The Year of Our Lord, 2013

[McNamara That Ghost...]

You bastards.

[Niall_Quinn]

You bastards.

Why does it always end up being the two of us trying to build this place while the rest of them tear it down?

[LDG]

Thanks for the feedback.

I'll not worry putting anymore up on here.

Thanks to all who read it.

I love Phil Brown's diaries

Please don't stop.

[IBK]

Me too. Ignore the luddites.

[fakeyank]

Thanks for the feedback.

I'll not worry putting anymore up on here.

Thanks to all who read it.

No no no

Just because it didnt make sense to some of us dumbasses, doesnt mean you stop posting. Clearly many on here enjoy your writing!

[Maestro]

Denton

Welcome back, and don't you dare stop these diaries. Been an avid reader and can't wait for the next instalment.

[IBK]

Yeh - don't be small and don't react to posts - you're bigger than that mate.

[Injury Time]

'The Year of Our Lord 2013.
Face down. Broken. Bleeding from every pore.
Sir Alex, swaying, hanging off the kitchen table. Big Sam, rocking, whispering, weeping; his body at a right angle, crashed over my wife's mint *boick* kitchen counter (granite).
The Only Way Is Essex. Southend's imperious boss, Essex's new King, Phil Brown, me, drinks in the apocalyptic scene before him in his missus' newly reconditioned kitchen, as provided by 'Bettaliving'.
Stories will be told of the night before.
Legends will be written about the tear up to end all tear ups.
Fables will be recounted when Big Sam utters the immortal words 'mint julep', 'Duran Duran' and 'Round Phils fackin hawse, naw' again. Shit, he's turned Cockney. The North's finest. Shit.
I know not what happened after 2am. I cannot remember how we got home from The Sugar Hut. I have no recollection why we have filmed Joey Essex climbing out of the pouch of Big Sam's bad tempered red kangaroo (Jay Jay). Nor why we have it showing on a loop on my bathroom projector. Scenes that are now playing on the canvas of a naked Mrs Phil Brown as she resides in her hot tub, thick white lather interspersed with orange images of drunken nightmares.
How the Faiers' sisters ended up in my garden shed, covered in bunting, mince pies and two metric tonnes of falafel, mint sauce and Greek yogurt, will remain unanswered until I meet my grave. Sir Alex may have quite a discussion with his good lady if he remembers.
And now that Sir Alex has retired, Big Sam is in the heart of That There London and Phil Brown is the King of Essex, the worrying thing, the thing that scares the living shite out of my Northern soul, is that this is the start of things to come...'

How old is he tho?

[Dentonboy]

'The Year of Our Lord 2013

A cavity has formed. Dark. Rotting. Seeringly painful. Pain that shoots from the depth of the soul up through to the lobes of the mind.

My soul feels hollowed out. The cavity is getting deeper. The pain is becoming unbearable. The pain which has kept me up all night. All night, talking to Big Sam. Big Sam. My Big Sam. Human Polyfilla. My rock.

But still the cavity grows. I search the pit of my soul for the reason. It's not Sir Alex's retirement. He has promised me that I have first dibs on the Executive coffee machine next time I'm at Old Trafford. The man's a saint, not just a knight.

It's not jealousy over Big Sam's new contract present that he bought himself - a fullsize Herbie VW Beetle - as my name is stenciled on the passenger door. In my blood.

No. It's the North. I miss the glorious bastard. The cockney-less bastard North. The North. Where we do what we want.

I fill up my bath with 60 litres of North sea I had Geovanni bring down in a Morrison's tanker. I hang my pink bathrobe on my whippet and liberally toss in a sliced black pudding, tripe and 3 kippers. I sink in. I feel Northern again.

The cavity feels filled in.'

[Xhaka Can’t]