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.
Ralph D’Beeryget, formerly of the Panamanian Post and the Nagasaki Herald, has faxed HoldTheFrontPage with this missive, prompted by the events in Sierra Leone.

The fact that Sierra Leone has been back in the news certainly brought back a few memories for yours truly. Sierra Leone! Sounds like a limited edition Ford car, doesn’t it?

Of course, many years ago when I was over there, a family car of this ilk, with its stereo cassette-player and five-speed gearbox, was the stuff that dreams were made of.

It was the summer of 1963. We had heard reports that people were in a state of panic, after a volcano, shipped in from Italy in the late 19th century as a gift to symbolise a mutual understanding of nuclear physics between the two countries, had erupted.

So I packed my suitcase with emergency rations of Scotch and cigarettes, along with my trusty Martini Henry rifle.

This fine weapon, which once belonged to my grandfather, a homesteader of Dutch origin (hence my second name D’Beeryget), was fired in anger during the Boer War, after he went to complain about the noise.

Yes, my father was a Boer, and some people have since remarked that I am a bit of a Boer, and ironically enough, they are not far wrong.

On arrival in Sierra Leone, it seemed that no-one knew where this volcano was. So I decided to set off on my own through the wild and mountainous forests in search of it.

It was a rough night under canvas, as I had to contend with tree-dwelling bears called Minties, creatures with a ruthless streak comparable only to the honey bears of the Borneo forests. A sort of Satanic breed of Ewok, very sharp claws and eyes too close together.

As I awoke to the morning sun, I could make out a man wielding a spear in my face and wearing nothing more than a cloth over his privates – a native of the little known Tabac tribe, a group of locals with a reputation for kidnapping and flambéing western tourists.

I was taken to their camp, stripped bare and given a local tipple made from crushed nuts – whose, I don’t know.

It was at this point that I noticed one of the younger men had tattoo rings around his fingers. I asked what this denoted to which the chief told me that each ring represented the number of times he had had sex with a man. Didn’t get a wink that night either.

On the third day, I decided that it was high time I sent some copy over to the office.

But the only means of communication at hand to the Tabacs was through smoke signals.

But they gamely signalled my 2,000-word think piece in the direction of the capital Freetown, although I had to pick them up on a few spelling errors, “cataclysmic” and “moribund”, to name but a couple.

I asked the Tabacs where this bloody volcano was. This must have hit a nerve because soon afterwards, they tied me to a tree and began to sharpen a knife.

It transpired that they wanted my skin so they could make shoes and gloves.

Just at the point where the knife pricked my flesh, a group of charity workers on a fact-finding tour approached and started to take photographs.

The attention of the Tabacs drawn, I hastily got out my Swiss Army knife, cut through the ropes and made tracks, but only after I had grabbed the camera from the hand of one of the slain charity workers.

Imagine my delight. An in-depth story about life with the Tabacs, with pictures. Not quite the brief from my news editor, but a good tale nonetheless, I thought.

I contacted the office and sent over some words. Right, I said, any idea where this volcano is? It was then I was told that there was no volcano – it was just a cunning ploy to get me out of the office.

But the moral of this is that when you go out to cover one story, you may end up coming back with an even better one, although my employers on that particular paper did not seem to share this view, as on my return to Blighty, my 4,000-word story had been used as a page 27, world news-in-brief.

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