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.