There’s no two ways about it. They hurt. Despite my stoic sensibilities, and my legendary ability to turn the tables on any attacker, the words spat at me by Mike Ashley, when he removed me as manager of Newcastle United in January 2008, stung like a bullet ant. “You’re fired,” he drooled, sat slovenly in his disgusting office, dressed in a full Newcastle kit like a big bellend. “Oh, and while I’m at it, you look a bit like Bennett from Commando.”
I stood there in silence, devastated and alone; my dignity laying prone on the floor, like a crippled child with negligent parents.
I was immediately ushered out of St James’ Park, and thrown into the cold, dank streets of an unforgiving city. Discarded without a thought, like a whore with a hump.
Stalin was never named manager of the month
I walked home in a state of befuddlement, the paltry remnants of my time at the club carried over my shoulder in a bindle stick. The cruel, wintry frost rasped violently at my vagabond face, as a right shower of bastards gathered around me, hurling insults. “You’re as useless as Stephen Hawking’s feet!” yelled one Geordie mutant, his bared breasts dancing frantically in the January gust. “My granny could manage better than you, you fat mess, and she can’t even manage her own piss muscles,” added another, crudely. One sweet-looking, teenage girl in pigtails even threw dog shit at me, whilst screaming: “I hate you Not Big Sam! You’re worse than Stalin!”
It was the worst moment of my adult life. I ran through the city in tears, the ever-growing mob of abusers at my heels, bombarding me with taunts, rocks, and bits of perished squirrel. I felt like a circus freak. Not for the first or last time, my life drew acute and painful parallels with that of the Elephant Man. Not physically, of course. I’ve dealt with all sorts of accusations throughout my career, but no, my head does not weigh the same as Merrick’s. I’ve had it checked out by the lads at Opta, and they assured me that mine is “certainly, but not categorically, lighter”.
The night Nick Drake saved my life
When I finally got home, I curled up into a ball on my beanbag, slipped Pink Moon by Nick Drake onto the turntable, and stayed their for 34 hours and 13 minutes. Although it seemed like I was stuffed down the darkest of wells, I soon tilted my weary head skywards, and glimpsed a hopeful fleck of light. This was going to be the bloody making of me.
I arose from my feeble inertia, a new man. A stronger man. I promptly discarded my clothes; their very existence a reminder of the person I was. I’d also been wearing the same duds for a day and a half, and quite frankly, I stank like a Frenchman’s finger. As the symbolic, pupal casing of my attire, fell away from my body, I emerged like a beautiful butterfly, ready to feast on the very nectar of untapped opportunity.
I opened the front door and stood naked in front of the world. “I am alive!” I roared, my genitalia swaying against my magnificent thighs like a devastating wrecking ball, hell-bent on destruction. “Ancient spirits of evil, transform this decayed form to Not Big Sam, the Ever-Living!” Yes, I stole it from Mumm-Ra, but it seemed so deliciously apt.
After reciting this incantation, I bent down on one knee, flexed my biceps towards the heavens, and screamed the scream of some form of feral beast. A feral beast blessed with focus, cunning and tactical aplomb. I then went back inside and watched Commando on the Sky Player, to see if that bastard Ashley was correct. I almost turned it off in disgust when I clapped my eyes on that chainmail-wearing troglodyte, but gradually became compelled by the story of Bennett’s nemesis, Colonel John Matrix.
As I watched his beefy resilience deal with betrayal after betrayal, and marvelled at his ability to turn anger into a thick, fiery ball of vengeance and retribution, I was inspired. I decided at that very moment that the heinous act perpetrated against me by Mike Ashley, Newcastle United and the very inhabitants of that unholy North East favela, would serve only as exquisite fuel in my quest to climb to the very top of association football. United were just pawns in my crusade; a stepping stone to bigger and better things.
Every time I see Ashley’s chubby jowls wobble on TV, I remind myself that this is the man – the monster – that pushed me off my own personal ladder of evolution. I know in my heart, that his callous and undue expulsion is the only reason I am not currently preparing my team talk at the Estadio Santiago Bernabéu, or Camp Nou.
About that night with Cheryl Cole…
This weekend, Not Big Sam takes his West Ham side – fresh from a goalless mauling of the so-called champions – back to the scene of his most painful betrayal. I’ve been back before, of course, but the agony never subsides; it only manifests with each magnificent step I take towards managerial greatness. It’s been over four years now, but the coals of injustice continue to crackle and burn inside my belly, tearing at my soul. Only vengeance can extinguish such wretched flames.
Do I have any good memories of my time at Newcastle? None. Well… there was this one time with Mark Viduka and Cheryl Cole in a nightclub called Tiger Tiger. Mark and I were grinding with Cheryl on the dancefloor, when she looked at me with those gorgeous, hazelnut eyes and whispered: “Wud yee leek tuh hev a fiddle wi’ me noo-noo?” It was an all-too rare moment of sensuality, in a town drenched in blue WKD and vulgarity.
As I take my boys onto the field at St James’ Park this Sunday, I do so with the dactylic words of Colonel John Matrix burrowed deep into my labyrinthine brain…
You know, when I was a boy and rock’n'roll came to East Germany, the communists said it was subversive. Maybe they were right.
Maybe they WERE right, Colonel. Either way, it’s time for Big Sam to let off some steam.
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.