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

[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]

Legend

[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

[Master Splinter]

And Phil Brown .

[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]

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

[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]