Most newspapers have one, make fun of one and need one to talk about behind their back.
It’s the wizened old hack, travelling on the final journey in his or her long and illustrious career.
They’ve been there, done that. They are more cynical than Jock McCynical of Cynicalville, USA.
They growl at young cub reporters as they trot on their way to the Golden Wedding couple, and they moan when their 3,000-word epic is scythed to a 200-word short.
Welcome to the world fo Ralph D’Beeryget.

I read with great interest the exploits of the two Royal Marines who recently returned from becoming “the first men to walk to the North Pole unsupported”.

Far be it for me to put my little ice pick of doubt into their precipice of truth, but I achieved the same feat 20 years ago, but because I am a modest sort, I didn’t go bragging to the rags about how brilliant I was.

It was February, 1980, and reports had come into the newsroom that a big hole had been created in the ozone above the North Pole.

Initial reports claimed that the hole had been caused by a laser bolt, fired from the Death Star in George Lucas’s Star Wars film, that had somehow escaped from movie land and was ricocheting off several planets in our galaxy.

Plausible, but there was only one way to find out whether it was true. In the words of my news editor: “One big hole deserves another. Dispatch D’Beeryget… and make sure he keeps all his receipts this time!” Bloody news editors – no respect for the struggling artist.

Armed with rations of vodka and cup-a-soups and a suit made out of finest Persian cat, I took a jet plane to the tip of an iceberg on the outskirts of the North Pole. The scene was breath-taking, I was staring at God’s very own ice bucket.

Drawing on the skills I learned as a member of the SAS (The Society of Alcoholic Stuntmen), I decided to parachute onto the ice below.

But aaaargh! Huge drama! Parachute refused to open. Well, it didn’t refuse, I’d left it on the plane. I had to think fast and came up with an idea that was borne on the playgrounds of Britain on windy days. I undid all the buttons on my coat, except the top one, took my arms out of the sleeves and, holding the corners of the flapping garment, proceeded to glide down to earth like an Amazonian fruit bat.

However, my descent was a little more rapid than I would have liked and I would surely have been badly injured, but for a fishing Eskimo who broke my fall.

Having conveyed my sincere apologies to the family and helped myself to the contents of his keepnet, I set off into the distance.

I have to admit it was darned nippy – the sort of cold I had experienced only once before, on a long-haul flight to Rangoon, when I consumed one too many in-flight complimentary drinks and opened the main exit, believing it to be the toilet door.

After a day’s trekking through the snow, on tennis rackets given to me by Virginia Wade, I pitched my tent and sat down to a meal of a vodka ice lolly and a packet soup. By this time, I realised I had forgotten the bloody stove.

It was a restless night. The ice below me crackled and the wind shook the tent – a natural consequence of packet soup, I’m told.

On the second day, I had a nice surprise. I bumped into an old school friend from Oxford, Chuffy Winterbottom. He was practising to become a professional downhill skier and had gone to the North Pole for training. I told him about the story and he agreed to come with me and help carry my gear.

Soon afterwards, another drama unfolded. A huge polar bear, apparently distressed by the sight of Chuffy in his all-in-one lycra body suit, charged the poor fellow. Talk about Sherpa Tensing! Rectum tensing would be more accurate.

To my horror, the bear picked up Chuffy by the skis and devoured him like a cocktail sausage-on-a-stick. Fortunately for me, its appetite was sated and it turned and fled.

Of course, I was deeply distressed. A dear old friend had died, but, ever the professional, I realised I had a great story and quickly came up with a method of filing my copy. I decided to drink copious amounts of liquids, and then widdle my copy into the snow, in the hope that another expedition would find it and relay it back to the paper.

After three days, I felt well and truly drained, mentally and physically.

But there was still no sign of that hole in the ozone. By now, I was looking up to the heavens every few minutes and this must have been when I fell over. It appeared that my leg had simply dropped off through frostbite.

At this point, I lost consciousness, but when I awoke I was in a beautiful ice cavern and could hear the haunting strains of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

I had been rescued by the much-fabled ice fairies. Delightful winged nymphs with faces resembling Melinda Messenger’s. They nursed me back to health and, miraculously, my leg grew back. They also told me that I had reached the North Pole, at which point I decided to abandon my original brief, believing my achievement to be a far better story than some piffling hole in the Earth’s atmosphere.

And would you believe it? When I got back to the office, there was some new boy sitting in my chair. Furthermore, the news editor did not believe a word of my story and promptly gave me a news in brief about some jumble sale to do. I don’t know why I bother sometimes.

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