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February 21, 2010
So, obviously you all can't fail to have noticed that there have been no blogs from the P-Bell recently. I know that it must have been frustrating to you, what with you lot idolising me and me being all quiet and you not knowing really what was going on. I guess there have probably been loads of rumours and gossip going round about why I've not been blogging. The internet has probably been buzzing with stories and guesswork about why I'd disappeared and where I'd gone and why no-one had seen or heard from me. Obviously, me not playing in the first-team for the last few weeks has not helped the situation either. When such a massive and important player is left out of the squad by the manager for so many big matches on the trot, I guess you guys were all thinking that there must be a pretty good reason for it, right? Well, there was – and it's not really been my fault. To tell you the truth, I would have been perfectly happy to continue playing and carrying on as normal, but the advice from my lawyers was that I should get my head down for a few weeks until the storm has blown over. Thankfully, the storm has passed and I can now pick up where I left off. Annoyingly though, I have still been warned by my legal team not to say too much about the allegations that you read in the newspapers a few weeks ago. I am so desperate to put the record straight and to tell my side of the story, because a lot of what's been said is actually total nonsense. But my agent and lawyers insist that I should keep my mouth shut. Apparently, if I say too much now then it would just make the situation a whole lot worse. And you know, I pay these legal geeks a lot of money for their advice, so I suppose I should really listen to what they say and follow their instructions. But it really is so frustrating to not be able to say my piece and to have to sit here and just take all the flak and b******t that is flying around and not respond in any way. You know, it feels like I have been castrated. It feels like someone has cut my balls off, it really does. I think I understand how that feels now. I mean, what sort of MAN sits back and lets people say these things without standing up for himself and fighting back? These legal geeks are treating me like a DOG. Wrongly accused of stealing a cheap joint of beef from the kitchen worktop, kicking me out into the cold and the rain, hurling abuse at me while they feed me mouldy scraps of leftover food – all for something I didn't even do. Well, I don't need to tell you guys, my loyal readers, that the great P-Bell is no mangey mongrel. I ask myself, what did the A-Team do when they were accused of a crime they didn't commit? Did B.A. Baracus consult his lawyers and agree to a vow of silence while Colonel Decker spread scandalous lies in the daily newspapers? Did Murdoch sit in uncomplaining silence in that maximum security stockade, reading self-help books to help pass the time? So this week, when my lawyers instructed me to take a holiday for a while to somewhere far away while this thing blows over, what do you think I told them? I said, No. No way. I ain't going on no plane. So here we go. I'm going to set the record straight. First of all, I'll hold my hands up and admit that I did some things wrong, some things that I'm not proud of. Yes, we did sleep together. When you read in the newspapers that we had one very drunken night together, I admit that it is truth. What some people don't realise is that us footballers have a lot more testosterone than normal people, so it is impossible for you to judge us in the same light. When you have got so many hormones throbbing through your veins, sometimes the caveman in you takes over. So yes, I admit that we did spend that night together in the hotel room – although I am far from proud of it and there are definitely a couple of things I want to set you straight on. If you read that I knew what I was doing that night, then frankly, it is just not true. At the time, I had no idea who they were – and obviously, if I did, I never would have done it. First of all, it was very, very dark in the nightclub when we met. And I was very, very drunk. And another thing, the music was very loud, so the tone of voice was impossible for me to pick up. All I heard was "My name is Marilyn and I want you”, and that was basically enough for me. I can't even remember the exact details of what happened that night, so what you read in the newspapers might actually be true. Some of it sounds strange, and not the sort of stuff I'd usually get up to, but I can have no complaints. The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed. In fact, it wasn't until a few days later when I realised the full horror of what I'd done and it dawned on me who Marilyn was. I'd got a few of the lads round after training. We were just dossing around, flicking through the channels on the TV when we happened across an old episode of Saved by the Bell and one of the lads piped up with a little-known fact. I can't describe the feeling. Thankfully I managed to hold it together until they'd gone home – but I guess the secret is out now anyway. So, I want to emphasise again – I had no idea, and I never would have gone there if I did. Obviously. Everyone has done things they regret. This is mine. I just hope we can all move on and act like grown-ups. I'd like this to be the end of the matter. I hope to God it is. I'm glad I got it all off my chest. I guess the lawyers will be climbing the walls – but at least B.A will be happy. January 15, 2010
Hi readers, I just want to start by thanking all those people who have been in touch over the last week or so to offer me support in what has been a difficult time for me. But as I said in my last entry, I want to use what has happened to my advantage. The New Year has brought a fresh start for Pharrell Bell. I want my place in the first-team back, and I am training harder than I have ever trained before to make sure it happens. Even the snow hasn't held me back. Several of my team-mates have phoned in claiming they couldn't make it in to training because they were snowed in or that they couldn't get their cars out of their drive. The old Pharrell Bell probably would have joined them in using the snow as an excuse to take a sneaky day-off from training. Hell, the old PB would probably have gone out and bought a £30,000 snowmobile and spent the day skidding across the frosted fairways of his local golf club with a chick in the passenger seat completely inappropriately dressed for the weather conditions. But that was then and this is now. Things have changed. Besides, it's difficult to claim you're snowed in when the gaffer knows you live on the 18th floor of a block of exclusive apartments in the city. Anyway, while my mates have been slacking off, sitting around their houses playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, Pharrell Bell has been training like an animal. I have been getting into training HQ an hour early for a warm-up swim, taking part in normal sessions with the rest of the lads, before hitting the gym for a couple of hours while the rest of the squad slink off to the cosy warmth of their living rooms. You wouldn't believe the difference in me. I've gone a bit mental. I am just so desperate for some competitive football now, it's been much, much too long since I've really been able to get stuck into a proper match. I mean, guys, I am champing at the bit. I was so pumped for some football, the other night I just drove the 4x4 down to my local sports field and asked a bunch of lads if I could join in their game of eight-a-side. I could tell it was a bit of a shock for them, having a top Premier League footballer ask to join in their little kickabout. They were pretty much starstruck, that much was obvious, and who could blame them? But I just told them to pretend that I was simply another one of their mates, not to give me too much respect or shy away from me because I am a big star - just treat me as a regular guy, get stuck in and I would do the same. And BOOM! did I get stuck in! I mean, I was feeling pretty good out there. It really felt like I was hitting some form again, I just felt like I was in the zone. I just blocked out all the distractions and got on with what I do best. Needless to say, my side won the match. We actually destroyed that other bunch of toss-pots 12-3. I'm glad we really stuffed them actually, because they were really sore losers and it felt good to put them in their place. I mean, we truly did humiliate them. I took great pleasure in rubbing their faces in the dirt. And when I say I rubbed their face in the dirt, I mean I literally did rub one of their faces in the dirt. Their left-winger, a whining, scrawny little be-atch. He was lay on the ground holding his calf after I had gone through the back of him (I got the ball), he cried something about it "not being fair" – so I pushed his face down into the turf and told him to grow a pair of bollocks. It did cause a bit of a kerfuffle, I admit. A few of their lads actually picked up their jumpers and schoolbags and ran home. But honestly, I'm not used to playing on public playing fields - how was I to know that the field was littered with dog-crap? Anyway, we won the match and that's all that matters. I had forgotten how the adrenalin gets pumping when you are really into a game. I was pumped at the end of it all. The testosterone was flying. I haven't felt like that much of a man in months. I hope the gaffer is taking notice of how much effort and commitment I am putting into this comeback of mine. I am throwing myself into it, going the whole hog. I have even given up sex for a while to really make sure I am on my toes. These are the sacrifices you have to make to be a top Premier League footballer. I've always known it, I just allowed myself to be distracted and lose sight of why I wanted to be a professional in the first place. But not any more. I am bursting with pride and energy and passion and a lot of other stuff. I won't allow myself to be sidetracked again. Until next week, PB January 3, 2010
Hi guys, and a happy New Year to each and every one of my readers. So, the Christmas party was an absolute storm. Every one of the lads we took along said they had an absolutely banging time. A lot of the girls also said they enjoyed themselves, which is nice. It's important to think of the ladies' pleasure, too. As I predicted, the gaffer felt Pharrell Bell wasn't needed for our Boxing Day away game - which, considering how rough I felt after the party, was not such a big problem for me. I was happy to take a back seat for this one. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as, from the comfort of my leather sofa, I watched a bunch of lads jog gingerly out on to a freezing cold pitch in front of 38,000 fans knowing just 12 hours earlier they had played their own roles in one of the most debauched parties since Roman times. We had managed to keep it all under wraps. I don't think the gaffer suspected anything. Even when the television cameras caught our big centre-back puking his guts up on the touchline mid-way through the first half, the gaffer believed it was all down to a nasty virus sweeping through the squad. Obviously, the boys got stuffed. They never really had a chance, of course. More than half the team were clearly hanging out of their backsides; there was only ever going to be one result. Which is exactly why I stuck 250 quid on us getting beaten badly. Turned out to be a good day for the P-Bell. However, that was about as good as my Christmas period got. It pretty much went downhill from there. You see, a couple of days after that, Pharrell Bell suffered the heartbreak of losing his best friend. Ollie was my cat, and he was a legend. He was without question the greatest moggie ever to have walked this planet, and it breaks my heart to say that he is no longer with us. My poor little Ol was hit by a car, right outside my flat here in the city. It was a horrible shock; real baseball-bat-in-the-stomach stuff. I buried him in a hanging basket on the balcony, not being able to bear not having him close by. You might not realise, but a lot of top Premier League stars own pets. Good-looking, rich young lads like us tend to attract fickle and unfaithful people into our lives and it is natural that we might want a loyal, furry friend we know we can always trust and always rely on. Of course, mostly it's dogs but Pharrell Bell has always been someone who prefers a nice little pussy to keep me company when I get home all tired from a morning's rigorous training. Ollie had been with me for a little over a year. I got him shortly after I first moved to the club. I'd read in the newspapers about something called a "Toyger", a sort of designer pedigree cat from America, hand-bred to resemble mini tigers with an orange and black striped coat. I thought it sounded pretty cool, but wanted something just a little bit different. So I went to the local zoo, found a shifty-looking keeper and slipped him '250 to secretly produce me a moggie bred from a normal domestic cat and one of the zoo's prize black panthers. Three months later, I get a phone call from the geezer at the zoo, who tells me his work is done. I can't believe my eyes ' a beautiful cat; big, athletic build, shining, jet-black coat, big green eyes and these whopping-great talons for claws. That was my Ollie. He was huge, intimidating, built like a brick shithouse. A miniature panther, with the heart of a lion. And now he is gone. The awful accident happened a week ago, and I have only last night stopped crying myself to sleep. To have such a legend, such a friend taken from me is a true tragedy. It is the sort of episode that can change a man's life. Catastrophes like this are enough to break a man. Break him right down, shatter his spirit, leave him questioning his very faith in the Human Experience. And I'll be honest with you, readers: there have been moments during the last seven days when I have felt low, so very, very low. I've had thoughts: black thoughts, spitting up at me like flames from the very pits of Hell. I haven't been to sleep. I've been up for three days now, and I've seen the darkness. I've seen the Opposition and I've faced it down. Because Ollie wouldn't have liked the blackness. That wasn't what the big man was about. So, now I know what Pharrell Bell has to do. Pharrell Bell has to make something good come from this. Pharrell Bell has to draw it all up inside, suck it all up, set fire to it - and explode. 2010 is going to be MY YEAR, the year of the P-Bell. This is my time. My best friend deserves to be honoured. Watch me go. Until next week, December 22, 2009
So this is Christmas, And what have we done? Another year over And a new one just begun. The gaffer had a word with us at the start of December, gave us this big speech about how he wanted us to keep our heads down over the busy Christmas period, to focus on the football and make sure we don't take our foot off the pedal. Well, that's all very well for those guys in the squad who are actually getting a game at the moment - but given that I haven't had a sniff of first-team action for a good month now, I figure those rules don't really apply to me. Surely the gaffer is not going to mind too much if Pharrell Bell has himself a little festive fun? Not that I'm going to broadcast the fact, obviously. I'm not stupid. I'm keeping this little shin-dig well under wraps - unlike those idiots at Tottenham. I can't believe Robbie and the boys let the cat out of the bag, although from what I read in the newspapers, they got off lightly. A £20k fine? That's nothing to those boys. Anyway, our gaffer has no chance of finding out about this one. You wouldn't believe the lengths I have gone to in order to keep this thing secret. Firstly, I've only invited those team-mates who I really, really trust. I want to keep it small and selective to reduce the chance of anyone spilling the beans, so there are just 16 of us. Because I don't want to be accused of fostering an "us-and-them" atmosphere in the dressing room, I've invited four of the foreign lads to join us - although I made sure I picked the four who don't speak a word of the Queen's English, that way they have no chance of saying anything out of line in front of the gaffer. I've also given us all code-names (I'm Avon, my mate is Stringer, and we've also got Omar, Bubbs, D'Angelo and Brother Mouzone coming along) and sorted us out new pay-as-you-go mobile phones, so that our calls and text messages can't be traced, and pagers to help us communicate under the radar. So there should be no way the cat is let out of the bag on this one - if the gaffer does somehow get wind, we'll be dealing swiftly with anyone we suspect of being a snitch. There is no room for sentiment. The actual party itself is going to be amazing. It certainly should be - it's been almost 12 months in the planning. You see, we were so pissed off by how lame last year's club-organised Xmas bash was a small group of us decided to take the 2009 version into our own hands. I immediately formed a Xmas Party Committee, and collected a week's wages from each of the 16 invited guests. As we'd made sure we had plenty of high-earners in the group, all together I had a budget of close to £1.2million to work with. I've hired (under a false name, obviously) a fully-staffed 100ft super-yacht for 48 hours, moored far away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, a mile off the coast of Great Yarmouth in the North Sea. The lucky 16 of us will be joined on the yacht by 48 beautiful ladies (three each, to ensure variety), hand-picked by myself over the course of the last 11 months, when I have been holding secret X-Factor-style auditions in my city-centre penthouse apartment. Once they have negotiated the insanely-thorough security measures I have ensured will be in place (including full-body searches) to prevent any incriminating evidence, trained monkeys will hand each of the ladies the sweetest Moroccan rose and a goodie-bag containing gifts including 30ml of Paris Hilton Heiress Eau de Parfum, a 12-pack of contraceptives and a box of tic-tacs. For entertainment, I've hired Rage Against The Machine to sing Christmas Carols during a lavish seven-course meal, featuring smoked ostrich brain and slow-roasted flamingo tongue, with guests drinking the finest pink Champagne and Russian vodka streaming from the genetalia of an ice sculpture of Michelangelo's David. The after-dinner entertainment will feature a naked woman who will perform a reverse striptease, dressing herself by producing clothes from various internal cavities, and Eddie Murphy performing a word-for-word rendition of his "Raw" stand-up show from 1987, before we hold a charity auction to raise money for Romanian orphans. At this point, I envisage the guests drifting off in threes and fours for "tours of the boat", to emerge into the harsh North Sea sunlight several hours later. All guests will be strip-searched before they leave to fully eliminate the chance of photographs or videos surfacing in tabloid newspapers in the following days. I'm hoping that the sheer amount of booze the lads consume will ensure that memories remain hazy, thus further reducing the likelihood of anyone revealing details of the trip to anyone they shouldn't. What with the hectic festive fixture list, it's been difficult finding a suitable day to fit all this in - but thankfully the gaffer has kindly told us we don't have to come in and train on Christmas Day, so everything has worked out perfectly. It's going to mean a few of the lads are feeling a little lethargic for our Boxing Day away game - but as I've said, that's not going to affect me. The reserves haven't got a game until the New Year, so I should be fine. Take care lads, have a great Christmas. PB December 14, 2009
Alright? You guys shouldn't be surprised that another week has passed with the revelations that there has been another dressing room bust-up between a player and his gaffer. James Beattie and Tony Pulis apparently had to be "pulled apart" after Stoke had been beaten 2-0 by Arsenal at the Emirates Stadium. Why? Not because of the result, but because Pullis had told the lads they had to come in for training on Monday morning - the day after the boys were supposed to be out givin' it LARGE at their Christmas party. I phoned one of my mates who plays for Stoke - he told me that Beattie and Pullis were foaming at the mouth and about to knock seven shades of s*** out of each other when the rest of the squad dived in. Let me tell you guys, this sort of stuff happens all the time in football clubs. Probably four or five times a season, I'd guess. No-one really thinks too much of it inside the clubs themselves. It's only when the story gets leaked to the press that a big hoo-haa is made of it. I've never had a job outside football, so I really don't know, but I'm guessing by everyone's slightly hysterical reaction that this sort of stuff doesn't happen in offices and workplaces up and down the country? Which begs the question: why? I mean, you guys must get so pissed off with each other day after day after day, just like us top Premier League footballers do. You're not telling me that you just sit there calmly when that fat dude who sits next to you spills crumbs from his sausage roll all over your desk for the third time that day. You're not telling me that you just shrug your shoulders when you discover that the useless sod who joined the company nine months after you did is being paid twice as much as you just because he has GCSE mathematics. You're not going to tell me that you crack a wry smile when you see your sleazy, middle-aged boss, his armpits stained with sweat, having some sickening flirty banter with the same fit little secretary who turned you down at the office party the week before. Or do you? You see, it seems to Pharrell Bell that some of you guys should strap a pair on and start learning a few lessons from us top pros. You already idolise us and worship us - why not just admit that your lives would improve dramatically if you just started acting like us too? I mean, guys, I don't know what I'm going to do with myself once I hang up my boots. I'll probably concentrate on my music, perhaps get into some acting. I don't know. But I can tell you one thing, whatever I do, I'm not going to take any crap from anyone. That's what my career in football has taught me. If someone disrespects you, you front-up; get in their face, stand your ground. Don't be no pussy. I don't care if he's the gaffer. Tony Pullis disrespected James Beattie and the rest of the Stoke lads when he told them they had to come into training the day after their Christmas Party - and 'Beats' totally did the right thing in putting him in his place. Pharrell Bell would have done exactly the same thing. I think the world has gone a bit soft, you know? Society has lost respect for the hard-man, the guy who is prepared to let people know what he stands for and what he's prepared to do to fight for it. Society can learn a lot from us top Premier League stars and our attitude. We work hard and we play hard. We stand up for each other. We have a keen sense of what's right and what's wrong. And we're prepared to speak out if we see an injustice in the world. Being a professional footballer is like being the member of an exclusive club - a club that programmes each lad with a very special set of qualities that are guaranteed to make him a SUCCESS. And that's exactly the reason why so many former professional footballers make big names for themselves in different fields outside the game - because they have been programmed to be winners. You only need to look at the likes of former Arsenal legend Ian Wright (major TV star); Pele (erectile dysfunction spokesman); former Manchester City star Francis Lee (toilet rolls); former Everton winger Mark Ward (cocaine dealing). These guys are the successes they are because they took what they learnt in football and applied it to the outside world. You girls really could learn something from us. Until next week, PB November 27, 2009
Hi there, Hope you're all well, and that you all enjoyed the little glimpse of my new rap / R&B album last week. That was just a little teaser, just a taster of what is to come when the record hits the shops in the next few weeks. Some of the lads at training have been laying into me for doing the album, but I think it is important to have a life outside football. If I didn't have my music, if I just had football to think about 24/7, I think I'd go insane. I'd turn into some right sad, lonely hermit. A proper football geek. I'd probably start wearing spectacles and never take my tracksuit off. Come back from training and immediately sit down to watch repeats of the previous weekend's games from the Argentinean second division. Basically, without another hobby, I'd turn into Arsene Wenger ' and I don't think that's very healthy at all. So, for me, I think it's a good thing that I have been spending my free time working on my album. Unfortunately, The Gaffer did not. He called me into his office at the end of training on Monday and told me that he had heard the rumours and he was concerned it was affecting my football. He told me that my attitude stank, that I was lazy and unfocused and disrupting team harmony. I started to think thinks weren't looking good for the P-Bell. He was really laying into me, telling me that I had to pull my finger out and start concentrating on my football, that he only had room for players who were pulling in the right direction. "What do you mean, I'm never going to make it?" I asked. "Have you even heard my music?" "I don't need to, Pharrell," he says. "I've heard a few of the lads talking about it in the dressing room. They say your music is like your football: clumsy, aggressive and dull." "That's bullshit." "Look, Pharrell, you're head's not been in the game for a few weeks now. I can't have any passengers in this squad. What I'm saying is, it's your football or the music. Your choice. I'm giving you an ultimatum." It wasn't looking good. All I could think about was my £25k-a-week contract. There was no way I could give that up. I'd worked too hard. But walking away from my music, that would have been criminal. It was like asking Rolf Harris to choose between his art and Animal Hospital. "Here," I pulled a demo copy of "Single, Sexy, Free" out of my bag. It was a long-shot, but my last hope. "Have a listen to this." So, The Gaffer is sat there in his leather swivel chair, his feet up on the mahogany desk, as those soft, sweet, melodic beats and sincere, heartfelt lyrics belt out from his CD player - and all I'm thinking of is how I've just blown the best contract I've ever signed. It's the longest three-and-a-half minutes of my life. Finally, the Gaffer takes down his feet, sits up straight and looks me in the eye. "Pharrell," he says, "that was PHAT! Completely bad-ass. I mean, dude, that was bitchin'." "Er, thanks," I says. "Single, Sexy, Free is Da Bomb! P-Bell, you are gangsta!" It turns out that the Gaffer is a massive Boyz-II-Men and 3T fan, too, just like me. At least, he seems to know all the songs when I sing them to him as we sit there in his office and talk classic R&B for the next hour. I've got to admit, it does seem a bit odd that a 55-year-old Welshman with a moustache and beer-belly would be a big R&B fan, but when these raw beats get you there is nothing you can do about it. So, I walk out of his office with my '25k-a-week contract still in tact. And not only that, the Gaffer has also promised that he will allow me all the time I need to put the finishing touches to my album - and go off and spend time on the promotion and marketing when it comes out in a couple of weeks time. If the press want to know why I'm not in the squad or why I've not been seen much around the training ground, he says he will just make up some little injury and say I've been doing some private work with the masseur (which I have, but he needn't know that). Absolutely sweet. The P-Bell has fallen on his feet again. Until next time, |
