I have mentioned in my weekly football column in the paper that there is a website called NewsNow, which contains so much rumour and speculation that the average football fan can end up being totally confused.

It is further evidence of what a different world it is now, in almost every aspect, compared to the day I cycled down to Watford and parked my bike on the service road in front of the old West Herts Post building on The Parade by The Pond.

It was February 1960 and I was set for a job interview as I took off my cycle clips, brushed the bottoms of my trousers, took a deep, nervous breath and entered through the door into the reception and explained, with as steady a voice as I could muster to the young man who came to the counter, that I had an appointment with a Mr Dobson.

If I freeze the moment there, I wonder if a teenager reading that paragraph today, would know what I am talking about: “taking a nervous breath”, “mustering as steady a voice as possible”. From what I have observed talking to modern teenagers, such things as nerves do not seem to be in their lexicon. There seems to be a certain attitude prevalent today that if the person who interviews said teenager decides not to give the interviewee the job, he or she is regarded by the teenager as an absolute pillock, passing up such an opportunity.

As it happened, I had no need of nerves. Nor did I need my GCE certificates, which I had brought in a special envelope. Mr Dan Dobson opened the interview-room door next to the reception, greeted me with a handshake and ushered me in, with tones I was later informed came from Darlington, or was it Workington?

He looked like most of the depictions of Mr Pickwick: a rotund man with a bald head flanked by curly white hair. He also sported a green eye-shade, which you associated with journalists down the years yet I never saw anyone else wear them other than Dobby as we referred to him.

I I was worried I might have missed the intake-boat because most trainee journalists started out at 17 or 18.

“I am going to make an exception with you because you have worked in London and so have some 18 months experience out in the real world, which should give you the advantage,” he said, before trying to dissuade me that it was a rotten job, working all and unsocial hours. He then hit me with a list of the traumas of the job, which included the fact I would get “divorcees crying on my shoulder”.

As a normal heterosexual male, with very limited experience or contact with the opposite sex, Dobby’s promise sounded more like a sales pitch than a detraction.

I was sold and while the weekly wage of £3-15s (375p) was not exactly uplifting, I was offered the job and promptly accepted. I did not know at the time that as long as I had two arms and legs and talked with a degree of assurance, Dobby had made up his mind that the job would be mine. He had a vacancy and he had an applicant. Why complicate a busy life? Take the lad on.

I cannot pretend I saw myself carving out a career in local journalism. I never saw much further than the next article or pay-day, for such was my lack of confidence; structure and intent were to come later. The plain fact was that I enjoyed the work and delighted in going into the office every day.

My first target was to be taken on after my probationary six months. After a week, I suggested that I could write a record column, which I undertook every week for over three years. I still recall that in my first column I tipped an unknown singer for a hit. It was Jimmy Jones with a record called Handy Man. Ten days later it leapfrogged into the charts. Dobby smiled sympathetically when I pointed out I had hit pay dirt with my first column, because he could spot youthful enthusiasm and that is what got me through the six months to sign my indentures for three years.

In later years I saw young reporters arrive from university and noted they had a tick-sheet. This listed all types of stories from court cases to council meetings; from inquests to inquiries, and you had to cover at least one before you finished your apprenticeship. I remember a chief reporter calling out to one of them that there was a golden wedding in Kings Langley that needed covering.

“Oh I have done one of them already,” she replied, looking at her tick list.

It was pointed out to her that she was working for the Watford Observer, first and foremost, and that she should move in the direction of Kings Langley as soon as possible.

When I first started, I was taken by another, articled, young reporter to the local undertakers. There I was introduced to the managers and the following week I was instructed to take on these regular calls on my own. The various undertakers would tell me whom they were handling and if any of the people were of any significance. The paper had a policy that if you provided information on the deceased, you could have a free death notice in the hatches, matches and dispatches columns (births, marriages and deaths).

I would have had many ticks against obituaries on my “tick list” had that been in vogue, for I continued to undertake the obituaries for the best part of three years. I rated them a great training because you had to approach the bereaved with solemn caution and deference and then, when they had agreed to talk, which all but one did in my experience, you had to find something that set the deceased apart from the average person who was born, was schooled locally, worked and retired and died. The fact he or she “loved the grandchildren” did not set the deceased apart: but dig a little deeper and there was a dedicated charity worker; someone who had lost both parents in a car crash or had been a prisoner of war.

I had to be patient and probe because I learnt that, no matter how outwardly mundane someone’s life might appear, everyone has a story to tell.