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.

The recent spell of hot weather has led me to recall an assignment I was sent out on in 1987 in the Sahara Desert.

We had received reports that a new Centre Parcs built in the middle of the desert was facing closure because it kept repeatedly being mistaken for a mirage.

I was despatched to Egypt where I met up with a contact I had first encountered many years ago in a smoky gambling den in the back streets of Cairo. Samir was his name, a lazy eye, clubbed foot, smoked black Russian cigarettes and had a penchant for killing small monkeys.

I had won from him a solid gold pocket watch in a game of chance – namely who could urinate the highest in the gents toilets.

I arrived at Cairo airport hoping that he had forgotten about the aforesaid timepeice. As I exited Arrivals and passed the hordes of people waiting with names on bits of card, I noticed one of them which read: “I want my watch back, Ralph” – good afternoon, Samir.

Waiting outside was a ship of the desert (that’s a camel, children), ready to take us to the Pyramids, my starting point. I told Samir about the story and he smiled knowingly. I set out on my own into the vast open desert, equipped with rations of Pop Tarts, vodka and Just Juice.

Lizards plagued my first night, the scaly little rats! You would have thought they’d have been tired out from dancing on the sand all day. You see, because the sand is so hot they raise their feet off the ground to keep them cool. Two legs at a time, a bit like a dog urinating twice.

Though dehydrated and hungry, total professional that I am, I came up with a means in which to file copy. I noticed an aeroplane fly over, which had the logo of my employers on the side, which was delivering the English papers to Cairo.

As soon as you could say Jack Robinson, I whipped out a mirror, and heliographed a 1,000-word think piece in the hope that the pilot would be able to take it down, and with any luck, eventually come and rescue me – but only after I had completed my quest.

The journey through the hot desert became increasingly entertaining as the hallucinations got more and more vivid. At one point I engaged in mortal combat with a giant scorpion, had a ride on a rollercoaster and re-enacted the Moon landing.

At last I came across an oasis. In my time I have been known to frequent the odd watering hole, but this was like none that I have ever been to before – rather like walking into a Yates’s Wine Lodge for the first time. But to my horror the oasis was dry – a bit like their most recent album, the youngsters tell me.

I then remembered an old trick that my grandfather taught me. To keep your mouth wet you suck on a pebble. There were no pebbles about so I sucked on Samir’s pocket watch. To my amazement, this worked.

It was then I set eyes on my prize, big glass globes sticking out of the sand, like a huge crystal bra. I entered the establishment and was greeted by a sight seen only before in the Mel Gibson cinematic masterpiece Mad Max – Welcome to the Thunder dome.

I was brought before their leader, a charming lady of about 40 summers, who wore nipple clamps and a mohican haircut. I was thrust into an arena and instructed to exchange blows with a huge chap with a chainsaw and a booming laugh like that of the actor Brian Blessed.

I told them that I was a British journalist and informed them that such an action on my part would be in gross violation of the Code of Practice.

This didn’t seem to butter any parsnips with this motley crew of desert nomads as the huge gorilla of a man started to attack me.

But ever resourceful, I took out my press card, and threw it like a Ninja. It struck my opponent in the temple (NB to subs – on his head, we were already in a temple). He fell to the ground and I was hailed the champion.

As a result of this victory I was married to their leader and reigned supreme in the desert for the rest of the year, until I decided that I missed the tippety-tap and ping of the typewriter too much.

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