'Can someone interview Kevin Moran about Darren O'Dea? His number's here.'
I was on the football today and knew this one was heading my way, hard as I tried to scurry under my desk and hide out beside the phone lines and bins beneath.
Pathetic as it sounds, I haven't interviewed anyone in... well... a long fucking time.
Starting off at this journalism lark I was adept at it. If not quite Jeremy Paxman, I could hold my own against the Eircom League managers and Premiership plodders. An exclusive with the Blackburn club secretary was a high point.
Then we lost contracts and the work became more banal, before I spent three years on the 'entertainment' package which was handy for the film screenings and free gigs.
Following that was a spell in purgatory, writing up TV schedules, until I inched up the ladder to an editorial position that was really just mutton dressed as a copy, paste and edit job.
Knowing that there's only so much bluffing a man can do before his mind gets lost, I recently started a work blog. Football, of course, as it's well within the comfort zone. The boss doesn't mind my words and feedback has been encouraging, so with this in mind I picked up the phone.
No answer. Sweet.
An hour later. No answer. Sweet.
After lunch, one more try and I'm out. He answers. Fuck.
'Yeah ok but can you make it quick?'
I muddled my way through three and a half minutes of easy interrogation on the subject of the Celtic defender, and then the Stephen Ireland controversy of which the entire isle is surely bored to fuck.
It didn't go terribly and I got two news stories out of it, having to listen back to my own idiot voice*, but fuck if I didn't get off that phone a redder and sweatier yet slightly proud radge bastard.
*Am I really a little bit of a posh cunt?