Dear Diary. Day before yesterday, as I was opening a can of soup for one with a broken can opener, my bigshot brother was scoring for Manchester United against Chelsea. It was a good finish, I'll grant him that, but in my prime I was hitting those every other day. Sure, my prime lasted little more than the blink of an eye - not many remember it - and now I'm 29 with no real future, but I like to remember the good times when I get a break from the racket the couple upstairs make every night. Sometimes it rains, and that drowns out their activities, but the walls are thin and I don't have much money. I tried to phone Louis to congratulate him on his goal, but I got his press agent who tried to fob me off with some story about him and Wayne Rooney going for a drink with Jose Mourinho because Shevchenko 'wasn't working out', but I didn't buy it. Louis never wants to talk with me. Perhaps it's my weak voice. People comment that I sound a bit like Michael Jackson, but I don't think it's that bad. Masculine footballers though, they might not want to be reminded of failing siblings like me. It breaks my heart when I think of how well things have gone for him, and how poorly they have gone for me. I even cracked a smile when Louis missed that penalty against Celtic in the European Cup last week. A taste of failure, I thought. But despite my own inadequacies, I can't hold that thought for long. He is my brother, and even though he won't talk to me, and doesn't know how I live, I would love to talk to him and admire the way he must live. Big houses, many cars, fancy celebrity bashes. Ah, what a life Louis must lead. Really, I musn't grumble. Louis will be facing Everton tomorrow. We'll see how he does. I've got to seal the skirting boards to stop the damp coming in before I go to bed. Yours, Gerald Saha.