LiberoFootball has a new signing. Greg Cross is a wonderful writer with an acerbic wit and has a fantastic take on the ‘British’ way of football management. Here is his take on Big Sam Allardyce’s diary (with a doffed cap to David Peace). (As imagined - so no need for legal action!):

(18/04/09) Training. Training my Blackburn squad. We’re pushing, pushing hard for 13th place. Big Sam. Our Phil from Hull. Phil. Wonderful Phil. And the new lad at Pompey. Us, three Musketeers. No. Too French. Three Amigos. No. Too Italian. Three crusaders. Better. Pushing for 13th. Tight. Too tight. I need signings. Signings like only Big Sam can make. British steel. British talent. Jay-Jay. Jussi. Ivan. Bernard. Stars. Stars, the lot of ‘em.

But Big Sam is angry. Big Sam is upset. Eight months. Eight months I’ve been looking. Looking for him. Looking for the one. The one who I signed on the dotted line for. The dotted line of Big Sam’s latest contract. The Blonde. The player that sums up Big Sam. Robbie. Robbie Savage. The player’s player. Eight months. Eight long, drawn out months. Searching, searching high and low. Calling. Coaxing. Is he in the showers? ‘No’ says El Hadji. Is he in the physio room? ‘No’ says Ryan. Is he out on t’pitches? Practising? Practising his free kicks. Practising his penalties. ‘No’ says Brett. Then, after eight months. Eight long, precious, Robbie-less months. Big Sam hears. ‘Brighton Gaffer!’ Brighton?! What’s Brighton? Who is Brighton? Where does he play? Sounds English. Our Craig is ready. Pen in hand. Calculator out. ‘No’ says Stephen. ‘Robbie’s at Brighton. It’s down south.’ Down south?! I’m sick. Physically sick. Our Craig – good lad my Craig – fetches my brown paper bag. I’m sick. I’m sick to my stomach. Robbie. My Robbie. My hope. My playmaker. Down south. There’s no hope. ‘Gays’ says our Craig. ‘Lots of gays down there in that there Brighton.’

Craig wakes me. Says I fainted.

The training goes well. Paul. England’s number one ‘keeper. Paul is a marvel. The lads. My lads. Big Sam’s lads. They’ve swapped the balls with Easter eggs. Easter eggs on sale at Asda. Paul is catching every one. England beckons. Blackburn’s Paul. Big Sam’s Paul. England’s number one again. Put on me Blue Tooth. Nike on Speed-Dial. Will they change the Premiership ball? Hook up with Cadbury? ‘No’. No says Nike. I spit. I spit out my gum. Foreigners. Scuppering England. My England. Fabio. At my desk. Should have been my desk. My gum. My last gum. Stuck on the floor. Stuck on the floor of a Portakabin in Blackburn. Irony. Irony they call it. Read the rest of this entry »