Earlier this week extracts from a startlingly honest diary found its way onto our desk.

Beautifully typed on the back of some rehearsal notes for a forthcoming production of Blood Brothers the extracts were bound together in old rope with a large sticker declaring ‘Fee2Pay’ on the clearly recycled parcel.

We have no idea as to the diary’s validity. You decide.

5.40 am

Awoke in a blind panic after having a terrible nightmare that I’d left the immersion on. Scuttling through the house nude save for an exquisite pair of slippers once given to me as a Christmas present from Una Stubbs I halted en route to the boiler when realisation struck - I’d disabled the heating in the early nineties!

I gently chuckle myself back to a dreamless sleep.

7.30 am

I throw back the sheets with a show-tune and a smile and premiere a brand new day. Calling down to Conquita, my maid, I ask her to prepare my usual morning fare – half a Weetabix soaked in tepid water. It’s the breakfast of champions! Or maybe mid-table but really what’s the difference?

Conquita has been in my employ since she narrowly missed out on the role of Gigi Van Tanh in Miss Saigon and she’s truly a wonder, sourcing the recently out-of-date products from a nearby Food Bank that are still perfectly edible. I’ve made these cereal biscuits last since late February something of which I am very proud of.

Nothing though will ever surpass our fortuitous discovery from last summer – several multipacks of a well-known chocolate bar donated by some kindly soul. I later flogged them for a healthy profit because no-one can sell a Club better than me.

7.45 am

Okay perhaps this cereal has gone a bit Darren Gibson after all. I slurp down the wheaty mush strangely reminded of enduring the Bovril handed to me by my father on the glorious terraces of the Kop as a young child.

7.46 am

Gwladys Street! I meant the Gwladys!!

8.30 am

My morning dear reader, nay my entire day is already ruined! Perusing yesterday’s papers (bought for a tenth of their face value by an ever-resourceful Conquita) in the summer house I stumble upon an article celebrating a lottery win for a retired couple from Sidcup. Good for them I say. Wonderful, wonderful. But then I read on and my bones are chilled, well, to the bone.

“Derek and Joan plan to enjoy the trappings of their new-found wealth with a luxury holiday in Barbados already booked and top-of-the-range Jags on order. They’ve also agreed to pay off their son’s mortgage with an additional trip to Disneyland arranged for their young grandchildren Donna and Jessica.”

I feel a touch unwell and head to the chaise lounge for a lie-down with a damp flannel. This is madness. The world has literally gone insane. I wouldn’t at all be surprised if they get the most expensive travel insurance too and overlook any all-inclusive deals.

As for the Jaguars, I truly despair. As I said to young Leon Osman when he recently upgraded his motor - “A to B sunshine, that’s all they amount to”.

Leon proudly informed me that his swanky new motor had six gears.

“It’s fantastic Mr Chairman. You open it up and head for the great incomprehensible yonder.”

His poetry surprised me but equally I must admit to being intrigued by such a proposition: from going from fifth, to sixth, to nowhere.

10.45 am

Another phone call from the Middle East. “We wish to purchase your club Mr Kenwright”. Oh I know you do sunshine but then what? Heavy investment in players and a significant improvement of the infrastructure of this grand old football club? Not on your nelly Prince Whatever-your-name-was.

You only have to look down the M62 to see what perils await with such avarice. I remember Manchester City being a fantastically ramshackle outfit that veered from relegation to near-bankruptcy. What you might call a proper football club with green slime in the bogs and the smell of onions wafting through the terraces from the little hamburger stands dotted here and there.

Now look at that place; the soul ripped out of them the poor luvvies. I can barely look at their stoic suffering support without wanting to weep. And what happens when that Sheikh fella gets bored eh? Back to Francis Lee they go, cap in hand, no doubt.

No, Everton football club is safest in my hands. I have its best interests at heart because I used to scoff the toffees thrown into the Bullens Road from those delightful ladies in all their traditional finery.

1.20 pm

Our desperate need for a left-back necessitates some hard bargaining for a promising young lad from Barrow. Their initial demand of a thousand pounds is driven down to a new set of kit and some training cones. They’ve just telephoned me back requesting some second-hand bibs are thrown in too. Deal off.

2.10 pm

Make a series of reverse-charge calls to Sky and various newspaper sports editors thanking them for their complicity in making the Stones to Chelsea deal happen. The diligence and determination shown throughout has been a credit to their profession and the way they’ve portrayed the whole thing as a young ambitious lad making a natural step-up has been nothing short of inspired.

I have a little giggle with a tabloid editor over how the narrative has differed so dramatically from that boy Sterling’s move to City despite it being a similar situation.

“People are morons,” he thunders. “Print it and they’ll swallow it wholesale”.

He then jokes that the media probably deserve a cut of the transfer fee. I know he’s having me on but I hang up in a cold sweat.

2.20 pm

That £35m for John will go some way to keeping us afloat for a season or two. Well that and our slice of the vast TV fortunes.

3.30 pm

An Everton fans’ forum has somehow got wind of the interest from the Middle East. I swiftly liaise with our good friends at the Liverpool Echo to put out a false report that we’re in for a winger from Russia for £15m. That should distract them for a while.

5 pm

The end of a busy productive day. I allow myself the indulgence of idling through the streets of Liverpool in my Rolls, my favourite songs from Blood Brothers blasting out from my trusty cassette deck as I revisit old haunts. There’s the street where I played with my whip and top. Here’s the road where I scuffed my knee as I raced to Mrs Miggins’ shop to buy a quarter of mint imperials. Ah the Liverpool of my youth. How it should forever be.

7.35 pm

Receive a frantic email from our chief exec. Apparently that fake rumour has back-fired or become lost in translation and that flipping Russian club are willing to sell. He’s a terrific player and will greatly improve Roberto’s attacking options but they want thir….they want thir….

…they want thirteen million pounds.

I dampen my flannel and head for the chaise lounge.

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