The Undefeated

2003-05-30T12:13:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-20T19:36:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-18T22:44:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-14T22:40:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-12T21:58:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-11T20:08:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-08T19:28:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-06T13:20:00.000Z

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.

2003-05-05T22:04:00.000Z

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?

2003-05-01T15:38:00.000Z

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?

2003-04-30T10:00:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-29T10:24:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-27T18:09:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-26T11:07:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-25T22:02:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-21T10:29:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-19T09:56:00.000Z

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....

2003-04-17T22:53:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-16T22:25:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-15T09:12:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-14T19:50:00.000Z

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?

2003-04-10T12:03:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-08T08:19:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-07T12:04:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-02T22:45:00.000Z

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.

2003-03-30T22:13:00.000Z

Day Eighty-Four. Got some great pain-killers from the junior doctor. He heard my tale of woe, took one look at my ankle and said: "here's some novocaine for the asshole." Don't know what he meant. But at triple dosage the pain was gone almost as quick as the weekend. A fluffy time was had by all.

2003-03-27T20:28:00.000Z

Day Eighty-One. Despite physiotherapy from a friend who looks after me my ankle has never felt so bad. Sadly, however, not even the local freesheet is interested in publishing X-rays of the ligament damage sustained in what could be a career-threatening injury. I'm no David Beckham yet but a "local man" story is a local man story. Don't these people ever want to work for a tabloid?

2003-03-26T23:38:00.000Z

Day Eighty. I bounced back into action right enough but flew into trouble. Head first down the steps and a sprained ankle is the result. But as Bill Shankly said after beating Everton in the cup semi-final of 1971: Sickness would not have kept me away from this one. If I'd been dead, I would have had them bring the casket to the ground, prop it up in the stands and cut a hole in the lid." I'll be back.

2003-03-24T10:02:00.000Z

Day Seventy-Eight. My head hurts. Six days ago I was in a shop checking out the computers when I tripped and hit my head off one of the screens... and the the rest is a blank. I don't have any bandages but I still feel dizzy. Most strange. But no worries, I'm ready to bounce back into action.

2003-03-18T09:15:00.000Z

Day Seventy-Two. A player like myself - who has the ability to pull a skillful drop shot out of the bag when least expected - can only be good for the game of football. We need to nurture good homegrown talent rather than take the easy option of buying foreign imports. Today I will be practising my command of the English language whilst watching TV.

2003-03-17T14:13:00.000Z

Day Seventy-One. Winter football means getting dirty in the mud and snow. Which is why I'm such a fan of summer football. That way it's a game of skill where ball control is more important than lots of running around but getting nowhere.

2003-03-16T17:49:00.000Z

Day Seventy. I've sworn to leave Day Sixty-Nine out. For the single guy it's a bit like Black Friday. Except with a crick in the neck. The weather hasn't been too good for football training either. Even the sheep on the practice pitch are looking worried when they look up to the skies above.

2003-03-14T20:08:00.000Z

Day Sixty-Eight. When life tackles them hard there are some people who land on their feet. And others who take a dive hoping for a penalty. It's like the difference between complaining about a paper cut or a repeatedly slashed face. Like the best players I can take a good stabbing and come back smiling. It's the mark of a winner.

2003-03-13T23:45:00.000Z

Day Sixty-Seven. It's a strange thing but I have found that my energy levels during the day are directly connected to my caffeine intake. So instead of training outdoors today I decided to watch afternoon tele with a big pot of free trade coffee. I feel charged up and all set for the evening's soap operas.

2003-03-12T22:32:00.000Z

Day Sixty-Six. Team work is essential in the modern game. Take a band like Deep Purple. The classic line up of Glover, Gillan, Lord, Paice and Blackmore from the In Rock period was the sum of all its parts. Neither Rainbow, Gillan nor the ill-fated concept album of P.A.L. could reach those dizzy heights again. In other words I need someone to practice my penalties with.

2003-03-11T21:57:00.000Z

Day Sixty-Five. Yesterday I had been running for what seemed like a marathon. I must have hit the wall toward the end. Just beside the front door. I can feel a bump on my forehead but that should only affect my heading ability. If I stay away from corners and crosses and concentrate on my shooting then I foresee no problems.

2003-03-09T23:07:00.000Z

Day Sixty-Three. In the words of Bobby Seale, I'm seizing the time and catching the moment. The days of trying to see into the future are behind me for now. I'll take things one game at a time and train hard. Tomorrow, I'll wake up, give myself a good slap, and hit the fitness trail for real.

2003-03-08T23:54:00.000Z

Day Sixty-Two. I feel I can run for miles. I can run for miles. I can feel the wind in my hair and the earth beneath my feet. As the wise man says - apart from only fools fall in love - to run is to live. And that was all the way from the kitchen to the toilet after a dodgy curry.

2003-03-07T23:29:00.000Z

Day Sixty-One. Why do I want to be a professional footballer? Rather than a raw recruit in the navy for example.? The fame and adulation mean so little to me. It is like the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said: "I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time." I feel similarly about the sexy beautiful game of football.

2003-03-06T22:59:00.000Z

Day Sixty. That was the best sleep ever. It was like I was floating in space. Into a bright white light. Which turned out be a 40 Watt Asda Pearl. But that's okay. My batteries are recharged. I'm ready to take on the world. Next stop... the newsagents. To get some biscuits and a TV guide.

2003-02-24T11:04:00.000Z

Day Fifty. Today, fed up with too much beer and nuts in the world, and not enough money to buy it with, I shall attempt transcendental meditation as a drastic solution to kickstarting myself into a new person. The purpose is to regress to the state of an unborn baby, not really alive, and work my way through all the twists and turns of human development until I become at one with myself and my football boots.

Rome wasn't built in a day - which would explain all the half-constructed buildings there - so I shall drift off into a self-induced slumber, slowing my heart rate down to almost five beats per minute, and stay unconcious for ten full days. I've set my alarm clock. To find out if this important battle has worked return here on Day Sixty when I shall re-awake and tell all. If I don't reappear here on that day, which by my calculations is Thursday March 6th, then that will mean only one thing: I will have meditated myself to death and the world of professional association soccer will have lost a star it never knew it was going to have. Until then... ciao... or au revoir... take your pick.

2003-02-23T21:36:00.000Z

Day Forty-Nine. Many professional footballers like to relax in the afternoons with a round of golf. In that respect I'm no different. Except the only clubs I've got are chocolate biscuits. So I've set up a pitch-and-putt in the hall using eight toilet roll holders taped together and a hard boiled egg that had gone past its sell by date. It's all about initiative.

2003-02-22T20:23:00.000Z

Day Forty-Eight. Been strategically arranging the chair legs in the kitchen so I can practice diving in the box. It's part of the modern game. Some say it's cheating but they're not under the same pressure as the rest of us to turn in results week after week. Avoiding the kitchen appliances as you tumble is a problem though. Almost mangled my newly grown moustache on the toaster. Nasty.

2003-02-21T14:01:00.000Z

Day Forty-Seven. It's a lovely day outside. But sadly I've had to stay inside and catch up with my stretching exercises. I can barely bend down and pull up my socks these days. Think I pulled a muscle in my back when I feel asleep on the sofa last night. It's a two seater. With mental patterns.

2003-02-20T09:35:00.000Z

Day Forty-Six. Went shopping a couple of days ago. Got lost. It's easy to forget where you are. One minute you're looking for the cheapest can of supermarket own brand baked beans and the next minute you wake up confused beside a pile of empty bottles on laundry day. But I suppose these are the things that make life interesting.

2003-02-17T23:34:00.000Z

Day Forty-Three. What kind of relationship would I like? It would be easy to get suckered into marriage by an unscrupulous groupie who wants to tame me and have me settle down. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But I think I'd prefer something based on mutual respect. Definitely not with some daft cow who only wants a piece of my fame.

2003-02-16T23:36:00.000Z

Day Forty-Two. I've looked everywhere but I can't seem to find my new plastic football. And as any professional player will tell you kicking a dog is no substitute for kicking a football. Which is why I wouldn't use a dog for free kick practice, not even a small dog like a poodle or a chihuahau. Even if this makes me some sort of animal rights activist in some people's eyes.

2003-02-15T23:53:00.000Z

Day Forty-One. I'd forgotten how bad a hangover can be. It's one of the hazards of temporary sobriety. Thankfully the weekend is still young and my throat is still dry. More vodka, more TV, and more contemplation of the beautiful game. Apart from a white Xmas does life get any better than this? Probably.

2003-02-14T22:30:00.000Z

Day Forty. I feel like Jesus. Forty days and forty nights out wandering the wilderness and now I am come home. Well, something like that. Managed twelve keep-ups and the same number of Bud Lites. Love is definitely in the air. But Juliet, wherefore art thou? And why am I talking like this. Hic.

2003-02-13T21:31:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Nine. Getting up off the sofa was easy this afternoon. The TV was rubbish. Got my ball out, did a few keepy-ups. Some leg stretches. And had a power-nap before the six o'clock news came on. Not a bad day.

2003-02-12T09:51:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Eight. Today I drink my lemonade shaken but not shtirred. I am relaxed. I have bought a copy of The Rules of Asociation Football. There is so much to think about. Such as why is it necessary to have so many police at football matches? When there is a referee.

2003-02-11T23:37:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Seven. I've pushed my body to the limit today. I've been hitting the lemonade straight. Not a vodka mixer in sight. And I'm feeling on top of the world, ma. Yep, it sure is good to be alive.

2003-02-10T23:21:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Six. I have to scratch my head and wonder when I see the attitude of some of the younger players today. They hardly ever train at nights like I do. It's all about money, flash cars, kinky sex and suntans. In fact its hard to tell them apart from politicians. But football is the ultimate meritocracy. The cream will always rise to the top of the pudding.

2003-02-09T10:58:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Five. I've been up early practicing my freekicks in the kitchen. Managed to curve a couple of beauties around the cooker onto the top of the breakfast table. Unfortunately one of them knocked over a cereal bowl with my last two Weetabix in it. One day, when I'm not hungry and broke, I'll be able to laugh about it.

2003-02-08T20:16:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Four. Should I get up off this sofa or not? There is an old Yiddish proverb which says: "Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone." Jews, eh? Maybe that would explain their bad haircuts and off-the-wall beards. Anyway, I am willing to take a chance on inertia in the hope that something good comes on the tele.

2003-02-07T21:20:00.000Z

Day Thirty-Three. Friday night watching the usual monkeys on TV is enough to drive a finely-tuned athlete to drink. And yet, this is as good as it gets. Feet up. Pie and chips. And a six pack of Smirnoff. Might as well enjoy my night in I suppose.

2003-02-05T23:13:00.000Z

Day Thirty-One. Trying to find the perfect partner is proving to be too much of a distraction. It's also putting me off my training schedule. It'll never work. One minute you think you're looking for a lover and next minute there's an extra mouth to feed. Thanks, but no thanks.

2003-02-04T13:45:00.000Z

Day Thirty. For the average male the urge to take part in sporting activities is like an itch that needs to be scratched from time to time. The competitive instinct is biological. We can deny it but it's true. Sport is much more preferable to the usual destructive male behaviour. So you'd think women would be grateful. But you'd be wrong.

2003-02-03T23:52:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Nine. I don't know much about football, true, but who gives a toss? It was Albert Einstein who once said that "imagination is more important than knowledge." I can imagine a wall, and a ball, and the ball, being bent, over the wall. Endlessly repeated until perfection. I can also imagine this bottle of vodka being half full rather than half empty.

2003-02-02T13:19:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Eight. Woke up with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. Went for a light jog round the car park that doubles up as children's recreational centre. The rest of the day I spent in an internet chatroom looking for love. There must be an easier way.

2003-02-01T15:17:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Seven. I have been thinking more about finding a mate. Someone who would clean my dirty strip after the games. But who would also be my intellectual equal. I was out shopping today and I tried to catch a woman's eye in Safeways. I watched her as I stood beside the frozen fish fingers. But she kept stacking cans as if I wasn't there. If only I'd thought of a good question to break the ice.

2003-01-31T23:49:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Six. To give me that little bit of edge on the park I need a vice. I could smoke cigars or eat gum perhaps. Or try and find a gorgeous blonde girlfriend who wears miniskirts, chews gum and smokes cigars. I wouldn't want a daft groupie but someone I could treat with respect. But alas I'm no great looker and not much with the chat. I suppose I'd better keep practicing those free kicks.

2003-01-30T19:07:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Five. When you first start playing football you want to dribble round everyone and score goals. Then, as you become aware of your own limitations, you drop back into midfield or defence and learn to pass the ball and tackle. Eventually, when no one will pick you, you buy a pair of goalkeeping gloves. After that its black shorts, black shirt and a whistle. You've reached the bottom. It's a lesson in life writ large. Never give up on your dreams.

2003-01-28T22:00:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Three. There are things happening in the world that are scary. That much I know. But for us footballers all that matters is the next match. Or, in my case, the first match. Sports stars don't need to worry about politics and elections and wars and dog crap on the pavement. They have fast cars and dinky wee portions of food to think about. Or, in my case, dinky cars and fast food. Hmm.

2003-01-27T23:57:00.000Z

Day Twenty-Two. A good thing about football is that it is the people's game. Even when you're out of work, happily signing on, despite the numerous pressures to turn you into a productive member of society, you can still afford the price of a ball and boots. And that's all there is to it. It's not as if you need lobster bisque and a Rolls Royce to be happy. Boots, balls and some serious kicking is enough for any man to be happy.

2003-01-26T22:00:00.000Z

Day Twenty-One. It has been scientifically proven that the best form of exercise is walking. Gets you out in the fresh air. Which makes me wonder why there aren't any Jane Fonda walking videos. I can see Jane now, out in Central Park, smiling, waving to the people as she walks briskly around the lake in her dayglo lycra suit while the little kids point and say Who? She was always pretty fit was Jane Fonda. My video player is broken anyway.

2003-01-25T13:46:00.000Z

Day Twenty. There are few things in life that amaze as much as the human body's recuperative powers. (Terminal cancer excepted). True, the healing process isn't quite as quick as in a Tom and Jerry cartoon but since animated characters aren't real they don't count. Although my body seemed to have serious debilitating injuries just a few days ago now I feel as good as a clean set of bed linen. And few things in life feel as good as that. It's like the clouds have lifted.

2003-01-24T08:46:00.000Z

Day Nineteen. There was no Day Eighteen. Life passed me by for 24 hours. I contemplated the bigger issues like love and politics, and 3-5-2 versus 4-4-2. In the end I concluded there are no right answers and no wrong answers. Only questions without end. But hey, it's Friday, what the hell. There must be something good on the tele tonight.

2003-01-22T11:43:00.000Z

Day Seventeen. Today is a day of feet up with inspirational feet videos. And what could be more inspiring than Reach For The Sky with Kenneth Moore. A great movie about one man's heroic struggle to fight in a war even though he had no legs. Or the young Jenny Agutter lost in Walkabout. Maybe not as inspirational as Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot, true, but that's a bit close to home. That was a real battle. And to do it with a surname like Day-Lewis. Respect.

2003-01-21T16:16:00.000Z

Day Sixteen. When you're unwell the one thing you miss when you live on your own is grapes. That and someone to pass the TV remote. It must be great to lie there on your back, being ill, having your grapes peeled for you, and your sore bits massaged, preferably by a good qualified physiotherapist. Just to have someone lift your spirits and adjust the splint on your nose when it drops into your mouth would be cool. Instead I've got to make my own cup-a-soups. But as they say what doesnt kill you will make you stronger. Or seriously injured.

2003-01-20T23:49:00.000Z

Day Fifteen. Every cloud has a silver lining and the silver in this one is that my accident could have ended in real tragedy if it had been my left foot rather than my right hand that cracked. That left peg of mine, the one that has lain dormant, like Mount Etna, for so long, if that had gone it would have been a cruel setback for the soccer community. One arm was good enough for the drummer in Def Leppard so its good enough for me. Rock'n'roll.

2003-01-19T23:25:00.000Z

Day Fourteen. There should be a law that states that all pubs should all be on ground floors. It should be completely illegal for pubs to have steps, stairs, or shiny metal poles like they have in the Batcave. These things are public hazards. It should also be illegal to sell alcohol to anyone who is incapable of basic diction. These simple rules would stop all sorts of accidents and emergencies. My arm is fractured. I have a broken nose. And it hurts.

2003-01-18T09:59:00.000Z

Day Thirteen. Nobody ever gave up sex in a brothel. Nobody ever went on a hunger strike in McDonalds. Bearing that in mind I have decided that Friday was a bad day to give up the booze. A trip to the local supermarket was in order to buy a couple of bottles of hard liquor. Otherwise those bottles of mixers in the cupboard are just going to be tempting me indefinitely. Is it Saturday already? Damn.

2003-01-16T10:50:00.000Z

Day Eleven. I think I'm trying to walk before I can jog. Maybe it's time to sit down and think of a new strategy. I'm gonna try and eat myself fitter which won't be pleasant. As Mark Twain once said: 'The only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not.' Methinks achieving the perfect sporting physique calls for sacrifice.

2003-01-15T10:36:00.000Z

Day Ten. I ish a little bit pished this morning after long night on the Grand Theft Auto Vice City. Ish not a good game. Not good. Ish a lot of bad people out there doing bad things. Found myself at Escobar Airport chinged up then hiding out at Leaf Links Golf Club. Cars and guns is bad. I love football. I really do. I really love it.

2003-01-14T08:12:00.000Z

Day Nine. I learned something new today. As I connected with my new ball I found that it could be made to swerve if I struck it with the outside of the foot, coming across it at an angle and following through. Unfortunately the shot knocked the television over and a precious Betty Page snowdome was smashed. Not so good.

2003-01-13T13:48:00.000Z

Day Eight. A man needs to set targets. My target this week is to reduce vodka consumption by fifty per cent and practice long range free kicks. David Beckham has set some very high standards. It will take time and dedication for mere mortals like myself to emulate such feats. Practice makes perfect. Never forget that.

2003-01-12T23:34:00.000Z

Day Seven. And on the seventh day Jon Lord rested while Gillan and Blackmore screeched like a pair of highly strung tomcats. Yes, after a hard weeks training, some nice sounds are needed on the stereo. Can't beat the Purple. Success on the pitch breeds success off it. This is going better than expected.

2003-01-10T10:49:00.000Z

Day Six. Three keepy-uppys on each foot and two on the head before the new ball bounced into the river. Thats eight in total. This is a lifetime best and I feel I'm well on the way to Sunday league football. Eating the right food is important. Footballers eat a lot of pasta so a crate of Yatta spaggetti hoops may be the purchase of the day.

2003-01-10T00:24:00.000Z

Day Five. (Coughs politely). Check the time of the post. The new Eden Black has finally arrived. No more hiding under the duvet all morning in a state of serene repose. No more missing breakfast tele. The boy is back. There's a spring in his step. There's a boiled egg in the FA Cup. And he's all set to dribble and shoot. Goooaaaaallllll!!!!!

2003-01-09T12:02:00.000Z

Day Four. I buy a white plastic Umbro football from Woolworths. There's not enough weight on it to do more than two keepy-uppys. A waste of five quid you might think. Wrong. If you can learn to control a light ball then the heavier plastic rouge-coloured dimpled ball will be a Glen Hoddle. I walk around town with the football under my arm for an hour. Good exercise. I feel good.

2003-01-08T12:56:00.000Z

Day Three. It was the philosopher, Kant, who once said, "Don't". How could he be an advocate of positive thinking with a name like Kant. Not my problem though. I'm ready for war. So I put on my old Nike trainers and set off to find a gym. No more horsing around for me. It's time to make some changes round here.

2003-01-07T13:15:00.000Z

Day Two. Had to miss out Day One because there was a bottle of vodka on the kitchen table trying to psyche me out. It had a robotic Russian sneer hailing from its neck, Stephen Hawking style, which said: "Fin-ish-me-first-com-rade. De-stroy-all-en-em-eez. Then-move-on." Sensible advice for all aspiring footballers ready to put their balls on the line.

2003-01-05T22:46:00.000Z

Sunday night. Day zero. Tomorrow morning, I, Eden Black, will wake up at 7am, eat a healthy breakfast, and declare war on an unidentified enemy. There will be no Marquis of Queensberry or Geneva Convention. It will be total war by any means necessary. Place your bets now. Cos there's gonna be only one winner.