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.

No more gum. I send our Craig to Mr Asiv’s round t’corner. Our Craig. Out on his own. I give him some petty cash from t’drawer. Let him keep his ten percent mind. Look after family. Disaster! Disaster strikes Big Sam. The flavour. My flavour. Big Sam’s flavour. Sold out! Our Phil has bought the last pack. Our Phil who came over to show off his Blue Tooth. He’s bought my gum. ‘No sour grape left Dad’ comes our Craig round t’corner, ‘It’s all gone.’ Disaster. I console the boy. Yes. Yes, you can keep that ten percent lad.

I phone Arsene Wenger. Arsene Wenger. Sat in that training ground. All curves and corners. Like Paris I dare say. Arsene puts me on hold. Talking to Gilles. Gilles?! Big Sam is angry. Angry at being on hold. Arsene, on his phone. Sat in his office. In his training ground. Probably sunny down there too. No good. Credit running low. Big Sam doesn’t need his advice. His sports’ nutrition advice. His advice is of no use to Big Sam now. I send our Craig back to Mr Asiv’s. Five pounds credit. Ten percent for our Craig.

I phone Sir Alex. I take notes. Knight of t’relm. Hero. Idol. Martyr. I note it down. Pining. Straining. I listen. I note. Hovis. Check. Dripping. Check. Vimto. Check. Done. Done and dusted. 13th is ours. I won’t tell our Phil mind. Phil has Kia-Ora. Kia-Ora. Too orangey for crows. Too orangey for crows apparently. I tell our Phil that he needs to cut down. Cut down on those tanning salons. Not right. Not at Bolton I told him then. No salons at Bolton. Met Robbie in a salon though. That’s when he left. My Phil. Gone. To Hull. Hurt. Sorrow. Reconciliation. The Kia-Ora is too orangey for crows. Right. Right I tell him. Crows. Crows, bleak, circling. Looking for the weak. The disabled. The dead. There’ll not find that here. Not at Big Sam’s Blackburn. We’re alive. We’re alive and well. We’ve got 13th to fight for.

Switch off lights. No change from t’meter. The phone hasn’t rung. The phone hasn’t rung again. The red phone our Craig installed. The red phone our Craig installed last year. The phone linked direct to t’FA. It’s not rung. It’s not rung again. That job were mine. Too big. Too big for t’job. Capello. Italian. Managing my England. Big Sam’s England. Not right is that.

Blue Tooth bleeps. Bleeping that Phil, our Phil is calling. Can he take me to see Kightly? Kightly. Big Mick’s lad, down t’road at Wolves. English. English lad. Next Beckham. Next English Beckham. ‘No’ says I. Big Sam is off. Big Sam is scouting with our Craig. Craig is next to me in t’car. A Rover. British. A British motor. A lovely big British motor. Our Craig is checking. Checking flights. Checking tickets. Checking passports. Checking he’s packed the scotch eggs. Checking for holes in t’roads. Four thousand. Four thousand holes in t’road they say. Flight’s booked. Bag’s packed. Ginster’s in glove compartment. Donetsk. Ukraine. Brazilian lad. Jadson. Do well. Do well up north. Have to move Dunny along though.