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A former Premier League manager approached us here at GSITM and asked that we publish his diaries, so he could show the public what life is like out of the game. His only request was that he remained anonymous. Below is this week’s entry:

This week’s entry was actually written last week, but unfortunately, it was never published. This week, I am here to write that wrong.

The website I previously wrote these diaries for told me that my services were no longer required. I was taken aback. Every piece had been getting an unprecedented number of views, my email was inundated with correspondence and someone at the site told me that if it wasn’t for me, the whole enterprise would be in the toilet.

When I asked about why they were releasing me, they informed me that my expenses were far too high.

‘My expenses? All I’ve put in is my mileage and accommodation!’

It turned out that a four-week stay in a five-star hotel room was more than the ‘reasonable expenses allowance’ that was in my contract. In fact, Johnny [REDACTED] thought I was taking the p***. His exact words. Well, I blew my top. If they wanted their site to be a massive failure, they were going about it the right way. I would find another site that could handle my massive profile. That, dear reader, is this very site.

So below, you can read last week’s entry that I was fired for. Too hot for [REDACTED], the pile of soggy s****.


Last week (it was last week last week, now it’s two weeks ago), I realised that I had been pursuing the wrong elite manager. Rather than trying to help Jose Mourinho, I needed to turn my attention to the man who actually needed my assistance: Pep Guardiola.

As some of you may be aware, Guardiola had made it very clear to the public that he would be golfing on Sunday (as in Sunday 15th April. This is ludicrous). Never mind that his Manchester City side could win the title if Manchester United failed to beat West Bromwich Albion; the man needed to golf. If anything, this just shows how he cares about his job. Why isn’t he huddled around a television with his family with a camera crew filming him? Pathetic.

I decided to attempt to meet Pep out on ‘the links.’ This would force me to do something I swore I would never do: play golf. Golf is the worst kind of sport. There’s barely any athleticism involved, it caters almost exclusively to the rich and you have to be quiet while playing it. Any sport where you have to be quiet to play it should be instantly banned. The only thing worse is… motorsports. I literally shuddered as I typed that.

I got Julie to find out what golf course Guardiola was at and set off to the course. Upon arrival, it occurred to me that I may be banned from accessing the clubhouse and then the course itself. Rather than go through the awkward business of trying to lie my way in, I thought it would be more prudent to just break into the course.

Pulling up outside the tall fence that bordered the course, I began to search for an alternative way in. After considering whether to burrow under the fence or climb over it, I decided the best way in would be to cut my way through instead. Thankfully, I always keep a set of bolt cutters in the back of the car for such an occasion.

I walked up and down the fence, looking for the ideal place to cut a hole in it to break in. About a mile down from my car, I found a collection of bushes close to a conveniently placed bunker on the other side. It was deep enough to hide me from any passersby. Perfect.

In one swift move, I sliced through the fence and leapt into the bunker, planting my face into the sand. After spitting out what I can only hope was rabbit droppings, I peered out of the bunker. A convoy of golf buggies was coming up towards me, fluidly rotating positions, forming little triangles as they went. This was surely my target.

Crouched and ready to strike, I let the first three buggies drift past. As the fourth and final buggy glided towards the edge of the bunker, I leapt up and pulled the lone occupant out of the driving seat. Pulling him down into the bunker, I drove his head into the sand. As he struggled, I hit him with a swift, concise blow to the back of the head, rendering him instantly unconscious.

‘Sorry, Mikel, but I need that buggy,’ I whispered to him as I stripped him of his clothes. He would survive, only having minor brain damage at the very worst.

Now in disguise, I joined the back of the convoy, attempting to keep my head down so I wasn’t spotted. The group convened around the nearest teeing ground. They were all laughing and joking, some in Spanish, some in English. I attempted to join in, laughing with the others and repeating the final word back, like the office weirdo around the water cooler pretending he’d seen the latest episode of The Walking Dead.

Pep was teeing off, so I shuffled around the watching entourage in an attempt to get closer and have a chat. He hit a drive that disappeared into the distance.

‘Good shot boss!’

‘Excellent supremo!’

‘Yes, son!’

The ball had pathetically landed in the rough, next to a group of trees. What a useless group of yes men.

‘It wasn’t that great, I’ve seen Paolo Di Canio do better, to be honest.’

Drats. I couldn’t help myself, the words just fell out of my mouth. My cover was blown.

The entourage turned and advanced on me like Terminators. I backed off, trying to get away, but they were everywhere, pressing with intensity, weaving and playing off each other. One minute one would come towards me, the next one would be overlapping outside me. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Eventually, I had taken too many backward steps and tumbled down the raised tee ground. It felt like I rolled forever, finally coming to a stop against a hard metal surface. My head was ringing from the impact. I looked up and could see the advancing group still twisting and turning towards me.

My hand felt the surface I had hit. Standing up, I turned to see what it was. Inexplicably, there was a burger van on the golf course. The proprietor was leaning out of the hatch staring at me. Turning on a sixpence, I dived into the back of the van with him.


I’d always wanted to say that.

But nothing happened. The bloke was just staring at me.

‘Why? I have like, seven potential customers slowly and creepily approaching the van. I’m sure only to eat my delicious burgers! They wouldn’t want to cause me any harm whatsoever.’

Just as he said that not at all ominous statement, the arms of the entourage grabbed him and pulled him through the hatch. Not giving them a moment, I rushed into the driver’s seat and hammered the accelerator. The poor burger salesman’s screams echoed from behind me, slowly getting quieter as I hurtled away.

I had escaped another difficult situation, but yet again I had failed to get any business as a management consultant. It wouldn’t be long until Carol would be asking questions.

‘Why have you been away from the family home for four weeks and earned nothing?’

She would have a point too.

I turned on the radio as I drove away to drown out the screaming of the burger van owner and the various people I had run over during my escape.

‘Manchester City have just been crowned Premier League champions!’



A very quick note on my former adversary Arsene Wenger.

He’ll be back… but in the meantime, I need to get down to The Emirates. There’s a job to be done.