On the face of it, I have got a job to kill for, working as a sports reporter being paid to watch professional football
But it does have its drawbacks.

1) I have to cover Brentford every week. OK, they play in red and white stripes and reside in the lower divisions, but it's still not the same, is it?
2) You get sent to places like Plymuff and are expected to be unbiased and objective! - and that's damn nigh impossible.

I have suffered the Argyle press box experience twice now, and it's not pleasant.

Fortunately Argyle have lost both times, 5-1 at home to Brentford on the opening day of last season, three years ago, and more recently on aggregate in the Coca Cola Cup just a few weeks back.

Working as a reporter, I don't normally declare my allegiance to the other scribes in the press box, but against the Greenies I do. You have to because throughout the game they are making snide comments about Exeter.

Little things like, during the 5-1 defeat for example, "We think this is bad but we could be reporting on Exeter" or "How many are Exeter losing by?" " Dunno mate, but they've been playing 20 minutes so they must be three down." Ha, bloody ha - well this type of thing goes on all match.

But let's backtrack to give you the full experience.

It all goes wrong on the drive down. The car wants to pull off at Exeter but you have to wrestle to keep it going.

Then as you get further into the Green half of the county and approach that ugly grey sprawling council estate they call a city, you become overcome with guilt - you know the only acceptable reason to go there is to see City. Watching Brentford play, even if it is work, is no excuse.

I feel slightly cheered by the time I reach the ticket office and pick up my press pass. "At least you're not getting any money out of me, you bastards, and if you think I'm going to write anything nice about you, think again."

When you walk into the press box you realise what you've let yourself in for.

At other grounds you are met by the club's official press steward, who gives you your free programme and team-sheet and sorts you out with a telephone if you need one. He's normally an old geezer who loves the club and does this as an unpaid hobby before he pops his clogs.

But at Plymuff I was greeted by none other than Harley Lawer. Yes, Mr Sunday Independent himself was the man who gave me my programme and team-sheet.

If you have ever wondered why Argyle receive so much favourable publicity in the West Country press, even though they're crap, I have the answer.

It is because the reporters don't actually watch the match. They spend the entire 90 minutes making silly schoolboy jokes about each other.

You think I'm kidding, don't you? But ten minutes into the second half of the Coca Cola match, one of their reporters sitting in the front row, turned round and asked "Which way are we kicking now?"

But the highlight of my Home Park experiences has to be the 5-1 match. Harley spent the game either with his head in his hands, or chasing a fly around the press box.

He was getting redder and redder in the face as no matter how hard he tried to swat it, it kept getting away from him.

It wasn't Harley's day and it wasn't his team's either. Still, never mind, Plymouth are a sleeping giant, they can attract Premiership crowds and, who knows, if the reporters at Home Park stay around long enough they might, just might, see them win the Devon Bowl.