The wind. Cutting. Cutting like a thousand knives. Flat-cap steadfastly on t'head. Fergie and Sam running. Running like the wind that whips their whippet legs.
Me. Me, Phil Brown. Forgotten, ignored, cast aside. Unemployed. Unemployable. Lost. Macarooned. No, not those coconut bastards, I meant, marooned. Any road, here I am, on t'Yorkshire Dales, West Riding, the Year of Our Lord 2010, walking Fergie and Sam, waiting. Waiting for t'phone to call. Reception. Reception's bad, probably. Bloody Orange. Orange Phil, that's what they call me. Family all on '3'. Not me though. Orange by nature, me.
Pompey, Fulham, heck, even bloody West Ham, all rejecting. All turning down Big Phil. Bloody Southerners. Not like up here. The North. The North, where we do what we want. Big Sam, looking out for me. Blackburn Rovers U21 girls, if I'm lucky. Would love that. In the football sense mind.
Unemployment. A prelude. A small passage of my life. I am sure. I am sure Hull will see t'light. My glorious Hull. Blackburn Rovers Lite our Sam used to say. Big Sam. I love that man.
But, here, here and now. I am here. As bolloxed as the rabbit that Fergie and Sam have just caught. As torn apart as the rabbit Fergie and Sam have just caught. In pieces, as the rabbit Fergie and Sam have just caught.
It's all a conspiracy. Bloody Arsene Wenger. Bloody Cesc Fabregas and his bloody hoodie and bloody jeans. Bloody William bloody Gallas and his offside bloody goal. Bloody Cockney bastard press. Bloody FA. Bloody dogs. Bloody rabbit. Bloody Phil bloody Brown.
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