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.