Day 145. Ten day after starting on my first cannabis joint I have now progressed through ecstasy and cocaine and onto mainlining heroin. Hence the news blackout. I've been too blissed out to tell my tale. But now I'm back. The next few days may prove critical in my efforts to get high and stay high.

Day 135. I won't be ground down like mustards seeds in a pestle bowl. I'm gonna be more careful with my health and more circumspect in my choice of buddies. Who needs women though. At the end of the day I want to fall asleep happy in the knowledge I've scored where it matters most. In the back of a bulging net.

Day 133. Damn. Back in the doctor's surgery with another minor ailment. Nothing too damaging this time just a niggling injury that will mean another few weeks before I'm playing again with the boys in the park. In the training ground, I mean. Damn.

Day 129. I feel like I've become a slave to my fitness regime. But that's a necessary part of making the grade. All round athleticism and silky skills should go together like a couple of cosy spoons in a drawer. And a top drawer at that.

Day 127. Being out injured for so long was a real sickener but I feel like I'm on the road to total recovery this time. Apart from the two black eyes I got from the barmaid's boyfriend yesterday I feel absolutely top of the world ma.

Day 126. Every player wants to bend a ball like Beckham but its the ABCs we need to attend to first. The simple stuff like sponsorship deals and image rights. Once you sort that stuff out you can concentrate on playing the game with a clear mind. Maybe it's time I got myself an agent.

Day 123. The top footballers are very choosy about what they eat. Plenty of pasta and nuts are important. And, as the Japanese Linda Lovelace used to say, on match days even a little tiramisu slips down the throat a treat.

Day 121. Yes, I'm using numbers now. They all count. Anyway.. I think my teeth are not as straight as The Backstreet Boys' and it's holding me back. It's time for a visit to a good dentist and get this sorted out Osmond-style. And maybe even a visit to the barber for a cool haircut. A new image indeed. That'll please the fans.

Day One Hundred and Twenty. Another four days pass and still no call. A classic situation. This must be what it feels like when you're one-nil up in a cup final ... and waiting for the referee to blow his whistle. Girls, eh?

Day One Hundred and Sixteen. I gave the lovely barmaid my phone number but it's been two days now and I've heard nothing. I'm confused. I'll give it another couple of days and then I'll go back down the pub in case she's lost my number. It happens. Or maybe she hasn't summoned up the courage to pick up her cell phone and call such a rising star of the game as myself. The problems of fame, eh?

Day One Hundred and Fifteen. I can see how top soccer athletes get distracted by their more basic animal needs. I'm on the same wavelength as Frank McAvennie and George Best now. Although not necessarily David Beckham. You shoot. You score. Yes, it's a funny old game.

Day One Hundred and Fourteen. My head hurts. My limbs ache. And my tongue feels like a marshmallow wrapped in sandpaper. I'm not sure if this was caused by the beer or the wicked barmaid I woke up beside yesterday morning. Holy cow! A woman! Things are definitely looking up.

Day One Hundred and Twelve. In the spirit of the great fighter pilot, Douglas Bader, I'm going to overcome this present affliction by gritting my teeth, pulling on my Levis, and hobbling down the pub on crutches. It's no use moping about indoors when there's beer to drink and thick but lovely barmaids to stare at. You can't get any more Bader than that.

Day One Hundred and Eleven. I'm feeling pretty chilled out. Life without money isn't so bad. Sure, there's things you have to do without, but you learn to tighten your belt. At the end of the day if it is a choice between playing the game I love and being rich I'll always choose the former. But only to become the latter.

Day One Hundred and Ten. Bloody good for nothing motorbikes. Not only do they wipe out the money you've hoarded away like a good Jew they leave you having panic attacks about ever overtaking another articulated lorry on a bend.

Day One Hundred and Six. Goddamned motorbike. Now I've got a fractured wrist as well as a dodgy ankle. What a jerk. Even Ronaldo didn't have to put up with such rotten luck. Ah well, time to let the healing process seal my footballing fate.

Day One Hundred and Four: I'm not exactly rich and powerful but I've come into a little money and I'm wondering if I should buy myself a motorbike or spend on a home gym. A home gym would help strengthen my muscles and give me a fitness edge. Whereas motorbikes are manly and would attract the girls. Decison time. I'll toss a coin....

Day One Hundred and Two. Ah yes, the sun on your face, a cool breeze on your skin, the sea air in your lungs, what a combination. The thought of which makes this the most miserable time to be stuck indoors with an ankle injury and a bad haircut. Thankfully the doc has told me it isn't career threatening and that I should be able to get out and about soon.

Day One Hundred and One. Okay, so the sofa groove is getting deeper, but I can feel the strength returning. I just need to eat plenty of farmyard animals and fresh vegetables. I'll be back out on the training ground in no time. Its just a matter of getting cleaned up, dusted down, and ready for action.

Day One Hundred. Crap motivational tapes are no use at all. What is needed is a good woman by your side . Or a man. If you were a woman. Or if you were a gay man. Or a woman. If you were a gay woman. Or a child-monkey-Elvis-spawn. If you were Michael Jackson. Someone who cares.

Day Ninety-Nine. I've bought myself a tape on positive thinking. As the narrator says: "We don't plan to fail, we fail to plan." Nice one. And I'm ordering some motivational songs on CD too. No Floyd or Purple but with quality tunes to inspire me like "I Believe I Could Fly" and "Let The Lion Run Free" how can I fail?

Day Ninety-Five. I've been asleep for the last couple of days. Tossing and turning in my bed. A messy business at the best of times. A man has to dream though and I've been dreaming of a long and successful career in the English Premiership ending with a lucrative contract playing for a crap Japanese side. The Japanese are such a happy lot. I'll enjoy it over there.

Day Ninety-Three. Last night I fell asleep with the television on. I woke up screaming. I had some horrible frightening nightmares. I don't want to fall asleep again.

Day Ninety-Two. The blackouts are getting worse. It's like a war zone in my head. More ominously, the first signs of doubt have crept up on me about my ability to play at the very top as a professional footballer. Unless things start to improve on the injury front then I might lose my ability to make devastaing runs into the box and end up playing in the lower reaches of the first or second division. Nightmare.

Day Eighty-Seven. As lazy days turn into ugly nights and my footballing career runs into unforeseen obstacles I seem to be having more and more blackouts. One minute it is a Sunday. The next minute it is a Wednesday. One day I'm watching TV on the sofa. The next day I'm watching TV in bed. Life is as unpredictable as a box of dog biscuits.