Tell us a little about your time before joining Urban Salmon and your previous football history.

I started playing football from a young age, joining the mighty Wickford Rangers at only 8 years old. Due to what doctors quoted as: ‘abnormally dense body tissue’ I had the distinct advantage of being bigger than the other boys, something that has carried through to other facets of my life since.It didn’t take long for my team mates to recognize my speed and power, coining the now infamous nickname Gange Bullet (roughly mis-translated as Ginger Bullet) and I was known throughout the playing fields of Essex as someone not to be stood in front of, on the field of play or indeed the dinner queue. And so my trail blazed for ten wondrous seasons, I graced such hallowed turf as Roots hall, Clemance Hall and the scrubland behind the Village Hall, leaving broken boys, abusive refs and red cards in my wake.

But alas, it all had to come to an end. Too many models, too many nightclubs and too many left feet, intermingled with drug scandals, binges and dodgy mullets marked the end of an era, one of the greats who never was.

Or so I thought…

Well there’s no doubt that you are still abnormally dense. So after your descent into cheese addiction, you spent many years in the wilderness until your eventual recovery. Tell us what it was like when you realized you were fatter than the Goodyear blimp, and how you got out of it.

By the fall of 97 certain factors had become clear. I realized that not only did I weigh the same as Wolf from gladiators, my appearance also suggested I had taken as many drugs as the growling man. Even more depressing, was that my bulk was In no way muscle and my demeanour was in no way tough. I was, like Ruddock, Dicks and Sammy Lee before me, a fat pile of shite, past it and passed over by the big leagues.

Having spent too long in the wilderness, falling in and out of teams and bars in equal measure I realized the need to change my ways. So I got tough, I got angry and I got fit. Like the ginger bullet of my olden fame, I fired myself through a thousand workouts, countless strain stained boxers and enough tuna salad to decimate the food chain. In was then that Captain Kev found me. He asked me if I played football, I laughed in his face, and the rest is history.

After your rehabilitation from severe lard overdose, you were eventually signed for the mighty Urban Salmon. Tell us about what happened, and the early seasons.

They were a motley crew, the sort of rough diamonds only found on the shopping channel, most didn’t know whether to throw it or kick it, some couldn’t do either. Kev was keen, young and optimistic but it took only a cursory glance to realize we had an uphill struggle with our first season only a few weeks away. Yet I could see the seeds of greatness amongst the gangling weeds and knew I had just the right manure to bring out the blossom of success.

It took a while for the team to shape up, we were merciless in our selection and most just didn’t make the grade. Others came and went but we were the hardcore, me, Feather Feet Kev, Honking Oinn, Jim 'Old Woman' Bolden, the Bhandari Brothers and the man who held it all together, Demolition Donald.

I guess we weren’t the classiest outfit in the league but we sure made up for it in pure unadulterated malice. We hacked and slayed out way out of the bottom three and by the end of the season had decimated the league sufficiently to leave us a top six finish. And our spirit and determination did not go unnoticed nor did our bribe go unfulfilled, as the league saw fit to reward us with the fair play trophy and, with tears in my eyes, I realized I was back where I belong.

As the saying goes, a great footballer plays not just with his feet, and I with all modesty am no exception. A key duty of any defender and especially in my last man role is the ability to block the ball with any part of your body, whether it be feet, legs or indeed arse. Few realize that the arse is the largest muscle in the body, the one that drives the leg through the foot onto the ball and into the back of the net. Your arse is your best friend in the game of football, this is a fact, as sure as a one legged duck will swim in a circle, as sure as a hobby horse nobs with a wooden dick.

But you need to be careful as the power of your arse can work against you. The wrong tension in just one buttock can cause a deviation that can send the ball swirling into your own net. It's a science, and you need to know your stuff.

And that brings us to the second point about your performance that has caused much comment in footballing circles, your uncanny ability to place the ball squarely and firmly in the back of your own net. Can you give any advice or secret hints and tips for your fans wishing to emulate this mystical skill?

The relationship between the last man and his goalkeeper needs to be instinctual, and when you have a goalkeeper who dives like an octogenarian with NHS hips, this mind meld is crucial. 99% of the time we get it right, but this is the big leagues, this is high stakes, make or break time, and sometimes the cerebral link between us just has to snap for a split second. But it's rare thing, as rare as a Lew left foot strike, much exaggerated by the press and the envy mongers. The majority are deflections anyway, a crucial block gone wrong, happens every now and then and is part of football. That's the name of the game, they never remember the great tackles, the majestic blocks; just the ones that go awry.

Well it looks like we’ve touched on a raw nerve there, but before I duck for cover or face the wrath of the Desertyeti like so many referees before me, I have one more question. Where did left foot ‘I’m going to pass it, no I’m not, I’m going to bloody well score’ move (the ‘Ginger Bullet’) come from?

Back in the day I was almost as famous for my swath of ginger curly hair as I was for my silky moves on the field of dreams. Many Lesser men seen in the premier league for instance control their locks with hair bands gel or that girlie hairclip thing that Patrick Berger wears, but in my day shin pads were for wimps and kids with hair accessories got a good shooing. So my hair flowed freely which was fine when playing against the wind but when it was at your back the only visibility was around yer feet, and it was all you could do not to choke or your greasy locks. This led to periods of total oblivion from the rest of the world. Looking down at the ball at my feet I would bulldoze down the wing or more often in my disorientated state diagonally across the pitch, viscously fencing any enemy legs that came into view, dodging weaving and most effectively kicking the absolute shit out of anything that got in my way. It was a tactic that earned me as many cards as it did goals and even a couple of lawsuits but never was I so truly in the zone, just me the ball and the enemy. Happy days!!

And so we now reach what may possibly be the end of the Phillips story with the sad news for all Salmon fans that you have recently signed for the Cape Town Colonists, and will be transferring to the South African team midway through the next season. What prompted you to sign for the team, and how do you feel about leaving the Boys in Blue and Black, the team to which you gave so many months of your life and which resurrected you from the wilderness?

I thought I'd never say this, but there are more important things in life than success. Sometimes you have to take a look back and a look forward and try to keep your feet on the ground. I always said I'd leave when I was at the top of the game and I'm sticking to it. The game has done a lot for me and I’ve had time to give a little back. I'm not the first of course, many top class players have gone abroad to countries where football is only just emerging as a national sport. Many people ask me if I will go into coaching, if this is my first step towards a director of football role, but I say to them as I say to you, I'm a grass roots guy, I like being out there, pressing stud into turf. The smells of the dressing room, the roars of the crowd, the feel of leather on leather, that's what I'm about, That's where I started and that's where I'll finish. It doesn't matter where and it doesn't matter how or who for, all that matters is that I've got the ball at my feet and the goal in my sight. Jumpers for goalposts, the beautiful game.