Robert McNeil: Quick and the read: the legend of Brad Bullett, cowboy journalist

MANY of you were shocked by a recent revelation, in this very column, that I read a cowboy novel during my recent visit to Galloway. This, I admit, is a new thing. I've never been your man for Westerns. We grew up on them, but always preferred stuff about the Second World War. An amazing amount of our childhood was spent machine-gunning imaginary Nazis.

Westerns always had a love interest, which was tedious, and as we grew older we learned that, often, the injuns had been the good guys and the cowboys the bad. In my early teens, I was among the first at school to wear flares with the uniform (a grey, standard school trooser, only flared). Then, when everyone started wearing them, ever the rebel, I opted for straight-legged breeks and cultivated a cowboy look, because I figured it was manly in a timeless way.

Recently, as it happens, I revisited the same subject, arguing that cowboy chic was suitable for the middle-aged man uncomfortable in shin-length shorts. I don't advise going overboard, with a big belt buckle or boots with spurs on the heel. In most cases, a checked shirt is all that's needed. A checked shirt, happily enough, also imparts the impression that one is a practical handyman, another aspect of true manliness I'm keen to impersonate.

But what spurred all this cowboy stuff of late? It was Ryan Bingham, the country singer, whose evocations of the Texas plains stirred my soul. The Burd says I'm exceptionally suggestible, flitting from fad to fad. And yes, I suppose, this is the latest.

But I've enjoyed reading western novels, some so badly written they've a strange beauty. My literary hero, PG Wodehouse, had his cheap thrillers for relief, but I never got into these. Now I have my westerns. Part of the appeal is seeing loners as heroes, instead of axe-murderers. How often do you see the headline, "Police hunt sociable axe murderer"? Or, for that matter, "Police hunt clean-shaven axe murderer"? (The chin only becomes relevant when there's a beard attached).

But there's always been a bit of cowboy in me. A lovely chap called Bing Pringle and I used to sit together in the Hootsmon newsroom at the old building in North Bridge. Picture an ordinary day in an uncertain world. Someone from the newsdesk comes over and barks: "You there. McCumquat. That is your name, isn't it?"

"No, sir. It's McNeil."

"Hmm. Wonder why I thought it was McCumquat. Are you fond of fruit?"

"I've mangled the odd apple in my time."

"That must explain it."

"Anyway, there's a fire in East Lothian. Go and report on the situation. Now! And when you come back, I want another exclusive story by five o'clock, or you go back to canteen duties."

And I'd say: "Yes, sir. Right away, sir. I shall do my very best."

Then the grim figure turned to Bing, saying: "The General Assembly of the Church of Scotland is meeting every day this week, all day. I want you to sit through all the debates and come back with lots of interesting stories. But no religion, mind, and none of that social concern twaddle."

"No religion. And no twaddle, sir. From the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. Consider it done."

To me again: "Your name isn't McPineapple, is it?"

"No, sir."

Some chaps might have become downhearted by all this disrespect. But not Bing and I. For we had alter egos and, as soon as the deskman had gone, we reverted to these: Brad Bullet and Jake Thunderbolt. I think I was the former.

We'd look at each other, squint our eyes into the dry plains sun, spit out our baccie juice, and say: "Ya hear that, Jake?"

"Ah heard good, Brad."

"What we gonna do about it?"

"Ah reckon we oughtta mosey on over to that lousy newsdesk and teach them prairie dogs a real good lesson."

"Ah'm with ya on that, Jake." Brad cocked an imaginary Colt 45.

"Let's shoot us up some cowpokes!"

Together: "Yeehah!"

Voice from the newsdesk: "Why are you shouting yeehah? Why are you not half-way to Haddington by now?"

Brad: "Just on my way, sir. Soon as I find my spurs. Car keys! Touch of toothache, sir. Yeeow! Hurts."

Later, my story appeared in the paper as "Fire destroys stately home", by Robert McLoganberry. But at least Bing and I had our cowboy alter egos. That's the key to the whole western thing. It's fantasy. And fantasy keeps us sane. Brad Bullet is the real me. The man I would be. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment: Yeehah!