I've got to admit, I was a little surprised to see Ryan "Giggsy" Giggs pick up the Professional Footballers' Association Player of the Year award.

Not that I don't think Giggsy has been a great player over the last decade or so - just that he hasn't been a great player this season. He's only started 12 games and scored one goal - what's that all about?

I mean, I've started 25 league games this season and scored twice (the Dubious Goals Panel have finally backed down over that deflection after I got my lawyer to threaten them with legal action).

I'm not saying I'll ever be as successful as Giggs, but surely I'm a more worthy candidate for the award this season? It's certainly a topic for discussion, I think. Perhaps you guys should bring it up on your local radio phone-in show.

We're not really supposed to tell anyone who we voted for, but I can't see the harm in doing so now that the results have been revealed. Personally, for me, in my opinion, Robinho at Manchester City got my vote.

Just think how well the little lad has done: coming over here from a foreign country, not speaking a word of the lingo, settling in to a new club. He's joint-third top-scorer in the league and has been virtually unplayable at times.

We had a terrible time against him at the City of Manchester Stadium; made me look like a right numpty with all those step-overs. I gave him one or two real hard kicks in the shins, too, and he never said a word to the ref. I respect him for that.

I'll tell you one thing, though: I agree what Giggsy said about the PFA award being definitely the most important award that a player can win, because it is voted for by all the other top Premier League stars, like myself.

Let me let you in on a little secret: those awards voted for by journalists, the players really couldn't care less about. If I can be brutally honest, we don't care in the slightest who some boozy, washed-up, bitter-and-twisted hack thinks is the best player in the Premier League.

And the fans' awards - ha! No disrespect guys, and we really do appreciate you turning up every week and handing over your hard-earned money, but you don't really know as much about football as you think you do.

"Why didn't Pharrell Bell pass to him? Why didn't Pharrell Bell make that tackle? Why was Pharrell Bell caught so out of position?"

It's a different game when you're sat up high in the stands. I bet it looks real easy. It's impossible for people like you, who have never played the game at the top level, to understand the skill and intelligence of what goes on down on the pitch.

You see a guy score 25 goals a season and think that he's the best player. But Pharrell Bell sees all the hard work done by the other 10 players to allow that lucky little crap-house all the glory.

To tell you the truth, it gets a bit annoying. I'm out there, busting my guts, doing all the ugly work in front of the back four; kicking the opposition's star player in the calf over and over again until he doesn't fancy it any more.

And what's the most reward I get for all my hard work? Yellow card after yellow card, and a disciplinary hearing at the FA.

Meanwhile, the striker gets all the headlines. The fans are chanting his name and making up pretty little songs for him, he gets offered a new, improved contract every six months, and all the women falling at his feet.

It's genuinely not fair. What makes it even harder for me to take is that I was actually a striker as a teenager - until some coach at the Leeds United Academy told me I didn't have enough pace and suggested if I couldn't become a decent midfielder, he'd have to let me go.

What an idiot that coach was. I should Not enough pace? How much pace has Peter Crouch got? Or Marlon Harewood? Or Emile Heskey? Absolutely none, and they've all done okay for themselves.

Okay, Crouch, Harewood and Heskey haven't really got fans singing their names, or women falling at their feet - but I bet they've all got better contracts than I have.

If I have one single regret in my life, it's that I didn't tell that coach at Leeds to shove his suggestion up his jacksy. I should have been a striker. I should have fans singing my name. I should be winning awards. I should be earning £125k a week.

Had it not been for the utter stupidity of that academy coach, it might have been Pharrell Bell at that ceremony at the weekend, all smart in my best suit, picking up the PFA award for recognition of a lifetime's success as a top Premier League footballer.

Had I ignored that coach, Pharrell Bell might have been Ryan Giggs. Decisions like that one that define your life, I suppose.

The FA Cup semi-finals at Wembley meant that we didn't have a game in the Premier League this weekend, as I'm sure you all know.

A bit of time off was most welcome after a hectic Easter. As I said last week, while you guys were eating chocolate and putting your feet up for four days, top Premier League footballers like Pharrell Bell are expected in at training, come rain or shine.

I know that many of you left comments at the bottom of last week's blog, thanking me and my team-mates and colleagues for the unseen dedication that goes on behind the scenes at any football club. Thanks for your sympathy and support.

Actually, I've had loads of text messages from players at other clubs telling me that they love the Pharrell Bell blog and thanking me for making fans realise the effort that we put in, day in, day out.

Until now, footballers have never really had a chance to speak directly to their public. You guys are out there on the street, working your fingers to the bone in factories and mills and coal mines. Meanwhile, footballers live in our own world, protected by the electric gates and guard-dogs at our huge mock-Tudor mansions in the countryside.

But I hope that you now understand all the effort we put in to make our sport the best in the whole world. You know, I wouldn't swap playing football for any other sport.

Cricket - boring, totally ridiculous clothing and no-one cares who wins or loses.

Rugby - posh guys rolling around in the mud, grabbing each other's private parts before going off to sing songs in the shower.

Tennis - good for watching fit girls in short dresses, but mind-numbingly boring otherwise.

Basketball - a bunch of 7ft circus-freaks in 1980s trainers falling over at the slightest sign of contact from another player.

Even golf, I can't get into. Loads and loads of other top footballers love golf, but it's just not something I can get my head around. Golf is the only thing that some of the other guys here talk about.

My ears always prick up at the mention of birdies, but that's about it. Otherwise, I don't really know what they're talking about.

This weekend, a few of the lads took advantage of the fact that we didn't have a game by jetting off to Barcelona for a couple of rounds in the sunshine. Having nothing else to do, I went with them.

Of course, I didn't actually play golf - I really haven't got the patience for it, and then there are all those rules that you have to follow. No mobile phones on the course, replacing your divots, no shouting abuse at your playing partner as he's about to take his backswing. What's all that about?

In the end, I just followed the rest of them round the course in one of those electric buggies - which turned out to be a lot of fun in itself. Remembering a few of the sketches from Jackass, I still managed to keep myself entertained.

Turns out those buggies can really motor when you get them going downhill. I narrowly avoided flipping it into a lake when I used a small hill as a stunt ramp without realising what was on the other side.

I wasn't so lucky a couple of holes later when I lost control attempting a 360-degree handbrake turn and spun hard into a tree. The buggy wasn't the only thing that took a big hit - turns out I cracked a rib in the accident.

It left me in a bit of a dilemma. Wait until I got home to have treatment and hope the club doctor wouldn't tell the Gaffer what happened - or brave all the confusion and mis-translations of a Spanish hospital.

I just couldn't bring myself to take the risk of going to a foreign hospital not speaking a word of the local lingo, so I decided to head back to the doctor back at the club.

Thankfully, everything turned out fine in the end. I slipped our Doc a £50 note, a bottle of expensive rioja and a big old chorizo sausage, and he promised not to say a word to the Gaffer as he strapped up my ribs and shoved a bunch of painkillers down my throat.

Like I said, I wouldn't swap football for any other sport in the world. It is the dedication and hard work of people like Doc who keep the Beautiful Game so beautiful.

Thanks again for you comments; they are an excellent reminder of the fantastic job I'm doing here. I'm just trying to change the world, one blog at a time - I hope you guys are enjoying it.

Easter is a difficult time to be a footballer, especially one playing at the very top level like Pharrell Bell.

Despite what you all think, life as a professional footballer isn't all about the Aston Martins, gangs of screaming girls and cocktail parties on luxury yachts.

We actually put in a lot of hard yards behind the scenes - and I really don't think fans truly understand the sacrifices that we have to make just to keep you entertained for 90 minutes on a Saturday afternoon.

You guys were able to fully enjoy the Easter break. You had time to sit down and reflect on its true meaning; some time with the family, opening chocolate eggs together, maybe enjoy a big roast supper before spending the evening supping lager in the pub, knowing you didn't have to go to work the next day.

You know what Pharrell Bell was doing on Easter Sunday? Training. And it sucked. Easter is a low point in the year for me, no doubt about that. As a professional footballer, I can cope with Christmas, because buying presents reminds me how much money I have.

I don't want to sound arrogant here, but Christmas is a time of year where I can be a little bit extravagant, you know? I've worked hard for my American Express Gold card and I think it's only right that there is one time of the year when I can flash it about a bit.

Christmas is a time that highlights how lucky I am. It reminds me that I am a bit more comfortable than most of you guys. But Easter? What does my money buy me at Easter that Average Joe cannot dip into his overdraft to buy himself?

A massive chocolate egg? Great. I couldn't eat it anyway. The nutritionist at the club almost had a heart attack last week when I told her I wouldn't need breakfast because I'd grabbed a sausage-and-egg roll on the way in to training. Imagine what she'd say if I told her I'd gone a bit mental in Thornton's.

No, Easter can be a difficult time to be a professional footballer. It tends to be the time when it suddenly dawns on players that they are just a few games from promotion or relegation, or a European place, or a cup final.

Everyone starts to get a bit tense, a bit tetchy. It's not a time for practical jokes, that's for certain. A couple of days ago when me and Smithy were feeling a bit mischievous, we attached a pair of child's stabilisers and a pretty pink basket on to the scooter our Italian goalkeeper rides into training.

When he found out it was us, he pulled something out from under the seat and began walking towards us, screaming something in Italian while waving a pistol about in the air!

It took three of our biggest defenders to wrestle him to the ground and prise the gun from his bucket-like hand, while me and Smithy hid in the showers.

We've all made up now, but it was pretty hairy for a time. I won't be picking on Alberto again. People often say that goalkeepers are usually a little bit crazy. Now I understand what they mean.

The mood around the club is made even more tense and edgy because Easter is also the time of year when clubs are thinking about which players they are going to offer new contracts to, and which they are going to let go.

Thankfully, my new £25k-a-week deal means I'm one of the lucky ones. I don't have to worry about anything for the next three years – but it's always fun to wind up the youngsters with just a few months left on their contract.

I don't know why it gets under their skin so much. They're only on a few hundred quid a week anyway, it's not like they are going to lose much even if they aren't offered a new deal. It's a bit sad really. I guess some people are just obsessed with money.

Thanks again for all your comments. It's great to read that so many of you people like the blog, even if there is a small minority who don't. I think they probably need to lighten up a little, stop being so jealous.

As I've said, there is more to being a footballer than the fame, adulation and £25k-a-week contracts. There is a lot of sacrifce and hard work that goes on behind the scenes. I hope my blog is allowing readers to see that.

If I can change just one reader's perception of modern-day footballers, then I think this blog has been a success.

All this hype about Federico Macheda is really grinding my gears. Nothing gets my goat up more than some spotty-faced Jonny-come-lately grabbing all the headlines just for scoring one goal.

Seems the whole country has gone mad for this kid. People forget that he isn't the first 17-year-old to make an impact in the Premier League. People up in Leeds still talk in hushed tones about Pharrell Bell's debut at Elland Road back in 1999.

We were playing Bradford City in a league match. I came on to replace David Batty in the 65th minute, when we were 2-1 up. I remember what the gaffer shouted into my ear just before I crossed that white line: "I'm only doing this ‘cos I've got no other options. If I see you step foot in their half of the field, I'll tear you a new one at the final whistle. Don't f**k this up."

I never put a foot wrong. It was like Batty had never left the field. I kept it simple: crunching tackles from behind (they were encouraged back then), and on the rare occasions I found the ball at my feet, I always passed backwards, never forwards.

It's the short-and-simple formula that has made me the player I am today.

I felt on top of the world the night after my debut. Completely buzzing. I remember me and a group of mates went into town, thinking we'd hit a few bars, maybe go to a club, have a really big night out - problem was, we kept getting stopped by the bouncers on the door.

They'd tell us it was because we were wearing trainers, or because we didn't look 18 years old or because they "didn't like our face", but I knew it was because they recognised me and didn't want to get into trouble with my gaffer.

Of course, it didn't stop us celebrating. One of my mates knew an off-licence where he could get served, so he went and got us each a two-litre bottle of Strongbow. We took it down to the local park and got really wasted. I got a right rollicking from my old man when I got home, then puked in my waste-paper bin and slept in my clothes.

I dread to think how Macheda celebrated. A 17-year-old Italian kid? He wouldn't know what to do with himself. Probably had an extra helping of his mum's bolognaise and tiramisu. Maybe he pushed the boat out and stayed up late with a glass of limoncello, watching The Godfather.

It's a shame. But then, the foreign lads are a completely different breed to us. Sometimes I just don't get them. They can be on a completely different planet.

Take AC Milan midfielder Gennaro Gattuso for example. Now I've never been lucky enough to play against ‘The Rhino', but a couple of lads I know who played with him at Rangers told me he is a right tough old sod.

So what's he doing coming out and telling people that he thinks that footballers should be willing to take a pay-cut because of the recession? Now, I don't know how things work in Italy, sunshine, but over here it's every man for himself, right?

I don't think there is a single Pharrell Bell fan out there reading this blog who would honestly begrudge me my £25k-a-week, because they have seen how hard I've had to work to get into this position.

They've seen me going through the tough times. They saw me hit rock-bottom, sat on the bench when I played for Middlesbrough, watching that fat 'Brazilian' Doriva get picked ahead of me time and time again.

Devastation like that would be enough to drive a man insane. So when you see Pharrell Bell come through a crisis like that, you are delighted when he is finally rewarded with the sort of pay packet he deserves, right?

Gattuso should keep his gob shut. I don't know what it's like in Italy but over here, footballers have football FANS, and they are called FANS for a reason: because everyone FANtasizes about being us.

What sort of message would Pharrell Bell be sending out to the thousands of kids who idolise him if I said: "I don't want all this money. Take some of it back. I can live on £15k-a-week, it's fine. Don't worry. I'll sell one of my cars."

I'd be a laughing stock. I'd lose all the respect I have built up through years of living the flashy footballer's lifestyle. If I offered to take a pay-cut, it would break the heart of all those kids playing football in the cobbled streets outside their shabby, windows-boarded-up, two-up, two-down terraced council houses.

And Pharrell Bell isn't the sort of man to break any kid's heart.

Hi, readers.

You'll be glad to know I didn't spend the international break moping around, sitting on my ass because Don Fabio overlooked me once again. One thing I've learned as I have climbed my way to the top of the footballing tree is that you don't get anywhere by feeling all sorry for yourself.

I know certain players who would have sulked and bitched for weeks on end had they suffered as badly as I have at the hands of England managers over the last eight years or so. But not me. I knew that I had to pull my finger out if I was going to get over this latest international rejection.

So I did what any self-respecting Premier League footballer would do in my shoes - I rounded up all the youth team lads not even good enough to be called up for the U19 internationals and went on a two-day bender to Amsterdam.

The perfect way to blow off a few cobwebs, I thought. Let off a bit of steam, and show the young lads the importance of team-bonding at the same time. Come back to training on Monday feeling all refreshed and ready for the final push at the end of the season.

For all my good intentions, it turns out that it wasn't as good an idea as I thought. Not through any fault of my own. I did my research. It's not like I actually wanted us to get caught. England are playing at Wembley, I thought, Ireland are in Italy: best to steer clear of London and Rome.

Northern Ireland are playing Slovenia at home, but obviously there's no chance I was going to take a bunch of 17-year-old youth team players to Belfast anyway. I mean, I only wanted to get out of my face and go to some girly-bars, not stabbed in the kidney while having my wallet nicked.

And before I got my agent to book our flights and hotel, I also check where Scotland were playing, just to be safe. I see they're playing the Netherlands away. Great, I thought. So we'll be fine in Amsterdam.

Wrong! How am I supposed to know Amsterdam is in the Netherlands? I mean, who do I look like? Stephen Hawking? I could have sworn Amsterdam was in Holland.

Only when me and nine lanky, pre-pubescent Jay-Z wanabees start wandering round the red-light district do we realise that keeping a low profile isn't going to be an easy task with 3,000 pissed-up Jocks stumbling round the streets, scrapping and puking on street corners until all hours.

Me and the young lads, we can't get a bit of peace and quiet anywhere. I try all my usual favourites: Love Club 21, Club Bianca, Amsterdam Private - they're all rammed. And not only can we not get a seat, I'm being recognised by everyone. Worse still, I'm being photographed too.

The last straw is some fat jock in a tartan hat and ginger wig pulling up his kilt and asking me to autograph is backside. I told the youth team I was going to the bar for another round of tequila and ducked out the back door.

I jumped in a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the most expensive hotel in town. No chance of finding any Scots there, I thought. Wrong again. I only gets dropped off at the hotel the Scotland squad are staying at.

Just as I'm thinking of cutting my losses and catching the next flight back home, I find a couple of the Scots players I know sat in the bar, twiddling their thumbs. And it turns out the night isn't a total write-off after all...

Back at training a couple of days later, I wasn't feeling as refreshed as I thought I might have been. I feel absolutely rotten. Thankfully, although my hangover makes me look like Niklas Bendtner on a bad day, it's nowhere near as bad as our South American lads, who have spent the week on a 32-hour round trip to play an international on top of some mountain in Bolivia.

Thanks for your comments last week. I'll try and answer a couple of your questions.

Herb Superb asks about my savings account: don't you worry, my friend. Us footballers don't get a lot of credit, but we're not as stupid as we sound. Most of my savings are in a trusty high-rate account in a bank in Iceland. Safe and sound there, last time I checked.

RedcastleLifer! asked about the lovely Nadine Coyle. Well mate, I can't say I'm a fan of her music, but that's not to say she's not someone I don't think about a great deal...My agent works for the same management company as Girls Aloud. A couple of months ago, I actually gave my agent a note to give to her agent. Just waiting to hear back now.

Thanks, lads. Until next week.