am waiting. I am coiled. I am constricted. Ready. Waiting. Ready to pounce. Ready to follow Big Sam into the Abyss. Into the Abyss and beyond. Into...London.

It's 6am now. Mrs Brown is stirring. I do not use my phone to turn the sunbed on. I do not use my phone to order a Deliveroo Subway breakfast. I do not use my phone to place a cheeky bet on Big Sam replacing Bruce Rioja. No. I am waiting. Waiting for my man.

I. Am. Waiting.

Superb :d

[Dentonboy]

Blue light fills the small, boxy room as the computer monitor powers on. A brew. A hot brew. A hot Yorkshire brew is steaming on the desk.

It is The Year of Our Lord 2023 and Phil Brown...me...finds himself alone. Alone. Alone in a small, boxy room in The North. The North, where we do what we want.

Click. Click. Tap. Tapping. Tapping twelve times. Google. 'Phil Brown'. The top entry sarcastically sneers back at me. 'Where is Phil Brown now?'

He's in a room. A small, boxy, blue-light-filled room. Tapping into a keyboard. Blowing on a hot brew. A hot Yorkshire brew. The P45 from Barrow still sitting, half-opened on the desk in front of him. A letter. A poisonous letter.

The silence in the small, boxy room in The North is punctuated by the gentle vibrations of my Nokia 3310. Still going strong. It's Sam. Big Sam. He's up too. He's up too, using Google, seeing the same mocking tones. I answer. Phil Brown answers.

"It's on." The Guru. The Master. The Messiah. The Gaffer has spoken.

"When?" I breathlessly reply, not quite believing that his voice is in my ear again, again after all of these years.

"Flight LS1245 from Birmingham."

"It's happening, isn't it? It's really happening."

"It is lad." I melt. "Wayne's expecting us. five nights. See you at 'The O Beach Club' then lad, ta-ra."

I hear the line end. I softly cry. I am sitting. I am sitting in a small, boxy room in The North, weeping with joy.

[Letters]

:lol: The "Now and Then" of posts :bow:

[Dentonboy]

:scarf: