So this is Christmas,

And a new one just begun.

I don't know about you, but I'll tell you what Pharrell Bell has done. He's only gone and organised the greatest Christmas party of all time.

The gaffer had a word with us at the start of December, gave us this big speech about how he wanted us to keep our heads down over the busy Christmas period, to focus on the football and make sure we don't take our foot off the pedal.

Well, that's all very well for those guys in the squad who are actually getting a game at the moment - but given that I haven't had a sniff of first-team action for a good month now, I figure those rules don't really apply to me. Surely the gaffer is not going to mind too much if Pharrell Bell has himself a little festive fun?

Not that I'm going to broadcast the fact, obviously. I'm not stupid. I'm keeping this little shin-dig well under wraps - unlike those idiots at Tottenham. I can't believe Robbie and the boys let the cat out of the bag, although from what I read in the newspapers, they got off lightly. A £20k fine? That's nothing to those boys.

Anyway, our gaffer has no chance of finding out about this one. You wouldn't believe the lengths I have gone to in order to keep this thing secret.

Firstly, I've only invited those team-mates who I really, really trust. I want to keep it small and selective to reduce the chance of anyone spilling the beans, so there are just 16 of us. Because I don't want to be accused of fostering an "us-and-them" atmosphere in the dressing room, I've invited four of the foreign lads to join us - although I made sure I picked the four who don't speak a word of the Queen's English, that way they have no chance of saying anything out of line in front of the gaffer.

I've also given us all code-names (I'm Avon, my mate is Stringer, and we've also got Omar, Bubbs, D'Angelo and Brother Mouzone coming along) and sorted us out new pay-as-you-go mobile phones, so that our calls and text messages can't be traced, and pagers to help us communicate under the radar.

So there should be no way the cat is let out of the bag on this one - if the gaffer does somehow get wind, we'll be dealing swiftly with anyone we suspect of being a snitch. There is no room for sentiment.

The actual party itself is going to be amazing. It certainly should be - it's been almost 12 months in the planning. You see, we were so pissed off by how lame last year's club-organised Xmas bash was a small group of us decided to take the 2009 version into our own hands.

I immediately formed a Xmas Party Committee, and collected a week's wages from each of the 16 invited guests. As we'd made sure we had plenty of high-earners in the group, all together I had a budget of close to £1.2million to work with.

I've hired (under a false name, obviously) a fully-staffed 100ft super-yacht for 48 hours, moored far away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, a mile off the coast of Great Yarmouth in the North Sea.

The lucky 16 of us will be joined on the yacht by 48 beautiful ladies (three each, to ensure variety), hand-picked by myself over the course of the last 11 months, when I have been holding secret X-Factor-style auditions in my city-centre penthouse apartment.

Once they have negotiated the insanely-thorough security measures I have ensured will be in place (including full-body searches) to prevent any incriminating evidence, trained monkeys will hand each of the ladies the sweetest Moroccan rose and a goodie-bag containing gifts including 30ml of Paris Hilton Heiress Eau de Parfum, a 12-pack of contraceptives and a box of tic-tacs.

For entertainment, I've hired Rage Against The Machine to sing Christmas Carols during a lavish seven-course meal, featuring smoked ostrich brain and slow-roasted flamingo tongue, with guests drinking the finest pink Champagne and Russian vodka streaming from the genetalia of an ice sculpture of Michelangelo's David.

The after-dinner entertainment will feature a naked woman who will perform a reverse striptease, dressing herself by producing clothes from various internal cavities, and Eddie Murphy performing a word-for-word rendition of his "Raw" stand-up show from 1987, before we hold a charity auction to raise money for Romanian orphans.

At this point, I envisage the guests drifting off in threes and fours for "tours of the boat", to emerge into the harsh North Sea sunlight several hours later. All guests will be strip-searched before they leave to fully eliminate the chance of photographs or videos surfacing in tabloid newspapers in the following days.

I'm hoping that the sheer amount of booze the lads consume will ensure that memories remain hazy, thus further reducing the likelihood of anyone revealing details of the trip to anyone they shouldn't.

What with the hectic festive fixture list, it's been difficult finding a suitable day to fit all this in - but thankfully the gaffer has kindly told us we don't have to come in and train on Christmas Day, so everything has worked out perfectly.

It's going to mean a few of the lads are feeling a little lethargic for our Boxing Day away game - but as I've said, that's not going to affect me. The reserves haven't got a game until the New Year, so I should be fine.

Take care lads, have a great Christmas.

PB

Alright?

You guys shouldn't be surprised that another week has passed with the revelations that there has been another dressing room bust-up between a player and his gaffer.

James Beattie and Tony Pulis apparently had to be "pulled apart" after Stoke had been beaten 2-0 by Arsenal at the Emirates Stadium.

Why? Not because of the result, but because Pullis had told the lads they had to come in for training on Monday morning - the day after the boys were supposed to be out givin' it LARGE at their Christmas party.

I phoned one of my mates who plays for Stoke - he told me that Beattie and Pullis were foaming at the mouth and about to knock seven shades of s*** out of each other when the rest of the squad dived in.

Let me tell you guys, this sort of stuff happens all the time in football clubs. Probably four or five times a season, I'd guess. No-one really thinks too much of it inside the clubs themselves.

It's only when the story gets leaked to the press that a big hoo-haa is made of it.

I've never had a job outside football, so I really don't know, but I'm guessing by everyone's slightly hysterical reaction that this sort of stuff doesn't happen in offices and workplaces up and down the country?

Which begs the question: why? I mean, you guys must get so pissed off with each other day after day after day, just like us top Premier League footballers do.

You're not telling me that you just sit there calmly when that fat dude who sits next to you spills crumbs from his sausage roll all over your desk for the third time that day.

You're not telling me that you just shrug your shoulders when you discover that the useless sod who joined the company nine months after you did is being paid twice as much as you just because he has GCSE mathematics.

You're not going to tell me that you crack a wry smile when you see your sleazy, middle-aged boss, his armpits stained with sweat, having some sickening flirty banter with the same fit little secretary who turned you down at the office party the week before.

Or do you? You see, it seems to Pharrell Bell that some of you guys should strap a pair on and start learning a few lessons from us top pros. You already idolise us and worship us - why not just admit that your lives would improve dramatically if you just started acting like us too?

I mean, guys, I don't know what I'm going to do with myself once I hang up my boots. I'll probably concentrate on my music, perhaps get into some acting. I don't know.

But I can tell you one thing, whatever I do, I'm not going to take any crap from anyone. That's what my career in football has taught me. If someone disrespects you, you front-up; get in their face, stand your ground. Don't be no pussy.

I don't care if he's the gaffer. Tony Pullis disrespected James Beattie and the rest of the Stoke lads when he told them they had to come into training the day after their Christmas Party - and 'Beats' totally did the right thing in putting him in his place. Pharrell Bell would have done exactly the same thing.

I think the world has gone a bit soft, you know? Society has lost respect for the hard-man, the guy who is prepared to let people know what he stands for and what he's prepared to do to fight for it.

Society can learn a lot from us top Premier League stars and our attitude. We work hard and we play hard. We stand up for each other. We have a keen sense of what's right and what's wrong. And we're prepared to speak out if we see an injustice in the world.

Being a professional footballer is like being the member of an exclusive club - a club that programmes each lad with a very special set of qualities that are guaranteed to make him a SUCCESS.

And that's exactly the reason why so many former professional footballers make big names for themselves in different fields outside the game - because they have been programmed to be winners.

You only need to look at the likes of former Arsenal legend Ian Wright (major TV star); Pele (erectile dysfunction spokesman); former Manchester City star Francis Lee (toilet rolls); former Everton winger Mark Ward (cocaine dealing).

These guys are the successes they are because they took what they learnt in football and applied it to the outside world.

You girls really could learn something from us.

Until next week,

PB