notBigSam

Nicholas Witchell just sent me a WhatsApp. “My head is mangled, Big Man. I need some top notch toot up my schnoz, and the ripest fanny I can buy around my plonker just to get me through the rest of this day.” Fuck me, I wanted to catch up on Deadwater Fell tonight as well.

Definitely having a wank with a pipe of Pringles tonight. Might not even empty it out first.

I woke up this morning and stared at my erection. It was truly magnificent. As pulsating as an Aphex Twin deep cut, and as thick as a Kardashian’s hoop. I knew immediately that today was going to be a good day.

Manchester United. The time has come. Whisper my name amongst the winds of change, and I shall appear. Purse your hungry, desolate lips, and suckle greedily upon my mighty, weeping teat. I do insist on keeping my own image rights, mind. That’s non-negotiable.

I would like to announce I have decided to leave Everton. Putting a fucking Angry Bird on the shirt was the last straw. Fucking tinpot.

I carry a prosthetic leg with me at all times. For mystery purposes. I don’t tell the lads why I have it, & let them marinate in their own curiosity. I just beat Wayne Rooney about the face and neck with it, then put him in a tumble dryer. Nobody swears at the Raj of Merseyside.

Really can’t be arsed with Everton tbh.

"That's super, champ," I said, before ruffling his hair, lifting him gently into my arms, and putting him back into the ball pen outside my office. He's earned it today. His hair really is fucking appalling, though.

After I'd finished reading, Wazza put up his hand & said, "Hi daddy my fave book is called 'The Detective Dog' and it's about this dog that smells really good and he can smell anything and he goes to school and when all the school books go missing he uses his nose to find them."

And as the grey sky rumbles on high, and the liver bird roars below, a figure emerges on the horizon. He rides a steed of tactical aplomb, and carries a shield of sheer bravado. For he is Big Sam, and he has Merseyside by the feisty little minge.

I stand naked at the mouth of the river Mersey. As the wicked, winter winds whip my naked form, my taut tadger waves to and fro, conducting the river in some sort of primal orchestral manoeuvre. A pigeon perches upon my mighty cock. I smile. Yeah, I think I’m ready for the Derby.

They can get rid of that Z-Cars muck for a start. If I’m walking out to music, it’ll be something fucking dope. Something fucking REAL. Bring Da Ruckus by Wu-Tang Clan, perhaps. Or anything by Eagle-Eye Cherry.

Every murderous cloud has a silver lining, folks. Every fucking one of them.

The destruction wrought by Hurricane Irma is a sobering reminder of the truly wicked power of Mother Nature.

'A dog? A cat? What the fuck is that? A pie? A hat? What the fuck is that? A Ford Mondeo and a Vampire bat. What. The fuck. IS THAAAATTTT?