John Pilger. Now there's somebody I wish I could say inspired me to become a journalist. You know, all left wing comment pieces, brave reporting in Iraq, that kind of thing.

But the time hass come for me to reveal the two men who inspired me to take up this trade.

John Jonah Jameson

Perry White

And yes they are the fictional editors of respectively, the Daily Bugle and the Daily Planet.

To put it another way, they are Spiderman and Superman's bosses.

I was young, I was impressionable. But let me clarify, I never liked the idea of line managing somebody of flew around in blue tights, there was something else I liked.

I liked the buzz of the (fictional) newsroom, the wisp of grey hair in each editor's hair, the top button undone and the tie pulled down as if to indicate the sweat and stress of the newsroom, the reporters running round with copy in hand, the cries of "get me that story", "stop the press", "get me the chief of police" and "hold my calls".

This was no boring office job, this was an adventure each and every day.

Most people become journalists because they want to crusade against oppression, because they are interested in the lives of lollypop ladies, or because they want to interview Take That. I wanted to be a journalist so I could wear a visor, a striped shirt and have a decanter of whisky next to the globe on my teak desk.

Obviously the reality is fairly distinct from the fantasy.

I've plied my trade on a variety of papers and I've only ever had to say something anything like "stop the press" once and I think it went something like:

"How much would it cost us if you binned those plates and chucked out the first few hundred papers while I re-stone the page? Two hundred quid? Ok do that then because this advert's worth six hundred. Cheers Bill."

Yes, in my 11 years as a journalist I can honestly say I've never wore a visor, never demanded to speak to the "Chief of Police" (although I once did a narcolepsy-inducing 60 Second Interview with a Chief Constable), and never shouted in earnest at reporters by their surnames (see Parker (Peter), Kent (Clarke), Lane (Lois).)

Tommorow could mark the realisation of a boyhood dream. I may not have the decanter of whisky, the shouty reputation nor the Superhero exclusives but, by God I'm getting a teak desk.

Yes, teak, a real man's desk.

My superior officer and I are are receiving (The Guardian's hand-me-down) desks made of a real wood. Not MDF. Not plastic. But teak.

I can see a whisp of grey hair appearing, a desire to wear a stripey shirt and I may even feel a bout of shoutyness coming on but I may have to direct it at the Deli staff who take 20 minutes making a toasty.

Stop the press(ed meat)