THIS will be the last time you'll have to endure one of my rants in your evening newspaper. The liverish old scribbler you've had to put up with all these years will scribble no more from this day on.

Why have I decided to lock up the tripewriter and throw away the key? Because I've nothing left to say. At least nothing of any interest. My race has been run. Carrying on when my mind is elsewhere would be cheating this newspaper and, even more important, cheating you, the readers.

And, if I say so myself, I deserve my retirement. It's almost 50 years ago since I completed my education at Burnage Grammar School. Within days of walking out of those school gates for the last time I got my first job. And for not one single day since have I been out of work. Continual employment for almost half a century. Two life sentences, you could say. I've served my time and earned my release.

Not that I've regretted one single day of my working life.In fact I've had a ball. A life of Riley. Football from being a fresh-faced teenager to the wizened, wrinkly 62-year-old you see today. And not a pretty sight I assure you.

As some of you will be aware, my first career was in professional football - and it was spectacularly disastrous.

It started off promisingly enough when I was signed up by the Blessed Blues. I scored two goals in the space of one minute on my senior debut against West Brom. I played in the City team which won the English championship in 1968. I rubbed shoulders with some of the greatest players of their generation. For a few brief moments I dreamed of becoming a star.

But it wasn't to be. Something to do with a lack of courage and a shortage of ability.

And so my descent began. From City to Charlton Athletic in the old Second Division. I didn't like them and they didn't like me. From Chalrton to Bury in the old Third Division. Same sorry story. I was even named by the Bury fans as the worst player in the club's history - an accolade richly deserved.

And so it was time for one more final move and a transfer to Crewe Alexandra, the tiny club at the very bottom of England's football pyramid.

Friendship

Not bad going, eh? From being a player with the best football club in England to the bottom club in the country within the space of six years. Took some doing, that did. Pity my football career didn't proceed the other way around, but you can't have everything, can you?

Salvation arrived in the early 70s when this newspaper took pity on the failed footballer and offered me a job. Fortunately the job in question was writing about football, which was just as well because I didn't know about anything else. And that's what I've been doing ever since - writing about football.

This newspaper has been my life and this is the time to express my gratitude to it.

The friends I have made are too numerous to mention but they know who they are and they know I will cherish their friendship until I go to meet my maker.

And, of course, I will never forget the many wonderful football men I have known and liked during my working life.

My first City manager Joe Mercer, the wisest and kindest person in the world. The string of Evening News editors and sports editors who have turned a blind eye to my shortcomings down the years. The United manager Alex Ferguson. If you believed everything you had read you will have formed the impression that Taggart was all fire and brimstone. Nonsense. Take my word for it, beneath that fiery exterior lies a warm compassionate soul. Farewell, Fergie. I'm going to miss you.

Above all, though, it is you - the readers - whom I will miss most of all. It is you that have kept me going all these years. There have been many many times when you haven't agreed with what I had written - and you've never been slow to let me know. I've treasured those reprimands and insults because at least my words have provoked a reaction from you. And knowing your words are being read is the greatest tribute you can pay to any journalist. For the interest you have taken in my work over many years, I thank every last one of you.

What am I going to do with my time now that I've drawn the curtain on my scribbling career? That's an easy question to answer. I intend to be busy doing nothing from now on. I will sit here in Hince Mansions with my wife-to-be Anne and my new dog Scruff and watch soppy afternoon films. I intend to smoke as many cigarettes as I can and drink Murphy's stout morning noon and night until it's coming out of my ears.

Occasionaly I might venture outdoors and take in the glories on offer in the picturesque Garden Village of Hazel Grove. Other than that I have no ambitions because all my ambitions have been achieved.

Will you miss the Paul Hince column? Have your say.