All the big hitters wanted this one. The Sun allegedly offered half a mill. The Mail tried blackmail. The Cutter meanwhile simply approached Gray with some saucy upskirt shots of his Sky ex-colleague Charlotte Jackson. Which thankfully sealed the deal.

So starting today we can exclusively reveal the first extract from Gray’s Anatomy, the sexist Scot’s forthcoming diaries.

Jan 25th

8am – Woke to a shit-storm of missed calls and texts. It appears I’ve been sacked. Those bunch of bastards will regret taking on a Glaswegian. We fight dirty. I lie alone in my bed and attempt a wee wank to distract me from the overwhelming sensation of betrayal and crushing disappointment that I’m feeling. But the tears and the snotty sobbing put me off.

I think of Keys also receiving the same news right about now. That lad’s risen from TV-AM obscurity all the way to becoming Britain’s foremost football anchorman. He will be ruined by this.

I’m surprised one of the missed calls isn’t from him, seeking empathy and solace at this distressing time.

9.20am – Still in my tartan jim-jams but I’ve at least hauled myself downstairs.

I sit desolate at the breakfast table spooning in Cheerios on auto-pilot, with the weary apathy of a Bolton v Blackburn Monday night game. I stare emptily into space for what seems like hours until, almost without realizing I’m doing it, I start to pick out some of the small wheat hoops and place them carefully onto the table before me.

I line them up into a 4-5-1 formation (that can adapt to a 4-3-3 if necessary) and place my fingertip over the Cheerio on the left flank.

‘And Anelka will be expected to cut inside’ I say with a hoarse whisper, gently pushing the hoop closer to Drogba.

Then I cry some more.

10.10am – That damn dirty ape has been spared!! That Judas amateur morning-telly fuck-bollocks got me into this mess and yet amazingly he gets clean off!!! Listen to the tape people! The truth will out. I was lead astray by his bitter tirade – a patsy to his prejudice – and was merely chipping in with remarks I didn’t even believe to be true. Purely to appease the glorified baboon.

And all because Brady once mistook his arm for a hand towel at some function years ago.

I think back to the times we’ve shared – flicking through FHM and rating the snatch out of ten together on freezing cold gantries; confiding in each other’s sexual diseases in the warmth of the studio – and begin cutting up photos of our recent holiday in Thailand.

11.15am – There are no more tears to fall. This river has run dry. Anger envelopes me, its arms all over me like Ryan Shawcross defending a corner. I am a wronged man.

11.47am – The postman arrives – a Watford fan – but I just can’t summon up the enthusiasm to run up and shoulder-barge him like I usually do. It’s a running joke that we share that never fails to send him sprawling onto the front path and has me guffawing in delight. But not today.

12.40am – Putney job centre to sign on for the first time in all my puff. It’s a humiliating experience. I don’t expect fanfares and a red carpet but a little bit of courtesy and manners goes a long way in my opinion. I am, after all, probably the most important person to ever step inside this grotty little building.

Standing by the door is a security guard who point-blank ignores me as I enter. No acknowledgement, no ‘How do you do, sir’, nothing. He even keeps his cap on.

‘Take a bow son’ I instruct, finally making his gaze. But his dead eyes scare me so I swiftly move on.

12.50am – The fat lady behind the desk informs me that I am not entitled to dole for three months because I’ve been sacked from my previous employment. I’ve been paying tax my whole puff, since I was a wee lad at Dundee United, and this is how Cameron’s Britain treats me! Well fuck them all. Andrew Mullen Gray doesn’t take handouts anyway.

I call my agent when I return to the Jag. He’s been inundated with offers, most of which I wouldn’t scratch my ball-sack with.

An offer from Jenni Murray to appear on Woman’s Hour on Radio 4. Celebrity Cash In The Attic. Beaver hunting in Vancouver with Andrew Castle.

‘Big’ Ron has been in touch suggesting we team up for a new show. He pitched it to my agent as ‘Shades of Gray’ where we would discuss and explore bigotry and prejudice. ‘Take on the PC brigade head-on’. Apparently ITV3 are interested.

I might look into it.

3.15pm – Get home and stick on a bit of Sex and the City. Got the whole box-set. I love the whole wacky premise of three girls co-owning a horse in the middle of New York and taking it out drinking! Crazy. Samantha the slag is my favourite character. Someone told me once that a bloke plays her in drag. I fucking hope not because I’ve knocked a sly one out to her on many a lonely evening.

If only people knew that I liked such shows then maybe this witch-hunt (pun intended) would ease up. I even watched Loose Women once from start to finish. Start to finish!

Keys will no doubt be chuckling along to Anchorman at this very moment. He is obsessed with that film. ‘It’s Anchorman, not Anchorlady and that’s a scientific fact’ was his motto. Even had a t-shirt printed up.

He once threatened to punch Kelly Cates in the ovary. Hence the irony of that damn tape when he says ‘Kenny will go potty’. If Dalglish found out his daughter was spoken to like that he’d stick one on the walking, talking carpet without a second’s thought.

7pm – An evening of ironing followed by a long soak in a candle-lit bath. Oh the fucking irony.

10pm – Whiskey soothes my frayed, tired mind. I’m halfway through the bottle when Keys calls me. It’s a snivelling apology full of excuses and bizarre conspiracy theories. He blames the ‘muff cabal’ that are taking over the world.

‘They’ll be wanting the vote next, and that’s a scientific fact. Andy?….You there mate?’

I listen in silence which makes him think I’m fearful of my phone being tapped.

‘I’ve spoken to Rupert. He’s promised not to do that to you again. Oh shit, I’ve said too much’

And with that he promptly hangs up. I shall never speak to that bigoted fool again.

I stumble across to the stereo and stick some Proclaimers on. Turn the volume up to eleven. Soon I’m blissfully belting out their greatest hits at the top of my lungs until I’m aware that somebody is banging on the wall. It’s my neighbour, the ugly useless bint, probably on her period, telling me in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up.

I scream back at her, unleashing the demons I have stored inside all day long.


Exhausted I slump into the settee and down the rest of the spirits.

I think of my mother. That woman was a saint.

And she raised no sinner.