Sunday had to be a top, top day to be "Wazza" Rooney. He reached the top of the tree, without a doubt. He achieved something that all footballers in this country aim for, something that we all dream of as kids.

Yep, Wazza would have gone down to breakfast in the England hotel to find he was the lead news on both the front and back of the Sunday newspapers.

Two goals as England hammer some Eastern European no-marks in an international friendly at Wembley mean his ugly mug is plastered all over the back pages. Meanwhile, the front pages are filled with tasty photos of his fit-as-a-fiddle WAG Coleen, who it seems is pregnant for the first time.

Wazza must have been swelling off big-style. I bet he was a right cocky little sod over his croissant on Sunday. Even more so than normal.

Being front-and-back page news on the same day is the Holy Grail for footballers like me. For some of us, it is one of the main reasons we get into football. It must be an amazing feeling, knowing that all the other stories in a newspaper are basically second in importance behind you and your missus.

All that boring political stuff, all those celebrity kiss-and-tells, all those wars in countries you can't even pronounce the name of - all that crap, stuck in the middle of a Wayne Rooney news sandwich.

When it happens, you must really know that you've arrived in the world. It's all well and good being a famous face among football fans, like I am. I'm not knocking it, don't get me wrong. I wouldn't swap it for all the tea in Amsterdam.

Being stopped in the street and asked for your autograph by some snotty 10-year-old boy is a nice feeling. It happened to me in a shopping centre just last week and I'll admit, it made me feel special, made me feel important, you know?

Some kid in his school uniform comes up to me as I'm walking out of Debenhams, hands me a piece of paper and a biro and asks for my autograph.

"I can do better than that, kid," I says, pulling out a black permanent marker pen I happened to have in my pocket. I turned him around and scribbled in huge letters on the back of his school shirt: "All the best, your best mate, Pharrell Bell."

The kid almost had tears in his eyes when he turned around again. Made me feel well good, like a priest or Nelson Mandela might feel when they do good deeds for people. And the girl I was with was well impressed, too. She showed me just how impressed she was when we got home.

But being loved and admired by 10-year-old football fans and their dads is one thing: being famous enough to be front-page news as well, that is something else completely, isn't it?

Men read the back pages of newspapers, Women read the front. That's the way it has always been and until I crack the front pages, my name is never going to be first on the lips of the fine ladies of this nation - and it is they who decide important stuff like who is going to be a success on Strictly Come Dancing and I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.

I suppose the closest I have come to being front page news was when I had that brief fling with that girl from Hollyoaks, but she has done so many footballers before and since that my name just tends to get lost in the list.

I mean, don't get me wrong, me and the lads have done plenty of things wild enough to bring us front-page headlines, but we have always managed to keep the stories under wraps, thank God. Believe it or not, there are some things you don't want to be in the newspapers for.

I was a firm believer in the phrase "No publicity is bad publicity" - until some girl does a kiss-and-tell on "Cashley" Cole, who pukes up in the back of her car and tells her she "should feel privileged".

Having that plastered all over the papers hasn't done Ash many favours, has it? Perhaps I should just be content being on the back pages, at least for now.

If I manage to bag myself a really top WAG, it might be different. I suppose when I get myself a famous girlfriend, I need to start setting my sights a bit higher in the publicity stakes.

And people might not realise it, but despite all my muscles and testosterone I do have a sensitive side as well. Call me an old romantic, but I can't think of anything more beautiful than have my wedding featured in OK! or Hello! magazine.

A beautiful white wedding, with a gorgeous WAG riding down the aisle on a unicorn as Elton John plays Candle in the Wind on a big piano. That's the sort of front-page publicity I'm aiming for.

I want that to be one half of my first ever Pharrell Bell news sandwich.

Thanks again for your comments on the last blog. Keep ‘em coming.

Hi readers

Thanks for all your messages about my first blog. It's wicked to read banter that actual real-life fans write. I mean, I knew how much people loved me, but you can never be quite sure how much. Now I know - you love me loads!

Me and the lads have been having loads of banter this week about the England squad, and I got stitched up big-time. I knew that Don Fabio was going to be announcing the squad on Sunday evening, sometime after we got back from our away trip to The Emirates, so I made sure my Nokia was fully-charged and on my person at all times.

So, about half-six, as I'm settling down to watch the Antiques Roadshow on the widescreen, the mobile starts lighting up and belting out the Crazy Frog. Usually I don't answer the call if I don't recognise the number as I've had some bad experiences in the past (abuse, heavy breathing, threats on my family's life - that sort of thing), but this time I couldn't answer quick enough.

Sure enough, this foreign-sounding chap with a deep voice tells me he's one of Fabio's right-hand men and he's calling to tell me that I'm getting called-up and there will be more details to follow.

I put the phone down and I'm over the moon. I mean, it's my first international call-up (apart from that time Big Jack mistakenly called me up for Ireland squad because he saw a photo of me staggering out of a nightclub on St Patrick's Day with a comedy Guinness hat on my head - but that doesn't count), so I start going absolutely mental.

I'm swigging pink Champagne from the bottle as I jump up and down on the leather sofa, Pavarotti belting out Nessun Dorma on the stereo at full blast, watching a DVD of Italia '90, crying with Gazza and punching a hole in the door when Waddle shanks his penalty over the bar and out of the stadium.

I wake up on the sofa at 7am on Monday morning, surrounded by empty bottles of Peroni with The Gaffer (my German Shepherd dog) licking takeaway pizza off my face. As I'm about to sprint out the door to go to training, I see that I've left the laptop on.

'Funny,' I thought, 'I don't even remember using the laptop last night…'

Turns out that at some point in the evening I'd remembered that winning an international call-up triggered a clause in my contract that meant I was due a £300k bonus from Redcastle.

Now I know what you're all thinking: "Congratulations, Pharrell! Just reward for all your hard work. Now go and kick some Slovak ass."

Only when I get to the laptop, I've got messages from Ebay telling me that I've been successful in my £4,000 bid for a Walker's Salt and Vinegar crisp with the image of the Virgin Mary; a £59,500 bid for the white suit that Michael Jackson wore in the Billie Jean video; and a £72,500 bid for one of the Mini Coopers used in The Italian Job.

Gutted. Totally gutted. Still, I've still got the England call-up. I stroll into training an hour late, thinking that the boss won't mind because he's got a future England international on his books…only to find that the phone-call was all some big wind up!

Turns out Smithy and Robbo had planned it all. I had been well and truly Merked. Apparently, the "foreign-sounding" chap who phoned me up was just the guy behind the counter at the kebab shop near Robbo.

I never let on about the Ebay bids. Hopefully they'll never find out, or else I'll take so much stick you wouldn't believe.

Anyway, that's what I've been up to this week. Of course, you all know about the Arsenal result. We went 1-0 up in the first half, the gaffer decided to replace all our strikers with defenders and go with a 8-1-1 formation - and we got beat 4-1. Out of the FA Cup.

Still, Fritz managed to sneak a crate of Hofmeister on to the coach to drown our sorrows on the trip back up north. It's part of a new game we're playing between the lads this season - who can smuggle the most outrageous thing on to the coach without the gaffer catching on.

Thanks to Michael, SEMU KARLYP, Andrew, Bob The Builder, shekhar, Shed Boy and Singapore Pwned for your comments last week. Feel free to ask me anything you want; I'm happy to answer.

It feels so great to actually be talking to real football fans from around the world - you lot are so much more knowledgeable and passionate than those losers who pay £30 to come to a Premier League game and then spend 90 minutes calling me a 'Skaghead'.

Until next week,

Pharrell

Welcome to the Pharrell Bell Blog

Hi everyone. Welcome to my new blog for ESPN Soccernet.

I'm sure you all already know who I am, but I have been told to give you a quick introduction anyway. My name is Pharrell Bell, and I am a 26-year-old midfielder for Premier League side Redcastle Town.

I signed my first professional contract on my 17th birthday on May 24 1999 after coming through the academy at Leeds United.

Back then, I was a bit of a 'wonderkid' (my dad still has the cutting from the local newspaper when they said I could be "potentially as good as David Batty") but it wasn't easy for a youngster to break into the Leeds side back then, because they weren't as crap as they are these days.

I only managed to make a couple of first-team appearances for Leeds before I moved to Newcastle United. I had two great seasons there (32 appearances, 0 goals) before I moved on to Fulham (15 apps, 0 goals) and then Charlton Athletic (10 apps, 1 goal) and finally Middlesbrough (seven apps, 0 goals).

After five different clubs in six seasons, it would have been easy for my fans to think that my career was slowly being flushed down the toilet. Believe me, the same thought crossed my own mind when I was at Boro, sat on the subs bench watching that fat, imitation 'Brazilian' Doriva being picked before me time and time again.

But the summer of 2006 brought the move that changed my life. I got a call from my agent, telling me that newly-promoted Redcastle Town were interested in buying me for a club-record fee, and asking whether I'd be interested. After nine days of talking it over with my (now ex) girlfriend, I rang my agent back to tell him I would jump at the chance.

Two fantastic seasons (36 apps, 1 goal) later, and here I am: a new four-year, £25k-a-week contract; Baby Bentley in the driveway; guitar-shaped swimming pool in the back garden; and a new girlfriend who made it all the way through Boot Camp on the X-Factor.

I guess that's why Soccernet approached me to do the blog: to give fans a behind-the-scenes look at the life of the average Premier League star. But this isn't going to be just another bland, insipid (thanks thesaurus!) column, ghost-written by some random, washed-up journo in an office somewhere.

No, this is going to be different. When I get back from a full day of training at about 11am, I am actually going to sit down at the desk in my library and type at my laptop, letting you guys know what's really going on with me and my team-mates - warts and all ('ey up, I'll say no more, Robbo...).

There will also be the chance for you to send in all your comments and questions for me to answer, although I won't be giving out my email address in case I get any abuse or death-threats from mentalists or rival fans.

I think at first, all this typing and reading and emailing and thinking is going to be a bit weird for me because it will be a bit like I've got a proper job - and I bet I'll get a load of grief from the lads at training the next morning, who'll be quick to point out all my spelling and grammar mistakes and that (hope I can find the spell-check button on this thing).

But my agent reckons it's a good idea for me to be thinking about life after football, and I agree with him. I know I probably don't have the skills to be offered anywhere near £25k-a-week in a normal job when I retire, so I need some more strings to my bow.

And I can honestly say I'm quite excited about getting down to it. It's going to be a lot of fun, I reckon, letting my fans know about all the laughs us top footballers have at training, on coach journeys and team-bonding nights out and stuff.

Maybe, if Paddy can stop getting himself booked for giving gip to the ref and we finish top of the Fair Play League, there might even be some away trips in Europe to write about next season. Some of the boys have said that Prague and Riga are a top night out (is Riga in Europe?).

I don't know how much Soccernet are paying me for this because my agent deals with all that stuff, but I am going to donate my fee to a charity. The fee is probably only peanuts anyway, but I thought it would be a nice touch to help out some people more needy than me. Anyway, I'm obviously not writing this blog because I need the money (£25k-a-week contract - ker-CHING!).

I haven't yet decided which charity I should give my money to. I think it should be something to do with kids, though. Although my mum and dad are loaded now because I buy them loads of presents, our family didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up so I do know what it feels like to be poor.

Perhaps you guys can help me choose a good charity that I can help out? Also, tell all your mates that I'm giving my money to a good cause - they might be able to think of someone worthy.

Okay, that's going to be your lot for my first entry. Make sure you come back next time, when I'll be blogging about our away trip to Arsenal - and hopefully that England call-up that the newspapers are predicting…

Thanks, 'til next time,

Pharrell.