I WAS in southern Spain last week, chasing a daft story, and slipped into a bar for a beer or three.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself reading one of my own stories from close on 20 years ago, framed and brightly lit over on a corner wall.

It was an obituary on an old pal of mine, legendary local reporter Norman Bentley who had died after a short illness at the age of 75.

It was published in the Lancashire Telegraph and had apparently been displayed by a former owner of the bar who came from Darwen.

“A lot of people read that,” said the new owner, as he slung me another beer.

“And, you know, they all ask the same thing.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “They asked about that brief reference to one of Norman’s many stories; the one about the snooty manager of the Co-op Bank?”

Spot on. I explained that not only had I written the obituary but that I had also been asked many times about that particular story.

It was a quiet night. A sirocco was blowing half the Sahara from across the Med.

The fine sand chased the shadows as it swirled along the carretera just a little way from the open front door.

It was early for the hardened drinkers as I recounted a Bentley classic.

Like all Norman’s wonderful Darwen stories, it’s not one that can be rushed.

He used to paint a melancholy picture of the Co-op Bank Office in School Street in the 30s.

The Manager was a right miserable stiff and the young clerks kept their heads down.

Old Darweners will readily imagine the atmosphere of funereal gloom.

Anyhow, one day the young clerks snapped. They’d had quite enough of The Manager’s autocratic style.

The old boy had, early that morning, purchased a new bowler from the Gentlemen’s Outfitters further down the Co-op block.

Proudly, he hung it on the hat stand in the main office and went imperiously into his den.

The lads pounced, grabbing the bowler and racing down the street.

Quickly they swapped it for another two or three sizes bigger, ran back and carefully replaced it.

That evening The Manager plonked the bowler on his shiny pate and went home, adjusting it with some difficulty as he went.

The following day he rolled up for work – and the hat fitted perfectly!

A quick check soon revealed that his wife had stuffed tissue paper all round the sweatband.

Plan B. Off they dashed, swapping the hat for the original – and shoving back all the tissue paper.

At the end of the day The Manager tottered off with a deep frown, his bowler perched like a pea on a pumpkin.

His wife telephoned the following morning. “Our Herbert won’t be in today.

"He thinks there’s something wrong with his head.”

Norman could never throw that punchline without falling about.

I enjoyed a pleasant hour in the bar. “Everybody knew Norman,” I’d written in that lovingly-crafted obit.

And now somebody else knows him as well. My new pal Mick on the Marbella road.