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Diary of a Premiership footballer

We at The Rockall Times are increasingly concerned that hard-working Premiership footballers are in danger of becoming the new paedophiles. Indeed, there is already evidence to suggest that society is turning on this misunderstood minority — wherever they go they are regularly confronted by huge crowds of hostile working-class people hurling abuse. Worse, they are increasingly the targets of tabloid press name-and-shame assaults in which their selfless dedication to the advancement of sport and tireless charity work are buried beneath a barrage of shameful innuendo and rumour.

Accordingly, we have signed an exclusive deal to print the diary of one of the country's top stars. Covering a gruelling week in the life of a professional sportsman, we believe this sensational chronicle will once and for all silence those who believe that top-flight footballers are overpaid, talentless, champagne-guzzling imbeciles who will shag anything with tits and a pulse.

For legal reasons (our correspondent is currently on bail awaiting trial on a raft of trumped-up sexual and physical assault charges), we cannot name the author. Suffice it to say, he is the man who in the past personally cured a small boy with cancer by sending him a signed football. Enough said.

Saturday 28 February: Got thrashed 6-1 at home, gaffer went fuc*king bonkers cos we haven't won a game in two months. Said he'd cut our wages if we didn't buck our ideas up, so I rang agent who said don't worry about it he can't do that, so me and the lads told him to piss off and headed for Cinderella's for a well-deserved celebration.

About 2am left club but got into barney with a couple of students so Deano weighed into these two pakis and gave one a right kicking. Police turned up but just asked for autographs. Cab back to Nutter's quayside apartment for a bit of late night entertainment with two tarts we picked up at the club. Gave 'em a right roasting — reckon they must've had ten cocks each before we chucked 'em out at 7.30am.

Sunday 29 February: Police turned up at 10am and found six of us crashed out in Nutter's gaff. Said the two girls were only 15, so there's have to be questions down at the station. OK, though — chairman had sixteen lawyers down there before the fingerprints were dry. We all signed football for police charity auction and that was that.

Supposed to meet Deano, Hands and the gaffer for golf at 2pm, but lost control of the 4x4 at 90 and hit some old girl up the arse. Ended up wrapped round a tree. Got breathalysed, natch — twice over the limit but told cops I'd been eating sherry trifle at the old people's home where I go and do the bingo calling every week after I've been to church. Cop says, OK, can I just have an autograph then, so no problem.

Monday 1 March: Gotta get some new wheels so I'm off to the BMW showroom and the bloke's like saying you can have this one it goes 147mph and I say what about the wheels and he says alloys are extra and I say no, I want two extra wheels so I've got two more than that cun*t Beckham and the bloke says it's most unusual and I say well I can always go to Mercedes where they know how to look after a bloke. Got bored then.

First of the month is payday so I'm off to the bank to see that me wages are in and some silly tart there is saying there's £36,475 been paid in sir, and I say that can't be right that's a fiver down on last month, so I'm right on the phone to the accountant and the agent and they say they'll look into it right away. Fuc*king cheek.

Supposed to be training at 12 but the rumour is the drugs testing arseholes are sniffing about and I reckon I'm still packing about half a g of charlie from Saturday night. Reckon I need a quick bit of detox so call in sick and get meself over to the health spa. Luckily, Shazza's on duty so it's an hour in hydrotherapy then a quick bj, just to clear the system. Feel like a new man. Meet Turko in the bar and we quickly get stuck into the vodka and wheat grass juice. Bed at 4am.

Tuesday 2 March: Training, which is a pain in the fuc*king arse, if you ask me. Gaffer said nobody did ask you so pull your bloody finger out. Me agent and lawyer down within 2 minutes giving it to the gaffer — that shut the twat up.

Knock a ball about a bit then get bored and decide to go and do a bit of shopping. Get cornered in the dressing room by the FA who say they'll need a urine sample for random testing. Bollocks to that I say, I'm off to get some Armani boxers. Fuc*king Gestapo.

Forty minutes later I'm in town and the mobile rings but I don't answer cos it's the gaffer and he's only going to be banging on about this drugs test, so I switch the phone off.

Wednesday 3 March: I'm struggling to get out of bed at around 11, mainly because I've got some teenage bint chewing on me piece, and the phone rings and it's the papers saying, like, how would you react to a ban, and I say what bloody ban, and the bloke says a ban for refusing to undergo a drugs test and I hang up and get straight on the phone to me agent who says don't worry it's only the FA — it's not like they run football in this country or anything.

Feel a bit better and decide to celebrate by giving Amanda, I think that's her name, a pearl necklace. She says oooh lovely but then gets a bit stroppy when I tell her to lie down then whip out me todger. Two minutes later and that's me done and I give her a tenner for a cab and chuck her out only to discover that the whole drive is covered by paparazzi and blokes shouting into cameras. Jesus H. Christ.

Thursday 4 March: Luckily for me we're off to Spain for a sunshine training break. The lads all say don't worry about it there's no way FA will slap a ban on you, my son.

Got talking on the flight to Gordie about image rights. Seems I'm being ripped off on my percent of the action. By the time we've sunk a few bottles of bubbly I'm fighting mad. Try to ring me agent but this slapper says no mobile phones on the flight but I say we're in first class so I'll phone who I like. The pilot comes out and it looks like it's all going to kick off but he just asks me for an autograph for his son, so that's ok, and by the time I've sunk another bottle I've forgotten what I was angry about in the first place.

Hotel's top-class and we're soon in the bar necking a few liveners. Beastie's giving some German totty the eye and they're pretending like they're not interested but later that night I hear him and Deano in their room shouting you want English cock, ja? and one of the birds is shouting nein, so Deano says nine? ok, I'll go and get the rest of the lads.

Am dragged out of bed by Hands who's wearing nothing but an enormous stiffie and down the corridor is the Krauts' room which is full of lads shagging these three coloured chicks and they're making out they're not loving it but Nutter tells me that the way these German birds are and they just want to be knocked about a bit and then you have to pin 'em down and gang-bang their tits off, so I get out me bratwurst and get stuck into the action.

Friday 5 March: Wake up when the door to me room comes off its hinges and in pile about two hundred Spanish coppers waving guns about. Can't remember anything about last night except Deano with his spam javelin up someone slapper's arse shouting they think it's all over — it is now! before shooting his load all over the minibar. It can't be that, then.

I'm looking to see which of the dagos has got the football they want me to sign for the charity auction but then they slap the cuffs on me and drag me into some van. Inside are Nutter, Deano, Beastie and about four other lads. Beastie says they're gonna charge us all with rape and I say yeah right.

Spend about an hour being questioned before the gaffer turns up with a pack of lawyers. I tell him I'm bored of this and he says no worries, we'll have you out of here in no time. About two hours after that we're in front of a judge, and a bloody bird judge at that, and we can't understand what the fuc*k is going on but in the end they bail Beastie and then everyone leaves and then there's just us and the castanet-rattlers in the court and next thing we're back in the cells.

Saturday 6 March: This is no good at all because we've just found out that these fuc*kers really are going to charge us and that we won't be bailed either and like we're if we're found guilty then we'll all go to prison and like what the fuc*k have we done anyway, eh?

Eventually get through to me agent and he says look on the bright side at least your drugs ban will be lifted by the time you get out. Bloody hell.

Next week

The team get relegated while I'm away so I go off and join a proper club for even more money.

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