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

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.

:haha:

You should post more, dude.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by 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.

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Superb :d

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.

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

:scarf: