How you all doing?

So, I heard back from the gaffers at ESPN following my trial run at co-commentating last week. They left a message with my agent saying that they thought I'd done an excellent job - but they were going to "pursue other options".

I was a bit gutted, I have to say, but whatever. I think they probably thought that taking on a commentary position at this stage of my career might interfere with my football, and so it was probably safer for everyone if we wait until I retire.

After all, ESPN probably don't want the guilt on their hands should my form on the pitch start to drop because I was spending too much time thinking up clever things to say about my fellow pros.

Imagine the uproar in the media. Rather than getting too far ahead of myself, it's probably for the best that I focus on my football - especially because this is a World Cup year.

The whole of England wants an in-form and motivated Pharrell Bell come the end of the season; a commentary role would just have been a distraction, and I don't need another one of them. I have more than enough as it is.

I'm not ruling it out after I retire. Because I earn £25k-a-week now, I'm not actually going to have to work once I finish playing football, but it might be nice to have something to do as a hobby.

I've even been toying with the idea of writing a book.

Before Soccernet asked me to start this blog, the thought of writing anything would never have crossed my mind. I mean, I used to absolutely hate writing. And I mean writing anything.

I remember one time, I was about 22-years-old, I had to fill in an application form for a new passport. I put it off for weeks and weeks before I finally plucked up the courage to start - and when I did, I couldn't even remember how to hold the pen!

It just felt weird in my hand, like this foreign object in my fingers. I tried to write my name and it looked like a four-year-old had picked up a crayon and started filling in the application form for me.

In the end, I had to get my mum to come round and finish it for me.

It was quite a traumatic incident, that. It put me off writing for a long time. But since computers have taken over, I have found myself much more confident and able to get to grips with the English language.

And now I am well into doing this blog. I love it. I love bashing out the words every week, letting the world know what's going on with the P-Bell.

So, I started thinking that now I am well on top of the English language, I should probably write a book. I have had some really good ideas for stories.

I started to tell my agent about this idea that I had, about the French Invasion of Russia in the Napoleonic era and the impact it had on the aristocratic families there.

I wanted people to read my novel and feel like they were staring at the rippling reflection of Human Nature in a cold and vast lake. I wanted it to be a huge historical chronicle, an epic portrait of the Russian soul. It was going to be a complete picture of the complexities of the Human Experience, and an affirmation of Life itself.

It was going to be an astonishing piece of art. It was going to be a tragedy that would strike a chord in the heart of all of mankind.

I thought it was a top idea, but my agent said I should forget it and instead start thinking about an autobiography - and you know, that made much more sense.

Who wants to read about the lives of some boring Russians from hundreds of years ago when they could be reading a roller-coaster of a tale about how a young lad who loved playing football dragged himself off the means streets of the Leeds suburbs to make it as a top Premier League footballer and a four-year £25k-a-week contract.

It's a no-brainer. My story wins every time.

And the real beauty of it all? I don't even have to pick up a pen - my agent says he can get in something called a ghost writer to do most of the hard work for me.

Expect "You Can Ring My Bell: The Pharrell Bell Story" to be in the shops just in time for Christmas.

Until next week,

PB

Alright?

So, the season is back underway, eh? The summer went by so fast and I don't really feel like I had much of a break, but I'm glad to be back in the old routine again.

Being a top Premier League footballer is my life. Being on that pitch in front of 38,000 screaming fans - it just makes me feel like a superhero.

The last thing I want to do is get into another argument about God and religion and all that crap - but let's just agree on one thing: there is no possible way that Pharrell Bell's existence is the result of a mere fluke of DNA and genetics.

No. The P-Bell is more important than that. The P-Bell was specifically put on this earth
by something more powerful than the human brain could ever understand. The P-Bell was born to play football. I was born to be a top Premier League star.

All of which makes starting last weekend's first match of the new season on the substitutes' bench a little hard for me to take. But I suppose the gaffer had his reasons.

After all, I did miss a week of training with swine flu. The gaffer probably thought I would never recover, that I'd never be the same player again - that's why he brought in another defensive midfielder.

The very fact that I am almost back to my best just a fortnight after contracting a killer disease, it just shows what a remarkable specimen Pharrell Bell is. Would it be taking it a step too far to suggest I made a miracle recovery? Probably not.

Anyway, I have always been the ultimate Team Player. You won't find me bitching about not being in the XI for the first match. This is a long season, and everyone in our squad will have a role to play at some point.

There is no "I" in Team. It is my job to push the other lads hard for their place in the starting eleven, to keep them on their toes in training, and to make sure that the atmosphere around the squad stays positive.

Squad strength: that is what the modern game is all about. Everyone has a job to do. Who knows when I might get called off the bench to get into the thick of the action? I have to stay positive and do a job for the team when called upon.

And of course, in the meantime I am still being paid £25k-a-week, which softens the blow somewhat. No-one can take that away from me: I've signed the contract, that is a legal document, there are still three years to go, and there is no going back on it now.

And it's not as though I haven't had something else to occupy my mind.

Readers might remember in last week's blog that I was going in to ESPN headquarters for my first ever try-out as a co-commentator.

I have yet to hear back from the gaffers there on how I got on, but I've got to say, I think it went really well. I certainly had fun.

It was a bit of a strange experience, to tell you the truth. They took me into a small, dark, windowless room with a couple of microphones set up in front of some televisions. A couple of minutes later, the main commentator walks in.

Some chap comes in and explains the procedure, how to use the microphones and how I was to listen in my headset for the various instructions from the programme director.

He then reminds me that it is only an audition and tells me to relax and not to be nervous - which I thought was a bit unnecessary. He must have forgotten that the P-Bell is a top Premier League star.

The main commentator starts babbling away as the game (some meaningless international friendly) begins on the television monitors in front of us, and something suddenly dawns on me.

Although I didn't recognise his face, I've definitely heard this guy commentate before. You see, I always record my live matches so I can watch them back later to see how well I play, and this guy has definitely covered matches I have actually been playing in.

The more this chap speaks, the more it comes back to me. This was the clown who called me a "brainless thug" on a commentary last year for what he called a "sickening, career-threatening assault" when I accidentally went in two-footed on some unlucky teenager.

This is the chap who writes in a national newspaper column that Pharrell Bell is "loutish and educationally sub-normal, a barely-matured school bully and probably with a similar mental age".

I should be fuming, but I'm not. Because it dawns on me that he must be absolutely cacking his pants. He's locked in a tiny room, just inches away from a 6' 1" monster who he probably believes wants to kick his head in!

I can actually see the beads of sweat pouring down his face as he stares at me from behind his square glasses with these big round eyes. He is actually stammering. He can't quite get his words out. He's sat in silence now, shaking his head, beginning to wave his arms. It's an unbelievable sight.

Of course, then it dawns on me that I haven't actually spoken a word and the match on the television monitor is 18 minutes old and the chump has just asked me a question.

"No, I think you've called that one wrong, Trevor," I say confidently, even though I have no idea what he's just asked me. "Anyone who had ever played professional football themselves would be able to see that."

Ha.

The rest of the match passes fairly smoothly, I think. Old Trev still seems a bit nervous, shifting about in his seat, barely speaking to me or asking my opinion on anything. It's all a bit of a breeze really.

After the match, he can't get out of the commentary booth fast enough. Woosh! He's gone, doesn't even stop to speak to the director. He probably realises I've just flushed his career down the toilet.

As I said, I've not heard anything back from ESPN yet on whether I will have a regular spot on their live broadcasts this season. It's been a week or so since I did the trial, but they say no news is good news.

The delay is probably down to the gaffers working out whether they should give me my own show.

I'll hear something soon, I'm sure of that.

Until next week, PB.

Hi readers,

Here's a question for you to start off this week's blog: how buzzing am I? Want the answer? Massively.

I'll be honest with you. I didn't really bat an eyelid when the news came out a couple of months ago that Irish TV company Setanta had gone bust and that something called a "rights package" would be up for auction.

It meant even less to me when it the newspapers said that ESPN had bought the rights to show live Premier League matches this season.

But after my agent sat me down and explained everything in normal language that I could understand, everything suddenly became clear.

If ESPN are going to be showing live Premier League football in the UK, that means they will need some commentators. And what do all football commentators need? That's right - co-commentators…

That, readers, is where Pharrell Bell steps in.

By writing this blog for Soccernet, my agent reckons I have already got my foot in the ESPN door and that I have the perfect chance to take advantage.

He thinks, and I have to agree with him, that Pharrell Bell would make a fantastic co-commentator, and that all I have to do is prove that to the gaffers here at ESPN.

If I can do that, I reckon a fame-and-money-spinning second career in the media beckons. If I play my cards right, Pharrell Bell could be the next Jamie Redknapp - get paid for looking handsome, talking about football, and having a fit, fit wife.

Now, anyone who has read this column knows that Pharrell Bell is not your average footballer. I am smart, intelligent, brainy, clever, bright and sharp. These columns prove it, week-in, week-out.

I don't really think I have to prove anything to anyone. It's so blatantly obvious that I'm good with words, I know the Premier League inside and out, and that I am good-looking enough to be on television.

If I was one of the top gaffers at ESPN, I'd have thought that the P-Dog would have been one of the first names on the sheet when they were looking at which star names they could get to kick off their Premier League coverage with a bang.

So I was just prepared to sit back and wait for my iPhone to ring with the good news. But apparently, it's not that simple. It seems that I am going to have to go into ESPN HQ for some sort of trial to see whether I am right for the job.

The EPSN gaffers have also told me that they are going to be keeping an eye on this blog for signs that I have got what it takes - which is one of the reasons why this week's entry has taken me four hours to write so far.

So, early next week, Pharrell Bell will be sitting in a television studio co-commentating on some Coppa Italia match while a host of ESPN executives listen in. Of course, my commentary won't be going out live - it's just a trial.

And I've got to tell you, I'm feeling pretty confident about the whole thing. I've watched a lot of football matches on television before, and co-commentating seems to be the easiest job around.

It's not even as if I have to be speaking all the time. The main commentator does all the hard work.

He (and it is always a HE, not a SHE) will be the one slogging his guts out with all the meaningless: "Rooney…wide to Nani…loses possession…Ooooh, reckless tackle by Rooney…yes, yellow card shown by the referee."

All I have to do is pipe up with the occasional: "Brian, I'll tell you now, Wayne Rooney has to learn to control his temper. He'll never make it as a top player unless he grows up and starts to show some responsibility."

As I said, I know the game inside-out. There will be nothing going on down there on the pitch that I don't know about. I've seen it all in my time.

Not only that, because I am actually still a top Premier League professional, I know a lot of the lads I'll be commentating on personally. I'll be able to throw in the odd funny anecdote about boozy nights out and training ground bust-ups.

All that stuff is priceless and it's that sort of thing that I reckon makes me an ideal candidate for the job.

The more I think about it, the more excited I am. If I make a go of this, it could open a lot of new doors for Pharrell Bell. More TV appearances. More fame and recognition with the mainstream public. Maybe an appearance on "Dancing on Ice".

The world is my oyster.

Hi readers,

The P-Bell has not been feeling 100 percent this week. After getting back from the pre-season tour to Ireland, I found I had picked up a bit of a virus or something. You know the sort of thing: sore throat, lack of energy, fuzzy head in the morning.

The Gaffer sent me to our club doctor, who told me to go home early from training, just as a precaution. The Doc said it didn't sound like Swine Flu, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He gave me some pills and told me to put my feet up for a day or two.

Happy days! Some quality time in front of the plasma TV, playing video games and watching gangster films.

I have no girl on the go at the moment either, since the last one got in a strop because I didn't invite her on holiday with me over the summer. Actually, I think she said she was more upset that I didn't even tell her I was going on holiday myself. I just tiptoed out of the door one morning and texted her on the way to the airport.

Anyway, whatever. I was absolutely free of distractions, and was having a great time at home on sick-leave. Curtains closed, takeaways ordered, surround-sound on full-whack as I settled in for a mammoth DVD and Xbox session.

This is the sort of life I imagined when I signed my £25k-a-week contract, you know?

After 72 hours of the Godfather, Sopranos and FIFA 09, I finally peeled myself off the leather sofa and kicked my way through the chicken madras cartons and pizza boxes. I thought I still felt a little bit under the weather, so had better phone the Gaffer to tell him it might be for the best if I stay at home another day or two.

"No problem, Pharrell," he says. "You take your time, son. There's no rush."

A bit odd, I thought. He wasn't at all pissed off. I had imagined he might at least put up a bit of an argument.

Thinking nothing more of it, I decide to check out what has been going on in the football world in my absence. I log on to ESPN Soccernet, obviously - and what's the first thing I read? The Gaffer has only gone and signed another defensive midfielder!

I put my feet up for three days and this is what happens. I couldn't believe it.

Feeling more than a little bit concerned, I get back on the phone.

"Oh don't worry Pharrell," the Gaffer tells me. "He's not a replacement, as such. I've no intention whatsoever of selling you. We've certainly had no offers, I know that. I just thought we needed a bit more competition for places in midfield, keep you boys on your toes."

Feeling in no way reassured, I told the Gaffer I was feeling a bit better and would probably be able to make it in to training that afternoon.

Turns out the new guy is a bit of a monster. Some huge chap signed from the French or Belgian or Swiss league or somewhere. Six-foot four, and full of muscles. I found a photo of him with his shirt off - he looked like a walking biology lesson.

Thankfully, after three days on the sofa eating takeaway pizzas and chicken madras, I was also carrying a bit of extra timber. I felt confident the P-Bell would be able to hold his own with him in a 50-50.

I got quickly back into training, wanting to remind the Gaffer who his go-to guy should be at the start of the season. I'm not going to pretend it was pretty; it's amazing how quickly a nasty virus like mine can make you can lose your pre-season fitness.

Meanwhile, the new guy is putting himself about the training pitch like his pants are on fire. It was actually pretty awesome to watch. He's a decent player, I'll give him that.

And it turns out he's a good lad too - although I'm not sure he's quite all there, you know?

His first press conference was like nothing I've ever seen. He turns up wearing this bright, multi-coloured shirt that looks like it came straight from Nelson Mandela's wardrobe, huge smile on his face, arms waving everywhere.

And don't even get me started on his English. It sounded like he had learnt it from the in-flight announcements on British Airways flights.

"Welcome. It is nice to have you here. Please, if you have any questions, do not hesitate to speak to me or one of the members of staff here. My date of arrival here in England was yesterday, when the ground temperature was at around 17 degrees Celsius."

Like I said, great player but not all there.