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"So it was off to the barber's for a shaved head"

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 of Ralph D’Beeryget.


What with Euro 2000 and the nation going football mad I have been led to recall the time when I went undercover and joined Combat 18 for an investigative piece on football hooliganism.

It was the summer of 1986 and England were playing in the World Cup in Mexico. At the time football hooliganism in this country had reached its full maturity and my news editor decided that it would make a good tale if one of his reporters were to befriend and mix with the hooligans.

It would be a job full of risks and the reporter chosen may have to face the fact that he could die. That morning a white envelope had been placed on my typewriter.

So it was off to the barber’s for a shaved head and down to C&A for a thug-like bomber jacket.

I had been told by my local shoe-shine man that Combat 18 was putting together a little trip to South America. He even told me where they met. That night, I made my way through the East End of London, stepping over dead cats, starving chimney sweeps and common whores.

At last I came to a small hall and was ushered in by a burly gent with a Swastika tattooed on his forehead.

Inside it was like being at a Right Said Fred fan convention. I was asked who I was and there and then decided to come up with the name Big Ralph. I was then introduced to the others, including Big Tony, Big Mark, Big Dave and Big Tarquin.

Their goal was to cause as much aggravation to the Argentinians as possible – the memory of the Falklands was still very much with them. I didn’t like to show off and tell them that I was actually there during the conflict as a reporter.

After many nights of heavy drinking, drug-taking and putting petrol bombs through front doors, I was eventually accepted by these damned dirty apes.

On the same day that Bobby Robson named his 22-man squad, Big Tony gave me the news that I had made their squad and it was off to Mexico.

The plane journey was long and arduous – drunk and drugged up, my colleagues decided to molest the air hostesses, assault every businessman and at one point take temporary charge of the plane.

Once there, all hell broke loose. I thought these men were known to discriminate – but not with violence. People of all colours and nations got caught up in the flak.

It was all becoming too much for me. I decided to find the local paper and send some cops over. At last, I found it but was refused entry by the security guards. I waved my press pass but, due to my new appearance, they did not believe it was me. Damned foreigners!

As fate would have it, England’s next game was against the Argies. The chaps had had a good struggle before the game and had taken up their positions. I was there with them shouting when I heard someone call: “Ralph D’Beeryget, you old tosser.”

I turned around and it was Squiffy Mayhew, the chief sports writer from our paper.

He said: “What are you doing here, Ralph? On a freebie from the paper are we? Like the new haircut.”

As Maradonna’s hand of God punched the ball into the England net, the hand of Big Tony punched me in the face.

I came out of my coma three months later and took a flight back to England, where I was given a right volley by my news editor.

He asked why I hadn’t sent any copy over and, after hearing that I was in a coma said that that was no excuse. Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother.

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