Dick Dismore I WAS so sad to hear of the death of my old friend and colleague Graham Ball. He was a kind and gentle man and a fine journalist. During his time on the Sunday Express, we spent many a (long) lunchtime together, often with the legendary Picture Editor Terry Evans and Night Editor Andy Hoban. There was a wine bar tucked away in an alley in the City of London where a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc would magically appear on the bar as we walked in (never red – no one wants purple teeth at afternoon conference). Graham, a man of roguish charm, would regale us with stories of his adventures mixing with television’s A-list while he was a columnist on the Mirror. That time fattened up a contacts book that could produce stories to surprise and delight years later when he joined us on the Express. I remember one Thursday asking him to write a Comment piece on some long-forgotten development in television. I waited … and waited … and finally, on Saturday morning, shaving the deadline closer than a Turkish barber, it arrived: a beautifully-crafted piece ghosted out of Ray Galton, one half of the script writing team behind such gems as Hancock’s Half Hour and Steptoe and Son. I had had a fallback plan, of course. It was, alas, necessary with Graham, who had a tendency to go Missing In Action occasionally. But the plan wasn’t necessary. The piece was brilliant. Another time, when the Elgin Marbles debate flared up yet again, I gave Graham a copy of a speech by Neil MacGregor, then Director of the British Museum, arguing against the return of precious artefacts to the countries they came from on the ground that they were safer here and could be viewed by anyone on the internet. Graham delivered his article addressing all MacGregor’s points and adding his own flourish. He signed it, “By Graham Ball, Antiquities Correspondent”. One last story. Meeting him for lunch one day, I found him staring into the window of a tailor’s shop. “What are you looking at?” I asked. “That suit,” he said. “I’m going to buy it.” “Well, don’t waste time looking at it,” I said, “we’re late for lunch.” “You don’t understand,” said Graham. “It’s made of linen and once I’ve put it on, it will never look like this again.” That was Graham: raffish, sly, whimsical, erudite and a much under-rated scribe. I shall miss him.