Hi there,

Hope you're all well, and that you all enjoyed the little glimpse of my new rap / R&B album last week. That was just a little teaser, just a taster of what is to come when the record hits the shops in the next few weeks.

Some of the lads at training have been laying into me for doing the album, but I think it is important to have a life outside football.
Rio Ferdinand and Ashley Cole have their gangster film to keep them busy; Wayne Rooney has his new baby to fill his time; David James has to save the environment; David Beckham has Scientology.

If I didn't have my music, if I just had football to think about 24/7, I think I'd go insane.

I'd turn into some right sad, lonely hermit. A proper football geek. I'd probably start wearing spectacles and never take my tracksuit off.

Come back from training and immediately sit down to watch repeats of the previous weekend's games from the Argentinean second division.

Basically, without another hobby, I'd turn into Arsene Wenger ' and I don't think that's very healthy at all.

So, for me, I think it's a good thing that I have been spending my free time working on my album. Unfortunately, The Gaffer did not. He called me into his office at the end of training on Monday and told me that he had heard the rumours and he was concerned it was affecting my football.

He told me that my attitude stank, that I was lazy and unfocused and disrupting team harmony.

I started to think thinks weren't looking good for the P-Bell. He was really laying into me, telling me that I had to pull my finger out and start concentrating on my football, that he only had room for players who were pulling in the right direction.
But then I sensed the turning point. "Pharrell," the Gaffer said. "You've got your head in the clouds with this music thing. Give it up. You're never going to make it."

"What do you mean, I'm never going to make it?" I asked. "Have you even heard my music?"

"I don't need to, Pharrell," he says. "I've heard a few of the lads talking about it in the dressing room. They say your music is like your football: clumsy, aggressive and dull."

"That's bullshit."

"Look, Pharrell, you're head's not been in the game for a few weeks now. I can't have any passengers in this squad. What I'm saying is, it's your football or the music. Your choice. I'm giving you an ultimatum."

It wasn't looking good. All I could think about was my £25k-a-week contract. There was no way I could give that up. I'd worked too hard.

But walking away from my music, that would have been criminal. It was like asking Rolf Harris to choose between his art and Animal Hospital.

"Here," I pulled a demo copy of "Single, Sexy, Free" out of my bag. It was a long-shot, but my last hope. "Have a listen to this."

So, The Gaffer is sat there in his leather swivel chair, his feet up on the mahogany desk, as those soft, sweet, melodic beats and sincere, heartfelt lyrics belt out from his CD player - and all I'm thinking of is how I've just blown the best contract I've ever signed. It's the longest three-and-a-half minutes of my life. Finally, the Gaffer takes down his feet, sits up straight and looks me in the eye.

"Pharrell," he says, "that was PHAT! Completely bad-ass. I mean, dude, that was bitchin'."

"Er, thanks," I says.

"Single, Sexy, Free is Da Bomb! P-Bell, you are gangsta!"

It turns out that the Gaffer is a massive Boyz-II-Men and 3T fan, too, just like me. At least, he seems to know all the songs when I sing them to him as we sit there in his office and talk classic R&B for the next hour.

I've got to admit, it does seem a bit odd that a 55-year-old Welshman with a moustache and beer-belly would be a big R&B fan, but when these raw beats get you there is nothing you can do about it.

So, I walk out of his office with my '25k-a-week contract still in tact. And not only that, the Gaffer has also promised that he will allow me all the time I need to put the finishing touches to my album - and go off and spend time on the promotion and marketing when it comes out in a couple of weeks time.

If the press want to know why I'm not in the squad or why I've not been seen much around the training ground, he says he will just make up some little injury and say I've been doing some private work with the masseur (which I have, but he needn't know that).

Absolutely sweet. The P-Bell has fallen on his feet again.

Until next time,
PB