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…
“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.
At the top end of the Premier League, I believe my great friend, and mentor, Sir Alex Ferguson will win his 13th 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.”
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.