Hi readers,

I just want to start by thanking all those people who have been in touch over the last week or so to offer me support in what has been a difficult time for me. But as I said in my last entry, I want to use what has happened to my advantage.

The New Year has brought a fresh start for Pharrell Bell. I want my place in the first-team back, and I am training harder than I have ever trained before to make sure it happens. Even the snow hasn't held me back.

Several of my team-mates have phoned in claiming they couldn't make it in to training because they were snowed in or that they couldn't get their cars out of their drive.

The old Pharrell Bell probably would have joined them in using the snow as an excuse to take a sneaky day-off from training. Hell, the old PB would probably have gone out and bought a £30,000 snowmobile and spent the day skidding across the frosted fairways of his local golf club with a chick in the passenger seat completely inappropriately dressed for the weather conditions.

But that was then and this is now. Things have changed. Besides, it's difficult to claim you're snowed in when the gaffer knows you live on the 18th floor of a block of exclusive apartments in the city.

Anyway, while my mates have been slacking off, sitting around their houses playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, Pharrell Bell has been training like an animal.

I have been getting into training HQ an hour early for a warm-up swim, taking part in normal sessions with the rest of the lads, before hitting the gym for a couple of hours while the rest of the squad slink off to the cosy warmth of their living rooms.

You wouldn't believe the difference in me. I've gone a bit mental. I am just so desperate for some competitive football now, it's been much, much too long since I've really been able to get stuck into a proper match.

I mean, guys, I am champing at the bit. I was so pumped for some football, the other night I just drove the 4x4 down to my local sports field and asked a bunch of lads if I could join in their game of eight-a-side.

I could tell it was a bit of a shock for them, having a top Premier League footballer ask to join in their little kickabout. They were pretty much starstruck, that much was obvious, and who could blame them?

But I just told them to pretend that I was simply another one of their mates, not to give me too much respect or shy away from me because I am a big star - just treat me as a regular guy, get stuck in and I would do the same.

And BOOM! did I get stuck in! I mean, I was feeling pretty good out there. It really felt like I was hitting some form again, I just felt like I was in the zone. I just blocked out all the distractions and got on with what I do best.

Needless to say, my side won the match. We actually destroyed that other bunch of toss-pots 12-3. I'm glad we really stuffed them actually, because they were really sore losers and it felt good to put them in their place.

I mean, we truly did humiliate them. I took great pleasure in rubbing their faces in the dirt. And when I say I rubbed their face in the dirt, I mean I literally did rub one of their faces in the dirt.

Their left-winger, a whining, scrawny little be-atch. He was lay on the ground holding his calf after I had gone through the back of him (I got the ball), he cried something about it "not being fair" – so I pushed his face down into the turf and told him to grow a pair of bollocks.

It did cause a bit of a kerfuffle, I admit. A few of their lads actually picked up their jumpers and schoolbags and ran home. But honestly, I'm not used to playing on public playing fields - how was I to know that the field was littered with dog-crap?

Anyway, we won the match and that's all that matters. I had forgotten how the adrenalin gets pumping when you are really into a game. I was pumped at the end of it all. The testosterone was flying. I haven't felt like that much of a man in months.

I hope the gaffer is taking notice of how much effort and commitment I am putting into this comeback of mine. I am throwing myself into it, going the whole hog. I have even given up sex for a while to really make sure I am on my toes.

These are the sacrifices you have to make to be a top Premier League footballer. I've always known it, I just allowed myself to be distracted and lose sight of why I wanted to be a professional in the first place.

But not any more. I am bursting with pride and energy and passion and a lot of other stuff. I won't allow myself to be sidetracked again.

Until next week,

PB

Hi guys, and a happy New Year to each and every one of my readers.

So, the Christmas party was an absolute storm. Every one of the lads we took along said they had an absolutely banging time. A lot of the girls also said they enjoyed themselves, which is nice. It's important to think of the ladies' pleasure, too.

As I predicted, the gaffer felt Pharrell Bell wasn't needed for our Boxing Day away game - which, considering how rough I felt after the party, was not such a big problem for me. I was happy to take a back seat for this one.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as, from the comfort of my leather sofa, I watched a bunch of lads jog gingerly out on to a freezing cold pitch in front of 38,000 fans knowing just 12 hours earlier they had played their own roles in one of the most debauched parties since Roman times.

We had managed to keep it all under wraps. I don't think the gaffer suspected anything. Even when the television cameras caught our big centre-back puking his guts up on the touchline mid-way through the first half, the gaffer believed it was all down to a nasty virus sweeping through the squad.

Obviously, the boys got stuffed. They never really had a chance, of course. More than half the team were clearly hanging out of their backsides; there was only ever going to be one result. Which is exactly why I stuck 250 quid on us getting beaten badly. Turned out to be a good day for the P-Bell.

However, that was about as good as my Christmas period got. It pretty much went downhill from there. You see, a couple of days after that, Pharrell Bell suffered the heartbreak of losing his best friend.

Ollie was my cat, and he was a legend. He was without question the greatest moggie ever to have walked this planet, and it breaks my heart to say that he is no longer with us.

My poor little Ol was hit by a car, right outside my flat here in the city. It was a horrible shock; real baseball-bat-in-the-stomach stuff. I buried him in a hanging basket on the balcony, not being able to bear not having him close by.

You might not realise, but a lot of top Premier League stars own pets. Good-looking, rich young lads like us tend to attract fickle and unfaithful people into our lives and it is natural that we might want a loyal, furry friend we know we can always trust and always rely on.

Of course, mostly it's dogs but Pharrell Bell has always been someone who prefers a nice little pussy to keep me company when I get home all tired from a morning's rigorous training.

Ollie had been with me for a little over a year. I got him shortly after I first moved to the club. I'd read in the newspapers about something called a "Toyger", a sort of designer pedigree cat from America, hand-bred to resemble mini tigers with an orange and black striped coat. I thought it sounded pretty cool, but wanted something just a little bit different.

So I went to the local zoo, found a shifty-looking keeper and slipped him '250 to secretly produce me a moggie bred from a normal domestic cat and one of the zoo's prize black panthers.

Three months later, I get a phone call from the geezer at the zoo, who tells me his work is done. I can't believe my eyes ' a beautiful cat; big, athletic build, shining, jet-black coat, big green eyes and these whopping-great talons for claws.

That was my Ollie. He was huge, intimidating, built like a brick shithouse. A miniature panther, with the heart of a lion. And now he is gone. The awful accident happened a week ago, and I have only last night stopped crying myself to sleep.

To have such a legend, such a friend taken from me is a true tragedy. It is the sort of episode that can change a man's life. Catastrophes like this are enough to break a man. Break him right down, shatter his spirit, leave him questioning his very faith in the Human Experience.

And I'll be honest with you, readers: there have been moments during the last seven days when I have felt low, so very, very low. I've had thoughts: black thoughts, spitting up at me like flames from the very pits of Hell.

I haven't been to sleep. I've been up for three days now, and I've seen the darkness. I've seen the Opposition and I've faced it down. Because Ollie wouldn't have liked the blackness. That wasn't what the big man was about.

So, now I know what Pharrell Bell has to do. Pharrell Bell has to make something good come from this. Pharrell Bell has to draw it all up inside, suck it all up, set fire to it - and explode. 2010 is going to be MY YEAR, the year of the P-Bell. This is my time. My best friend deserves to be honoured. Watch me go.

Until next week,
PB