http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/ en Copyright 2010 Sun, 11 Apr 2010 19:51:31 +0000 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Yep, Pharrell Bell is in love at last. Profoundly and truly in love, as the word goes between man and woman. I cry it passionately to myself in the daylight hours, more so as the sun goes down. The things that before seemed to me to be insufferable - my lack of first-team football, my..., well, just my lack of first-team football - have now become the merest chaff before the wind of my infatuation. I have heard people describe the passing of time as flying by in a whirlwind, but the last two weeks have been nothing like that for me. Rather the halcyon days have drifted by like boats on a calm summer river, like melancholic spring evenings. Since she - Gloria - rescued me from a pit of bile and self-indulgence at that whispering hour in the nightclub, we have spent all the time together we can. I began to miss training - I didn't think it mattered, since the gaffer had barely acknowledged my existence over the last few months - and instead, took long walks in the countryside, hand in hand. On occasions, I caught a little skip in my step as I might run to pick her a daffodil. We took a trip to the coast and ate fish and chips on a bench overlooking the sea. As the days have passed, we have been unfolding to each other, revealing little pieces of ourselves, some willingly, some unwillingly, by the merest of our reactions, smiles, evasions and hints at the past. Gloria puzzles me delightfully, she leaps up at me in little ecstasies and that flit and hover and disappear as quickly as they came. She is nothing like the girls I have known before; they seem just distant memories of childhood to me now. Gloria has the calmness of a great ocean and the deep courage to match. The sum-total of all the other girls I have ever met, known, kissed, slept with - the entirity of their very existence is a mere grain of sand when compared to the vast white beach of Gloria's beauty. All the other girls I had known were, in the most contemptuous use of the word, so very female, still giving off the faintest odour of either the cave or the nursery. As the days passed and I missed more and more training, I began receiving phonecalls from the gaffer - although it did take longer than I thought appropriate for him to finally bother to trace my whereabouts. He would leave messages on my answerphone: "Pharrell, I hadn't noticed but one of the lads pointed out this morning that you haven't been into training for six days. Anything the matter? Give me a call." Then: "Pharrell, did you come into training yesterday. I vaguely remember seeing you milling about, but I might have been wrong. Anyway, let someone at the club know if you're okay." Then: "PB - we're getting a little worried now. It's been ten days since you last turned up for training. Don't get me wrong, we can cope without you - we have done for most of the season - but it would be nice to know your plans. Get your agent to give me a call." Finally: "Pharrell, if you're still alive, we've decided to stick you on the transfer list. We won't ask any money for you - I don't think we'd get anything - but we're not going to continue to pay your wages if you're not showing up. If you want out now, give me a call and we'll start thinking about cancelling your contract." When I've gone AWOL in the past, phonecalls like these have always inspired some surging sense of injustice that has fired me into action. I'd go screaming into training and throw myself into the club, haring around the pitch like a dervish, kicking anyone and anything that moved. But this time, I felt nothing. The fact that the gaffer was ready to give up on me, ready to cancel my �25k-a-week contract, ready to discard me like an unwanted puppy - it didn't mean anything to me. A couple of days ago, I lay on the bed, it was late in the afternoon. Gloria had gone home for an hour for a change of clothes. Somewhere between asleep and awake, I dreamed I was walking through a field in the sunshine. I was barechested and barefoot and felt the warmth on my back. I had something in my hand, a yo-yo, and I was rolling it gently up and down as I walked. As I walked along, feeling the blades of grass in between my toes, I looked down. The yo-yo had turned into a football; it rolled down and up, gently, but the string by which it was attached to my finger was becoming thinner and thinner with each roll. Now it was like cotton, now the finest gossamer, now....nothing. The football rolled off, bouncing away from me, across the field, away down a hill. I had nothing left in my hand. It was empty, and then it dawned on me. In falling in love with Gloria, I had fallen out of love with football. I awoke. Not in a panic, but in calm. I picked up my phone and rang the club. "Gaffer, you're right. My heart's just not in it anymore. So sorry. I'm in love now. I don't know if you understand that or not. I can't play football anymore. My soul now sings to the sound of faint guitar melodies, not to the roar of 30,000 caged animals. You have been good to me in the past. Do me one last favour - release me." And with that, my career as a top Premier League footballer was over. I put the phone down. Out of my kit bag by the door, I picked up my boots. I looked at them closely; ran my hands over the instep, remembered how it felt when a volley came crisp off the laces; I smelt the leather in long, deep breaths; I put my hand inside and felt the insole still slightly damp with sweat. I carried the boots over to the coat stand, tied the laces together, and placed the loop gently over a hook. My boots were hung up. Have I any regrets? Not one. I look back at my career in High Definition and Surround Sound. But if I do not marry this girl, my life will become a mere parody on my own self-obsession. I love Gloria, and I do not have the capacity to love two things at once. Thank you for reading. Forever, PB. http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/04/this_is_the_end_beautiful_frie.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/04/this_is_the_end_beautiful_frie.php Sun, 11 Apr 2010 19:51:31 +0000 Hi readers. It's been a little while since my last blog – I know you'll believe me when I tell you that it has not been my fault. Things have been getting pretty dark in the world of Pharrell Bell. I mean, some really weird stuff has been going on. Even weirder than normal, and that's saying something. So, as you might have read in the papers a few of weeks back, PB got caught with his trousers down. Another kiss-and-tell, except this one had some added spice. I did something I'm not proud of, with someone I'm even less proud of. It goes without saying, the gaffer wasn't happy with me when the story first hit the papers. Told me that if I had been playing, he'd have dropped me. As it was, I have barely been near the first-team in three months now, so it wasn't much of a threat. I had a bit of a tongue-lashing from my mum, too. She phoned me up to tell me that since the news of my indiscretions hit the newspapers, she has been ashamed to leave the house for fear of people laughing at her. Her son, her golden-boy, has brought shame on the family – all because he couldn't keep his ego tucked in his trousers. I was crying like a baby when I put the phone down. I don't care what people say about me, but when it starts affecting my mum, then I know I've gone too far. So, after a lot of soul-searching, I decided to get my head down and stay out of trouble. Start focusing on getting back to using the talent that God gave me. I'm just coming into my prime years as a footballer. I think I'm really yet to hit my peak. I just thought to myself, I'll have one last blowout before I knuckle down. You know, one final night letting off some steam before I turn my life around. One last hurrah to make sure that the slate is wiped completely clean. I thought I owed that to myself. So, a couple of Fridays ago, knowing that I had another free Saturday, having been left out of the first-team squad for the 18th match in succession, I drove out of training with my suitcase on the back seat and headed straight for the motorway. Two hours later, I was checking into my favourite London hotel. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the £500-a-night suite, ran my fingers through my hair and smoothed the last of the creases from my black Armani shirt. "This is it." This is how Michael Jackson must have felt at that famous press conference last year. The Known World at his fingertips, tripping off his every word. The sense of anticipation was staggering. The air was crackling with possibilities. Feeling ten-feet tall and with the soundtrack from Shaft running through my head, I walked out of the hotel and slipped inside the doorway of the first bar I saw with a red carpet outside, slipping the doorman a £50 note as I passed. It was really dark inside, so I took off my sunglasses and tucked them into my top pocket as I ordered a bottle of champagne from the waitress. I don't think I have ever felt as primed for action as I did at that point. The night was mine. I owned the night. And I was ready to be very, very naughty. An hour later, the table was littered with empty bottles and I had been joined by three of the most attractive women I had ever seen in my life – and that's saying something. But I wasn't ready to go back to the hotel just yet. We hit a couple more bars, picking up some more revellers on the way. Stumbling out of one, I found myself faced with the harsh, unsettling pop-click-rap of flashbulbs and photographers – I didn't care. It was my final blowout: I would accept the consequences. We danced on tables; drank pink Champagne from the bottle; slapped each other's bare flesh; shouted obscenities at the bar staff; knocked furniture over; laughed and pointed at strangers; wrestled with photographers; threw money at taxi drivers. The night was everything I had dreamt it would be. I had owned the night. I had OWNED it. The night literally belonged to me. I had demanded it; seized it; squeezed the life out of it. Sometime around 3am, in the sparkling haze of a bar somewhere, I looked around me. Three girls lay against each other, asleep or unconscious on the sofa. A fourth stumbled past, tried to steady herself on the table, and fell over in a twisted bundle of slender limbs. On the next sofa, a man in a sharp black suit poured champagne into the open mouth of a blonde girl, her head tipped backwards and rolling gently from side to side, her eyes closed, the wine trickling down her face. The minute or minutes prolonged itself interminably and a swimming blur began to form before my eyes which tried with childish persistence to pierce the gloom. "This is it," Jacko said. "When I say, 'This is it', I mean ‘This is it'." I was ready to leave. I stood, eventually and uncertainly, clutching a half-empty bottle of wine in my hand as I attempted to clamber over the bodies. My foot caught the stray leg of some unseen girl, slumped against the sofa. I groped to steady myself on – my hand grasping the first solid thing, just summoning the strength to stop myself collapsing to the dirty, sweaty floor and haul myself vertical. Beside me stood a girl. I felt her hand on my arm. She held me upright. I hadn't seen her before. It is difficult to describe what she looked like; all I can remember is that the lights seemed to wink at her, a light wind ruffled her hair and the music faded and slowed in ecstatic appreciation. It was one of those immortal moments which come so radiantly that their remembered light is enough to see by for years. "It's okay," she said. "I'm going to take you home. Everything is going to be just fine." Happiness, someone once remarked, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery. As I clung to her in the back of the taxi, I didn't know how long the feeling would last. But I did know that Pharrell Bell was in love. http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/03/because_the_night.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/03/because_the_night.php Wed, 24 Mar 2010 12:27:34 +0000 So, obviously you all can't fail to have noticed that there have been no blogs from the P-Bell recently. I know that it must have been frustrating to you, what with you lot idolising me and me being all quiet and you not knowing really what was going on. I guess there have probably been loads of rumours and gossip going round about why I've not been blogging. The internet has probably been buzzing with stories and guesswork about why I'd disappeared and where I'd gone and why no-one had seen or heard from me. Obviously, me not playing in the first-team for the last few weeks has not helped the situation either. When such a massive and important player is left out of the squad by the manager for so many big matches on the trot, I guess you guys were all thinking that there must be a pretty good reason for it, right? Well, there was – and it's not really been my fault. To tell you the truth, I would have been perfectly happy to continue playing and carrying on as normal, but the advice from my lawyers was that I should get my head down for a few weeks until the storm has blown over. Thankfully, the storm has passed and I can now pick up where I left off. Annoyingly though, I have still been warned by my legal team not to say too much about the allegations that you read in the newspapers a few weeks ago. I am so desperate to put the record straight and to tell my side of the story, because a lot of what's been said is actually total nonsense. But my agent and lawyers insist that I should keep my mouth shut. Apparently, if I say too much now then it would just make the situation a whole lot worse. And you know, I pay these legal geeks a lot of money for their advice, so I suppose I should really listen to what they say and follow their instructions. But it really is so frustrating to not be able to say my piece and to have to sit here and just take all the flak and b******t that is flying around and not respond in any way. You know, it feels like I have been castrated. It feels like someone has cut my balls off, it really does. I think I understand how that feels now. I mean, what sort of MAN sits back and lets people say these things without standing up for himself and fighting back? These legal geeks are treating me like a DOG. Wrongly accused of stealing a cheap joint of beef from the kitchen worktop, kicking me out into the cold and the rain, hurling abuse at me while they feed me mouldy scraps of leftover food – all for something I didn't even do. Well, I don't need to tell you guys, my loyal readers, that the great P-Bell is no mangey mongrel. I ask myself, what did the A-Team do when they were accused of a crime they didn't commit? Did B.A. Baracus consult his lawyers and agree to a vow of silence while Colonel Decker spread scandalous lies in the daily newspapers? Did Murdoch sit in uncomplaining silence in that maximum security stockade, reading self-help books to help pass the time? SHUT UP, FOOL! They bust their way out of there and went underground, opening some huge can of whoop-ass and justice on which ever poor suckers got in their way – and that's exactly what P-Bell has decided he should do. So this week, when my lawyers instructed me to take a holiday for a while to somewhere far away while this thing blows over, what do you think I told them? I said, No. No way. I ain't going on no plane. So here we go. I'm going to set the record straight. First of all, I'll hold my hands up and admit that I did some things wrong, some things that I'm not proud of. Yes, we did sleep together. When you read in the newspapers that we had one very drunken night together, I admit that it is truth. What some people don't realise is that us footballers have a lot more testosterone than normal people, so it is impossible for you to judge us in the same light. When you have got so many hormones throbbing through your veins, sometimes the caveman in you takes over. So yes, I admit that we did spend that night together in the hotel room – although I am far from proud of it and there are definitely a couple of things I want to set you straight on. If you read that I knew what I was doing that night, then frankly, it is just not true. At the time, I had no idea who they were – and obviously, if I did, I never would have done it. First of all, it was very, very dark in the nightclub when we met. And I was very, very drunk. And another thing, the music was very loud, so the tone of voice was impossible for me to pick up. All I heard was "My name is Marilyn and I want you”, and that was basically enough for me. I can't even remember the exact details of what happened that night, so what you read in the newspapers might actually be true. Some of it sounds strange, and not the sort of stuff I'd usually get up to, but I can have no complaints. The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed. In fact, it wasn't until a few days later when I realised the full horror of what I'd done and it dawned on me who Marilyn was. I'd got a few of the lads round after training. We were just dossing around, flicking through the channels on the TV when we happened across an old episode of Saved by the Bell and one of the lads piped up with a little-known fact. I can't describe the feeling. Thankfully I managed to hold it together until they'd gone home – but I guess the secret is out now anyway. So, I want to emphasise again – I had no idea, and I never would have gone there if I did. Obviously. Everyone has done things they regret. This is mine. I just hope we can all move on and act like grown-ups. I'd like this to be the end of the matter. I hope to God it is. I'm glad I got it all off my chest. I guess the lawyers will be climbing the walls – but at least B.A will be happy. http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/02/a_legal_matter.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/02/a_legal_matter.php Sun, 21 Feb 2010 23:27:21 +0000 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 http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/01/digging_in_the_dirt.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/01/digging_in_the_dirt.php Fri, 15 Jan 2010 15:42:20 +0000 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 http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/01/death_can_become_me.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2010/01/death_can_become_me.php Sun, 03 Jan 2010 22:07:05 +0000 So this is Christmas, And what have we done? Another year over 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 ]]> http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/12/lets_hope_its_a_good_one.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/12/lets_hope_its_a_good_one.php Tue, 22 Dec 2009 16:46:15 +0000 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 http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/12/give_a_little_respect.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/12/give_a_little_respect.php Mon, 14 Dec 2009 10:52:59 +0000 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 http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/11/funky_boss_get_off_my_case.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/11/funky_boss_get_off_my_case.php Fri, 27 Nov 2009 16:07:27 +0000 "Single, Sexy, Free", which will be released early next month. Monday, December 14 - put it in your diaries! I have been into my music for a long time now. You could almost say that it has been as big a part of my life as football. As a kid, I remember my mum would always have music playing around the house. I guess I must have absorbed some of that; it must have rubbed off on me somehow. Until I was about eleven years-of-age, I actually wanted to be a pop star when I grew up, even more so than a top Premier League footballer. I even went to music lessons at school, despite the fact that the only instrument they had left was the flute. After three years, I worked out that although I could play a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Greensleeves, it was never going to be of much use in the world of R&B. It was about this point that I started to get more interested in football and music sort of went on the backburner for a while as my career took off in the Premier League. But recently I have started to get itchy feet and have really fancied getting back into music in a big way. So I asked a DJ friend of mine to help me out, to hook me up with some people to see how far I can take this thing. Of course, I'm still in the prime of my footballing career and there is no way I am thinking of jacking it all in. You don�t walk away from a £25k-a-week contract just like that. But you have to realise something: Pharrell Bell is a born ACHIEVER. Even though I have reached the very top as a professional footballer, that isn't enough for me. Pharrell Bell does not rest on his laurels. He has to move on, to try to reach the glorious snow-capped peak of another mountainous achievement. It's like Lance Armstrong. He was the best cyclist ever. Won the Tour de France a hatful of times. What did he do once he had retired? Started marathon running - and ran 2h 46m. That's the sort of character I am. Never satisfied. Always pushing myself on to bigger and better things. And that's really the difference between Average Joes like you, and colossal figures like Lance and me. So, over the past few months I have been writing myself a bunch of songs. They are really personal to me, you know. Like all the best songs, the lyrics really come from the heart and I have drawn my inspiration from the classic artists: Boyz II Men, 3T, Craig David, Mariah Carey. Once I had my lyrics perfected, I hit the studio with a producer and some musicians and we laid down some tracks. I'm well pleased with the results. I think it is some really cutting-edge stuff that is going to take the music industry by storm. Although the producer and I are still making a few last-minute tweaks to the album, I really wanted to share a little piece of it with my thousands of loyal fans here at ESPN Soccernet as a thank you for coming back and reading my blog every week. So here are the lyrics to the title track of the album, "Single, Sexy, Free". I'm a single kinda person. I get on with my life on the pitch, But I like dancing on a Sunday, girl And in the week I like to see my bitch. Ooh, I like to contemplate girls. My mind gets straight in a whirl. Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! I look at myself and I look into my eyes, I see a sexy man who's flying high Curved lips I just can't disguise. You know I got thunder in between my thighs. It's so hard to decide which I love? Is it girls or is it nighclubs? Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! I look at myself and I look into my eyes, I see a free bird, baby, that's flying high I can satisfy you girl, in every way, But you know it too, I'm gonna stray Your time is coming and it's coming fast, Look at me, you know it's gonna last Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! I'm not too fond of Groupies, And I really hate Guns, But I'm happy once again, When I just think back to those nightclubs, Boom boom shake da boom-boom-boom! I know it is difficult to picture the song in your head without the music, but what do you reckon? It's got a definite groove to it, don't you think? And the dancefloors are going to go wild when you hear my flute solo in the middle. Like I said, however quickly the album takes off, it isn�t going to affect my football career at the moment. But I wanted to show the world that I am more than just a top Premier League star, that I have hidden depths that are waiting to be explored. And when you see and hear a musical talent like mine, it just puts into ridiculous perspective it is that shows like The X-Factor are promoting talentless nobodies like the Jedward twins. It actually makes me sick just thinking about it. Until next week, PB. ]]> http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/11/single_sexy_free.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/11/single_sexy_free.php Thu, 12 Nov 2009 15:24:48 +0000 Alright, P-Bell fans? Hope life is treating you all well? You know, every week at the bottom of the blog I read the comments from you Average Joes and it really reminds me that there is a whole other world out there that I don't really know about. I have been a top Premier League footballer all my adult life. It is all I know. Mine is a very sheltered existence; I don't know anything about what happens outside of my world. And so it would be great for you guys to let me know a little about what it is that you do. What makes my readers tick? What are your hopes and dreams? I'm really interested to hear what beats inside the heart of the man on the street - because your lives are as alien to me as, well, an alien. I think hearing about your boring, everyday lives will help me gain a better perspective on things, you know what I mean? >>P-Bell, I've just lost my 12,000-a-year job as a pen-pusher in a biscuit factory because I turned up to work loaded on vodka-Red Bulls and told my boss I wanted to puke in his shoes. Now I can't afford to make rent on my squalid bed-sit so I'm going to have to go back and live with my mom and my mom's house only has one bedroom. Reading sob-stories like that is really going to help me feel better about myself, so fire them over. Anyway, let's jump into a chauffeur-driven BMW 4x4 and take a speed-limit-disrespecting jaunt back into my world. The lads came into training on Thursday in stitches after watching Liverpool make another massive balls-up on the TV the night before. Rafa Benitez's side are fast becoming the joke of the season - and frankly, I'm loving it. As a Premier League footballer, I am continually hearing that I am supposed to have respect and compassion for my fellow professionals. Apparently, I am supposed to be sympathetic when a rival club struggles pathetically for form; console an opposition player after he has had a shocker; feel bad for managers when they get the boot. Well, to be honest, I don't. I love it. I love watching fellow pros struggle. If I'm being honest, I don't even feel bad for them when they get injured. I know I'm supposed to feel sorry for them - but I don't. So watching Liverpool struggle has been a massive joy to me. At the moment, their lads look to be sticking together; they look to have been getting their heads down and keeping out of the newspapers. But I can guarantee that sooner or later, the cracks are going to begin to show and that's when it starts to get really interesting. You've got to understand that us top Premier League stars are under enormous pressure - when results don't go our way, that pressure only builds and builds and builds. It's like a timebomb waiting to go off. I give it one more bad result, and there is going to be a bust-up at Anfield of Biblical proportions. The most likely place is the training ground. The frustration will get too much for one poor lad and he'll go in hard through the back of someone he doesn't think has been pulling his weight (most likely one of the foreign boys) - and it will spark a right brawl. Players rolling on the floor; lads sprinting 50 yards to join in; expletives and obscenities echoing off the trees in the frosty morning air; boots and fists and knees and elbows flying around in one big ball of furious frustration. And Rafa Benitez will be stood on the sideline, watching it all unfold, clipboard in one hand, the other gently stroking his beard. His face will look like thunder, but he'll be grinning manically it on the inside - because nothing clears the air like a good, old fashioned brawl. Believe me, you wouldn't believe some of the brawls I have witnessed behind closed doors at Premier League training grounds. Fights that would make the UFC look like a Girl Guides convention. And they have always worked wonders for squad morale. It's amazing. One minute the entire squad are going at it like an old-school WWF Royal Rumble, the next they are hugging each other in the showers as they wash the blood out from under their fingernails. Let me tell you, this is coming at Liverpool. And you'll know exactly when it has happened, because Rafa Benitez will stand in front of the television cameras a couple of days later and declare that although a couple of players have "picked up minor injuries in training, the squad have had a meeting to clear the air and are feeling confident again". Next game, they will go out and stuff someone 4-0 and everything will be back on track. You just wait. Thanks again for all the messages of support at the bottom of last week's blog. Someone called Esizzle left a comment asking about my forthcoming rap album. I don't have time to tell you about it this week, but I will let you know all the details in next week's instalment. Until then, be cool, P-Bell http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/11/fight_the_good_fight_with_all.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/11/fight_the_good_fight_with_all.php Fri, 06 Nov 2009 14:58:40 +0000 Pizza left a comment on last week's blog asking whether I would ever consider playing football for an international side other than England. If I'm being honest, Pizza, it is something that did cross my mind a couple of years back. It all came about after my mum told me out of the blue that my the man I had grown up calling "Dad" wasn't actually my real father. Apparently, my real Dad was actually a roadie for some American rock band. He had convinced my mum he was the lead singer of Aerosmith and sweet-talked her into a cheeky night of fun in a run-down hotel sometime after a concert in Leeds in 1982. So, it turns out that if I could be bothered to get the proof of my real old man's nationality, I could probably qualify to play for the USA. The idea appealed to me for a while. Obviously, I would walk into their side and because of the woeful standard of the CONCACAF opposition, they always qualify World Cups so it was quite an attractive proposition. But I slowly went off the idea. I really didn't fancy all the travelling, flying over the Pacific every other week to play in some qualifier against Nicaragua or Haiti or the like. Also, I reckoned being the star player and carrying the hopes of an entire nation would get really tiring after a while. So I put the idea to the back of my mind. International football for me was going to be England or no-one. Possibly Ireland or Wales. Maybe Scotland. But certainly not the USA. Hope that answers your question, Pizza. As I said, any more questions, fire them over to me. I'm totally delighted that you guys are still obsessed by what I've got to say about my life as a Premier League player. It really makes me happy to know that I am doing my bit to help the Common Man understand a little bit more about our amazing game. And it's been an interesting week in the Premier League, with that outbreak of Swine Flu at Blackburn and Bolton. It was a bit of a shock when the news broke, and really it just goes to show the dangers that we go through week after week in the name of sport and entertainment. It really puts things into perspective and the dedication and professionalism we display in times like this just goes to show why we justify our wages. Am I scared that I might catch the disease myself? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. The very nature of our sport means that we are a group of young men in close contact with each other. We train together, we shower together, we change together, we eat together, we travel together, we room together on away trips. When you look at it like that, you can see how intimate footballers get with each other – and that's not even taking into consideration how up-close-and-personal some of us get with the club physios and masseurs. The dangers are everywhere. A bead of sweat from the brow of an opposing player; phlegm from an innocent, misdirected spit; a drop of urine or faeces from a mischievous schoolboy prank between team-mates. All harmless a couple of weeks ago, but now potentially fatal. It has really got the wind up me. The day after the news broke, I turned up for training with one of those masks over my mouth and some latex gloves on my hands. The lads really laid into me, but you can't be too careful in a situation like this. I've heard that people have actually DIED from this thing. It's unbelievable in this day and age that a virus like this can spread so easily and cause so much damage. You know, we can send a man to the moon but we're still dying from flu. And to think it's all the fault of pigs! They look such nice, innocent little things. I mean, I've seen Babe: Pig In The City a couple of times and there is no clue in that suggesting they could be so dangerous. I don't reckon I'll ever eat pig again. No chance. Better to be safe than sorry. Roast beef instead of pork for me on a Sunday, and no more ham sandwiches in the club canteen. I'll stick to chicken and bacon, thank you very much. Until this whole horrible episode has passed by, I will be taking extra care. You've got to remember that this is my livelihood we are talking about. A threat to my body is a threat to my earning-potential. When you look at it like that, you'll realise why I am treating this as life-or-death. Until next week (I hope), PB ]]> http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/10/risking_life_and_limb.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/10/risking_life_and_limb.php Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:56:20 +0000 What's up, Pharrell Bell fans? Hope you've all had a good week, in whatever it is you guys do. Thanks to the international break, P-Bell had the chance to take it a little bit easy for a few days. I still get pissed every time I see an England squad announced and my name not in there, sure I do. Do I think I could do a job for my country? Of course. Name one person with even an ounce of football-knowledge who wouldn't think that? But if I'm being honest - and you can rely on Pharrell Bell to be honest with you - I'm not actually that bothered about playing for England. If I finish my career never having played for my country, I'm not going to be crying like a girl about it. To me, playing for England just looks like a bit of an unnecessary ball-ache. A load of hassle for not a lot of reward. There don't seem to be many positives from what I can see - especially in a World Cup Year. You have your club form dissected in minute detail so that every stray pass or dodgy booking becomes some sort of national catastrophe; you then get called up to the squad and kiss goodbye to your what little time off we get during the season; face long trips to hell-holes like Kazakhstan, the Ukraine and Azerbaijan; and then get slaughtered in the Press afterwards whether you win or lose. All that - and you don't even get paid for it. Sorry, its just not my cup of tea. And I'll tell you what: playing for England under Fabio Capello, that doesn't look any fun in the slightest. The guy just looks so strict and grumpy all the time. Not my sort of guy at all. Can you imagine trying to have a bit of banter with him? No chance. He'd be an absolute nightmare to go on those long away trips with. And spending three weeks with him during a tournament? I'd be blowing my brains out through boredom after three days in his company. I think if I were an England squad member, I'd probably be privately hoping we DIDN'T qualify for South Africa. Especially because, if what I hear from a mate of mine who's been in the last few squads, Capello definitely seems to just be a little bit mental. My mate - who was actually trembling with fear as he told me - reckons he's like the Guv'nor of some Death Row prison in the Deep South of the States. On away trips, he says the players are basically locked inside the hotel complex, forced to play endless games of ping-pong and watch DVDs of 24 and Sex in the City while wardens slowly walk by with huge, slobbering Alsatians straining on chains at their side. At training sessions, guys in a black uniform patrol the sidelines, staring at you from behind reflective sunglasses as they chew gum and menacingly twirl cudgels around their fingers. The lads are told that Capello watches everything from a 100ft-high watchtower, his finger resting lightly on the trigger of a silver rifle that glints in the sunshine as it points down at the training pitch, following the movements of players far below. Would he really feel any pity if any of those dots stopped moving forever? Nobody knows. That's the scary thing. Because my mate reckons that none of the England players have ever actually met Capello himself. Nobody actually believes he is real. Nobody ever sees him or knows anybody that ever worked directly for him, but to hear my mate tell it, anybody could have worked for Capello. You never know. That is his power. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. And like that, poof. He's gone. I told my mate maybe it's for the best. For three years under Capello they'll have warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but maybe produce the Jules Rimet Trophy. Under Sven Goran Eriksson they had brotherly love, six years of democracy and peace - and what did that produce? A couple of quarter-finals. Not that it bothers me. As I've said, international football isn't really my bag. It seems a little stupid to me, to be giving so much of yourself away for nothing in return. I guess, reading this back, what I'm saying is that I no longer want to be considered for England. Capello, if he even exists, can consider this blog my confirmation of retirement from international football. I've got more important things to concentrate on, like my club. They are who pays my wages, my £25k-a-week. I owe it to them to make sure I am in peak condition for the big games. They showed great faith in me, and now it is time for me to repay them. Until next week, PB http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/10/international_footballs_no_hol.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/10/international_footballs_no_hol.php Mon, 19 Oct 2009 16:32:28 +0000 ESPN Soccernet shows that I probably would have made my career in journalism or even writing books, had I not made it as a footballer. It actually makes me shiver to think about how my life might have turned out had I not been as skilful and gifted as I am at sport. Instead of lounging on my leather sofa in my luxury city-centre flat, writing this blog on a top-of-the-range laptop with my HD plasma TV playing in the background, I might have been sat in some stale office in the middle of an industrial estate, hunched over my desk, filling out HR appraisal forms while some half-wit colleague next to me drones on endlessly about how crap his life is. Scary. Really scary. Thank god I am Pharrell Bell and I don't have to worry about all that bull. Another question the journalist girl asked me was whether, if I wasn't a top Premier League star, I would be a football fan. You know, one of you guys. Would I support a team, would I shell out half my weekly wage to go and watch a game, would I spend my leisure time surfing the internet for the smallest morsel of gossip on my favourite players? And you know what, in a small way I think I would. I think I would be like you guys. I'd support my local team, through thick and thin. I'd go and watch them when I could, I'd banter about football with my mates over a greasy fry-up at the local cafe just like Ian Wright, Lee Dixon and Ally McCoist in those adverts a little while back. But I've got to tell you, one thing I just don't get about you guys is when you get in arguments on internet forums. >>My team is better than your team. >>No, it's not; my team is better than your team. We beat Fulham and you lost to Fulham so we must be better than you. >>Ah, but we beat Hull 3-0 and you only beat them 2-1, so that shows we're better than you. And you're an idiot if you say otherwise. >>You're such a dumbass. When we beat Hull 2-1, we were playing AWAY. You beat them 3-0 AT HOME. You can't compare the two results. If you did, you'd have to accept that ours was better. >>You're so immature. Shouldn't you be doing your homework? How old are you? Like, TWELVE?!?!! ROTFLMAO!!! >>I am actually a Professor of Ancient History at the University of Cambridge. SO GO SUCK YOURSELF! >>If you're so clever, why don't you go and HAVE SEX WITH A MUMMY! ManYoo Rock! Doesn't it all just seem so lame? Anyway, you guys will do what you gotta do. Until next time, Peace.]]> http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/10/a_life_of_lmao_rofl_and_lol.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/10/a_life_of_lmao_rofl_and_lol.php Sun, 11 Oct 2009 15:08:46 +0000 Alright? It's been another amazing week in the Premier League. It's unbelievable how many goals are being scored this season and how few draws there have been. Every weekend, some poor lads seem to be on the end of a 4-0 or 5-1 stuffing. Apparently there have been 196 goals in the first 66 Premier League matches so far this season, an average of 2.96-a-game. In all my years of football, I've never seen anything like it. I'm not sure what it could be put down to. I've heard people say that the defending in the Premier League has never been all that good anyway, and this year it must be especially bad. I think the problem is coming because defenders in this country are just getting a bit too big-headed. A lot of them have started to think they are better than they actually are. They are trying to do things that they just don't have the talent to pull off - and that's leading to all the mistakes we're seeing this season. Let's be honest here: defenders are usually really, really bad footballers. You know what I mean? The only reason most of centre-backs made it into the professional game is because they were bigger and stronger than the other kids in their age-group when they were growing up. Let's face it: most of them were educationally sub-normal school-bullies who loved kicking the crap out of the more skilful players on the playground. They are essentially sadists who love inflicting pain. That's how they got into the game in the first place, and that is still the only pleasure they continue to get out of it in the professional ranks. I've met very few centre-backs who weren't a bit sick in the head. I reckon a good percentage of them would have turned out like Charles Manson or Chopper Read had football not offered them a way out of their inevitable life of crime. None of them have any actual talent for the game. Don't get me wrong, punt a football high in the air and they'll clatter through the back of their own 92-year-old granny to head it clear. But put a football at their feet and tell them to pass it in a straight line to someone wearing the same coloured shirt - and you're asking for trouble. By the expression on their face, you might as well have asked them to explain Einstein's theory of relativity. The fact is that these numb-nuts just haven't got the brain-power to process anything beyond the most basic of instructions. Some of the defenders I have played with have honestly been so retarded that the gaffer has been forced to do two team-talks in the changing room before kick-off - a normal one for the midfielders and forwards, and one with pictures and grunting noises and heavy-metal music for the defenders. They are definitely not the most subtle, talented or intelligent breed. Most of them are only slightly more evolved than cavemen. And yet this season, for some strange reason, the overpaid, under-developed suddenly seem to think they have transformed overnight into Franz Beckenbauer. You see them trying all these little tricks and flicks and 50-yard passes - none of them are coming off, and most of the time their mistakes are leading to opposition goals. That's where these high-scoring matches are coming from. It's embarrassing, frankly. It's like when Ringo Starr begged The Beatles to let him try lead vocals on With A Little Help From My Friends - the results are just cringeworthy. These defenders should stick to what they're good at, just like Ringo. Let the midfielders like me keep things ticking on the bass, like George Harrison. Let the skilful little wingers make beautiful melodies on lead guitar, like Paul McCartney. Let the strikers apply the finishing touches with the shredding vocals, like John Lennon. Every man has his place - and Premier League defenders should stick to banging on their bongos like a chimpanzee, just like Ringo. Midfielders and strikers earn the big money for a reason - because they are the stars, the players that the fans pay the money to come and see. Defenders need to get back to what they do best - heading, hoofing and hacking. Getting the message through their four-inch skulls will be the difficult bit. Until next week, PB. http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/09/money_for_nothing_chicks_for_f.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/09/money_for_nothing_chicks_for_f.php Wed, 30 Sep 2009 12:21:11 +0000 Alright? Superb Manchester derby at the weekend, eh? A great advert for the passion and madness of the Premier League. That must have been completely mental for the lads to play in. You need a special sort of mentality to play in a derby match, I reckon. It is a totally different game of football. Almost a totally different sport at times. The week before the match you start to feel the pressure building up and building up. You can tell it is a match that means so much to the fans. The local newspapers start the ball rolling with all these stories about derbies from the past, and it just whips the fans into some sort of frenzy. I find it a bit weird, actually, how mad for it the fans get around the time of derby matches. I have this image of them, stumbling down the street like zombies with their arms outstretched, with their eyes glazed-over and foam dribbling from their mouths. Thankfully, us players very rarely actually meet any real fans like them, because most of us don't actually live anywhere near the city or town we play in. While the zombie fans seem to live on top of each other in those crumbling terraced houses that surround the stadium, us players prefer to live 30 miles away in a nice leafy suburb where we can get a bit of peace and quiet. As the derby approaches, the gaffer usually gives the squad a little pep-talk, reminding us all how much the match means to the fans and that even though your city rivals are 12 places below you in the league and no threat whatsoever, this will be the most important match of the season. Some players are just made for derby matches. For some lads, the foreign boys especially, it is just another match. I'm not saying they're stupid or anything, but they can't get it into their head that this match is anything more than just another game. During the warm-up, they will be laughing and joking around as usual. They comb their hair and wave to their family in the stands, perhaps even have a friendly chat on the halfway line with an old team-mate currently playing for the opposition. Meanwhile, the local lads are giving it 100% focus. They stand in the middle of the pitch, granite-jawed, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, chanting some weird mystic mantra to themselves in this disturbing, animalistic voice that seems to come from a very dark place in the pit of their stomach. Those are the lads who you really want on your side in a derby match. Those mentally-unstable characters who would literally saw off their arm and throw it at an opposition striker if it meant denying him a goal-scoring opportunity. Remember that image of Roy Keane stood over Alf-Inge Haaland, phlegm flying out of his mouth, veins bulging in his temples as he screamed his satisfaction at the knee-high tackle that had supposedly just ended the Norwegian's career? That is the sort of character you want by your side in a derby match. That is the sort of character the fans love to see fighting their corner. They might be mentally unstable, but they seem to understand how much a derby match means to the everyday fan. There aren't many of those sorts of players about nowadays. I think that maybe the fans might see myself as one, I don't know. Perhaps they look at me and say: "You know, I'm glad we've got Pharrell Bell playing for us against the scum on Saturday. He understands what it means to the fans. He's one of us." I hope so. Anyway, it was a cracking Manchester derby and it has really got me fired up for our next derby match. Hopefully the Gaffer will see that I am the sort of player who can raise my game another notch in these high-pressure matches and see that I can do a job in these unique sporting occasions. Because although Pharrell Bell might live in a nice five-bed mansion in the suburbs instead of a two-up, two-down council house with an outside toilet, he has never lost touch with the working-class fan. http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/09/a_little_local_difficulty.php http://blogs.soccernet.com/thissportinglife/archives/2009/09/a_little_local_difficulty.php Tue, 22 Sep 2009 09:44:14 +0000