 SOME years ago I received a box set of the collected after-dinner denunciations of Fred Trueman. Good peg for an interview, I thought, except that his PR flunkey played hard to get on behalf of his illustrious client. "He won't say anything," said the minder.. "I can't believe that," I replied.. "He never stops talking on these cassettes. Not even when they switch off the lights." "It's not that," said the man.. "It's just that he writes an exclusive column for a Sunday newspaper and they've put the blocks on him." "All right," I suggested.. "What if I don't talk to him about cricket." "How will that work?" asked a puzzled PR flack. "Easy," I replied,, "I'll just ask him about the unquenchable spirit of the Republic of Yorkshire," recalling a marvellous book by Don Mosey - with interjections by Fred - on God's own county. Trapped leg before, the poor sap okayed the interview, though he still tried to turn me out a week later saying Fred was in hospital recovering from major orthopaedic surgery. "No problem," I said.. "I'm renowned for my ward rounds. D'yer think he'd prefer grapes or a walking stick?" Not long after, I arrived at a pretty boutique hotel by the Lancashire-Yorkshire border. Classy and pinkly-lit, it looked too sissified for a fire-eater like Fred. Up a steep, ornate staircase I climbed, and was in time to hear the great man's unmistakable tones bawling for good strong tea and lots of it. After a warm, welcoming snort, I handed over a bottle of Old Peculiar and a bag of Special Reserve Everton Mints, the station shop being out of Headingley Humbugs - Jonathan Agnew's favourites. After two hours of rambunctious chat, I ran out of questions, and cassette tape. So much for the fearful flunkey. Fred hardly drew breath as he relived his amazing career during which he frightened the life out of most batsmen en route to becoming the first man to take 300 Test wickets - 307 in total. | 
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