Saturday morning. A busy national newspaper sports desk in the heart of London.
A phone rings.
It's the sports news editor's phone. He takes all the calls.
Unfortunately he isn't here.
Everyone puts their head down, pretending they can't hear it.
Breep, breep.
Breep, breep.
Breep, breep.
Damn it. I press the call intercept button, wondering if it is going to be our boxing correspondent telling me something about Ricky Hatton that I don't really need to know.
Or maybe one of our football writers asking about a copy order for a game, a query I am in no position to answer.
"Sports desk," I say into the phone.
It's always sports desk. I've been sent on courses about how to answer the phone with telesales trainers specifically invited to teach us hacks some manners. "Hello, Daily Splurge sports desk. Nick speaking. How may I help you?"
Sod that.
"Hiya, my name is John and I am an executive member of the Arsenal supporters club," says the person on the other end of the line in a cockney accent.
Oh God. Worst case scenario. A member of the public. A punter. A reader. I stifle a scream.
"Oh right, what can I do for you?"
"Well, it's like this. Your paper printed last Sunday that Arsene Wenger was going to sign the Dutch national goalkeeper. Then on Monday another paper said he was going to sign the Russian national goalkeeper. Then on Wednesday yet another paper said that he was going to sign the German national goalkeeper. It's now Saturday and we haven't signed one of them. Can you tell me what's going on?"
Great. Bloke thinks I have a direct line to Arsene's innermost thoughts.
"I'm not one of our soccer writers so I can't really give you any insight," I say, knowing full well it won't placate him. "All I can say is that when our reporter wrote the story he had probably had a very good tip off from one of his sources. The thing is that at this stage of the season stories move on very quickly. It might be that the agent of the Dutch keeper was asking too much money, or that he had a better offer elsewhere. I can't talk for the other papers."
"Yeah, but we have to sign a keeper, don't we? We have three keepers at the moment and they are all crap. That Fabianski is the worst keeper I've ever seen. I mean, why hasn't Arsene replaced these keepers and got a really good one yet?"
I think of my most diplomatic response to Jon the Gooner. I have to, because telling him to f*** off back to the Emirates and that I don't give a monkey's dongle about Arsenal isn't going to get him off the phone any quicker. Worse still, it could end up in a complaint to the newspaper. And newspapers don't like complaints.
Finally I say, "I know, I know. I am afraid that is the lot of the football supporter. Take my club. We sold our top scorer at the start of last season and have been waiting until now to replace him - and we are still nowhere closer to doing so."
He ponders this.
"Oh... right. And who do you support?"
"Bristol Rovers."
Silence.
Eternal, unnatural, can't hear a pin drop, silence.
I get that a lot.
Finally, he twigs. "Oh yeah, haven't they just signed David James and had Steve Coppell take over as manager."
Aaaaaaaaaaargh!
I don't think I've said that out loud but I can't be sure. I am getting funny looks from all around me.
"Um, no, that's Bristol City."
"Yeah, Bristol."
"No, I support Bristol Rovers."
"Oh... ok then. Thanks for talking to me. Bye."
And Jon the Gooner is gone.
And I am feeling just a little bit peeved.
I shouldn't. Because that is the lot of the Rovers fan. The Gashead as we are known.
And I have been experiencing similar conversations for more than 40 years.
I imagine the same will be true until I die.
But there is always hope, isn't there? A dream. A moment when one day you answer the phone and Jon the Gooner actually says: "Oh yeah, Bristol Rovers. Great team. Skinned us last season. What do you reckon your chances are in the Champions League this season?"
