The Year of Our Lord, 2013

[Dentonboy]

'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...'

[Ollie the Optimist]

brilliant as usual :haha:

[LDG]

Phil Brown's Diaries :bow:

Fucking brilliant mate :lol:

[IBK]

Thanks for that. :lol:

[Marc Overmars]

I never really got these diary things.

There, I said it.

[GP]

I never really got these diary things.

There, I said it.

Me either

:shrug:

[fakeyank]

I never really got these diary things.

There, I said it.

Thank baby fucking jesus that someone said it. It never made ANY sense to me! I always thought that this was a British thing and something I wasnt picking up but looks like its just confusing in general.

Dentonboy, no offense mate.. you probably have a great piece but it doesnt make any sense to me!

[Cripps_orig]

I never really got these diary things.

There, I said it.
Thank you.

[Dentonboy]

Thanks for the feedback.

I'll not worry putting anymore up on here.

Thanks to all who read it.

[Marc Overmars]

Sorry I didn't mean to be rude mate. :lol:

People obviously enjoy reading it so carry on!

[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 :lol:

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...'

:patrice:

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]

:cheers:

[Dentonboy]

"The Year of Our Lord, 2013.

Through the swirly haze of alcohol, the foggy memory of last night's exploits start focussing into shape. A picture emerges from the gloom. And to my absolute horror, I realise that it wasn't a dream.

Big Sam. Sir Alex. Joe Kinnear. And myself, Phil 'Beach Boy' Brown.

One audacious bet: Get Joe a job.

One night to do it in: Last night.

One epic lock-in at 'The Bear and Cub' in Brighton.

My head pounds a dull beat as I recollect listening to Sir Alex; the man, the legend, the King lad of Jim Beam Black, phoning up Mike Ashley and regaling him with tales of how he sought Joe's invaluable advice during 'that night in the Nou Camp'. He told Mike that Joe was smuggled into the dugout in one of Big Sam's Head holdall bags. Mike listened, awe-struck. Sir Alex laid it on with a trowel. Big Sam joined the conspiracy, mint julep sloshing precariously in one hand, melted white Toblerone bar in the other. 'Yes Mike, yes, Joe got me Jay-Jay, he opened those doors, why, he could get Newcastle United Ronaldinho if he wanted to...'

I hold my temples. My mind is blurring again. Did I imbibe that whole bottle of Babycham? Why didn't those bastards stop me? Why did I throw my only VHS copy of 'Thundercats' at a morose Gus Poyet? I recall, shuddering, my guilty part in the drama:

I can smell the musk that Big Sam emitted as he sashayed up to me, Motorola Razr in one hand, JVC Mini-Disc player blaring out in t'other ('Now 34'); 'Talk to Mike, Phil, you pink sweater wearing Southern prat...he wants to know if Joe is sound...talk to him, you fuc...' I speak to Mike. I tell him, I slur my lies, my black lies, black treacle-like lies, slur them down the '3' Network and straight into his awaiting ear. 'Yes. Yes. Joe still has it. Dodgy ticker? No, not anymore. Well....he's drinking luke warm Courvoisier off of a naked Brighton hooker's naval, underneath the West Pier as we speak. Nah, course. Cheers Mike. Oh Mike, can I have some Sports Direct vouc...' He hangs up. Convinced. My part is complete. The lie is complete. Alan Pardew is going to wake to the shock of his life.

Joe crawls in. The drink has been dried. The night is now morning. The night is now mourning. Sir Alex calls a taxi. Sir Alex is stone-cold-sober. How?! Big Sam hasn't been seen since we tried to stop him breaking into the Sealife Centre, screaming 'I'm gonna give those squid a bastard pint of Guinness, straight out of my rod, see how those gutter shites like it...' I recall through my dingy drunkenness a horrific calamari incident in Marbella five years ago with Big Sam...

My sinuses feel abused. I throw myself head-long into a shower, narrowly avoiding tripping up over my whippet. I try to wash away the pungent stench of night before. The lies. The black treacle lies.

I can't.'

[Injury Time]

"The Year of Our Lord, 2013.

Through the swirly haze of alcohol, the foggy memory of last night's exploits start focussing into shape. A picture emerges from the gloom. And to my absolute horror, I realise that it wasn't a dream.

Big Sam. Sir Alex. Joe Kinnear. And myself, Phil 'Beach Boy' Brown.

One audacious bet: Get Joe a job.

One night to do it in: Last night.

One epic lock-in at 'The Bear and Cub' in Brighton.

My head pounds a dull beat as I recollect listening to Sir Alex; the man, the legend, the King lad of Jim Beam Black, phoning up Mike Ashley and regaling him with tales of how he sought Joe's invaluable advice during 'that night in the Nou Camp'. He told Mike that Joe was smuggled into the dugout in one of Big Sam's Head holdall bags. Mike listened, awe-struck. Sir Alex laid it on with a trowel. Big Sam joined the conspiracy, mint julep sloshing precariously in one hand, melted white Toblerone bar in the other. 'Yes Mike, yes, Joe got me Jay-Jay, he opened those doors, why, he could get Newcastle United Ronaldinho if he wanted to...'

I hold my temples. My mind is blurring again. Did I imbibe that whole bottle of Babycham? Why didn't those bastards stop me? Why did I throw my only VHS copy of 'Thundercats' at a morose Gus Poyet? I recall, shuddering, my guilty part in the drama:

I can smell the musk that Big Sam emitted as he sashayed up to me, Motorola Razr in one hand, JVC Mini-Disc player blaring out in t'other ('Now 34'); 'Talk to Mike, Phil, you pink sweater wearing Southern prat...he wants to know if Joe is sound...talk to him, you fuc...' I speak to Mike. I tell him, I slur my lies, my black lies, black treacle-like lies, slur them down the '3' Network and straight into his awaiting ear. 'Yes. Yes. Joe still has it. Dodgy ticker? No, not anymore. Well....he's drinking luke warm Courvoisier off of a naked Brighton hooker's naval, underneath the West Pier as we speak. Nah, course. Cheers Mike. Oh Mike, can I have some Sports Direct vouc...' He hangs up. Convinced. My part is complete. The lie is complete. Alan Pardew is going to wake to the shock of his life.

Joe crawls in. The drink has been dried. The night is now morning. The night is now mourning. Sir Alex calls a taxi. Sir Alex is stone-cold-sober. How?! Big Sam hasn't been seen since we tried to stop him breaking into the Sealife Centre, screaming 'I'm gonna give those squid a bastard pint of Guinness, straight out of my rod, see how those gutter shites like it...' I recall through my dingy drunkenness a horrific calamari incident in Marbella five years ago with Big Sam...

My sinuses feel abused. I throw myself head-long into a shower, narrowly avoiding tripping up over my whippet. I try to wash away the pungent stench of night before. The lies. The black treacle lies.

I can't.'
Tbf that's as likely as Joe K getting a job at Toon...really it's NOT April first...fuuuuuuck Pardew 8 years :haha: