In 2003, I was asked if I could go to a BBC Sport conference on behalf of the whole East Midlands area. I felt flattered. I was only 24. I didn’t do that much sport apart from putting up local football reports on the local BBC website on Saturdays. Why me? I must be doing well, I thought. They must trust me.

“No-one else can go,” came the reply. I was the sixth choice, as far I could tell, but I agreed to go, regardless. Two nights in Glasgow, where I’d never been, everything paid for. What the hell. Yeah, I’ll go even if I was at the bottom of the list.

I arrived at the Arthouse Hotel in the evening. It was the most elegant hotel I’d ever been to. It was a former 19th century townhouse and had a birdcage lift, stained-glass windows, tiled walls and high ceilings. Swish. I dumped my bag in my plush white room with a colourful abstract painting on the wall, and went down to the bar and restaurant on the ground floor.

The restaurant had that paired back look, exposed brick walls and wooden floors with warm atmospheric lighting. Ken Stott, the actor, was at the corner of the bar reading the newspaper. He had a whisky and a cigarette on the go. He looked like he wanted to be left alone. There was a relaxed feel about the place. A dozen or so diners chatted quietly. I felt a little frisson of excitement about it all.

Six years before I’d been sharing a room with my dad and another electrician in a grotty hotel in Paddington. I’d been working as Dad’s labourer to earn some extra cash for uni. It’s fair to say it was not the life for me. Nor was it a life Dad wanted for me. But now I was staying in this beautiful building, and the next day I was due to meet some important people at the BBC. My career was taking off.

I sat down at a table and was greeted by a young waitress, who I presumed was part-time, perhaps she was doing her A-Levels. She handed me a menu and while I scanned it, she placed a small basket of bread in the centre of the table.

I couldn’t decide on what to eat. This was before I stopped eating meat so I was overwhelmed with the choices. The waitress returned and lit a candle, placing it near the basket. She then left to give me more time to decide what to eat. I finally settled on a burger and put the menu down. At this point I noticed the bread basket had caught fire. I was hypnotised briefly as it burned slowly.

“Oh,” I thought. “I’d better…” I looked round, but the waitress was busy taking another order, and the other customers were so wrapped up in their conversations I didn’t want to alarm them. I looked over to the bar which had a queue and the only staff member was rushed off his feet. Ken Stott had gone, and had left the newspaper, not that it was any use right now. I stood and calmly picked the basket up. The flames were small, but showing no signs of stopping. I walked to the bar and waited to be served.

I often wonder why my fight or flight didn’t kick in that day, after all, I was holding something that was on fire. Ultimately, and perhaps this is the most English thing I can say about the matter, I just didn’t want to cause a fuss.

There was one more person ahead of me in the queue. Half the basket was on fire. The bread was getting scorched. But still I waited. And then finally, “Hello sir,” said a young man with a warm Glaswegian accent. “How can I help?”

I paused, before presenting the flaming bread basket. “Erm… This is on fire.”

I did it in a way that someone would do if they were delivering a surprise. Ta-da! I mean, it was a surprise, but it wasn’t a bunch of flowers or a bottle of wine.

“Oh shit!” he said, taking it from me and shoving it under a gushing cold tap with the appropriate urgency needed when something is on fire. 

Breathing fast, and with his cortisol levels up, he looked directly at me with an ambiguous expression. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted a high five or more likely an explanation.

“I’ll just go back to my table now,” I said, leaving everything up in the air.