'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...'