The really successful journalists are marked out by their enviable knack of being in the right place at the right time.

Just think of John Sargeant at Thatcher's resignation. One moment an anonymous hack, the next he's on the gravy train to Have I Got News For You and dance-offs against Gary Rhodes and Cherie Lunghi.

Call it luck, call it a sixth sense but being at the heart of the action when a massive story breaks can bring fame, fortune and, in exceptional cases, a 'well-done' from your editor (actually, forget the latter).

So yesterday morning, when the story of Roy Keane's sudden resignation broke, and I found myself sat alone in the Middlesbrough press room waiting for Gareth Southgate, I felt about as close to the action as the guy in the Goodyear blimp at the Cup Final.

I thought about what the rest of the North-East press pack would be doing up at Sunderland - grilling Niall Quinn about who said what to whom (or who texted what to whom as it turned out).

As they went into a feeding frenzy over the biggest sports story of the month, I gazed out on the snow-covered training pitches of Hurworth.

The Boro ground staff were using some Thunderbirds-style machinery to clear the playing surfaces. Snowflakes continued to fall, it was beautiful, tranquil but death to a journalist.

At Sunderland the inquest was in full swing, like an Agatha Christie whodunnit thriller. Whereas I'd stumbled into a Chekhov play where b***** all was happening against a bleak winter backdrop.

By the time Gareth (after being the only newspaper journalist there I feel that we're now on first name terms) arrived, a TV and local news radio reporter had also turned up.

The Boro manager scanned the pitiful turnout (insert your own Riverside attendance gag here). Bear in mind, a Middlesbrough pre-match press conference would usually attract at least three national TV broadcasters, local and regional radio reporters and a fair number of sports writers.

"Where is everyone?" Gareth joked, acknowledging that today Boro weren't the centre of the North East sporting world.

The TV guy and the radio lass asked their questions and left the room. So a Premier League Football Club's press conference kicked off with just your Northern Echo reporter at the scene - was this my John Sargeant moment?

Events now became slightly surreal. Apart from Boro's watchful media manager, for the next 20 minutes it was just my new best mate Gareth and me. But rather than the two of us have a chat over a coffee about potential singings and this weekend's match, Gareth - ever the professional - sat behind his desk and conducted the session as if it were in front of 30 reporters.

I swear at one point he scanned the room to see if someone else was going to ask a question!

To see if I got the scoop of the century, you'll have to read Saturday's edition of The Northern Echo.

Until then, I'm dreaming of Saturday evenings when I'm dancing the foxtrot in front of Brucie & Tess.