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

Had to take a job at Argos to tide me over during the holiday season. It’s not even behind the tills; I’m one of those cunts fetching stuff from the stockroom. My fucking headset doesn’t even work. Please buy my bastard book for someone this Christmas. bit.ly/NotBigSam

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

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

Reebok Pumps on? Check. Liquid Swords by GZA slotted into the Sony MZ-G755 MiniDisc player? Check. A head full of tactical innovations that would make Napoleon queef? Check. Yeah, you could say I'm ready.

Nice review of my book from Simon Weston. "The whole thing crackles throughout," he said. "Like my head." Great guy. bit.ly/NotBigSam

Micheal Ball says he's VERY interested in playing Fritzl. Fingers crossed. In the meantime, this is out tomorrow. bit.ly/NotBigSam

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

Richard Madeley, though, says my book is "the funniest thing since Judy tried to get into the bath after 27 vodkas". bit.ly/NotBigSam

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

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

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

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

As a reward for yesterday's sensational performance, I gave the lads some hot milk & cookies, let them lie down on the floor of my office and read them a chapter from my sensational new book, which is available from Amazon at the low, low price of £10.48. bit.ly/NotBigSam

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

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

Really can’t be arsed with Everton tbh.

He was Professor Hawking to the world of science, but just little Ste to me. I wrote about taking him to a discotheque for the first time in my book. Twirling him around the dance-floor, like a delirious bin-bag full of joy. Goodnight, sweet prince. bit.ly/NotBigSam

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

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