I am feeling not quite happy this morning, but I receive many messages of support from good friends. Gordon Brown emails me to say: 'We can still win, Rafael - you and me both. If I can turn it around, so can you.' He adds that to become Prime Minister all he needs is a 98 per cent swing and the death or retirement of between 150-175 Opposition MPs by next election and possibly a small military coup led by Mr E Balls. Like Gordon says, mathematically it is still possible that he can be Prime Minister, and I take great courage from this.
Adam Crozier also texts in to say he thinks I am doing magnificent job and he knows everyone is behind me 110 per cent. When you get someone like Adam, who has not only been triumphant at the FA but also restored the Post Offices to its former glories like I have done at Liverpool FC, you cannot help but believe. He also suggest I try to get Andriy Voronin to go on strike as soon as possible.
To cheer me up, the lads arrange for special performance in office by Hot Chocolate to keep spirits high. Unfortunately Errol Brown is getting on a bit and he try to do twirls and sing 'I believe in miracles...since you came along' but he feel his groin go and then he needs stretcher and treatment from physio and this make me a bit depressed as it remind me too much of poor Stevie.
Roy Keane send me bouquet of carnations and very kind note saying: 'I should tell some of your players that you'll be sticking these here flowers up their f****** bollix if they don't get their act together. It's working for me. See you down the DHSS love Roy xxx'.
John And Edward from X Factor send e-mail sympathising, saying that like me they have limited talent to work with and suggest to win the public over, I should annoy Simon Cowell. I instruct faithful Dirk Kuyt to lie in wait for Cowell at his residence and leap out of bush to do scaring of the pop svengali.
Unfortunately, Cowell security guard mistake poor Kuyt for stray dog and chase him off. Kuyt spend the rest of the night running around enthusiastically but totally pointlessly with his tongue hanging out until I send Torres to go fetch him. But when I tell Torres he has done enough for one night and come and sit down here so I can rub his tummy, he have big tantrums and do shrugging of shoulders like teenage girl whose mobile phone has been taken away. I need several miracles. The dressing room is still behind me though.
Thats now on the office noticeboard.
