'Phil Brown's Diary - The Year of Our Lord 2011'
The Year of Our Lord 2011:
"I watch the television in the corner. The picture washes over me like a lucid dream. The lighting strobes and I hear my own breath draw in and out, deeper and deeper, faster and faster...the moving pictures reflected back and forth within my glasses.
I watch the television in the corner. It's all coming back to me. The plight. The peril. The predictability of my poor Preston North End's locked embrace with relegation.
I watch the television in the corner. But I am not watching it. Whatever is on I cannot see. My mind is elsewhere, my brain's great depths overflowing with synapses sparking off like Roman candles. The memories of those golden Premiership years return. Geovanni. The wonderful Brasilian I snatched up, that mercurial wizard. Then there's Ashbee. My glorious leader. My voice. My vessel. Big Boaz Myhill. My rock. My Yashin. All the boys. Those sensational, striped, glorious Northern boys.
I watch the television in the corner. Now the darkness returns. The horror. The horror. Those trips down the lonely M1. Those trips to that there London. To that there Arsenal.
Still stinking of spilt Bovril. Straight into this abyss. Cartwheeling down that vivid memory is that day. Freefalling into despair. That team. That match. That player. Francesc Fabregas Soler. Francesc Fabregas Soler, captain of Arsenal Football Club. The Arsenal.
I remember. The Year of Our Lord 2009. The FA Cup. The hallowed cup. Onto the gaping pitch, striding like a mounted policeman. Trainers. Hoodie. Leather jacket. A snarling smile cut across his mouth like a switchblade. He approached my lad, my Brian. And, like a cobra, spat at his shoes. Two minutes too bloody late, I arrive. Fresh from the shock of Arsene Wenger snubbing my outstreched hand of goodwill in the previous league game, he's now swanned off down t'tunnel like a prairie dog, leaving me hanging, leaving me to go off down the tunnel alone (although pictures showing me shaking his hand were clearly doctored by Mike Riley), to see that Iberian, that loose cannon, that unruly hooligan, swearing, jeering, mocking, bullying my heroic, innocent boys. No class. No respect. And to crash out of t'FA Cup like that haunts me. Like a spectre at my shoulder, it looks over me and I hear it. Hear it laughing. See it pointing. See it arm-in-arm with that genial Frenchman. Arsene. Arsene bloody Wenger.
I look at my television. 'Hamburger Hill' has finished. I can relate to the Vietcong. The underdogs. The underdogs fighting against a stronger enemy. Like the NVA, I took a hit. Took the FA fine. Took the warnings. And now, now, three years on, three years from being kicked from pillar to post office, I am at the bottom. But I see the light. I see the crdits rolling and I know. Know. Know deep down, I will be back. Will be back with my brave Preston boys. I am from the North. The North, where we do what we want.
I drag myself up off the chair. Mrs Brown, asleep opposite on her bean bag, lifts an accusing eye at me as I switch off my Television/DVD combo'. My Preston tracksuit is dripping in sweat. The visions are always waiting. The image, seered into my subconscience, will haunt me to my retirement. Francesc Fabregas Soler. Captain of Arsenal. Wearing trainers. Wearing a hoodie. Wearing a leather jacket. Running. Running on a football pitch. Celebrating. Celebrating a victory."
