Art of the past is in the telling of the story

Well, I do realise that I still have until July to be sacked, made redundant or sectioned, but it looks increasingly as if this landmark will somehow be reached.

(Don't count on it - Ed).

True, Scott never came back from the South Pole and Drake ended up in the briny off the Isthmus of Panama. But unlike these far greater men, my destiny will probably be to stumble on and maybe even past this signpost of fate.

A few weeks ago, a fellow 1949-er - truly a vintage year, my friends - took early retirement and cast off the shackles. Sports writer Chris Oldnall may not be quite ready for the Donkey Sanctuary, but his leaving certainly concentrated the mind apropos the relentless passage of time.

As you might imagine, his separation from the yoke proved to be the trigger for recollections of the Old Git School.

Things like "... and when we'd covered the flower show on a Saturday afternoon the results had to be typed up or the chief reporter would want to know why."

After a bit more "... and quite often you wouldn't leave the office until three on the Sunday morning", the inevitable conclusion was reached. As Max Bygraves used to say, fings ain't what they used to be.

And as for these kids these days, well...

Time may indeed be a mirror but it is one prone to a certain degree of refraction. For example, take one of Worcester's finest storytellers, former policeman Joe Walter of St John's.

Not only does he tell an amusing tale that invariably ends in a cracking punchline, but his stories are also skilfully constructed, with not a word wasted. That's a natural writer's talent, one with which Joe seems to be blessed.

However, I think that the years have, to some degree, sugar-coated a few of his stories. Just a slight covering, mind, nothing too excessive.

The way he talks about some of these old coppers from way-back-when, you'd be forgiven for thinking that they were all latter-day Dixons forever saying "evenin' all" and dropping in for a pale ale at the Star of India.

But only when off-duty, of course. What would Andy and Mary have said if George had deviated from the straight and narrow, not to mention the millions of fans who would feel dreadfully let down?

Dixon of Dock Green occupies a special place in my 50s childhood. Every Saturday night began with Six-Five Special, followed by George, crusty old Sergeant Flint and Grace Millard.

If I played my cards right and didn't act Tom Fool, this would be followed by The Billy Cotton Bandshow and then the big film.

Yippee - hope it's Stagecoach again...

So, when I found employment as a junior reporter/stupid boy at the Rugby Advertiser, my concept of policemen was that of a Dixon type, all smiles but with an occasional stern look that could reduce a villain to quivering blancmange before you could say "now come along quietly Chalkie, don't you cause no trouble."

I had only been working for a few weeks when, one morning, travelling to work on my Lambretta TV175, I saw a huge pall of smoke in the distance. The air was rent with the sound of loud bangs, reminiscent of a rook shoot.

Knowing that I was duty-bound to investigate, yet not sure of what to do when I got there, I headed towards the conflagration.

It was a barn blaze. The building had been reduced to a smoking ruin and the asbestos roof was completely gone. The noise had been caused by the sheets exploding in the intense heat. Several fire appliances were at the scene, along with a number of policemen.

I dismounted from my scooter and walked up to a sergeant. Trying to sound as professional as possible, I said: "Good morning sir, I'm from the Rugby Advertiser. Would you please mind telling me what has happened here?"

I can't tell you what his reply was - this is a family newspaper - but his retort comprised an intriguing amalgam of sex and travel.

Undeterred, I pressed the question. To my even greater surprise and shock, the sergeant repeated his command. He told me once again to combine sex and travel or he would book me for assault.

Can you imagine! There was me, a wide-eyed country lad of 16 from a two-street village in Warwickshire, reared on Hopalong Cassidy, Randolph Scott, The Lone Ranger and Sergeant Dixon, being sworn at by a grown-up.

And not just any old adult... a policeman to boot. How could this be - my father had always told me that it was only soldiers and navvies who swore. Not important people, oh no.

I can trace my entry into the real world with that encounter on the Leicester Road all those years ago. Yes, I fully realise that we all want to think about times gone by with misty eyes, but sometimes this myopia can be blurred with a rosy tint.

That is, after all, the appeal of programmes such as Heartbeat.

However, in real life, we tend to edit out the bad times and the good bits assume greater proportions than they ever originally had in the first place.

There was similar disillusionment once I settled down to office life. I was the youngest, and therefore became unpaid slave for the older reporters. "Boy, make my tea. Boy, fetch some sausage rolls... and then take this suit to the cleaners."

It was amazing. There I was, thinking that by joining a newspaper I was entering lofty, hallowed walls of learning and literature.

I imagined that the women would be bookish and demure, the men wearing battered, gravy-stained tweed suits and peering at proofs over half-moon glasses, discussing the merits of each other's prose.

"Sorry to trouble you old bean, but I do believe you have erroneously employed a split infinitive in your otherwise excellent obituary on Alderman Arnold Trumpington..."

What a hoot. From Thursday lunchtime, these supposed custodians of Dickens and Johnson could be found in the London House or Dirty Duck out of their skulls on Ansells.

And if you didn't run their errands when they had eventually lurched back to the office, there was every likelihood of a fight.

Yes, it actually happened once - one table smashed and two typewriters grievously damaged, keys sprinkled like cockleshells on a beach. Thankfully, it was cleared up by the time Mr Lawson came back from Rotary Club.

All right, they were good days in many respects. And, yes, such regimes did toughen you up. But I also remember periodical unhappiness, wondering whether I had chosen the right path in life.

Nevertheless, with the benefit of hindsight, I'm glad I stuck with it... nearly 40 years of not doing a proper job. Although I do have to say that, whatever they may claim, nostalgia's not what it's cracked up - or indeed - used to be.