So, we're back from our little pre-season tour to Ireland - thankfully. You wouldn't believe some of the things we have had to put up with out there.

I'd never been to Ireland before. I mean, I'd been to Dublin on a stag weekend, but that was nothing like the Ireland we've just been to.

Dublin was fun, Dublin was lively. Dublin was (fairly) civilised.

The Ireland that the Gaffer took us to, now that was completely different. Primitive, almost. It was all hills and valleys and old men sat on horses-and-carts.

Beautiful, if you like that sort of thing. Mind-numbingly boring, if you don't.

First day there, and the Gaffer had lined up an evening match against some "local opposition". So, the lads and me turned up expecting a bit of a friendly kickabout, maybe against some kids who had bunked off from school.

It took about four minutes before we realised that we were in a spot of bother.

In fact, this was far from being the gentle stroll in the park we'd expected. It was like a scene from a bad (are there any other sort?) Guy Ritchie film.

CRUNCH! Juan gets whacked from behind by a gap-toothed Shane MacGowan look-alike as he controls a pass out on the wing.

BIFF! Smithy goes down in a crumpled heap after being hit on the back of the head by a can of Guinness thrown from the crowd as he prepares to take a corner.

KAPPOW! I eat a stray elbow in the chops as I jump for a header with the opposition skipper, who then starts foaming at the mouth as he starts screaming and ranting at me as I lie at his feet with blood pouring from my mouth.

"We're getting killed out here," I gargled through the blood to our physio as he came on to treat me. "Tell the Gaffer to have a word, will you! It's only a friendly, for god's sake! These guys are animals!"

The physio looks at me and smiles.

"Pharrell, the Gaffer has already had a word - he went into their changing room before kick-off and told their boys that you lads had been singing some rather nasty songs about the Pope on the coach on the way to the ground…"

"Oh dear God, we're dead meat," I said, grabbing the physio's arm as he goes to leave the field. "Please, tell the Gaffer I can't carry on. Tell him he needs to substitute me. I'm begging you…"

No such luck, though. The P-Bell had to grit his teeth and battle his way through another 80 minutes of sheer hell.

For me, it wasn't so bad, you know? I can get stuck in with the best of 'em. Pharrell Bell can look after himself when the going gets tough, don't worry about that.

In games like that, I just imagine I'm Michael Caine in Escape to Victory. I roll my sleeves up, imagine I'm a Prisoner of War, playing for my freedom against the might of the German propaganda machine.

Which is all well and good. A little bit of role-play like that certainly helps me get me through the tough times.

Problem is, while Michael Cain had Pelé, Ossie Ardiles and Sylvester Stallone as his inspirational team-mates - I had a sulking Italian winger who refused to move more than six inches from the touchline, a Brazilian centre-back who wanted substituting because his hair had been pulled, and a Greek striker who deliberately ran in the opposite direction when the ball came his way.

So, unlike the Allies, there was to be no glorious "Victoire" for us. We were stuffed 3-0 and left the field to a hail of abuse, Guinness cans and horse manure from the local fans.

Turns out the Gaffer had planned the whole thing all along. Wanted us to get a "proper workout" so he could have a look and see who had the fight and bottle for another long season back in the Premier League.

And while he can't have been too impressed with most of the whimpering foreign boys, I don't suppose I did my own chances too much harm.

I was booked for a knee in the back of the opposition skipper, narrowly escaped a red for kicking the ball at their winger as he lay on the ground following another foul, and prompted a 12-man brawl for showing my arse to opposition fans as I took a throw in.

Like I said, when the going gets tough, the P-Bell gets going.

Hi readers,

Sorry it's been a little while since you were lucky enough to get the Pharrell Bell experience. I've plenty to update you on, don't you worry.

So, the first couple of weeks of pre-season were nothing short of Hell on Earth. Absolutely killed me. I have come across some sadistic bastards in my time as a top Premier League footballer, but our new fitness coach really tops them all.

He is one mean SOB, let me tell you. Heinrich is six foot four and 15 stone of miserable German muscle. Me and the lads walk on to the training ground on the first day back after our summer break expecting a nice little warm-up session to ease us gently back into things.

Not a chance. We walk out there to see Heinrich stood in front of us in some obscenely tight-fitting tracksuit that he must have owned since 1945, slapping the palm of his hand with a wooden truncheon - and we knew we were in for the worst pre-season ever.

The sight of that big, moustachioed brute with a horrible smirk on his face, I almost threw up then and there - and not because of the leftover pizza that I'd scoffed down for breakfast on the way to the ground.

That first day felt like it was never going to end. He had us running up and down hills carrying each other piggy-back; he had us doing squats with railway sleepers across our shoulders and shuttle-runs pulling tractor tyres through mud.

It was like a montage scene from Rocky IV, except there was no "Eye of the Tiger" blasting out to keep us going.

After four hours of the sort of sickening torture I thought only existed in the Saw movies, Heinrich finally barks out that the few lads yet to collapse through exhaustion can finish with a quick game of five-a-side.

Their quiet little cheers are soon silenced when Der Fuehrer tosses them a medicine ball and tells them no-one is going inside until one team has won a first-to-ten.

Thank God I was blacked-out on the sideline, lying in a pool of my own vomit - because that would just have been horrible. Something definitely had to be done, so me and the lads got our heads together in the shower and figured out how we could get rid of him.

I've got to tell you, some of the language got fairly ripe in there as we tried to come up with a plan.

It got pretty steamy as we tossed about some pretty wild ideas, but eventually we just settled on something nice and basic: Grzegorz, our Polish goalkeeper, told the Gaffer that Heinrich had made a lewd suggestion to him about his truncheon and he didn't feel comfortable coming into training any longer.

Obviously, the next day Heinrich was gone and fitness training was back to just how we like it; a few slow laps around the pitch followed by a gentle stretching session with the new young female physio.

Now that was spot on.

So, Pharrell Bell has slowly been getting himself back in tip-top shape. Don't get me wrong, I'm not there yet - and I might just be developing a little thigh strain that might need a massage to ease off - but I reckon I'm well on course to be in the mix-up for the start of the season.

Last week, the Gaffer announces a pre-season trip abroad so we can get some games under our belt. The lads start rubbing their hands together: we're thinking Spain or Portugal, a bit of sunshine on the back does wonders for team-bonding.

I'm not going to pretend we weren't a little disappointed when he says we're going to Ireland, but Paddy, our little winger, says he'll make sure he shows us around and that we won't miss a trick.

We've three friendlies lined up against some no doubt piss-poor local opposition, so it should be a nice easy chance to show the Gaffer what I can do and nail down a midfield spot for the first game.

I'll be back in a few days to let you know how we got on…

Until then,
PB.