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!