I'M often asked how I cope with the pressures of being Foreign Secretary at a time of turmoil unprecedented in our post war history.

One answer is that I'm not sure, but somehow I seem to manage. I take a lot of exercise and I'm blessed by being able to sleep anytime, anywhere, standing up if necessary.

There's another answer too. And here I'm really not joking. It is that for me the stress levels from being a senior Minister, and the town's MP are literally much less than following Rovers, especially when I'm at a game.

I bet if I were wired up, my blood pressure and other indicators would show pretty normal levels before a key Commons debate or live media interview; but at a Rovers' game the needle of the graph would go off the scale.

I guess there's an extra reason for this. I am at least a volunteer as the town's MP, and Foreign Secretary. I love both jobs; but at some stage in the future both will end. But there's no escape as a Rovers' supporter. The agony, the agony, the agony, and just occasionally the ecstasy will be with me to my grave.

Take last Saturday, the game against Manchester City at their new stadium. Forty-four minutes of nailbiting; more chances for Rovers than for City but none of them leading to anything daft like a goal, and then the inevitable - which we all really knew was going to happen, and happen at the worst possible moment in any game.

One minute before half time, City stole a goal. It was a very good goal, right in front of us, entirely fair. But it made for a dire half time, to compound a very gloomy first half. A mother had brought her two children to the game, as a "treat". The kids, however, were anything but happy. I sought to console them by telling them that supporting Rovers was 'character building', taught you about life and its knocks -- all that stuff -- exactly what I used to tell my children when they were younger.

The mum thought this was a great line, but the children were completely underwhelmed by this "insight" and looked at me with pity, that any grown-up could pretend that there was some silver lining in losing.

But there is. And in a masochistic kind of way, I think I enjoy away fixtures as much as I do home ones. There's a stronger camaraderie among the fans, and a remarkable gallows humour when we are really getting a mauling. The singing's better, and if all else fails these days and the game gets really boring, a lively discussion can break out about standing. (Yes, in case you asked, I've had one of those letters too!)

There was another 33 minutes of depression in the second half. But in the event, and against all my expectations, we got a goal as Dickov was fouled, and then got the penalty. But there's still no escape, is there? Twelve minutes, lasting 12 hours, and finally I allowed myself a cheer. One point, and no longer ignominiously bottom of the table.

But my main emotion was exhaustion and annoyance with myself that it matters so much -- and a very loud banging in the head.

Do you know what it feels like to be right in front of a man banging a very large drum incessantly for an hour and a half, who was joined by another man with another drum doing the same thing for the last 45 minutes? Wrung out by another draining experience as a Rovers addict, the work in my Foreign Secretary red box on the way back was, by contrast, simple and straightforward.