I was a big fan of Jude Bellingham - probably the greatest natural talent England has seen since Jon Macken. I told Jude, ‘If your performance tonight is on a par with your mum Lynda’s Oxo adverts, these fans are in for a treat.’ He stared at me then walked off. Listen, he’s a busy kid.

I was very excited for Liverpool v Real Madrid. I phoned Jürgen Klopp before kick-off and said, ‘Tonight will be the biggest test of the season for you. ’ ‘I’m not worried, Kev, it’s not my problem,’ he laughed. I was sickened. The arrogance of the man! A shocking dereliction of duty.

I really felt for my old club, City, blowing a 3-0 lead against Feyenoord. I said to Pep after, ‘The thing to bear in mind is that if football matches were 85 minutes long, you’d have won 3-2 tonight - and that’s the tragedy.’

Worse still, Dr Pebble-Mill, the only doctor in the Compound, has the fever. You can’t just grab any idiot off the street and ask them to act as an interim doctor and if they were smart they’d turn you down flat on the spot. Anyway, they’ve asked me to take on the role for a week and I’ve said yes.

My abdominal pain ended up a false alarm and not Gremp’s fever at all. I’d just fallen asleep on my keys. I can be a bit of a hypochondriac - I once waved frantically for the physio before a match when I panicked that I’d gone deaf but it turned out the stadium was just observing a minute’s silence.

The Compound is in disarray after an outbreak of Gremp’s fever, a horrible parasitic disease that sucks the life out of you, leaving you a desiccated, rotting husk. A bit like VAR! Haha, but seriously, referees work hard and if they need a break to watch a bit of telly mid-match, good luck to them.

It’s been a nightmare few days - the most stressful time of my life, not counting the week I was held captive, chained to a lawn mower in Martin Keown’s garden shed after he stopped sleeping for a month and became convinced that I ‘knew more about that whole Roswell situation’ than I was letting on.

‘I’m sure you’ll be right as rain in…’ Suddenly, Dr. Pebble-Mill screamed, clutched his side then collapsed, unconscious. And, like the time Paul Ince knocked on my door at 3am on Christmas Day, covered in bees and whispered, ‘Gaffer, I’ve done it again,’ I knew something truly awful was unfolding.

‘Don’t sugarcoat it, doc,’ I said, doubled over in a hospital bed. ‘It’s hard to say,’ Dr. Pebble-Mill said, scrutinising my chart. ‘It could simply be kidney stones.’ That didn’t sound so bad - Stu Pearce used to eat three a week. Or was that steak and kidney pie? Either way, what a player he was.

I hobbled to the Compound Infirmary and saw Dr. Pebble-Mill. For me, he’s one of the galaxy’s great medical practitioners. And a true gentleman as well - I remember he once opened a door at the same time I reached it and he said, ‘Please, after you.’ Listen, you simply cannot buy class like that.

I woke up at an insanely early hour - 9am - in crippling pain. I hadn’t felt agony like it since Geoff Horsfield ran me over outside the Fulham training ground (to be fair to Geoff, he was high on strawberry Ribena at the time and did offer to go halves with me on paying for the damage to his car).

England v Ireland is the big one. When I was England manager, we drew them in the Euro 2000 play-offs and I spent months over there scouting them in preparation - out of my own pocket, by the way. The FA just said things like ‘It’s a waste of money’ and ‘We’re playing Scotland.’ Pathetic, actually.

I decided I had to stay on Palangonia. My football club here has come on leaps and bounds, especially since the lads mastered the offside rule last month. This is my home and - like those pedestrians the day Tino Asprilla decided traffic lights were ‘optional’ - I will not be walking away from this.

I began to wonder whether I really should return to Earth. After all, going back to Newcastle in 2008 had seemed a good idea at the time but the moment I arrived at St James’ Park to find Mike Ashley on his knees, lapping gravy from a Sports Direct-branded trough, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.

My application for a place on one of the shuttles to Earth kept getting stalled - I have no doubt this was General Leigh’s doing. Though admittedly I discovered later that instead of the form, I’d accidentally sent the admin team my photo of Jimmy Nail, signed by Robson Green. Listen - it happens.

Initially I was keen to go back to Earth. The Compound where we live here is still overseen by that oaf General Leigh, who despises me even more than Graeme Le Saux hates the term “extra time.” ‘There’s no such thing!’ he’d yell, banging on the ref’s dressing room door. ‘Time’s linear and infinite!’

A lot has happened out here on Palangonia over the last few years. The L’zuhl had previously laid waste to the galaxy and invaded Earth - which, for me, was bang out of order, by the way - but they’ve been on the backfoot for some time now. Humans have reclaimed our home planet - yet I’m still here.

I was disgusted when I heard that Mark Chapman was in the frame to become the new host of Match Of The Day. Listen, good luck to the guy but, for me, assassinating a Beatle should automatically disqualify you from hosting the nation’s best-loved football highlights programme. I’ve always said that.