 |
 |
|
 |
Latest News
|
|
 RSS feed
| |
 |
November 6, 2009
Alright, P-Bell fans? Hope life is treating you all well? You know, every week at the bottom of the blog I read the comments from you Average Joes and it really reminds me that there is a whole other world out there that I don't really know about. I have been a top Premier League footballer all my adult life. It is all I know. Mine is a very sheltered existence; I don't know anything about what happens outside of my world. And so it would be great for you guys to let me know a little about what it is that you do. What makes my readers tick? What are your hopes and dreams? I'm really interested to hear what beats inside the heart of the man on the street - because your lives are as alien to me as, well, an alien. I think hearing about your boring, everyday lives will help me gain a better perspective on things, you know what I mean? >>P-Bell, I've just lost my 12,000-a-year job as a pen-pusher in a biscuit factory because I turned up to work loaded on vodka-Red Bulls and told my boss I wanted to puke in his shoes. Now I can't afford to make rent on my squalid bed-sit so I'm going to have to go back and live with my mom and my mom's house only has one bedroom. Reading sob-stories like that is really going to help me feel better about myself, so fire them over. Anyway, let's jump into a chauffeur-driven BMW 4x4 and take a speed-limit-disrespecting jaunt back into my world. The lads came into training on Thursday in stitches after watching Liverpool make another massive balls-up on the TV the night before. Rafa Benitez's side are fast becoming the joke of the season - and frankly, I'm loving it. As a Premier League footballer, I am continually hearing that I am supposed to have respect and compassion for my fellow professionals. Apparently, I am supposed to be sympathetic when a rival club struggles pathetically for form; console an opposition player after he has had a shocker; feel bad for managers when they get the boot. Well, to be honest, I don't. I love it. I love watching fellow pros struggle. If I'm being honest, I don't even feel bad for them when they get injured. I know I'm supposed to feel sorry for them - but I don't. So watching Liverpool struggle has been a massive joy to me. At the moment, their lads look to be sticking together; they look to have been getting their heads down and keeping out of the newspapers. But I can guarantee that sooner or later, the cracks are going to begin to show and that's when it starts to get really interesting. You've got to understand that us top Premier League stars are under enormous pressure - when results don't go our way, that pressure only builds and builds and builds. It's like a timebomb waiting to go off. I give it one more bad result, and there is going to be a bust-up at Anfield of Biblical proportions. The most likely place is the training ground. The frustration will get too much for one poor lad and he'll go in hard through the back of someone he doesn't think has been pulling his weight (most likely one of the foreign boys) - and it will spark a right brawl. Players rolling on the floor; lads sprinting 50 yards to join in; expletives and obscenities echoing off the trees in the frosty morning air; boots and fists and knees and elbows flying around in one big ball of furious frustration. And Rafa Benitez will be stood on the sideline, watching it all unfold, clipboard in one hand, the other gently stroking his beard. His face will look like thunder, but he'll be grinning manically it on the inside - because nothing clears the air like a good, old fashioned brawl. Believe me, you wouldn't believe some of the brawls I have witnessed behind closed doors at Premier League training grounds. Fights that would make the UFC look like a Girl Guides convention. And they have always worked wonders for squad morale. It's amazing. One minute the entire squad are going at it like an old-school WWF Royal Rumble, the next they are hugging each other in the showers as they wash the blood out from under their fingernails. Let me tell you, this is coming at Liverpool. And you'll know exactly when it has happened, because Rafa Benitez will stand in front of the television cameras a couple of days later and declare that although a couple of players have "picked up minor injuries in training, the squad have had a meeting to clear the air and are feeling confident again". Next game, they will go out and stuff someone 4-0 and everything will be back on track. You just wait. Thanks again for all the messages of support at the bottom of last week's blog. Someone called Esizzle left a comment asking about my forthcoming rap album. I don't have time to tell you about it this week, but I will let you know all the details in next week's instalment. Until then, be cool, P-Bell October 28, 2009
Hi there, PB fans. Thanks for all the positive comments over the last few weeks. Keep them coming. I love to read the messages from all my fans and if any of you have any questions or subjects you'd like me to talk about, by all means let me know. For example, someone who calls themselves Pizza left a comment on last week's blog asking whether I would ever consider playing football for an international side other than England. If I'm being honest, Pizza, it is something that did cross my mind a couple of years back. It all came about after my mum told me out of the blue that my the man I had grown up calling "Dad" wasn't actually my real father. Apparently, my real Dad was actually a roadie for some American rock band. He had convinced my mum he was the lead singer of Aerosmith and sweet-talked her into a cheeky night of fun in a run-down hotel sometime after a concert in Leeds in 1982. So, it turns out that if I could be bothered to get the proof of my real old man's nationality, I could probably qualify to play for the USA. The idea appealed to me for a while. Obviously, I would walk into their side and because of the woeful standard of the CONCACAF opposition, they always qualify World Cups so it was quite an attractive proposition. But I slowly went off the idea. I really didn't fancy all the travelling, flying over the Pacific every other week to play in some qualifier against Nicaragua or Haiti or the like. Also, I reckoned being the star player and carrying the hopes of an entire nation would get really tiring after a while. So I put the idea to the back of my mind. International football for me was going to be England or no-one. Possibly Ireland or Wales. Maybe Scotland. But certainly not the USA. Hope that answers your question, Pizza. As I said, any more questions, fire them over to me. I'm totally delighted that you guys are still obsessed by what I've got to say about my life as a Premier League player. It really makes me happy to know that I am doing my bit to help the Common Man understand a little bit more about our amazing game. And it's been an interesting week in the Premier League, with that outbreak of Swine Flu at Blackburn and Bolton. It was a bit of a shock when the news broke, and really it just goes to show the dangers that we go through week after week in the name of sport and entertainment. It really puts things into perspective and the dedication and professionalism we display in times like this just goes to show why we justify our wages. Am I scared that I might catch the disease myself? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. The very nature of our sport means that we are a group of young men in close contact with each other. We train together, we shower together, we change together, we eat together, we travel together, we room together on away trips. When you look at it like that, you can see how intimate footballers get with each other – and that's not even taking into consideration how up-close-and-personal some of us get with the club physios and masseurs. The dangers are everywhere. A bead of sweat from the brow of an opposing player; phlegm from an innocent, misdirected spit; a drop of urine or faeces from a mischievous schoolboy prank between team-mates. All harmless a couple of weeks ago, but now potentially fatal. It has really got the wind up me. The day after the news broke, I turned up for training with one of those masks over my mouth and some latex gloves on my hands. The lads really laid into me, but you can't be too careful in a situation like this. I've heard that people have actually DIED from this thing. It's unbelievable in this day and age that a virus like this can spread so easily and cause so much damage. You know, we can send a man to the moon but we're still dying from flu. And to think it's all the fault of pigs! They look such nice, innocent little things. I mean, I've seen Babe: Pig In The City a couple of times and there is no clue in that suggesting they could be so dangerous. I don't reckon I'll ever eat pig again. No chance. Better to be safe than sorry. Roast beef instead of pork for me on a Sunday, and no more ham sandwiches in the club canteen. I'll stick to chicken and bacon, thank you very much. Until this whole horrible episode has passed by, I will be taking extra care. You've got to remember that this is my livelihood we are talking about. A threat to my body is a threat to my earning-potential. When you look at it like that, you'll realise why I am treating this as life-or-death. Until next week (I hope), PB October 19, 2009
What's up, Pharrell Bell fans? Hope you've all had a good week, in whatever it is you guys do. Thanks to the international break, P-Bell had the chance to take it a little bit easy for a few days. I still get pissed every time I see an England squad announced and my name not in there, sure I do. Do I think I could do a job for my country? Of course. Name one person with even an ounce of football-knowledge who wouldn't think that? But if I'm being honest - and you can rely on Pharrell Bell to be honest with you - I'm not actually that bothered about playing for England. If I finish my career never having played for my country, I'm not going to be crying like a girl about it. To me, playing for England just looks like a bit of an unnecessary ball-ache. A load of hassle for not a lot of reward. There don't seem to be many positives from what I can see - especially in a World Cup Year. You have your club form dissected in minute detail so that every stray pass or dodgy booking becomes some sort of national catastrophe; you then get called up to the squad and kiss goodbye to your what little time off we get during the season; face long trips to hell-holes like Kazakhstan, the Ukraine and Azerbaijan; and then get slaughtered in the Press afterwards whether you win or lose. All that - and you don't even get paid for it. Sorry, its just not my cup of tea. And I'll tell you what: playing for England under Fabio Capello, that doesn't look any fun in the slightest. The guy just looks so strict and grumpy all the time. Not my sort of guy at all. Can you imagine trying to have a bit of banter with him? No chance. He'd be an absolute nightmare to go on those long away trips with. And spending three weeks with him during a tournament? I'd be blowing my brains out through boredom after three days in his company. I think if I were an England squad member, I'd probably be privately hoping we DIDN'T qualify for South Africa. Especially because, if what I hear from a mate of mine who's been in the last few squads, Capello definitely seems to just be a little bit mental. My mate - who was actually trembling with fear as he told me - reckons he's like the Guv'nor of some Death Row prison in the Deep South of the States. On away trips, he says the players are basically locked inside the hotel complex, forced to play endless games of ping-pong and watch DVDs of 24 and Sex in the City while wardens slowly walk by with huge, slobbering Alsatians straining on chains at their side. At training sessions, guys in a black uniform patrol the sidelines, staring at you from behind reflective sunglasses as they chew gum and menacingly twirl cudgels around their fingers. The lads are told that Capello watches everything from a 100ft-high watchtower, his finger resting lightly on the trigger of a silver rifle that glints in the sunshine as it points down at the training pitch, following the movements of players far below. Would he really feel any pity if any of those dots stopped moving forever? Nobody knows. That's the scary thing. Because my mate reckons that none of the England players have ever actually met Capello himself. Nobody actually believes he is real. Nobody ever sees him or knows anybody that ever worked directly for him, but to hear my mate tell it, anybody could have worked for Capello. You never know. That is his power. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. And like that, poof. He's gone. I told my mate maybe it's for the best. For three years under Capello they'll have warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but maybe produce the Jules Rimet Trophy. Under Sven Goran Eriksson they had brotherly love, six years of democracy and peace - and what did that produce? A couple of quarter-finals. Not that it bothers me. As I've said, international football isn't really my bag. It seems a little stupid to me, to be giving so much of yourself away for nothing in return. I guess, reading this back, what I'm saying is that I no longer want to be considered for England. Capello, if he even exists, can consider this blog my confirmation of retirement from international football. I've got more important things to concentrate on, like my club. They are who pays my wages, my £25k-a-week. I owe it to them to make sure I am in peak condition for the big games. They showed great faith in me, and now it is time for me to repay them. Until next week, PB October 11, 2009
Hi readers. You know, I was being interviewed the other day for one of those football magazines. They sent some girl (a girl - I know!) to the training ground to come and ask me a few questions and take a photo or two. Towards the end of the interview, she asked me: "Pharrell, something our readers always want to know is what you think you would have done with your life if you hadn't become a professional footballer?" I have to admit, the question stumped me. What would have happened to me had I not been born with these extraordinary talents that have got me so far in the sport? I really don't know. It might surprise you to know that I wasn't really very good at school. Not that I was stupid or dumb or anything, I just didn't really try all that hard. Even at a young age I realised that I had been blessed with an amazing athletic talent and that it would almost certainly make me a millionaire. I was no good at mathematics; I'm not great with numbers. That's why I pay for an accountant to look after my £25k-a-week. If it were left to me, I would have no end of trouble trying to work out how many days I'd have to save for to buy myself a new car. History didn't interest me in the slightest, and the only reason I paid any attention in geography was so that I could dream about all the holidays I could take in faraway places once I became rich through playing football. I can't draw to save my life so I would never have made it as an architect or interior designer, and science lessons went completely over my head. Neither could I ever get my head around French, Spanish and Italian lessons - although I will admit that being able to speak a foreign language would be beneficial to me now, as a top professional footballer. I'd love to be able to chat up girls in another country. I suppose that my success with this massively popular blog for ESPN Soccernet shows that I probably would have made my career in journalism or even writing books, had I not made it as a footballer. It actually makes me shiver to think about how my life might have turned out had I not been as skilful and gifted as I am at sport. Instead of lounging on my leather sofa in my luxury city-centre flat, writing this blog on a top-of-the-range laptop with my HD plasma TV playing in the background, I might have been sat in some stale office in the middle of an industrial estate, hunched over my desk, filling out HR appraisal forms while some half-wit colleague next to me drones on endlessly about how crap his life is. Scary. Really scary. Thank god I am Pharrell Bell and I don't have to worry about all that bull. Another question the journalist girl asked me was whether, if I wasn't a top Premier League star, I would be a football fan. You know, one of you guys. Would I support a team, would I shell out half my weekly wage to go and watch a game, would I spend my leisure time surfing the internet for the smallest morsel of gossip on my favourite players? And you know what, in a small way I think I would. I think I would be like you guys. I'd support my local team, through thick and thin. I'd go and watch them when I could, I'd banter about football with my mates over a greasy fry-up at the local cafe just like Ian Wright, Lee Dixon and Ally McCoist in those adverts a little while back. But I've got to tell you, one thing I just don't get about you guys is when you get in arguments on internet forums. >>My team is better than your team. >>No, it's not; my team is better than your team. We beat Fulham and you lost to Fulham so we must be better than you. >>Ah, but we beat Hull 3-0 and you only beat them 2-1, so that shows we're better than you. And you're an idiot if you say otherwise. >>You're such a dumbass. When we beat Hull 2-1, we were playing AWAY. You beat them 3-0 AT HOME. You can't compare the two results. If you did, you'd have to accept that ours was better. >>You're so immature. Shouldn't you be doing your homework? How old are you? Like, TWELVE?!?!! ROTFLMAO!!! >>I am actually a Professor of Ancient History at the University of Cambridge. SO GO SUCK YOURSELF! >>If you're so clever, why don't you go and HAVE SEX WITH A MUMMY! ManYoo Rock! Doesn't it all just seem so lame? Anyway, you guys will do what you gotta do. Until next time, Peace. September 30, 2009
Alright? It's been another amazing week in the Premier League. It's unbelievable how many goals are being scored this season and how few draws there have been. Every weekend, some poor lads seem to be on the end of a 4-0 or 5-1 stuffing. Apparently there have been 196 goals in the first 66 Premier League matches so far this season, an average of 2.96-a-game. In all my years of football, I've never seen anything like it. I'm not sure what it could be put down to. I've heard people say that the defending in the Premier League has never been all that good anyway, and this year it must be especially bad. I think the problem is coming because defenders in this country are just getting a bit too big-headed. A lot of them have started to think they are better than they actually are. They are trying to do things that they just don't have the talent to pull off - and that's leading to all the mistakes we're seeing this season. Let's be honest here: defenders are usually really, really bad footballers. You know what I mean? The only reason most of centre-backs made it into the professional game is because they were bigger and stronger than the other kids in their age-group when they were growing up. Let's face it: most of them were educationally sub-normal school-bullies who loved kicking the crap out of the more skilful players on the playground. They are essentially sadists who love inflicting pain. That's how they got into the game in the first place, and that is still the only pleasure they continue to get out of it in the professional ranks. I've met very few centre-backs who weren't a bit sick in the head. I reckon a good percentage of them would have turned out like Charles Manson or Chopper Read had football not offered them a way out of their inevitable life of crime. None of them have any actual talent for the game. Don't get me wrong, punt a football high in the air and they'll clatter through the back of their own 92-year-old granny to head it clear. But put a football at their feet and tell them to pass it in a straight line to someone wearing the same coloured shirt - and you're asking for trouble. By the expression on their face, you might as well have asked them to explain Einstein's theory of relativity. The fact is that these numb-nuts just haven't got the brain-power to process anything beyond the most basic of instructions. Some of the defenders I have played with have honestly been so retarded that the gaffer has been forced to do two team-talks in the changing room before kick-off - a normal one for the midfielders and forwards, and one with pictures and grunting noises and heavy-metal music for the defenders. They are definitely not the most subtle, talented or intelligent breed. Most of them are only slightly more evolved than cavemen. And yet this season, for some strange reason, the overpaid, under-developed suddenly seem to think they have transformed overnight into Franz Beckenbauer. You see them trying all these little tricks and flicks and 50-yard passes - none of them are coming off, and most of the time their mistakes are leading to opposition goals. That's where these high-scoring matches are coming from. It's embarrassing, frankly. It's like when Ringo Starr begged The Beatles to let him try lead vocals on With A Little Help From My Friends - the results are just cringeworthy. These defenders should stick to what they're good at, just like Ringo. Let the midfielders like me keep things ticking on the bass, like George Harrison. Let the skilful little wingers make beautiful melodies on lead guitar, like Paul McCartney. Let the strikers apply the finishing touches with the shredding vocals, like John Lennon. Every man has his place - and Premier League defenders should stick to banging on their bongos like a chimpanzee, just like Ringo. Getting the message through their four-inch skulls will be the difficult bit. Until next week, PB. September 22, 2009
Alright? Superb Manchester derby at the weekend, eh? A great advert for the passion and madness of the Premier League. That must have been completely mental for the lads to play in. You need a special sort of mentality to play in a derby match, I reckon. It is a totally different game of football. Almost a totally different sport at times. The week before the match you start to feel the pressure building up and building up. You can tell it is a match that means so much to the fans. The local newspapers start the ball rolling with all these stories about derbies from the past, and it just whips the fans into some sort of frenzy. I find it a bit weird, actually, how mad for it the fans get around the time of derby matches. I have this image of them, stumbling down the street like zombies with their arms outstretched, with their eyes glazed-over and foam dribbling from their mouths. Thankfully, us players very rarely actually meet any real fans like them, because most of us don't actually live anywhere near the city or town we play in. While the zombie fans seem to live on top of each other in those crumbling terraced houses that surround the stadium, us players prefer to live 30 miles away in a nice leafy suburb where we can get a bit of peace and quiet. As the derby approaches, the gaffer usually gives the squad a little pep-talk, reminding us all how much the match means to the fans and that even though your city rivals are 12 places below you in the league and no threat whatsoever, this will be the most important match of the season. Some players are just made for derby matches. For some lads, the foreign boys especially, it is just another match. I'm not saying they're stupid or anything, but they can't get it into their head that this match is anything more than just another game. During the warm-up, they will be laughing and joking around as usual. They comb their hair and wave to their family in the stands, perhaps even have a friendly chat on the halfway line with an old team-mate currently playing for the opposition. Meanwhile, the local lads are giving it 100% focus. They stand in the middle of the pitch, granite-jawed, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, chanting some weird mystic mantra to themselves in this disturbing, animalistic voice that seems to come from a very dark place in the pit of their stomach. Those are the lads who you really want on your side in a derby match. Those mentally-unstable characters who would literally saw off their arm and throw it at an opposition striker if it meant denying him a goal-scoring opportunity. Remember that image of Roy Keane stood over Alf-Inge Haaland, phlegm flying out of his mouth, veins bulging in his temples as he screamed his satisfaction at the knee-high tackle that had supposedly just ended the Norwegian's career? That is the sort of character you want by your side in a derby match. That is the sort of character the fans love to see fighting their corner. They might be mentally unstable, but they seem to understand how much a derby match means to the everyday fan. There aren't many of those sorts of players about nowadays. I think that maybe the fans might see myself as one, I don't know. Perhaps they look at me and say: "You know, I'm glad we've got Pharrell Bell playing for us against the scum on Saturday. He understands what it means to the fans. He's one of us." I hope so. Anyway, it was a cracking Manchester derby and it has really got me fired up for our next derby match. Hopefully the Gaffer will see that I am the sort of player who can raise my game another notch in these high-pressure matches and see that I can do a job in these unique sporting occasions. Because although Pharrell Bell might live in a nice five-bed mansion in the suburbs instead of a two-up, two-down council house with an outside toilet, he has never lost touch with the working-class fan. September 6, 2009
Alright? So, the transfer window has been and gone, and Pharrell Bell remains where he is. I'm pretty glad, all things considered. I've had a few moves in my career but I feel settled here. I'm on a sweet contract, I've got a nice pad in the city centre and a good bunch of lads around me making training a good laugh. Okay, so I'm not at one of the "Big Four", and we hardly set the Premier League on fire last season, but we survived - and that's better than winning some tin-pot trophy like the League Cup in my eyes. And obviously, it's fair to say that my England chances are being done loads of harm by staying at a little club like this. I reckon had I been playing for a bigger club, I would easily have caught Senor Capello's eye by now. Although, that said, I do have a bit of a gripe with the media calling us an "unfashionable" club. I actually think that's well harsh. It is just another example of the media sticking an unfair label on someone. Of course the media are going to call us "an unfashionable club". They only ever see us when we're in our club tracksuits - it's no wonder they don't think we like decent clothes. Actually, some of the lads are well into their fashion, especially a couple of the foreign boys. They love their designer gear. Big sunglasses, tight-fitting suits, white open-necked shirts and shiny, pointed shoes - all that sort of clobber. We've got a couple of African lads, too. Some of the gear they show up in is incredible. All these bright colours and random patterns on baggy shirts that look like tents. Each to their own, but not the sort of stuff I could wear as a teenager growing up on the mean streets of Leeds. Pharrell Bell is more into a bit of "urban chic", you know? I like my over-sized jeans, designer boxer-shorts, baseball cap, bit of bling around the neck. Classic stuff. Like I said, it's totally unfair to say we're an unfashionable club. Small, poorly-supported, out-dated, unambitous - fair enough. But not unfashionable. Anyway, I'm just happy to be settled at a club that appreciates my talents and rewards me with a contract that I deserve. What I'm trying to say is that I'm here for the next four years, and no-one but me can do anything about it. On another matter, it was great to see the big fuss being kicked up about players diving this week. I loved that. If there is one thing that pisses me off in the Premier League it is nancy boys throwing themselves on the ground, trying to win a free-kick or a penalty. It's cheating. Nothing more, nothing less. They are cheating the referee, they are cheating their fellow professionals, they are cheating the fans. If I see someone breaking away through the middle and I am giving chase, I do not expect that player to unexpectedly throw himself six feet in the air and land on the turf clutching his knee-cap like he has been the victim of some gangsta-style shooting, just to try and get me yellow-carded - or worse.
If someone throws himself to the ground, trying to con the referee - that's cheating. There is a big difference. And I think it is absolutely wrong to just blame the foreign boys for this culture of diving. I'm going to stick up for them here. And for Wayne Rooney to get on his high horse about diving just makes me laugh. Him and Steven Gerrard are as bad as anyone. I find it all a bit embarrassing, actually. What happened to football being a man's sport? Until next week, PB August 25, 2009
How you all doing? So, I heard back from the gaffers at ESPN following my trial run at co-commentating last week. They left a message with my agent saying that they thought I'd done an excellent job - but they were going to "pursue other options". I was a bit gutted, I have to say, but whatever. I think they probably thought that taking on a commentary position at this stage of my career might interfere with my football, and so it was probably safer for everyone if we wait until I retire. After all, ESPN probably don't want the guilt on their hands should my form on the pitch start to drop because I was spending too much time thinking up clever things to say about my fellow pros. Imagine the uproar in the media. Rather than getting too far ahead of myself, it's probably for the best that I focus on my football - especially because this is a World Cup year. The whole of England wants an in-form and motivated Pharrell Bell come the end of the season; a commentary role would just have been a distraction, and I don't need another one of them. I have more than enough as it is. I'm not ruling it out after I retire. Because I earn £25k-a-week now, I'm not actually going to have to work once I finish playing football, but it might be nice to have something to do as a hobby. I've even been toying with the idea of writing a book. Before Soccernet asked me to start this blog, the thought of writing anything would never have crossed my mind. I mean, I used to absolutely hate writing. And I mean writing anything. I remember one time, I was about 22-years-old, I had to fill in an application form for a new passport. I put it off for weeks and weeks before I finally plucked up the courage to start - and when I did, I couldn't even remember how to hold the pen! It just felt weird in my hand, like this foreign object in my fingers. I tried to write my name and it looked like a four-year-old had picked up a crayon and started filling in the application form for me. In the end, I had to get my mum to come round and finish it for me. It was quite a traumatic incident, that. It put me off writing for a long time. But since computers have taken over, I have found myself much more confident and able to get to grips with the English language. And now I am well into doing this blog. I love it. I love bashing out the words every week, letting the world know what's going on with the P-Bell. So, I started thinking that now I am well on top of the English language, I should probably write a book. I have had some really good ideas for stories. I started to tell my agent about this idea that I had, about the French Invasion of Russia in the Napoleonic era and the impact it had on the aristocratic families there. I wanted people to read my novel and feel like they were staring at the rippling reflection of Human Nature in a cold and vast lake. I wanted it to be a huge historical chronicle, an epic portrait of the Russian soul. It was going to be a complete picture of the complexities of the Human Experience, and an affirmation of Life itself. It was going to be an astonishing piece of art. It was going to be a tragedy that would strike a chord in the heart of all of mankind. I thought it was a top idea, but my agent said I should forget it and instead start thinking about an autobiography - and you know, that made much more sense. Who wants to read about the lives of some boring Russians from hundreds of years ago when they could be reading a roller-coaster of a tale about how a young lad who loved playing football dragged himself off the means streets of the Leeds suburbs to make it as a top Premier League footballer and a four-year £25k-a-week contract. It's a no-brainer. My story wins every time. And the real beauty of it all? I don't even have to pick up a pen - my agent says he can get in something called a ghost writer to do most of the hard work for me. Expect "You Can Ring My Bell: The Pharrell Bell Story" to be in the shops just in time for Christmas. Until next week, PB August 19, 2009
Alright? So, the season is back underway, eh? The summer went by so fast and I don't really feel like I had much of a break, but I'm glad to be back in the old routine again. Being a top Premier League footballer is my life. Being on that pitch in front of 38,000 screaming fans - it just makes me feel like a superhero. The last thing I want to do is get into another argument about God and religion and all that crap - but let's just agree on one thing: there is no possible way that Pharrell Bell's existence is the result of a mere fluke of DNA and genetics. No. The P-Bell is more important than that. The P-Bell was specifically put on this earth All of which makes starting last weekend's first match of the new season on the substitutes' bench a little hard for me to take. But I suppose the gaffer had his reasons. After all, I did miss a week of training with swine flu. The gaffer probably thought I would never recover, that I'd never be the same player again - that's why he brought in another defensive midfielder. The very fact that I am almost back to my best just a fortnight after contracting a killer disease, it just shows what a remarkable specimen Pharrell Bell is. Would it be taking it a step too far to suggest I made a miracle recovery? Probably not. Anyway, I have always been the ultimate Team Player. You won't find me bitching about not being in the XI for the first match. This is a long season, and everyone in our squad will have a role to play at some point. There is no "I" in Team. It is my job to push the other lads hard for their place in the starting eleven, to keep them on their toes in training, and to make sure that the atmosphere around the squad stays positive. Squad strength: that is what the modern game is all about. Everyone has a job to do. Who knows when I might get called off the bench to get into the thick of the action? I have to stay positive and do a job for the team when called upon. And of course, in the meantime I am still being paid £25k-a-week, which softens the blow somewhat. No-one can take that away from me: I've signed the contract, that is a legal document, there are still three years to go, and there is no going back on it now. And it's not as though I haven't had something else to occupy my mind. Readers might remember in last week's blog that I was going in to ESPN headquarters for my first ever try-out as a co-commentator. I have yet to hear back from the gaffers there on how I got on, but I've got to say, I think it went really well. I certainly had fun. It was a bit of a strange experience, to tell you the truth. They took me into a small, dark, windowless room with a couple of microphones set up in front of some televisions. A couple of minutes later, the main commentator walks in. Some chap comes in and explains the procedure, how to use the microphones and how I was to listen in my headset for the various instructions from the programme director. He then reminds me that it is only an audition and tells me to relax and not to be nervous - which I thought was a bit unnecessary. He must have forgotten that the P-Bell is a top Premier League star. The main commentator starts babbling away as the game (some meaningless international friendly) begins on the television monitors in front of us, and something suddenly dawns on me. Although I didn't recognise his face, I've definitely heard this guy commentate before. You see, I always record my live matches so I can watch them back later to see how well I play, and this guy has definitely covered matches I have actually been playing in. The more this chap speaks, the more it comes back to me. This was the clown who called me a "brainless thug" on a commentary last year for what he called a "sickening, career-threatening assault" when I accidentally went in two-footed on some unlucky teenager. This is the chap who writes in a national newspaper column that Pharrell Bell is "loutish and educationally sub-normal, a barely-matured school bully and probably with a similar mental age". I should be fuming, but I'm not. Because it dawns on me that he must be absolutely cacking his pants. He's locked in a tiny room, just inches away from a 6' 1" monster who he probably believes wants to kick his head in! I can actually see the beads of sweat pouring down his face as he stares at me from behind his square glasses with these big round eyes. He is actually stammering. He can't quite get his words out. He's sat in silence now, shaking his head, beginning to wave his arms. It's an unbelievable sight. Of course, then it dawns on me that I haven't actually spoken a word and the match on the television monitor is 18 minutes old and the chump has just asked me a question. "No, I think you've called that one wrong, Trevor," I say confidently, even though I have no idea what he's just asked me. "Anyone who had ever played professional football themselves would be able to see that." Ha. The rest of the match passes fairly smoothly, I think. Old Trev still seems a bit nervous, shifting about in his seat, barely speaking to me or asking my opinion on anything. It's all a bit of a breeze really. After the match, he can't get out of the commentary booth fast enough. Woosh! He's gone, doesn't even stop to speak to the director. He probably realises I've just flushed his career down the toilet. As I said, I've not heard anything back from ESPN yet on whether I will have a regular spot on their live broadcasts this season. It's been a week or so since I did the trial, but they say no news is good news. The delay is probably down to the gaffers working out whether they should give me my own show. I'll hear something soon, I'm sure of that. Until next week, PB. August 12, 2009
Hi readers, Here's a question for you to start off this week's blog: how buzzing am I? Want the answer? Massively. I'll be honest with you. I didn't really bat an eyelid when the news came out a couple of months ago that Irish TV company Setanta had gone bust and that something called a "rights package" would be up for auction. It meant even less to me when it the newspapers said that ESPN had bought the rights to show live Premier League matches this season. But after my agent sat me down and explained everything in normal language that I could understand, everything suddenly became clear. If ESPN are going to be showing live Premier League football in the UK, that means they will need some commentators. And what do all football commentators need? That's right - co-commentators… That, readers, is where Pharrell Bell steps in. By writing this blog for Soccernet, my agent reckons I have already got my foot in the ESPN door and that I have the perfect chance to take advantage. He thinks, and I have to agree with him, that Pharrell Bell would make a fantastic co-commentator, and that all I have to do is prove that to the gaffers here at ESPN. If I can do that, I reckon a fame-and-money-spinning second career in the media beckons. If I play my cards right, Pharrell Bell could be the next Jamie Redknapp - get paid for looking handsome, talking about football, and having a fit, fit wife. Now, anyone who has read this column knows that Pharrell Bell is not your average footballer. I am smart, intelligent, brainy, clever, bright and sharp. These columns prove it, week-in, week-out. I don't really think I have to prove anything to anyone. It's so blatantly obvious that I'm good with words, I know the Premier League inside and out, and that I am good-looking enough to be on television. If I was one of the top gaffers at ESPN, I'd have thought that the P-Dog would have been one of the first names on the sheet when they were looking at which star names they could get to kick off their Premier League coverage with a bang. So I was just prepared to sit back and wait for my iPhone to ring with the good news. But apparently, it's not that simple. It seems that I am going to have to go into ESPN HQ for some sort of trial to see whether I am right for the job. The EPSN gaffers have also told me that they are going to be keeping an eye on this blog for signs that I have got what it takes - which is one of the reasons why this week's entry has taken me four hours to write so far. So, early next week, Pharrell Bell will be sitting in a television studio co-commentating on some Coppa Italia match while a host of ESPN executives listen in. Of course, my commentary won't be going out live - it's just a trial. And I've got to tell you, I'm feeling pretty confident about the whole thing. I've watched a lot of football matches on television before, and co-commentating seems to be the easiest job around. It's not even as if I have to be speaking all the time. The main commentator does all the hard work. He (and it is always a HE, not a SHE) will be the one slogging his guts out with all the meaningless: "Rooney…wide to Nani…loses possession…Ooooh, reckless tackle by Rooney…yes, yellow card shown by the referee." All I have to do is pipe up with the occasional: "Brian, I'll tell you now, Wayne Rooney has to learn to control his temper. He'll never make it as a top player unless he grows up and starts to show some responsibility." As I said, I know the game inside-out. There will be nothing going on down there on the pitch that I don't know about. I've seen it all in my time. Not only that, because I am actually still a top Premier League professional, I know a lot of the lads I'll be commentating on personally. I'll be able to throw in the odd funny anecdote about boozy nights out and training ground bust-ups. All that stuff is priceless and it's that sort of thing that I reckon makes me an ideal candidate for the job. The more I think about it, the more excited I am. If I make a go of this, it could open a lot of new doors for Pharrell Bell. More TV appearances. More fame and recognition with the mainstream public. Maybe an appearance on "Dancing on Ice". The world is my oyster. August 4, 2009
Hi readers, The P-Bell has not been feeling 100 percent this week. After getting back from the pre-season tour to Ireland, I found I had picked up a bit of a virus or something. You know the sort of thing: sore throat, lack of energy, fuzzy head in the morning. The Gaffer sent me to our club doctor, who told me to go home early from training, just as a precaution. The Doc said it didn't sound like Swine Flu, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He gave me some pills and told me to put my feet up for a day or two. Happy days! Some quality time in front of the plasma TV, playing video games and watching gangster films. I have no girl on the go at the moment either, since the last one got in a strop because I didn't invite her on holiday with me over the summer. Actually, I think she said she was more upset that I didn't even tell her I was going on holiday myself. I just tiptoed out of the door one morning and texted her on the way to the airport. Anyway, whatever. I was absolutely free of distractions, and was having a great time at home on sick-leave. Curtains closed, takeaways ordered, surround-sound on full-whack as I settled in for a mammoth DVD and Xbox session. This is the sort of life I imagined when I signed my £25k-a-week contract, you know? After 72 hours of the Godfather, Sopranos and FIFA 09, I finally peeled myself off the leather sofa and kicked my way through the chicken madras cartons and pizza boxes. I thought I still felt a little bit under the weather, so had better phone the Gaffer to tell him it might be for the best if I stay at home another day or two. "No problem, Pharrell," he says. "You take your time, son. There's no rush." A bit odd, I thought. He wasn't at all pissed off. I had imagined he might at least put up a bit of an argument. Thinking nothing more of it, I decide to check out what has been going on in the football world in my absence. I log on to ESPN Soccernet, obviously - and what's the first thing I read? The Gaffer has only gone and signed another defensive midfielder! I put my feet up for three days and this is what happens. I couldn't believe it. Feeling more than a little bit concerned, I get back on the phone. "Oh don't worry Pharrell," the Gaffer tells me. "He's not a replacement, as such. I've no intention whatsoever of selling you. We've certainly had no offers, I know that. I just thought we needed a bit more competition for places in midfield, keep you boys on your toes." Feeling in no way reassured, I told the Gaffer I was feeling a bit better and would probably be able to make it in to training that afternoon. Turns out the new guy is a bit of a monster. Some huge chap signed from the French or Belgian or Swiss league or somewhere. Six-foot four, and full of muscles. I found a photo of him with his shirt off - he looked like a walking biology lesson. Thankfully, after three days on the sofa eating takeaway pizzas and chicken madras, I was also carrying a bit of extra timber. I felt confident the P-Bell would be able to hold his own with him in a 50-50. I got quickly back into training, wanting to remind the Gaffer who his go-to guy should be at the start of the season. I'm not going to pretend it was pretty; it's amazing how quickly a nasty virus like mine can make you can lose your pre-season fitness. Meanwhile, the new guy is putting himself about the training pitch like his pants are on fire. It was actually pretty awesome to watch. He's a decent player, I'll give him that. And it turns out he's a good lad too - although I'm not sure he's quite all there, you know? His first press conference was like nothing I've ever seen. He turns up wearing this bright, multi-coloured shirt that looks like it came straight from Nelson Mandela's wardrobe, huge smile on his face, arms waving everywhere. And don't even get me started on his English. It sounded like he had learnt it from the in-flight announcements on British Airways flights. "Welcome. It is nice to have you here. Please, if you have any questions, do not hesitate to speak to me or one of the members of staff here. My date of arrival here in England was yesterday, when the ground temperature was at around 17 degrees Celsius." Like I said, great player but not all there. |
