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Dennis Signy OBE is bravely entering the blogosphere — he describes himself as a 'dinosaur' when it comes to technology.
He was a former wartime cub reporter on the Hendon and Finchley Times at £4-a-week and became group editor for 17 years in the late Sixties. He served in Intelligence Corps as a Sergeant in Forties
and learned to drive up the Khyber Pass.
He was a football writer in national newspapers for five decades, is author of several football books and former general manager of Brentford FC, former chief executive of Queen's Park Rangers FC and
former chairman of the Football Writers Association.
As I return to the fold after 78 days in hospital and the loss of three stone in weight, I can only thank the myriad well wishers who contacted my family and to repeat the quote of Mark Twain, the American author and humourist, who once wrote: "The report of my death has been greatly exaggerated".
IF any executive of Specsavers, who run those splendid TV adverts, reads this and cares to contact me, I have an idea for a new campaign that could prove to our mutual advantage.
THERE were hair-raising moments galore as I learned to drive in a 15 cwt truck on the Khyber Pass years go, with buses and lorries careering round corners towards me at speed with dozens of excitable Indians hanging out of the windows.
Over the years I have regaled family and friends with the show stopping news that I learned to drive up the Khyber Pass during an undistinguished career in khaki as 14894617 Sergeant Signy Sahib. The only action I saw was in the Punjabi riots soon after the end of the war when an excitable young man stuck a knife in my right hand - the remnant of a scar is still visible.
There are signs of World Cup fever in our staid suburban neck of the woods. Pennants flutter from the sides of cars.Flags of St George are proudly displayed outside houses. Fabio Capello, the England manager, seems to have inspired a level of expectancy in the land that the Three Lions can emerge triumphant.
Take a close look next time you see the oldest man in Britain on the TV news. He's usually 108, invariably from Scotland and inevitably is holding a glass of Scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other. "Crikey", I mutter to myself. "I've got a few years left then".
Each Saturday in the football season, as a result of a series of gaffes over the years, I am subjected to a severe sartorial test by Mrs S and eldest daughter Julie before I am allowed to appear in public. Despite this, last weekend I found myself confronted in deepest Cheshire with a chap wearing an identical cashmere sports jacket.
IN her heydays as a no-nonsense magistrate -- a trait she has carried into our family life - Mrs S was allocated many football hooligan cases at Tottenham Court and would come home to tell me of the banning orders imposed on fans she had surprised with her knowledge of life on the terraces when they offered a futile defence.
My CV records a variety of modest achievements as a newspaper editor, football writer and author and charity worker ... but no mention of the days when I stood accused of a variety of offences ranging from housebreaking to assault.
When I wrote A History of QPR in 1969 the book had the unusual distinction of being three managers out of date when it was published. Quite a blow for a writer who prides himself on being first with the news.
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