LiberoFootball’s Greg Cross’ take on former Hull City manager Phil Brown’s diary:

 (01/09/2010) The Year of Our Lord, 2010.

 ‘Sunday, bloody Sunday. Change. Change and loss. I’m not doing my usual read of the Hull and East Riding Newspaper, not reflecting on a glorious win for my Tigers, not digesting a hard earned draw with my heroic striped boys. Not also am I preparing a water-tight, Ironside case against that bastard hooligan Cesc. Cesc bleeding Fabregas. Cesc bloody Fabregas; that bastard who wore a hoody. Wore a hoody and jeans. Wore a hoody and jeans and trainers. Wore a hoody and jeans and trainers and a leather jacket and went on to that pitch in that bloody London and assualted my boys and my staff and got away with it.

 No. No. I am southwards bound to that bloody London where I have to go to keep the wolves from the door. The wolves my Tigers used to scare away. The Tigers that used to keep me at the ‘Sunny-Humber-side-up’ tanning salon. The Tigers that kept my whippet, my beloved whippet; Little Sam, in Diamonte collars. Little Sam. Little Sam, cutting a lonely figure of a dog, a dog with a string collar, especially since Roary the Tiger bought the last one from t’Hull City store. Pushed in t’queue too, the stripey sod.

No. No. I am going to bloody London to appear on Match of the day Two. To bloody London to talk football to Colin Murray. Colin bleeding Murray, who, when the football is on the V/T, is showing Lee bloody Dixon his Liverpool FC boxers and telling him what he’d do if he were with Stan Collymore, Sky Sports News’s finest dolly birds and a packet of chocolate fingers. Well, professionals eh? Not in my day. Not with Jimmy. Not with Saint. Probably with Greavsie mind. Well, I’d tell that jumped up chump Murray that I’ve seen him with Big Stan on Five’s excuse for a football platform, and I’d assure him he’d be on t’crumb duty with a Dyson. Colin Murray, to football what Arsene bleeding Wenger is to chivalry - he didn’t shake my hand, that arrogant bastard. I don’t care what the TV ‘evidence’ showed.

And, sod it, then off to t’Talk of t’Terrace. Off there to regal with Nat Coombs. Nat Coombs, a Sid Vicious lookalike, but only if Sid Vicious frequented Brighton clubs wearing Avon and dressed like a twat in a cardigan. And Kelly Cates. Kelly Cates, whose dad I can’t get out of my head when I stare at her from across the sofa, hoping, hoping and pleading that my Topman 32″ stonewash jeans (£10.99 in t’sale) are loose enough not to earn me a slap from Mrs Brown when I get back up North.

Talk of the Terrace. No. No my friends. But, it keeps the wolves from the doors. I can throw in my ‘I’d like to manage England one day’ line, and cry inside when I see Kelly, Kelly and Nat, Kelly, Nat and Colin, Kelly, Nat, Colin and Lee, all do that knowing smirk, that knowing bastard smirk, that smirk that says “Phil, you’re at your level, you’re at your level, unemployed, unemployed, and talking bollocks on a sofa.” Well. Well, I’ll prove ‘em wrong. Got a C.V flying off to the Villa as we speak. Shoe-in.’