Interviews. Interviews and selling yourself. Selling yourself like a prostitute. A Northern prostitute. Selling yourself like a call girl in t'Friday Ad. Not that I know mind. Down South. Down South where the money is. Where the money is to keep me in St. Tropez Fake Tan #4. Down South. Down the M1. Down into the depths. The depths of South London. Through Yorkshire where the Yorkshire Ripper prowled. Down through London where The Ripper preyed. Down, down, deep, dank and dark.
Dark and deep. And that's just his tan. Jordan. Simon Jordan. Interviewing for t'Palace job. In Selhurst. Selhurst Park. Old School stadium. Amongst the terraces. In the community. In the community like headlice. Yes. Yes. I can see myself here. Me, Phil Brown. Him. Him, Simon Jordan. Me, me with a headset, him, him with mobile phone and accessories discount from his business ventures. Oh yes. And our glow, our winning glow. Glowing orange radiance. Peas in t'pod.
Looking. Observing. Taking in. The competition. Hoddle. Hart. Barnes. Pleat. The usual suspects. The Premiership's own convalescing dole queue themselves. Hoddle, not worked since Spurs. Oh, the shame, Spurs. Had it made with The Saints he did. In Spain now, real tan. Bastard. Hart. Hart, passed around like an STI. In and out, like a crap trouble shooter - a crap trouble shooter like the one in my seat in Hull. Dowie, you bastard. You face like a Cockney pavement bastard!
"Me, Phil Brown. Him. Him, Simon Jordan. Me, me with a headset, him, him with mobile phone and accessories discount from his business ventures."
Barnes is here. Possibly for the job. Possibly because he's lost. 'Yes' we say, 'yes, it was a great goal John, but that were decades ago. 19 bloody 84! You were a shite manager, you ballsed up Celtic in a two team pub league.' We all say. All say it. The truth. He goes quiet. He goes back to Channel Five. Then he remembers Murray has his job now. He's sobbing. But he has the song still. Always have the song. That song. But his World's not in motion now. Not anymore. And Pleat. Well, let's just say the prostitute label I gave ourselves is quite apt here. Not that I like to laugh at others. But he's no Phil Brown. Radio's all he's good for now. That and Shite-TV for t'Champions League with that Northern idol Tyldesley. Clive Tydlesley. Only a Northern bastard could be that biased. Does us proud. Manchester Clive we call him.
Upwards. Up, upwards and out of the Cockney Southern hell. Up t'M1. Back North. The North. Where we do what we want. Home. A call. An incoming call. On my headset. Jordan. Simon Jordan. Phone maker. King maker. Shagger of models and careers. Shite! Hart. Bloody Paul Hart. That job were mine. Oh well. At least the bastard is Northern.
I'll call Sam. Big Sam. The Walrus. He may have a job. Yes. Call Big Sam. Us Northerners stick together.
I will be back. I'm Phil Brown.
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