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.