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