Not Big Sam - Big Sams Guide to Life

Published by Blink Publishing

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Hardback 978-1-911274-94-0

eBook 978-1-911274-95-7

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or circulated in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

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Text copyright by Not Big Sam, 2017

Noel Slevin has asserted their moral right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

Blink Publishing is an imprint of the Bonnier Publishing Group

www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the wife, the men of the armed forces and Sir Alex Ferguson. Your belief in me is the very electricity that powers my magnificence.

Contents

Prologue

N ineteenth October 1954. Dudley, West Midlands, England. A woman screams. A harried doctor wipes his soaking brow. He looks down again. He can see the woman is crowning.

Youre crowning, sweetheart, he says cheerily. She doesnt respond.

The doctor has never seen a head as big as this before. As mighty. This one is special.

Nearly there, the doctor tells the woman, reassuringly. One more push and were done.

The woman obliges, and pushes with all her might.

Jesus Christ, she screams. Its like trying to crap out a medicine ball.

Then, it happens. Shards of glorious light burst into the room, as angelic voices begin to hum from on high. As the rest of the world comes to a halt, the womans glistening undercarriage opens like a flower. Admittedly like a rather battered flower. A final push and the future of English football slides out with grace. With swagger. With aplomb. The moment has finally arrived. It is beautiful. It is serene. It is Big Sam.

In the six decades that have flown by since that momentous autumn afternoon, I have carved my own place in the annals of football history. I have taken the talents that tumbled out of that vagina with me back in 1954, added a splash of cunning, a hint of charm and a few dollops of sports science innovation and established myself as one of the true greats of the modern game.

If there was a Mount Rushmore for British football managers, Id probably be up there. Along with Sir Alex Ferguson, Sir Alf Ramsey and Barry Fry, probably. He does so much for charity, that lad.

However, my domination of English football only tells half the story of my life. I have spent over 60 years on this planet, leading a rich, provocative existence. In that time, I have accrued a wealth of experience and knowledge across a plethora of topics, such as sex, art, politics, and how best to groom ones pubic region. I am a walking encyclopedia of wisdom. Wisdom that I havent always been able to fully and directly dispense to my legion of admirers. Until now.

Within these pages you will find stories. Lessons. Life lessons aimed at equipping you with the kind of heavy armoury needed to traverse an increasingly challenging 21st century. Read these words and heed my message. Open wide and let me wring the sponge of my perspicacity into your parched mouths. Swallow it slowly and thoughtfully, letting the cool, invigorating waters of my sagacity quench the thirst of your curiosity.

And make sure you pay full price for these messages, too. Dont be borrowing a copy from a friend or paying next to nothing for one off some prick on eBay. Ive got fucking overheads.

How to Deal With Betrayal

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

O scar Wilde wrote the withering words above in 1897, whilst in exile in France. He fled to the continent after spending time behind bars simply for being a gaylord. Just think about that for a second. All the wit and creativity he possessed, all the joy and love he gave to his fans, the consistently remarkable job he did in his chosen field. It all counted for nothing in the end and why? Because some nark didnt like the fact that big Oscar liked it up the biscuit aisle. What a fucking joke.

I, too, have been on the receiving end of such stinking betrayal. Back in 2016, I was honoured with a gift even more precious than freedom. After working towards it for my entire professional life, the title of England manager was finally bestowed upon my mighty head. Little more than two months later, however, this gift was cruelly ripped from my clutches, as I was forced to quit. Why? Because of double-crossing, sly-winking, sham-mongering charlatans, thats why. The fucking cunts.

On 4 September 2016 I took charge for what was to be my only game as England boss. A devastating 1-0 win against Slovakia in our opening game of the 2018 World Cup qualifying stage was enough to make the rest of the world sit up and take notice. England were back. Long gone was the flaccid, primitive football played by my predecessor, Roy Hodgson, to be replaced by a modern, decisive, pulsating approach, masterminded by the grit-caked jewel in the English games crown yours truly. Barry Fry described it as one of the most impressive wins hed seen all month and said about me, This guy is to winning what Chinamen are to inventing stuff. Fucking dynamite.

It may have only been one game, but after the utter misery of Hodgsons pathetic Euro 2016 campaign it was just the tonic the country needed. It enabled the people my people to dream once again. To be lost in reverie, fantasising about being able to take to the streets of London Town in July 2018 and welcome back the world champions. I alone did this, and how did they thank me? By conspiring.

For the ignorant amongst us, those who consume only the empty, unwholesome calories of tabloid newspapers, the story went thusly: drunk on my own newly found power, I attend a meeting with undercover reporters posing as Asian businessmen and proceed to tell them how it is possible to get around FIFA and FA bans on third-party ownership of football players. I am also seen using my position as England manager to negotiate a 400,000 deal to take on an ambassadorial role at the fictitious company the aforementioned businessmen are representing. Sound about right?

Sound about wrong, more like. Perhaps I attended that meeting simply to ensnare a couple of dastardly dickheads that were, as far as I was aware, plying their filthy trade in the game that I love? Doesnt that sound much more like me? While the spider was, indeed, trying to catch the fly, I have to be honest and admit that I also met with these businessmen for an altogether more selfish reason. Insurance.