In my mind’s eye I remember it all. John Roberts, the Guardian’s northern-based football writer, had come down on a rare visit to the sports desk in London. I was a new boy on the subeditors’ desk. Everyone was pleased to see John: he was that kind of bloke.
While he was there, the chief sub wondered, could he perhaps look at a news agency story from his beat that had just come in. It could have been anything: the latest signing by Bob Paisley or Malcolm Allison or the latest misadventure of George Best. Instead of giving it the once‑over or adding a sentence or two, he walked over to a quiet corner, picked up an office phone and started a long call. By the end he had the full story. There was an air of amazement in the room.
