Step forward to my cauldron of wisdom
When I was a teenager, my Uncle Charlie came to live with us for a while. He said it was because the communists were after him, but my friend Wesley LaForge said it was actually because he was caught trying to make love to a donkey at a sanctuary for blind animals just outside Dudley.
One night, after returning from competing at a local roller derby, I walked into our back room to see Charlie gently stroking the front cover of a seminal Ladybird book called ‘The Discontended Pony’, and sobbing ruefully. I’ll never forget Charlie’s puffy red eyes, as he looked at me and said: “What am I going to do about these thoughts, son? What am I going to do?”
It was at that moment that my career as a legendary giver of advice was born. I’ve offered counsel to some of the most powerful forces in sports and entertainment. The power of my advice has guided sad dickheads down from ledges, allowed shy women to obtain senior management positions, and seen world-class footballers decide to make their home in some truly awful cities.
As it’s an international break, and the excitement of proper football takes a back seat for a few weeks, it is the perfect time for me, Not Big Sam, to open up my mind-flaps to you, the Great British public. I stand before you as a sorcerer. A sorcerer of truth. So, step forward to my cauldron of wisdom, and let me fill your little wooden cup with the hot, comforting broth of common sense.
Dear Not Big Sam: Should I ask her out?
Hi Not Big Sam. There’s a gorgeous new girl from London that’s started working at my place recently, and I think I am in love with her. I want to be with her with all my heart, or at least see her naked. The trouble is, she doesn’t even know I exist. I’m not sure if she’s a football fan, so I don’t even know how to start a conversation with her. What can I do to make her realise I am the man of her dreams? – Clive, Burnley
NOT BIG SAM SAYS… Not being from Burnley would be a good start, Clive, but we can’t do anything about that now. Oh, and a woman being a football fan? Nice one, Clive! You’ve got a sense of humour. That’s a good start.
People know all about my own sexual potency. I just have to flash a woman my legendary smile, and point out the outline of my plonker in my chinos, and she’ll be frothing down below like a faulty twin tub washing machine in no time. However, for plebs like you, I’d suggest a less nuanced, more obvious approach.
Try cornering the girl at her workspace or in the kitchen, making sure you’re lathered in Brut by Fabergé, or a fragrance of a similar standard. Say nothing to the lass.
Stare deep into her eyes, letting her know exactly what you’re all about, but say absolutely nothing. Then simply slide up to her while singing, “Oooooh oooh ooh oooh oooh ooh ooooh ooooh, I wanna sex you up”. Be sure to point at her while singing the word “you” and upwards when you sing “up”.
Otherwise you’ll just look like a right twat. Before you can say “Colour Me Badd”. you’ll be kneading her breasts like a pair of sourdough loaves. You’re welcome, Clive.
Dear Not Big Sam: What should I wear this winter?
Hi Sam. Like you, I’m a football man who doesn’t eschew the importance of fashion; I’ve always thought of myself as being quite the dandy. However, my transition between the seasons isn’t always as seamless as it could be. Save me from looking like an utter bastard, and tell me what I should be wearing this winter. – Simon, London
NOT BIG SAM SAYS … You’ve come to the right chap, Simon. My sartorial elegance is known the world over, and not just within the game. One of the greatest compliments I’ve ever been given is being asked if I was a practising homosexual in Debenhams a few years back. That lot always dress impeccably, so you know you’re doing something right if you get mistaken for one. I try to ensure that, at any given time, my ensemble reflects my own personality, but also the environment around me.
Let’s take what I’m wearing right now; a grey Bollman 140, 1890s bowler hat, which is set off impeccably by a gorgeous, navy squares casual cravat by Swagger & Swoon. My staggering torso is draped in a grey chamois leather poncho from Lafre, featuring an open front, an all-over cut-out pattern, and a fringed hem.
Yes, it’s made for women but it conforms to my body like gravy on a pie, so sue me. In the slacks department, I’m sporting a pair of slim cut, camel velvet trousers. My thigh muscles look incredible in them – like two magnificent hams, cloaked in fine, homemade custard. The cherry on top of this incredible outfit is my footwear; a spectacular pair of Ted Baker Ransik suede loafers in blue.
Suave, urbane, striking. It’s exactly the look I’m going for, and if you’re clever enough, you’ll also note a fair bit of social commentary within my attire. It also betrays the type of football I’m revered for. You won’t ever look as sumptuous as me, Simon, but at least try. Just try.
Dear Not Big Sam: I’m American and want to play for the West Ham!
Hello. My name is Corey Deeker and I love soccerball! I want to play for the West Ham, and I promise you, I will score so many goals, that you’ll go crazy! I can win the hearts and minds of the fans and be the greatest soccer star ever! Can you help me, sir? – Corey, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
NOT BIG SAM SAYS … Wow. Corey? Your name is Corey? Seriously? Is this a joke? Did Elton Welsby put you up to this? I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt here, kid, and tell you exactly what my father told me when I approached him that cold November morning as a child, and told him I wanted to be a footballer: “Your head probably weighs more that most full-backs, son. Best get yourself a trade.”
You’re an American, Corey. There is no place in professional football for foam fingers and oversized Stetsons.
We only accept (and avoid) Clint Dempsey because he is actually terrifyingly intense. I once met him at a PFA dinner and he told me to “get out of the room, and just keep running, because the day of reckoning is upon us, and I am the bringer of justice, and the tides of deliverance are lapping at the shore”.
I’d only asked him if he’d tried the sausage rolls. Not Big Sam is an open-minded man, but stick to your own geographical and professional boundaries, champ. Forget about the pig’s bladder, and get yourself a monster truck. All the best.
Dear Not Big Sam: How can I avoid Downton Abbey with my girlfriend?
I’m in trouble, big man. There’s obviously no football this weekend, what with the international break and all, and my girlfriend reckons this means I have to do stuff with her. She wants to go to a stately home, and says she has three episodes of ‘Downton Abbey’ we can watch together, along with a box of Matchmakers and a “load of lovely snuggles”. Help me!!– Frank, Halifax
NOT BIG SAM SAYS …. That’s a tough one, Francis, and one of the reason’s I turned down becoming England manager a few years ago. I still remember how conflicted I was the night I received the offer. I was out in the back garden, dangling provocatively in my old tyre swing, my graceful toes dipping coquettishly in a little puddle beneath me. I had weighed up all the pros and cons, but my mind was still as conflicted as John Travolta in a unisex rest-room.
The wife then sauntered into the garden, holding a banana Yazoo and devouring a packet of Monster Munch. “This will be amazing, love,” she spluttered, bits of beefy residue flying everywhere. “Think of how much extra time you’ll have not being a club manager. Time you can spend with me!”
Then she quaffed the entire bottle of Yazoo and broke wind loudly. It was horrendous, and left me wondering if it was merely flatulence. It sounded like an ailing duck, falling into a puddle. My mind was made up on the spot. I turned down the job, and the rest is history.
I continued my ascent up the tree of club football greatness, and the missus went back to her puzzles and her cleaning. Just slip her a tenner, Frankie, and tell her to go buy herself something pretty this weekend. That’ll keep the little princess happy.
Not Big Sam is a parody account on Twitter which can be found here. It is in no way related to Sam Neill, Sam Adams, Sam Allardyce or Sam Fox.