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.