You know readers, something dawned on me the other day when Pharrell Bell was flicking through the newspaper (the sports section, obviously: who wants to read about yet another war in some far-away country?).

I suddenly realised that looking in from the outside, you fans must be absolutely baffled about how managers come up with the unknown players they sign from foreign leagues.

Some of the names just seem to be completely plucked out of the air, completely at random.

Hulking defenders with greasy black mullets, signed from some irrelevant club in Central America; scrawny little South American wingers with seven names (shortened to four letters); towering African midfielders brought in from some Belgian club's reserve team.

Obviously, nine out of ten will turn out to be crap or homesick or just plain mental - but you guys must still be wondering how and why they arrived in the first place.

It must be down to some massive scouting network, right? Managers must have scouts in all corners of the globe, yeah?

You guys probably think that every manager has got a trusted former team-mate sat high in the stands of some crumbling stadium on the edge of an Ecuadorian mountain, scribbling down notes as he watches a meaningless mid-table clash between Universidad de Arsenal and Sporting Club Young Boys?

Well, sorry guys - but that's bulls***. You really think that managers are that dedicated and thorough? That they really do that much homework on every player they sign? Wrong.

Think that, and you're forgetting one thing - all managers are ex-footballers themselves, and footballers are mostly reckless, impulsive and a little bit lazy.

If a manager hears 30,000 fans screaming that the club needs a new striker, do you really think he's got the patience to get on the phone to all his scouts, tell them exactly what he needs, wait eight weeks for them to get back to him, and then spend another week reading through file after file after file?

Well, he hasn't. That manager is just like you and me, and every schoolkid in the world - he hates homework, and he's prepared to cheat and bluff and take shortcuts to get the job done.

I'll you in on a little secret. When I was a youngster at Leeds, I became palls with this rum old-timer at the end of his career. Our careers have since gone our separate ways, obviously. I'm now a top Premier League star earning £25k-a-week, and he, on the other hand, is the gaffer at a crappy little lower-league club.

At his (fourth) wedding a few weeks ago, he has a few too many whisky-macs and lets slip to me how he decides what players he's going to sign: his football management game on his laptop!

He says all the top managers are at it. They just search through the players in the game and pick out the ones that look like they have got the best stats.

Even better, if a manager finds someone he likes the look of, he can sign the player for the club in the game to test him out. Then, if he is actually decent, and fits into the 4-4-2 formation, then he can be fairly confident he's going to be a worthwhile signing in real life.

Simple as that. It saves a whole lot of time and money sending scouts halfway across the world on wild goose chases, looking for players that might not even exist. And those management games are fairly sophisticated, they don't get much wrong.

If a player has got decent stats in the game, more often than not he turns out to be pretty good in real life too. You're after a cheap midfielder with a bit of creativity, or a promising young defender - those games will help you find him

Obviously, there is the odd exception. These games aren't perfect. I mean, I know pace isn't my strong point but 4/20 isn't exactly fair. And as a defensive midfielder, I would have thought it was obvious that my tackling (9/20) and positioning (7/20) would be higher.

And I don't think my gaffer would have been prepared to offer me £25k-a-week if my determination was really only 3/20 and my passing ability 4/20.

Not that I'm bothered. It's probably just some glitch in the game, or the researchers might have been watching another player when they were noting my stats.

It doesn't bother me at all. As if I'd care about that. I'm sure it's just a mistake. Probably a work experience kid inputting the data and he couldn't understand the programme. Dumb-ass kid.

Obviously, I'm not fussed what those games say about me. Like I said, they are pretty good, but they're far from perfect.

I can't believe how quickly this summer is going. When I drove my Porsche out of the club training complex after the final day of the season back in May, I had six glorious weeks of freedom stretching out in front of me.

I had made all these fabulous plans. I was going to have a fortnight in Barbados, a week on a mate's yacht anchored in Monaco, five days shopping and partying in New York. I reckoned I deserved a bit of luxury and pampering after a long, hard season.

Then I opened the letter the gaffer had given us as we walked out on that final day, and my heart dropped.

"Be sensible with your alcohol intake. Maintain a daily fitness routine. Eat healthily. Watch your weight. No extreme sports. Get plenty of sleep. Use your time productively."

The gaffer even pulled me to one side when the rest of the lads had gone and had a "private word" in my ear. Can you believe he suggested that I use the summer to try to "settle down" with a girl!

He said that I'd never fulfil my potential unless I had a stable home-life and that I needed to cut out the "distractions" next season. He then slipped me a piece of paper with his 21-year-old daughter's phone number on!

I couldn't believe it. My own gaffer was pimping out his daughter to me. I really was shocked. Of course, not too shocked to give her a call as soon as I got home - I've seen little Kimberley at club functions and she looks a damn sight better than her old man…

Unfortunately, me and Kimberley never quite worked out. I took her out a few times, wined and dined her at some swanky restaurants. I mean, we had some fun, but we were never really suited intellectually. At least I can tell the gaffer I tried.

But, you know, one of the things that frustrates me the most about being a top Premier League footballer is how much we get treated like kids.

I worked my ass off for my gaffer over last season, mostly without any complaint. For ten and a half months, I was effectively a (very well-paid) slave to my football club. They tell me to be somewhere at a certain time, and I have to be there. No excuses.

And then, after grafting my heart out for most of the year, they have the cheek to tell us what we can and can't do even when they send us off on our holidays!

It stinks, actually. It really makes me mad, and it completely took the wind out of my sails. All those fantastic holidays I planned suddenly seemed a bit pointless.

I mean, where's the fun in sitting on the deck of a yacht in Monaco if you're not allowed to have a glass of Champagne in one hand and a nice girl in a bikini in the other? What am I supposed to do instead? Read a book? A crossword? Ridiculous.

And there's no way you can get round these little rules, either. First day back to pre-season training on July 1, I'll be weighed, have every part of my body measured and inspected, be subjected to a full medical.

It makes me shiver just thinking about it. I'll be prodded and probed in places you don't even want to think about, and then be forced to do a rigorous "bleep test" to assess my fitness level.

If I've had even the slightest bit of fun over the summer, they have got a test to uncover it. And any sign that a rule has been disobeyed or that I have strayed in any way, the gaffer will come down on me like a ton of bricks.

He'll make me take coaching sessions with the academy kids, he'll have me signing autographs all afternoon in the club shop, send me into schools to give talks, volunteer me for interviews with the local newspaper.

All that crap that everyone else runs a mile from, my name will be first on the list. And all that on top of long hours of extra training to get me back in to shape, to help me lose that extra inch around my waist.

It's what I imagine prison to be like, except in prison you just seem to sit around all day watching television and playing pool with your mates.

All that punishment sounds horrible, doesn't it? You probably realise now that it's just not worth me even trying to get up to any sort of mischief over the summer.

So ask yourself this: why would I actually be writing this blog on my laptop from a 80ft super-yacht on the French Riviera, surrounded by half-naked models, empty bottles of Champagne and empty Burger King wrappers?

Because, readers, as you well know - the P-Bell doesn't take orders from anyone.

Ciao!

Hi again, readers.

An amazing few days in the transfer market has really started the summer with a huge bang. It's actually pretty exciting to wake up in the morning and pick up the newspaper or check on the internet to see who is on the move next.

I don't think that Pharrell Bell will be moving anywhere, and that’s fine by me. I'm doing okay for myself where I am, thank you very much.

Not that I don't think I could play at a higher level or handle the move to a bigger club, but I'm fairly content with my £25k-a-week contract at this stage in my career. No need to go rocking the boat by knocking on the gaffer’s door and demanding a move.

But I have got a lot of experience in the past with transfers from one club to another. It's a strange feeling, it really is. It's difficult to explain and perhaps it’s an experience that only top sportsmen ever really relate to.

I'll try my best to put it into language you might understand, communicate on your level, because I know how baffling the world of football must seem to simple fans such as yourself.

I'll try to paint a picture with words about the sort of things that might be going through the head of a top Premier League star during a summer transfer.

Imagine going into your factory as usual one morning. You're feeling fine, content with your role as a drone on the assembly line, happy with your weekly pay packet. At mid-morning break-time, you're suddenly called into a meeting with your boss.

There, your gaffer tells you that another factory in a town 200 miles away has been in touch with him to see whether he’d allow you to work for them instead.

Your gaffer says he's concerned that you’ve been lacking a bit of motivation recently, that your work has gotten a little sloppy and that it wouldn't be a problem for him to replace you. He thinks it might be for the best if you go and have a listen to what this new factory have to say for themselves.

Obviously, it's not a very nice feeling, is it? Makes you feel a bit worthless, a bit frustrated. Even a little bit angry. You admit, you've not really been putting that much effort in recently, but this is no way to treat you, right?

So you catch the train up to the other factory to have a chat with the gaffer there. Turns out he's been watching you on the assembly line over the last few weeks and he thinks your work has been okay. Nothing spectacular, but decent enough.

Starting to feel a bit happier, right? A little bit proud of yourself? The new gaffer tells you he can't really afford to pay you what you earned at the last factory, but he can offer you a brand new pair of steel toe-capped boots and promises that you’ll have a great laugh with the lads on the assembly line here. They even go to the pub together on a Friday night.

Sounds alright, eh? You're not happy with the drop in wages and the town is a bit of a hole, but the lads do look like they're a good bunch here - and there’s no way you’re ever going to work again for that douche-bag old gaffer back down south.

So you shake the hand of the new boss, and sign on the dotted line. It's not ideal, sure, but at least this new factory will appreciate you, right? And it's not going to be forever. Just for a couple of years until you get that promotion that the new gaffer seemed to hint at.

Now all you've got to do is go back home and tell your wife and kids to pack their bags because you're moving house for the third time in four years, 200 miles from her family to a depressed old mining town where she doesn’t know another soul from Adam, so you can work in exactly the same job but for slightly lower wages.

Basically, that's it. That’s pretty much how it went for me during my past transfers, and I reckon pretty much how Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaka will be feeling right now after their moves. Sometimes transfers can drag on and on - sometimes everything happens in a flash, before you even have time to think about it properly.

As I've said before in this column, life at the top of the footballing tree isn’t as glamorous as it sometimes seems. Sometimes, you have to dig your feet in and stick it out.

Someone cleverer than me once said: The grass isn’t always greener on the other side. I reckon they were right.