Some things are more important to recognise than a new contract of your own. @TheBig_Sam celebrates his great pal, Alex Ferguson…

A blisteringly hot day in July 2011 and Big Sam is hiking around the gorgeous surroundings of the Holy Island of Lindisfarne with a friend. As tiredness begins to take its toll on my taut yet weary limbs, I stop and lean shakily against an old wall. Despite being assured by the lads at Opta that my lungs are in the top one per cent of lungs in the game, I am wheezing like a Victorian whore.

As I splutter and cough myself into a dizzy stupor, bits of Mr Kipling Manor House splatter across my lapels, and my cheeks become imbued with the reddish hue of exhaustion. I sit down and place my head between my knees. I’m not usually prone to melodrama, but at this point in time, I am certain I am about to die.

Sir Alex is God

Then something incredible happens. I feel my Regatta Seacombe sandals being removed gently from my cracked and broken feet. A bottle of Evian is then poured soothingly over my tootsies, before they are dried delicately by an outrageously soft Sheridan Egyptian hand towel. I grin knowingly, and raise my head to see a pair of shimmering blue eyes and a smile that could make a lesbian queef. He is surrounded by light and emits a glow of pure celestial radiance. As he washes my feet with a humility that is as startling as it is moving, he reaches out and strokes my cheek.

“You’re my tired little bear, aren’t you?” he says, with a chuckle. This was the moment when I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sir Alex Ferguson was descended from the right hand of the Father.

My friendship with Sir Alex needs no introduction, embellishment or fanfare. He is the single most important part of my life. Everybody knows it; my wife knows it, mother knows it. I remember one particular moment at an LMA barbeque; they’re always lavish, raucous affairs, and Sir Alex and I were killing it with a cracking comedy routine about race relations. It was both provocative and uproarious, and had the room in absolute stitches. Afterwards, a still-chortling Howard Wilkinson came up to us and said: “You two are utter bloody perfection together. Sir Alex is the cake, and Big Sam is the icing.” It was as touching a compliment as I’ve ever been given, and I’m not afraid to admit that I cried. Everyone shifted around in embarrassment for a few seconds, before Sir Alex cut the tension by throwing a nearby Stephen Hawking over a hedge, and shouting, “Look – it’s Bernie Clifton!” His razor-sharp wit saved the moment, and had us all in kinks of laughter again. His charisma can destroy all kinds of barricades.

BEST OF PALS: Alex Ferguson with Not Big Sam

This week, after a glorious managerial career that spanned an incredible five decades and saw him snag more glittering silverware than Bobby Moore in a jewellery shop, Sir Alex announced his retirement, and plunged the country into a deep, dark well of mourning. This man has been a constant in my life for as long as I remember. If I ever needed advice or guidance, he was always a phone call away. Whenever I’ve needed a recommendation for a job, it was Sir Alex I turned to. That time I got my Xbox 360 Media Remote wedged into my anus, the great man was the only person who could see past the ramifications and social degradation, and fish it out without judgement. I’m going to miss him more than words can ever express.

Sir Alex is that warm cup of coffee that jolts me into action in the morning; he’s the satin sheets that envelope my writhing, naked body at night. He is my rock.

A word about Paddy Crerand

I’ve spent the last few days trying to find the perfect gift for Sir Alex; something that shows my devotion to a man who has done so much to shape the very hulk of granite and elegance that is Big Sam. Chocolate, flowers, Cath Kidston tote bags; nothing I found could even come close to evoking my feelings. In the end, I stripped it all back and recorded a raw, aching version of ‘re: Stacks’ by Bon Iver, and sent it to him. I’m yet to receive any feedback, but I don’t need any. He’s got a heart bigger than Katy Perry’s forehead, that man. He’ll have felt it. By Christ, he’ll have f**king felt it.

On Wednesday evening – mere hours after the announcement – certain intermediaries made it very clear to me that, should I want it, the Manchester United job was mine. Paddy Crerand even called me up and said that a contract had already been drawn up and was waiting for my signature. He did, however, also tell me that he was on the hunt for communists, before loudly vomiting on the handset and blurting out a rather bizarre non sequitur about dwarves being “a shower of bastards, on the whole”, so I’m not convinced Paddy is the most reliable of sources.

I don’t want to embarrass Sir Alex by fixing their midfield

In the end, I decided I just didn’t want to replace my hero. I want his achievements to remain crystallized and etched in ancient footballing stone. There are few sadder, more poignant moments in this life than the son surpassing the father. Sure, I could go to Manchester United and fix their midfield, or improve their frankly wretched record in the UEFA Cup, but is it worth it to see Sir Alex squirm with shame, as his legacy is shattered to dust by my own meaty hands? I think not. I’ll forge my own dynasty here at West Ham, if it’s all the same to you.

Despite having a vast treasure chest of memories involving Sir Alex, I am always drawn back to that summer’s day spent rambling in Northumberland back in 2011. It came amidst a difficult time for Big Sam; while Sir Alex was still basking in the glory of winning his 12th Premier League title, I was unemployed, miserable, and spent my  days watching ‘Baise-moi’ on repeat, eating Findus Crispy Pancakes by the dozen and calling in bomb-threats to a wide range of national retail outlets.

NO LAUGHING MATTER: When Crerand starts to talk about communists, it’s time to hang up

Sir Alex dropped by the house to check on me one afternoon, and found me in the kitchen, sagged into a half-deflated paddling pool. He saw the pain I was in, and knew in an instant what was needed. “Get up you fat f**king poof, and pull yourself together,” he roared, with legendary ferocity. “There are people in this world with no legs or pensions, and you’re behaving like this? Bloody disgrace.”

How the great man saved me

In a flash, I was plucked from the tree of self-pity, and catapulted straight back into the lush garden of real life. “Let’s go walking,” he added, a smile replacing his furious scowl. As he was helping me up, he glanced at the colour of some of the liquid that was under me in the pool. I’d be lying if I said it was all water. “Squeaky-bum time?” he asked, before giving me a wink, ruffling my hair and making me feel like a million f**king dollars. That one minor incident charted and displayed all the traits that make him the man he is; from steely-willed enforcer, to tender guardian, and then to hilarious, self-referential showman in a matter of minutes.

I know Sir Alex is not leaving my life entirely. I’ll still see him at LMA functions and at lacrosse practice. It won’t be the same, though. I am entering a dark new world of terror and fear, but I have to be strong.

One thing I must  do is visit the great man at his place of work — his kingdom — one last time before he retires. I think it’ll be cathartic. I want to stand opposite Sir Alex in his office, and enchant him with one of my favourite lines of poetry:

‘Me? ‘I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.’

I’ll get him to ask me a relevant question first, so the quote makes sense. Otherwise I’ll look like a right ballbag. And when it’s all said and done, he’ll be gone. And then only Big Sam will remain. And then I’m the daddy, now. Everything is going to be fine.

• Dive into Paddy Power’s, er, Squeaky-bum time special on Manchester United v Swansea right here
• Read more from Not Big Sam on Jessica Ennis, Rafa, Aston Villa, and more, over here
  
• Watched Hitler’s reaction to Alex Ferguson’s retirement yet?

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.

Twitter anarchist @TheBig_Sam recalls a sojourn to the French Riviera which is a warning for beleaguered Newcastle United…

Last July, the League Managers’ Association treated some of Britain’s finest, most decorated coaches to an all-expenses-paid trip to the dazzling French town of Juan-les-Pins. This sun-drenched jaunt was both a reward, and an homage, to the outstanding work carried out by these fabled LMA members over the course of the previous season. It goes without saying that Big Sam’s name sat proudly at the top of the list of invites; I was even named as lead traveller on the Easy Jet booking.

Joining me in paradise was David Moyes, Roy Hodgson, Alan Pardew and Dave Bassett. Dave, it has to be said, did nothing of real note in the 2011-12 season. If we’re being brutally honest, he’s done nowt post-9/11. He’s not particularly popular within the LMA either, due to his incessant habit of trying to sell copper to every person he talks to. He was, however, responsible for finding the deal on that Secret Escapes website, so we had no choice but to let him come along, unfortunately.

Unsurprisingly, the holiday was glorious. Over the course of four incredible days and filth-soaked nights, we sang, danced, drank, laughed, loved and learned. We splashed amongst the creamy surf by day, like a gaggle of giddy Hollyoaks whores; basking in the glow of our own hedonistic sensibilities. Once the sun had been supplanted by the moon, the evenings were filled with excess and debauchery. We hit the town, snaring more muff than a rogue gynaecologist.

A night of mayhem and pool with the two Daves

One night in particular was complete and utter mayhem. It began with us setting fire to a small gourmet coffee shop, before slaughtering a pig in front of a screaming French family. Later in the evening, Hodgson, still high on the fumes of his appointment as England manager, stripped off in a bar, draped himself over a pool table, and placed each member of his junk squad into three separate pockets. Just mull over that for a second; his plonker, and both testes, plopped neatly into THREE SEPARATE POCKETS. I still don’t know how he did it. Moyesy was shooting some 9-ball at the time and, ever the professional, carried on playing. He was clearly put off, though.

NONE OF A KIND: Dave Bassett, Sir NBS, Mr Roy Hodgson, Alan Pardew and David Moyes

The next morning, after barely a few hours of sleep, we reconvened by the pool, to sooth our aching hangovers, and recalled with laughter each disgusting incident that occurred the night before. As the afternoon heat took hold, we settled in for a lazy day of recovery. Roy poured himself snugly into a hammock, with a copy of ‘The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman’, whilst I lay on a nearby sun-lounger, sipping on a Peartini and inviting the scorching rays of the sun to lay upon my golden body.

As my skin roasted to sorrel-hued perfection, I gazed over at the two Daves with a smile (we’d decided to refer to Moyes and Bassett collectively as the two Daves; it was Big Sam, in fact, that coined the term, which, in turn, saw me rewarded with my own holiday nickname – Funny Sam). As they waded playfully in the pool, I felt an invigorating shower of pride fall upon me like poignant rain. These were my guys. Sure, none of us had ever won a major trophy, and we’d all been sacked more times than Rome, but for other, more subtle reasons, we truly were the cream of the crop. These reasons are simply too numerous to list, and if you can’t come up with them yourself, then you’re just a queer, quite frankly.

Anyway, in the midst of this luscious tranquillity  it suddenly occurred to me that our troop was one less than it should have been; Pardew was missing. Towards the end of the previous night, we decided to hit the Eden Casino in town. We all felt we were on a bit of a roll after a sensational visit to a local bath-house, and wanted to see just how far we could push this winning streak. Alan, however, refused to entertain the notion. “I’m not going into a casino,” he said, anxiously. “No way,” he continued. “Well, maybe just for an hou… NO! No I won’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t. Should I? NO!! I mustn’t. I just… I… no, not ever. Never. I MUST SURVIVE!”

Alan Pardew’s French dream

As the rest of us stood in silent puzzlement, Pardew collected his thoughts, laughed nervously and said, “I’ll resist this place until I fancy managing a French club, eh?” before wishing us well, and going on his way. We had no idea what caused this reaction, but before Pardew had even walked out of sight,a chest-thumping Hodgson was already at the entrance of the casino, with a bare breast in his mouth. The next stage of anarchy had most certainly begun.

Alan never entered my mind again that night, and his very existence continued to elude me until that moment by the swimming pool. As if by some form of coincidental voodoo, he sauntered around the corner; sun-burnt, half-naked and surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women. “There’s the lads!” he shouted, with a smile. “I’m the king of the Premier League, that’s who” he added, bizarrely  before leaping into the pool, dragging his conquests with him. As he looked at me and winked, his cockiness troubled me. I watched as he pranced around the pool with his scantily-clad entourage, popping a pair of Ray-Bans on his already-flaking face. “What do I always say boys?” he roared, with a smirk. “You can never surround yourself with too many French tarts.”

Fast-forward 10 months, and I wonder if Alan Pardew still believes in such a flimsy slogan.

As he prepares to bring his cluster of shell-shocked nancy boys to Big Sam’s Upton Park fortress this weekend, it would be understandable if he had become submerged in a thick, gloopy cocoon of xenophobic regret. After finishing in fifth place last season, and thus earning himself a long-term contract that ensures we’ll all be wearing flying f**king space boots by the time it’s finished, Pardew finds himself just five points above the relegation zone. Last week’s mauling at the hands of Liverpool came hot on the heels of another St James’ Park disaster against bitter rivals, Sunderland. The vultures are circling.

I see warriors like Nolan and Carroll in my dressing room

Was last season a fluke? Is he now levelling out to betray his true abilities as a manager? Is he dying? Who knows exactly why Pardew and Newcastle have slumped so badly this season. What is clear, however, is that when you are going into battle, you want to have the right sort of soldiers by your side. I look at my dressing room, and see warriors like Nolan, Carroll and Reid. Alan looks at his lot and sees the camp, flimsy supporting cast of an Audrey Tautou romcom. I’ve tried many times in the past to warn him about buying lightweight Europeans, who are ill-equipped for the bone-shattering clatter of English football. He never listens, though; he just turns the conversation back to his fifth-place finish, and shows me a secret scrapbook, filled with pictures of celebrity genitals he claims to have seen. His head has gone forever, I fear.

As I see him on the touchline this Saturday, I’ll smile fondly as I remember our time together in the French Rivera. Then, as I watch my group of grit-encrusted British bulldogs tear the last few shreds of flayed Geordie skin from his team’s decaying body – pushing them further towards the drop – I’ll shake my head ruefully at a man who has placed his destiny in the hands of dispassionate, lifeless foreigners. My local butcher, Geoff has done exactly the same thing as it happens, by hiring those two eastern-European cretins. He didn’t heed my warning either. Sometimes I genuinely think I’m the only man in football who can still see the bigger picture.

Agree with Not Big Sam? 

• Get the latest odds on West Ham v Newcastle this weekend in the Premier League right here.
• Read more from Not Big Sam on Jessica Ennis, Rafa, Aston Villa and more, over here.

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.

Not Big Sam on Wrestlemania XXIX for the Paddy Power Blog

As I sat in my office on Thursday morning, my thoughts — though sprightly, and infused with my trademark synergy — travelled no further than the day ahead, and my continuing quest to carve a footballing Pietà out of the cheap, lifeless block of clay with which I’ve been asked to work.

As I sipped sophisticatedly on my Espresso Con Panna, and nibbled on a blueberry muffin that was bigger and more daunting than Richard Griffith’s coffin, I browsed nonchalantly across the internet portal on my Nexus 7, searching for pictures of celebrity feet, and updating my LinkedIn profile with the previous day’s training innovations.

With the casual causality that I have become famous for, I then clicked onto my least-hated news site and got ready for a perusal. And that’s when I saw the headline. My eyes darted around the screen in stunned anarchy; information pouring in from all angles, like rushing streams of cascading data.

“The little podgy f**kpig has said what??!!!” I roared incredulously, slabs of damp muffin exploding out of my gub with violent velocity. As I continued to read the full article, the sheer weight of the situation seeped into my pulsating brain-nodes. A portly, preposterously-dressed toddler-king in North Korea was threatening — actually threatening — the world with nuclear strikes. My world.

“Not on my watch, fat chops!” I thought to myself. It then occurred to me that this would be a great little catchphrase. I said it out loud and, unsurprisingly, it sounded fantastic, so I made a mental note to use it again later on the wife.

Get me Mean Gene Okerlund

I lifted my phone immediately, and barked down the handset at my secretary Josh, with an intensity and clarity that left him in no doubt that I meant business. And yes, before you start snickering like fingered college girls, I have a male secretary at the moment; he wears a bum-bag and I’m pretty sure he’s blackmailing a Tory MP, but he’s not a bad lad.

“Get me ‘Mean’ Gene Okerlund – NOW!” I yelped. After 24 minutes of listening to some old woman prattle on about playing Hilda Ogden in ‘Coronation Street’, I gripped Josh by the pashmina, and wheeled him into my office. As he sat there — quivering and making feeble excuses — I made him watch my tattered but cherished VHS copy of Wrestlemania VI. “THAT is Gene Okerlund,” I said, pointing to the immaculately-tanned professional on the screen. “Now, go fetch me him on the blower, you thick, flamboyant tart.”

OLD PALS: Mean Gene and Not Big Sam back in the heyday of the WWF

As I settled into a rich, rewarding transatlantic conversation with Mean Gene, my frustrations frittered away, like bread crumbs sinking to the bottom of a thick, comforting broth. We talked about the good old days of the WWF, before it lost its identity to shock-value gimmickry, and its name to a f**king panda. “Remember when Tatanka was on that unbeaten run?” squealed Gene, with unrestrained glee. “Or that time we met up in Florida, and you made love to one of Doink’s midgets for a bet?” After a few awkward glances, I corrected him on this last point, and we moved on.

“So, Big Sam, what can I do for you today?” he asked, his voice resplendent with poise and authority.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Gene. You know the way Wrestlemania 29 takes place this Sunday night, at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford New Jersey, in front of an expected crowd of 90,000 adoring WWE fans?”

“Aye,” said Gene, lazily.

“Well, I’d like to be added to the line-up.”

There was a moment of gorgeous silence. I smiled with conceited satisfaction. I knew I’d just blown that little bald bastard’s mind.

“You heard me, Okerlund. I want to come out of retirement and snap on my spandex one more time, and I want you to make it happen. I want to take on and destroy that shit-haired little pudding, Kim Jong-un. In a caaaaaggggge.”

The way I said “cage” — all elongated and full of implied terror — was just magical. It added an instant air of mystery and intrigue to my proposal.

Bring it on, Kim Jong-un

After what seemed like an eternity of silence — and a few strange attempts to make another call while I was still on the line — Mean Gene finally spoke. “You want me to arrange it, for you to take on the Supreme Leader of North Korea, at a pay-per-view wrestling event, which is happening in two days time, in the United States? Have a got this right?”

I could hardly contain myself from exploding with excitement. I was unable to articulate any words, such was the intoxication of my delight. “Woooooooooooooooooooooooh” I exclaimed, smashing a framed picture of Elton Welsby on my desk, and throwing my hard-copy edition of ‘Blood Meridian’ at Josh’s bleached head.

Then, out of the blue, my dream was dashed. “Nah,” said Gene, before hanging up immediately, and in the process, popping my metaphorical balloon of hysteria with the cruel, pricking pin of denial.

CAGE RAGE: The world has been denied the magnificent sight of Not Big Sam vs Kim Jong-un

And that was that, really. I sent him an email asking if he would at least pop a Wrestlemania programme into the post for me, but he hasn’t replied. It makes me feel quite inadequate that the whole episode ended with such a damp squib, but there you go. Not everything Big Sam does ends with f**king explosions.

This Sunday night, the WWE’s Wrestlemania wagon skids into town. I have no idea who’s fighting who, to be honest. The Rock might be there. And The Undertaker. And that fella with the beard and the plank of wood. Harvey Price might be the current Intercontinental Champion for all I know.

What I do know, however, is how tantalisingly close the world came to seeing a true champion of freedom entering the squared-circle again, to squash the wobbling, terrified jowl’s of a despicable despot against an unforgiving steel cage, and thus exterminating the threat of nuclear warfare. But as usual, Mean Gene Okerlund had to ruin it for everyone. Now, you tell me — who’s the real monster?

• Betting: Click here for latest Wrestlemania odds
• Not Big Sam on Rafa, Cheryl Cole, golf and other madness

Not Big Sam feels sorry for Rafa Benitez, but has a warning for the Chelsea manager ahead of West Ham’s Premier League trip to Stamford Bridge this weekend…

As an adult man, I have been involved in roughly 346 grudges. Be they personal or professional, these rancorous bouts of sustained antipathy – aimed at an eclectic range of fellow human beings – have acted as the essential amino acids that have helped form the very protein of pugnacity that fuels and sustains much of Big Sam’s unmistakable brilliance.

The first grudge I can remember having as a mature man, was with a greengrocer called Rodney Swarm. Rodney caught me off guard in his shop one afternoon, and attempted to smear my reputation in a most heinous way. After catching me in the midst of one of my famous wistful daydreams – one in which I was rubbing, and smiling at, a particularly shiny and beautiful marrow – Rodney instructed every other patron in his tawdry little establishment to stop what they were doing, and look in my direction.

“Look at this poofter!” he bawled, with impudent glee; globs of tobacco-coated saliva dripping from his hateful mouth. “He’s pretending that marrow is a big willy! Haha! I bet he wants to straddle it like a Spacehopper! What a massive homo sapien!”

While he may have set out that day to humiliate and demean a tender and sensitive 18-year-old for his own twisted amusement, all Rodney did was forge himself an enemy from the fiery furnaces of hell. And prove that he was somewhat confused as to what a ‘homo sapien’ was.

I spent the next four years involved in a succession of small to medium-sized skirmishes with Swarm, until it all came to a head one morning in a swimming pool in Wolverhampton, when I proceeded to vomit violently from a three-meter springboard straight onto his head, face, chest and shoulders. Not only did I shower him with the chunky, bubbling contents of my own magnificent guts, but I also managed to convince Nancy Plume, a girl for whom we both had erotic designs, that Rodney had actually threw-up over himself in public.

SPRINGBOARD SURPRISE: Rafa will do well to avoid the same fate as Rodney Swarm

This dastardly double-whammy ruined any chance Rodney had with the delectable Miss Plume, and left the way clear for Big Sam to snare her youthful curves in his own fiendish, yet consensual, trap. I can still hear Rodney’s pained cries of “how the f*ck do you think I managed to get it on top of my head?!” as a nauseated Nancy informed him that she never wanted to lay eyes on him again. Bloody hilarious.

Many years have passed since then, and many further grudges have been fostered. Arsene Wenger. The BBC. Miriam Margolyes. Spike Lee. These bastards and more have been caught in the crossfire of Big Sam’s spite-rifle, and been devastated by my penetrating bullets of hate. This Sunday, however, will see me lock horns once again with perhaps my greatest nemesis of all. My Lex Luther. My Brutus. My chubby little bête noire: Rafael Benítez.

Rafa and I were never friends. We have different styles and mentalities. Rafa prefers a rigid, methodical approach to the game, and basks in the glory of his own brilliance. I, on the other hand, walk with an altogether more august gait, and play the game with all the flair and carefree verve of a TOWIE cast member at a beach barbeque. Rafa is cold, concise and conceited. Big Sam is humble, charming and unconcealed. He is Hercule Poirot to my Jane Marple.

We’ve had many run-ins, and despite what you may have read about in the papers, most of them have remained private. I once asked him to fetch me some gazpacho as we walked down the tunnel at half-time in a particularly tetchy encounter between our teams, while on another occasion he drove past me in Blackburn, leaning out of his car window like a sneering bespectacled beagle, shouting: “I just saw your mum’s t*ts – KWALATEEE!”

RAFA BENITEZ: My Lex Luther. My greatest nemesis

This is all in the past, however. I am a much more spiritual person these days, and much of that is down to the teachings of the wonderful Chief Serendipity Bow-wow, leader of the Southern Ute Indian Tribe of Colorado. I struck up a rather deep and beautiful online friendship with Chief Serendipity, after crossing paths with him in one of the darker, and more sinister corners of the 4chan website.

Initially, we clashed anonymously after he posted a rather offensive, Photoshopped picture of Arthur Scargill and a calving cow, but we soon put that behind us, and embarked on one of the most extraordinary relationships I’ve ever been a part of. Through the teachings of the Chief, and a general calming that has descending upon me in recent years – no doubt due to the trophy-laden success I’ve achieved at West Ham United – Big Sam has become a rather more benevolent, forgiving person.

Inspiration from Cliff Richard

I just want to take this opportunity to say; I forgive you, Rafa. I forgive you for all the hurt you’ve caused me, and all the disrespect. I look to the lyrics of one of my favourite songs from the late, great Cliff Richard: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” I have delivered West Ham United from evil, and, like, lead them not into temptation, but into the Premier League. And, that time you did that bloody ‘game over’ gesture towards me, Rafa? You were like…. like, totally bloody trespassing against me, and you were bang out of order, you know, but… it’s okay. It’s fine now. I am as serene as a moonlit lake.

In fact, I even have some sympathy towards Rafa. I too know what it is like to be the target of a thousand gnarled, angry faces in the crowd; each one channeling all their inadequacies and frustrations into a brilliant white light of distorted hate, aimed squarely at my magnificent grill. Do these Chelsea fans not know the obliterating damage they can do to a man’s pride with devastatingly cutting banners made out of A4 copier paper and a packet of Crayola Supertip pens?

I’ve also got experience working with goal-shy, mentally weak strikers. I now look at Fernando Torres playing football with the same heartbreaking gaze I wear when watching deformed hippy Rocky Dennis try to flirt with that blind girl in ‘Mask‘. What a tragic figure Torres now cuts; he’s like that girl who was beautiful when you went to school with her, but now looks like a twisted, hideous pram-pushing gargoyle, and squirms with embarrassment when you bump into her in the shop.

Like me, Rafa Benitez has plenty on his plate, and he has nothing but my sympathy. Despite our checkered and somewhat brutal past, Big Sam offers the hands of friendship to him, at this time of great trouble and strife. When we meet at Stamford Bridge on Sunday, Rafa, let us do so as friends. Comrades. Peers. Perhaps we could go see a movie afterwards, or crack open this bottle of Sierra Nevada Northern Hemisphere Harvest Wet Hop Ale I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Confide in me Rafa; let me hide you in the mother breast of my kindness, and to suckle on the very teat of my obstinance.

If you do another one of those ‘game over’ waves at me, though, I swear to God, I’ll DDT you right through the bloody touchline. Trust me.

• Betting: Chelsea v West Ham
• Not Big Sam on Cherly Cole, golf and other madness

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.

Not Big Sam offers some advice for Paul Lambert in his Paddy Power Blog column as Aston Villa prepare for a home game against West Ham

I know what you’ll all think. I know the derisive thoughts that will be percolating around your rancorous minds before I even broach the subject. I know what they’ll be before they’ve even ascended up your gullets, and been spat out of your wretched mouths.

“Who the hell do you think you are Not Big Sam, you patronising barbarian? Your career has been a magnificent procession of exhilarating highs; you’ve done nothing but soar, like a Golden Eagle, around the mountainous slopes of footballing excellence for the best part of two decades – what the hell do you know about being under pressure?!”

As I sit in my chic, minimalist-inspired (particularly the work of Anne Truitt, if you’re interested) London apartment, drinking gourmet Vietnamese coffee – whilst being resplendently dressed in an array of colours and silks that would make an African king look about as stylish as a butch lesbian from Florida – it may, ostensibly, be difficult for me to refute such allegations.

NO WIN SITUATION: But I’m sending my team of crack assassins to heap the misery on Lambert

Big Sam has, however, also endured his fair share of professional low points. Being sacked by Newcastle. Being sacked by Blackburn. Being forced by Karren Brady to draw a detailed picture of my genitalia during my interview at West Ham. These events threatened to despoil the very spirit that courses gallantly throughout my cyborg-like frame, sending me sprawling into a mangy pit of anguish and despair in the process.

It is such experiences of wallowing in the filthy managerial mud of misery – and the peerless adroitness employed to escape such depleting metaphorical dungeons – that marks Not Big Sam out as the country’s foremost authority on coping with pressure in football. It is within this prestigious position that I look towards Aston Villa’s Paul Lambert, with a mixture of fear, hope, sympathy and the sweet, ibuprofen-like relief that it is him with his balls plopped precariously in the centre of the chopping board, and not me.

It’s an awful situation… Birmingham

Lambert finds himself caught in the ruthless cross-hairs of public perception; pinned helplessly to the ground, under the crushing, immobilising burden of being shite. It’s an awful situation, and one that will no doubt be causing him countless sleepless nights, and precautionary trips to The Money Shop. His Aston Villa side lie just above the foot of the table, with a winless streak that stretches back to December 2012. They’re in a worse state than Stephen Hawking’s toes. As a result, Lambert now inhabits an existence where he faces a chorus of boos every time he opens his front door, and steps into the harsh ghetto lands of Birmingham.

Everywhere he goes, he’s met with the jabbing scalpel of disappointment and anger. I’ve heard one horrifying story about him having a full can of Lilt sprayed straight into his face by a nun outside Argos, while there have also been murmurs about some form of toxic gas being secretly pumped into his house in tiny amounts that can’t be detected, but will, like, totally kill you eventually.

As I take my all-conquering West Ham side to Villa Park this Sunday, I find myself in the difficult position of wanting to heap even more misery upon Lambert’s bruised and fragile shoulders, while also yearning to reach across the dugout, place my hands tenderly on his hips, and pull him gently towards my breast to reassure him that everything will be okay. I want to simultaneously break his spirit and tear at his flesh like a rabid honey badger, and also comfort and pamper him with all the sweetness of… an ordinary badger.

WORLD AT  HIS FEET: But Pato’s subsequent album of Shed Seven covers failed to set the world alight

If I could offer Paul Lambert just one piece of advice, it would be to just be himself; don’t abandon your ideals and convictions just because things aren’t currently going well. I still remember Pato Banton – another son of Birmingham – knocking at my door one night in the late 90s, in absolute floods of tears. Pato had been riding high on the success of 1994′s crossover smash, Baby Come Back, and thought he owned the world.

Subsequent offerings, however, didn’t quite live up to his previous success, and he began to doubt his entire approach to music. As he opened up to me that night, over an incredible plate of jerk chicken he – rather strangely – had been carrying in his pocket, he told me of his plan to bow to the pressure of outside forces, turn his back on his reggae roots, and record an album of Shed Seven covers.

I looked him deep in the eye for several penetrating seconds, before slapping him full on the face. Jerk chicken was flung violently around the room, like a gerbil in a blender. Over the next few hours, and with the aid of a rather relaxing bag of sensi that Pato had brought with him (he’s like a waking tuck shop, that boy), I explained that a life without principles, is like a life without blood. Or oxygen. Or a willy. It’s simply no life at all. If those whom you serve expect you to just capriciously disregard everything you hold dear, simply to assuage their short-sighted demands, then you have two choices: either you dig your heels in, hold your nerve, and trust your own ability, or you walk away with your head held high, and let the vampirific ghouls feast upon another man’s veins.

I don’t know Paul Lambert very well, and I have no idea what kind of temperament the man has (he looks a little like a surly geography teacher, who just can’t forget the night he watched his friend die on an oil rig). When I greet him this weekend, however, I’ll tell him the tale of Pato Banton, and remind him that every angel must go through many an ordeal before he earns his wings. Facing my rutless gang of crack soccer assassins on Sunday, just might be the last one he has to endure. Do not go gentle into that good night, Paul. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

You’re still getting f***ing hammered, mind.

• Betting: Aston Villa v West Ham
• Aston Villa Team Page
• West Ham Team Page

Not Big Sam archive…

• Jessica Ennis
• Andy Carroll
• WWE and Stacy Keibler
• Newcastle and Cheryl Cole
• Answers your problems
• The Ryder Cup
• All columns

As the wicked, winter winds whipped violently through the streets of London Town, Nigel Havers and I sat cosily in my Yankee Candle-scented apartment on New Year’s Eve, discussing our favourite people, and moments, of 2012.

“Jessica Ennis, and her lovely, ripe bum!” roared an excited Havers, yellow rivers of gloopy Goldwell Snowball dribbling down his chortling chin. “Her arse is MEGA!” he added, before performing one of his patented dip snap’s with his nicotine-stained fingers, and shouting, “up the Havers!” at the top of his silken voice.

While Nigel’s manner was coarse – the way he paused, rolled his eyes to the back of his head, and licked his teeth, every time he mentioned Ennis’s name was indeed troubling – he did have a point. The way the young lady did all that stuff in the summer – all that running, and jumping, and netball and stuff – was just sensational.

And let’s just plop our plums on the table, here, and acknowledge the cold, hard truth that stares at us intently, like a suspicious Scotland Yard detective, watching old BBC shows on Gold; the lass has a booty like a half-eaten Terry’s Chocolate Orange. Quite, quite magnificent.

The year of our Lord, 2012, has been one of ups and downs. Peaks and troughs. Turds and Toffos. The glory of the London Olympics was the envy of the free world, while the Diamond Jubilee allowed us to reclaim our flag from right-wing fascists for one glorious weekend. On the other hand, flash flooding was rubbish, and we discovered that Jimmy Savile had bothered more vulnerable teenagers than Bulimia Nervosa.

As the flickering flames of 2012 shrank and expired, like a resigned slug, weeping under a blanket of Saxa, we tread tentatively into a vibrant new dawn, wondering just what delights, discoveries and achievements lay ahead. Like that shite film Stargate.

In May of last year, a tanned Big Sam led West Ham to a glorious playoff victory at Wembley, dragging the club out of the swampy, incest-ridden wetlands of the Championship, and back into the golden cornfields of the Premier League in the process. 2013, however, promises to be even more effulgent for me, professionally.

The world is West Ham’s spongy little oyster

As my West Ham team continue to rip through the Premier League, there is no limit to what we can achieve. A top 10 finish? Europa League qualification? Champions League? FA Cup glory? The world is very much our spongy little oyster. Actually, now that I think about it… are we still in the FA Cup? Christ, I can’t even remember. Hold on a minute; I’ll just rest this bottle of Trappistes Rochefort 10 on the keyboard for a moment, and go phone Karren Brady to check…

‘l]

‘;’#']]’pppp[[[[=]#”;/../,#.

;]lp][[[[[l;'lpoooikkk]]][==-====--p][;#'/////..,llkn;#';

l[]#’;”””’[]p];.;][lkkkkkk===00000000000000

;;#;]]kl#;/../;;l’;,k=-=-0[oklkhk;'====-------okl;'

I'm back!

“You're goddamn right we're still in the FA cup, sweetcheeks,” purred a vivacious Karren Brady, when she answered my call. “We're taking on Sir Alex, you silly sausage!”

This welcome information was then followed by a few strange seconds of nothing but the sound of rippling water, and bum-cheeks sliding down fibreglass, before Karen returned to tell me she was in a piping hot bubble bath, with a John Lewis Loofah Wash Pad that had a picture of my face glued to it. Fair play.

The thought of Not Big Sam bringing his unique brand of grit-coated, über-soccer to the shores of Europe - or perhaps even holding aloft a gleaming trophy high above my solid hunk of a head - is surely enough to fill the flimsy gussets of even the most jaded of football fan, and it's one that will keep me striving to be the very best manager I can. The very best man I can.

On a personal level, there's also a number of things I want to achieve in 2013, to further augment my existence on this putrid planet. I'd quite like to defeat this hideous bout of priapism that crept in at the tail-end of 2012. A permanent erection might sound like a thing of wonder for a young, staggeringly-alluring man like myself, but I can tell you now – it's a bloody nightmare. I bought myself a leather bumbag to hide the evidence, but it just looks silly, so I've had to Sellotape the chap to my thigh during games. The fear of Carlton Cole scoring a 30-yard screamer against Manchester United, Not Big Sam leaping into the air in joy, and my little admiral snapping forward like a chubby, pink flick knife is very, very real.

Dating websites, werewolf novels and Harry Redknapp

I'm also determined to finish my series of werewolf-based, erotic stories, Lycanthrob. The plot-lines are both sensual, and sensational, but some of the characters are a little flimsy.

In terms of family, I just want to continue to be the rock-solid foundation of every living creature that basks in the immediate propinquity of my infinite majesty. I'd also quite like it if mother would stop setting up accounts on Plenty of Fish under my name.

Casting my scrutiny towards the wider footballing landscape, and what changes will be carved into its features this year, I can see my good friend Harry Redknapp continue to wheel and deal, like only he knows how. Unfortunately, he'll be wheeling and dealing in places like Huddersfield and Derby by September, and I think they still use the barter system in those towns. Your satchels of doubloons won't help then, Harold.

OVER THE TOP? Perhaps. But this under-rated Stallone movie continues to provide inspiration

At the top end of the Premier League, I believe my great friend, and mentor, Sir Alex Ferguson will win his 13^th league title for Manchester United, before retiring from the game. I’d like to take this opportunity to exclusively reveal that Big Sam is in line to take over the reins at Old Trafford, once Sir Alex has spat out his gum at a linesman for the final time. Well, it’ll either be me, or Jose Mourinho. David Gill hasn’t made his mind up, yet. He says he might even have the two of us arm-wrestle for the job. If that’s the case, Davey, then you may as well reinforce the chair in the manager’s office right now, because Not Big Sam hasn’t lost an arm-wrestling contest since the release of Over The Top in 1987.

Lincoln Hawk continues to provide stellar inspiration to this very day.

Something big is going down

I also believe a top-level manager will die in a gun-fight, this year. Don’t ask me who, or why, but I just can’t shake this feeling. Somethin’ be going down, y’hear?

Like the dawning of every new year, 2013 represents fresh hope for us all. A time when we can gaze upon the universe around us, and pluck from it’s heavens, anything our hearts desire. As my wise friend Nigel Havers said, as we waved goodbye to the old year, and toasted in the new: “We must cherish and attack life, big man. Grab it by the testes.”

• More Not Big Sam columns
• Betting: FA Cup

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.

Friday, 12th December, 2003. Not Big Sam sits quietly in a shadowy corner of the bar in the Holiday Inn Bolton Centre Hotel. He watches, he surveys, he analyses. His eyes widen in horror as he sees Ivan Campo having excruciatingly awkward sex with a Japanese dwarf under a table, while Bruno N’Gotty looks on, waving a French flag, and shouting: “Ze little lady is getting ze boom boom!” at the top of his gruff, disrespectful voice.

I look away in disgust. My violated gaze, however, is merely redirected to further atrocities: Emerson Thome is vomiting violently onto a stack of Gideon Bibles; Kevin Nolan has defecated on top of a crudely constructed Haitian voodoo altar; Jussi Jääskeläinen is kicking a really distressed-looking donkey full in the face, for no apparent reason. It’s bedlam.

Not Big Sam has seen some depraved and deplorable behaviour in his time, but very little comes close to the 2003 Bolton Wanderers Christmas party. It was a bash of breathtakingly barbaric debauchery; one that left many involved as embarrassed and ashamed as Michael Gove’s parents.

ALL WHITE ON THE NIGHT? Hardly. Andy Carroll after his Christmas party experience in Dublin

As recently as last weekend, one of my own children, Andy Carroll, became the latest bundling ballbag to land himself in a whole heap of Daily Mail-sponsored bother, after having a few too many shandies at our Christmas party in Dublin, and getting into a tangle with a tabloid photographer. It’s not just professional footballers that run the risk of ignominy and admonishment over the Yuletide party season, however.

Even the dullest, most insignificant dweeb can fall into a dark, murky lagoon of infamy, once his or her self-control is smashed into pieces, by the thick, devastating hammer of alcohol-induced idiocy.

Christmas is a time of fun; a time of joy, and celebration for all. It all started 476 years ago, when the Lord Jesus Christ slid effortlessly out of the Virgin Mary’s immaculate vagina. The little lad did it with a style and panache that a golden tradition was instantly born. As one of the wise men present at the birth may well have been heard to say: “This is class. We should totally celebrate this moment every year. But not just the day itself – let’s go bananas for the whole bloody month.”

Let’s go mental to the arrival of the Christ child

And behold, the final 31 days of every year is given over to extolling the arrival of the Christ child, by drinking, eating and generally living it up like big old pimps. Integral to the entire period, is the Christmas office party; an event that looms large in the wretched, soul-destroying lives of every crushed, 9-to-5 pleb in existence. While such gatherings can be thoroughly enchanting affairs — replete with rewardingly erotic pay-offs for colleagues who have spent the entire year flirting with each other, and the fleeting re-evaluation of people who spend every working hour being complete and utter bastards — they can also be tawdry and debasing experiences; as grim and damaging as a Polish labourer.

Beneath the forced camaraderie, shit paper hats, and atrocious dancing, lies a fiendish labyrinth of social booby traps and incriminating temptations, designed to ruin your reputation and end your career. It’s like that old kids’ TV show, Knightmare, but with more crème de menthe and crying.

“What the hell do you know about embarrassing yourself at a party, you gammon-headed fool?” I hear you ask. “Sure, you’re as perpetually elegant and genteel as a swan in a ball-gown.”

That’s very sweet of you to say, lads, but alas, it is not true. I may be a man of science, and brawn and finesse, but I’ve also made my fair share of dishonourable appearances at Christmas parties.

Back in 2000, Not Big Sam was just a few months away from play-off glory with Bolton. I had a spring in my step, a cheeky sprout of fur upon my top lip, and a commanding slice of genitalia, engorged with the metaphorical venous blood of imminent accomplishment. The Bloodhound Gang’s sensational hit The Bad Touch (above) was played non-stop on my Discman, and I’d finally beaten a particularly ruthless dose of the clap. I was on top of the world as I stepped into a seasonal party, held in a swanky hotel bar, by the good people at Halfords. I’d drank 14 bottles of peach Concorde by the time I arrived at the soirée, and my consumption showed no signs of abating.

The apex of my disgracefully-drunken behaviour that night, occurred when I stripped down to my socks, placed a yellow, fluffy cushion-cover atop my head, and pretended to be a lion. I prowled around the bar with an intensity that was both terrifying and, strangely moving. I roared illogically at a gaggle of attractive girls, before turning my beastly gaze towards my prey: a wheelchaired lad by the buffet.

My eyes narrowed as they locked onto him. I’m not sure if had emerged myself so deeply into the role of a big cat, that I genuinely thought he was some sort of injured quarry, ready to be devoured, or I just really didn’t like the look of him. Either way, no sooner had I spotted him rolling towards a plate of breaded chicken strips, than I was I leaping through the air, and crashing down on his feeble frame.

Rooooaaarrrrrrrr!

“What the hell are you doing, you nonce?!” he squealed, his creaking voice betraying the primal fear that had suddenly been injected into his paltry veins. “Rooooaaarrrrrr!” I retorted, like a big lion. In the following two minutes and 26 seconds, I mauled the poor little tyke into a steel-coated heap of misery. As the other guests looked on in horror, I trotted away from my victim with a feeling of misguided invincibility that only a bout of heavy drinking can offer.

Then, in a moment that will haunt me forever, I lifted my hind-leg, and urinated all over his little baseball cap. As the peach-coloured wee dribbled into his already moist eyes, an all-encompassing shame descended upon me, one that still lingers today. I’ll never forget his little face; the look of sheer confusion and desolation will live with me until the day I die.

Needless to say, I soon got thrown out of the hotel, and ended up getting into another fight with a homeless man, who for some reason was carrying a spear. Alas, this was a battle that I was to lose.

As the festive party season gets into full swing, Big Sam’s message is clear: have fun, be merry, close the deal with Angie in Accounts. But for God’s sake, be careful. Don’t drink any more than you’d be comfortable doing at work; don’t stab your boss in the throat with a dessert spoon, after telling him how miserable he makes you; don’t photocopy your junk, turn it into an offensive paper aeroplane, and attempt to fly it into the mouths of elderly co-workers. And whatever you do – for the love of all that is good and pure – don’t pretend to be a jungle cat, and assault a mild-mannered cripple without due cause. It will only end in tears.

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.

• More Not Big Sam columns

It’s been fifteen years now. Fifteen years of pain. Fifteen years of fury. Fifteen years of disgust.

On November 9, 1997, an event took place in Montreal, Canada, that changed Big Sam forever. An act of sheer treachery, it devastated and deflated me like no other, sucking out every last droplet of trust that had previously percolated throughout my sensational body. I sat in front of my television in a state of catatonic horror, my entire world collapsing like a prolapsed uterus.

My feelings on the utter travesty of the ‘Montreal Screwjob’, witnessed at the 1997 WWE Survivor Series, are well documented, and I really don’t want to open up that festering wound again.

Big Sam has never seriously contemplated suicide before; there’s been times when my resolve has been gravely tested – when I was dismissed at Blackburn Rovers, for example, and that time I made love to a homeless woman and my piss turned purple – but I’ve always retained my strength.

As the events at the Molson Centre unfolded, however, and I was forced to tearfully watch Bret ‘Hitman’ Hart being cruelly swindled out of the WWE Championship by a heartless Vincent K McMahon, I seriously considered ending it all. At one point, I had a Durite 12v Heavy Duty 8″ Oscillating Fan in my hand, and was seconds away from plunging my chiselled face deep into its powerful blades. Thankfully, and suddenly, my brand new Motorola StarTAC began to ring, and I was saved. It was Chris Akabusi. I didn’t answer.

The Survivor Series has always been my favourite of the ‘Big Four’ WWE events. A hark back to the classic era of old-school wrestling merriment, it marries the vigorous dynamism of tag-team combat, with the joy of watching the humiliation of oversized men being forced to walk forlornly back to the changing room, upon elimination. I’ve also always been a huge fan of the very act of survival; the ability to display the kind of intestinal fortitude needed to be a survivor. That fella Terry Waite? The Uruguayan rugby team, whose plane crashed in the Andes? The band who sang that song in ‘Rocky III’? Really brilliant blokes, the lot of them. The warm, fuzzy affection in which Big Sam held the Survivor Series, just made the whole sorry mess all the more cutting. Like that time I got dumped by Des’ree.

YOU GOTTA BE: Unfortunately Big Sam wasn’t…

With a heavy heart, I washed my hands of the WWE that night. A few days later, I took a long walk through the mean streets of Nottingham, my head still in a nightmarish whirl of bewildered indignation. I ended up in a disgusting, desolate and depraved part of the city – well, one of them – and had the first of my many mini break-downs. I turned over cars, defecated in a phone box, and pushed over an old man in a mobility scooter, and, like, totally just left him there on the ground. It all culminated in me furnishing a rudimentary bonfire out of disused tyres, and the rotting carrion of a chubby Yorkshire Terrier I found in a skip.

As the flames raged in angry magnificence, I threw my vintage, WWF-era foam finger into the ceremonial pyre. That finger meant the world to me. It was a true, 1980′s original, and was given to me as a birthday gift from my close friend, Mean Gene Okerlund. I’d done everything with that foam finger, and not just within the realms of professional wrestling fandom. I’d waved it at pop concerts, given team-talks with it; I’d even pleasured myself sexually with it on a few (seven) occasions.

As the cheap foam incinerated into a black bubble of powerful symbolism – releasing the finest plumes of toxins the far east can muster – members of Nottingham’s infamous St. Ann’s Crew gang circled me, chanting my name and espousing the very virtues that made me such a potent destroyer of enemies. I renounced their endorsement, however, as I thought they were a right bunch of bad bastards. Instead, I threw £3.64 at them in loose change. As they scampered around the bonfire, hoovering up the precious bounty and dancing their dance of hate, I simply slunk away into the shadows, and went back home. I’d shown the world what I thought of Vince McMahon and Shawn Michaels, but still I felt as hollow and useless as 50% of Heather Mills’ foot spa.

It’s been fifteen years since I’ve watched the Survivor Series. I made my peace with the WWE a few years after the Montreal incident – the raw, sleazy excitement of the ‘Attitude Era’, and Stacy Keibler’s exquisite hoop saw to that – but I still haven’t been able to watch that particular event since that traumatic night back in 1997. This is all about to change, though.

This Sunday, Bankers Life Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, Indiana plays host to the 26th annual Survivor Series, and Big Sam will be watching. I’ll be sat in my Inada D6 Robostic Massage Chair – in sumptuous red leather – with a pitcher of Goose Island Honkers Ale, and a tray of cheeseburger sliders, cheering on the WWE’s new generation of superstar vanquishers. I couldn’t pick any of them out of a fucking line-up in all honesty, but I’m sure they’re just wonderful.

The pain of what Vince did to Bret that night in 1997 will never subside, I suspect, but I’ve moved on. It’s this sort of tolerant benevolence that marks Big Sam out as one of the true greats of this revolving little planet of ours. I do miss that foam finger, though.

• Betting: WWE Survivor Series
• More Not Big Sam columns for Paddy Power

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.

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

IN THE PINK: Not Big Sam was lulled back to health by the gentle folk of Nick Drake

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.

I AM THE MATRIX: It isn’t just awesome physiques Not Big Sam and Colonel John Matrix share

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.

• Betting: Premier League Matches
• More Not Big Sam columns for Paddy Power

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.

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.

SEXY OFFICE GIRL: Let’s be perfectly clear, this girl has featured in respected lads’ mag FHM and not our workplace. It’s purely illustrative

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.

DOWNTON DILEMMA: It’ll take more than a Christmas special to get one reader hooked…

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.

• More from Not Big Sam

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.

You’ve seen the photo. You’ve probably got it on your bedroom wall, or on your desk at work. Not Big Sam and Sir Alex sitting resplendently, together, in a golf cart.

Sitting. Smiling. Bonding. Caring for each other silently. Having more bloody fun than an unemployed dreamer hitting a hot streak on a fruit machine.

The photograph is every inch the portrait of the modern-day man about town. But two of them.

Sir Alex Ferguson looking like a vintage MI6 commander, his gorgeous, two-toned sweater & polo-neck combo betraying his legendary grasp of understated style. Not Big Sam positioned at his side, a smile as adorable as a little crescent moon. A hairstyle that looks a little like a wig, but it isn’t, okay?

Sir Alex at the wheel (isn’t he bloody always), Not Big Sam his able lieutenant; navigating, cajoling, adoring. It’s one of my favourite ever images, and instantly conjures up feelings of happiness and pride, leaving me giggling like a dim-witted child at a rainbow.

“Where are you going with this, you fat, Hovis-headed ballbag?” I can hear you roar, impudently.

Golf: a triumph of tenderness over brutality

Well, the photograph isn’t just a representation of two total besties in the prime of their life, having a blast on an electrically-propelled vehicle. It’s also a perfect depiction of the ancient game of golf, and everything it stands for. The camaraderie. The notion of competitive brotherhood. The fact caddies have to obey your every demand, no matter how many fingers are involved.

Golf is the triumph of tenderness and valour, over brutality and ignorance. I zoomed about the course that day with Sir Alex, my head cocked backwards, the air thick with my laughter. I can still hear those mellifluous sounds in my ears when I close my eyes; the thwack of graphite on plastic, the sweet song of the skylark high above in the trees, the thunderous anger in Sir Alex’s voice as he was on the phone to Halfords. These sounds transport me immediately to a warm, welcoming place where everyone is equal (well, as long as you’re white and male), and spite and vulgarity are left in the clubhouse.

A beautiful John Denver song forever ruined

Compare these honeyed tones with the repugnant cacophony of aural pollution one often endures at football games. I once took a team to Sunderland and was subjected to a torrent of abuse from one phlegm-soaked troglodyte sat behind me. His most vile moment, however, wasn’t an off-the-cuff outburst. It wasn’t when he called me ‘spunky-chops’, or when he threw a strawberry Pop Tart at my head. No, it was when he took something beautiful and ruined it forever. At around the 60-minute mark he decided to take one of my favourite songs ever – John Denver’s gorgeously evocative Annie’s Song – and turn it into something putrid.

For reasons known only to himself, he completely altered the lyrics to the song, turning a sweet ode to Denver’s then-wife, into a squalid tale centred on Not Big Sam, a chair leg slathered in Lurpak, and the most barbaric and graphic rendering of onanism I’ve ever heard.

ROCKY TERRITORY: John Denver, with an eagle. His classic was ruined by one sick football fan

I’ve genuinely never been as hurt, repulsed or offended in my life. I won’t regale you with his filthy wordsmithery but needless to say, it was grotesque. Even for the North East. I turned around to protest at the slob, to be met with the sight of his snide, grinning face, as he motioned downwards with his vicious eyes. To my horror, I looked down and saw he had his, admittedly staggering, phallus in one hand, and was stroking it with the other. Like an evil genius stroking an arrogant cat. I looked away desolately, a solitary tear streaming down my face, and a little bit of my soul collapsing into dust.

Praise for the Ryder Cup

A golf course will always be a place of respite for me. A place of relaxation, harmony and trust. This is why, when I tune into the Ryder Cup this weekend, I won’t be so doing simply to watch some cocky Americans getting destroyed, or to laugh at Brandt Snedeker’s face. I’ll be watching to remind myself there is a world where style is appreciated. Where craftsmanship is heralded. Where being big-boned is embraced.

A golf course is a venue of hope. A stretch of grass and sand, where a humble man made out of flesh and bone and grit, can sit in an electric cart with a Scottish Knight and feel he truly belongs there. You won’t get that feeling in Sunderland.

• Betting: Ryder Cup
• More Not Big Sam columns for Paddy Power

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.

Self-control. Big Sam has many devastating weapons in his arsenal – the brutal upper-body strength of 10 tigers, the sexual prowess of a Backstreet Boy, the lingering allure of his coquettish smile. The single most potent, however, has always been his legendary self-control.

While others approach the beginning of a new Premier League season with all the trepidation of a tea-lady rolling her cart around the shadowy halls of the Ecuadorian embassy in London, Big Sam takes it in his stride like nobody’s fucking business.

When I was playing for Bolton in the 70s, I lived near a peculiar little man called Norville Kermode. Norville had one leg longer than the other, and had to wear an orthopaedic shoe to compensate. It was an awful-looking piece of footwear, something Herman Munster would turn his nose up at, but it seemed to do the job. The practicality of this big shoe wasn’t enough for Norville, though. He wanted more. He wanted style and panache. He decided one day to jazz the shoe up, giving it a full-on glam rock makeover; multi-coloured sparkles on the vamp, twinkling stars on the toe cap – the lot. It still wasn’t enough for Norville.

Soon he converted the other shoe so the pair matched. Then he made himself a pair of skin-tight silver trousers, with roaring flames up the side. Then he came up with a bejewelled, padded jacket that he wore triumphantly atop his flabby bare chest. Norville had lost all semblance of self-control. What started as an innocent but misguided attempt to add a bit of glamour to his massive shoe, ended up with him strutting around the streets like Gary fucking Glitter with a limp. The real tragedy though, was that Norville never upgraded his look as the years went buy. He never evolved with modern fashion trends.

GLAM SHOCKER: Glitter’s downfall had tragic consequences for one man I knew who lacked self-control

When news of Glitter’s misdeeds hit the news-stands, Norville was spotted coming out of a bookies by a baying mob and that was that. I think one member of the rabble even removed his big shoe, and beat him about the face and neck with it. Sing about that, Alanis.

The importance of self-control

Back to the present day, in the year of our lord, 2012, and the importance of self-control endures like a fine wine.

The dressing room before West Ham’s opening game of the campaign against Aston Villa on Saturday was a maelstrom of unchecked emotions. Little Matty Taylor quivering in the corner like a lab rat staring down the needle of a syringe. Ricardo Vaz Te break-dancing frantically on the floor. Big Carlton Cole sitting in the sink, staring deep into space and gently brushing the hair of his beloved troll doll.

It is my job not only to to assuage this fear and anxiety, but to also harness the energy behind it and turn it into something positive. Something wonderful. I’m like Mickey Mouse in ‘Fantasia’, conducting all those useless buckets and soggy mops into a mesmerising symphony of cohesion and excellence.

Rage has its place in football – if I ever meet the guy who stuck up his hand during a meeting at ITV Sport, and said, ‘what about Adrian Chiles?’, he’ll feel the full force of my furious wrath – but at times like this, the soothing hands of self-control will calm even the most wretched, trembling poltroon in the squad.

As I stand in front of my soldiers, I know they need my guidance more than ever. They sit silently, waiting for their anxiety to be put to rest by their master. I raise my hand. A flicker of intimidation darts across their eyes as they cower in fear of physical retribution. Instead, I reach towards my back and pull my Viking sword, Trudy, from my scabbard.

I point Trudy to the sky, her energy oscillating wildly around the room. “Are we ready to do this?” I whisper. A few lightning-fast swipes of my steeled blade later, and the lads are transformed. In an instance, they become rapturous, yet focused. Intense, yet serene. James Collins was so entranced by the display he actually stood up and roared: “I give my life to Big Sam!” and tried to run into Trudy. Thankfully, Kevin Nolan stopped him just in time.

This example of my power may seem intimidating to some, but it’s merely what I do. I simply burst the balloon of their anxiety and handed them another balloon. Filled with… something else. Joy, maybe. Or grit. Ninety minutes later, we return to the dressing room with the blood of 11 slain Brummies still fresh on our fangs.

What I’ve learned about Swansea

On Saturday, I take my band of warriors to Swansea. Perhaps I’ll unleash the might of Trudy to inspire and enchant my combatants once again. Perhaps I won’t. Actually, I’ll probably bring her anyway, just in case. I’ve been to Swansea many times, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the place is you should always bring a bloody weapon.

Self-control. It’s all about self-control. St Paul once wrote: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faith, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law.”

Who am I to argue with a fucking saint?

• Betting: Swansea vs West Ham
• Betting: Premier League
• Not Big Sam on WWE

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.

I can still remember that day as if it was yesterday. August 26, 1991.

I was strolling around the plush surroundings of Midtown Manhattan in a daze. A wonderful, mesmerising daze. I’d never experienced such euphoria.

In fact, the only thing that came close was my 19^th birthday when I made love to a stranger on a tyre swing in a park in Dudley. My sexual partner and I were surrounded by a gaggle of frothing local perverts, clapping and chanting, whooping and hissing, as they watched two lithe combatants, entangled in the shadowy majesty of alfresco intercourse.

So, yeah, I had similar feelings of dizzy splendour that balmy night in New York City. A night that will live with me forever. The night I attended the WWE’s SummerSlam event at Madison Square Garden with my dear friend Woody Allen, and a shy little girl by the name of Soon-Yi.

BOYS OF SUMMER: The 1991 event holds special memories for Not Big Sam

As an aside, Woody introduced Soon-Yi to me as his wife’s daughter that night. He had his hand on her ass as he introduced her as his wife’s daughter, but that wasn’t any of my business then, and it’s none of my business now. All I know is the three of us had the greatest night of our fucking lives.

When the show was over, we skipped down 8^th Avenue with impish glee, reliving every moment of this momentous occasion. “Did you see when Bret Hart Sharpshootered the balls off Mr Perfect?!” I roared, with the unabashed enthusiasm of a poof reading Popbitch.

“What about when The Big Boss Man defeated The Mountie and then he, like, put his hand-cuffs on The Mountie and The Mountie got arrested and taken to jail!” retorted Woody, breathlessly. “Is that what happens to criminals, Sam, he added confusingly. “Is it?” I smiled and pretended I hadn’t heard him.

We were soon sat outside a cute little French bistro, eating delicious crepes and hilariously re-enacting the stunning in-ring ceremony that saw the Macho Man Randy Savage and Miss Elizabeth become man and wife. Woody pretended to be Savage – all gruff voice and manic eyes. Soon Yi was the lovely Elizabeth, both ladies sharing a charming coyness that masked some inner demons.

“When will we marry, Woody? asked Soon Yi, strangely. “Jeez, I don’t know, soon maybe,” replied Woody, even more fucking strangely.

I was having a wonderful time but there wasn’t a fucking chance in hell I was accepting their invitation for coffee back at their house that night.

As our laughter reverberated around the packed city streets, a clearly drunk Tom Berenger walked past and – noticing my Legion of Doom shoulder-pads – called me a “right fucking queer”. Before I could even contemplate a verbal comeback, Woody leapt at him like a coiled Chihuahua with rabies. Before Tom can even think, Woody is power-bombing him through a nearby table and finishing him off with a double axe-handle from a chair.

As he stood over the almost-slain star of Platoon, Woody smiled at me, took Soon-Yi by the hand and whispered: “Let’s go have sex before she gets back.” Once again, I ignored this remark and simply stood in awe at his work. The mastery. The power. The sheer devastation.

I fell in love with pay per view wrestling that night. It has remained one of the single most enduring loves of my life. This Sunday, the US Airways Arena in Phoenix, Arizona plays host to the WWE Money in the Bank event. Perhaps you too can sit down and watch some of your favourite wrestlers pretend to kick umpteen shades of shite out each other. Perhaps you too can fall in love.

And the football doesn’t start again for another month, so what fucking else are you going to do?

• Betting: WWE Money in the Bank

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.