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