'The Year of Our Lord 2011.

That's me done. Finished. Halted. Stopped.

The dark, dreary clouds of unemployment hang low over my furrowed brow. I knew it were coming. I knew it were round t'corner. "We, the Board of Preston North End Football Club regret to inform you that your services as manager are no longer required. Please remove your personal belonging's from the Manager's Office, kit from the Manager's Locker room and spray tan curtain set from the changing rooms and leave the facilities by 12 noon." Bollocks. That curtain was put up tight and proper.

I call Big Sam. We contemplate meeting up in That There London. Shite. Utter shite. Big Sam in Cockney land, lording it up, leering it up with Brady and lairing it up with Sullivan. Not for me. Not for Phil.

My trusty FiloFax opens in front of me like a moth out of hibernation. I scan to 'E'. ESPN. Stubbsy.

Stubbsy is annoyed. Stubbys is incandescent. Stubbsy is so royally pissed off that he wants me to call him Ray. Shite again. What's up with the man? Ahh, he were on Talksport with Irani this morning from six AM. Yeah, yeah...that'll do it. Poor bastard. Bloody Irani in the mornings. Poor bastard Stubbsy. But. but no, he can't have me on to commentate on D.C United vs Real Salt Lake City. Bollocks. I fancied a Christmas USA trip...Oh, studio based. Hammersmith. Shite.

Sod it. Sod it all. I call up Colin. It's come to this. "Yes Colin, Sunday at six PM is fine. No, thank you Colin. Until then. Ta-rah." I'll be getting my pink Kashmere jumper down to the dry cleaner's then. MOTD2 it is for Phil Brown; football manager. That should be a shirt...I phone t'printers; "Yes, that's right me lad. I want 'Phil Brown - colon - Football manager' on t'shirt in bold print. Cheers. Ta-rah." Can't wait to see that.'