“Frazer takes Sunderland hot seat” said the Sunderland Echo email that landed in my inbox.

“hoped that Frazer will take The Black Cats on to bigger and better things”.

The next message came from Ellie Short, the Chairman.

“There’s no money for players, the fans are in open revolt and the club will probably fold if we get relegated. If you need anything else, just slip a note under my office door.”

Bigger and better things, then.

My challenge is to, eventually, win the Premier League with Sunderland and possibly conquer Europe if I haven’t gone bald by then. The several catches that stand in my way are a club £180 million in the red, a squad that barely scrapes Premier League survival year after year, and a self-imposed transfer embargo. Yes you read that correctly; I’m only going to use the players that graduate from the academy. There won’t be any loans or transfers coming in.

Who wants to come to Sunderland, anyway?

Of utmost urgency, I recall all loanees back to the club and send Januzai and Denayer home to Manchester. Manquillo gets the message and books a flight to Madrid on his phone. His weather app shows a difference of 12 degrees in temperature between the North East of England and the Spanish capital. I envy him.

We gather together in a tight huddle on the training pitch. Players and coaches, partly as a team bonding session. Mostly to gather warmth from the freezing cold. It is July, after all.

I discuss my bold plans for the future with the side and immediately Lee Cattermole decides to go Roy Keane on my Mick McCarthy. Luckily my inherited assistant Maricio Taricco gets between us.

Tough start.

I leave the side to train and decide to skip all media actitives for the day, preferring to book flights to South Africa for a pre-season training camp. I make sure Lee Cattermole gets a coach-class seat next to a screaming toddler. As I browse the ticket information, the following email from the Echo arrives in my inbox.

Despite the catches and inevitable hole I have dug for myself, I have reasons to be cheerful. Sunderland have a sizeable stadium that holds 49,000 and attracts a decent percentage every home game. Those facilities extend to the training ground and youth coaching. The setup is ideal for a manager-come-idiot to decide to embargo himself from transfers.

Before boarding the plane to sunny South Africa I throw the first team a game against the reserves to see my boys in action. Rather predictably Jermaine Defoe scores, Steven Piennar gets injured and Lee “Clattermole” Cattermole earns an early bath. And that was just the first half.

The fans are out in force to see us depart the North East with the traditional 2-finger salute and clenched-fist wave. “Fuck off back down South, you ponce” shouted a young supporter. I could see a statue of myself outside the ground already.

Those that didn't make the plane would soon learn of their transfer-listed status; I’m clearing out 26 players from the under 21’s and under 18 teams and spend the first few days fielding a flurry of text messages filled with expletives from agents. I refer them to Lee Congerton, the Director of Football, and give him instructions to release any player that can’t find a club. We’re on a shoestring and I’ll be running a tight ship here. There’s no room for stragglers and hangers-on.

South Africa is all about fitness and I’m no alien to the sunbed. I let Mauricio take care of first-team games for our tour as I catch some rays at the hotel and run a fine toothcomb over the squad list for the upcoming season. Already I can see a problem in goal with Mannone; he’s easily the worst player in the first team but without a young goalkeeper coming through the ranks and no chance of a loan or transfer, he’s the best I’ve got.

I console myself with that thought with a bottle of 15 year scotch from the bar. We’re running a tight ship here so I put the bill on the club’s tab and sign for it in Lee Cattermole’s name. I down a shot as Vito lets in a grasscutter against SuperSport United. I buy a second bottle of scotch in Cattermole’s name as he earns a second yellow card and we lose the game 1-nil.

Either the drink is taking effect or we just beat North West Shining Stars FC (I’m sluring) two-nothing and recorded a clean sheet. I lay back on the bed and stare at the ceiling as the call girl I also booked on Cattermole’s tab works her magic on me.

My breathe gets longer as she gets faster, her hair tickling my midriff as she takes me deeper to ecstasy. I’m due to arrive and buck my hips in anticipation when my phone buzzes. I’m growling with testosterone and endorphins. She’s on her knees with her mouth open and eyes shut waiting for the 3rd fleet to disembark. She’s ready to take all 3 points from me. The final whistle blows.

Moroka Swallows.

There’s outrage at home; the story slips into the papers alongside tales from aggrieved parents with recently-unemployed sons from the Sunderland youth team. There’s more bad news as Lee Cattermole decides to spend some quality time at the hotel with food poisoning. Jack Rodwell and Will Buckley join Jeremain Lens on Moroka’s treatment table too.

I watch from the stands as we scrape past South African side Tuks in our last fixture and head home on the plane. It’s a quiet ride apart from Lee Cattermole riffling through receipts from the hotel filled with whiskey and women. A reformed Darlington will be our last warm-up match before preparing to face Chelsea with a patched-up side, but I have a trick up my sleeve to boost our injury crisis.

I step off the plane into the freezing Wearside sun and there, at the bottom of the steps, is an England legend.

And he’s brought his faith healer.