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