London SW6

Off, then, to Fulham once again, just in time to catch the sun going down and right into my eyes. Without sounding like El Pompo, the world's most pompous man, this is what football journalism is all about. Five minutes from time with Fulham and Liverpool drawing 0-0, my copy's due.
I've written a 138-word introduction extolling the virtues of Fulham's defensive prowess and berating Liverpool's luck. Then with my finger poised over the SEND button - literally since I've connected to whatever the "remote queue" is - Yossi Benayoun scores. To my left the travelling Kop goes wild. To my right Fulham fans despair. Around me, the Sunday papers' hacks' faces go ashen and, as one, we chorus "fuck". I feel the sort of body-quaking adrenaline jolt that only hurts afterwards and two minutes later I've written another 138 words describing Benayoun's goal and celebrating Liverpool's luck . So, lest we forget, has everybody else, except for the man from the Mail On Sunday who'd already been ordered to file.
After that, the press conference can only be fun. Everybody's a bit giddy in truth. Roy Hodgson, the gentlemen's gentleman, gets all cross with the man from The Observer ("I don't know if you're deliberately misunderstanding me, but...") and he's not especially enamoured with me when I ask him if the defeat means the talk of Fulham for Europe is idle, claiming "nobody's been talking about Europe here." Alas, at that point I hadn't read the programme which mentions Europe more often than the Michelin Guide To Europe.
Rafa Benitez is in cocky gibberish mode which is how I like him. I ask if he doubted three points when the board went up for added time (I'd like to have told him about my never-to-be-seen 138-word introduction, but best keep shtoom, eh?). His answer makes no sense but probably meant yes and no. Colin from the Sunday Express gives me a lift to Putney Bridge, the tube's full of drunken Scousers and I get home in time for wine and Match Of The Day/Family Guy.