The Year of Our Lord, 2013

[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