I CLEARLY remember talking about it. Then I remember leaving the pub and striking up the conversation again at home with the Long Suffering Marjorie who had opted to stay in that fateful Friday night.

The next clear memory was the hypnotic drone of the clippers which forced a cascade of hair to fall before my bleary eyes and form patterns on the floor.

Then there were giggles. Lots of giggles.

And then it was morning.

When I awoke on Saturday I was immediately struck by the coolness of the morning.

Actually it was quite cold, especially around the head department. Oddly enough a strip along the middle of my head managed to retain the heat.

And then the reality kicked in, cruelly confirmed by a hesitant glance in the mirror.

I had been Beckhamed. Actually I had Beckhamed myself which is much worse.

If I had been pinned down kicking, and screaming then I could have had some kind of excuse.

But to do it myself (although drunk) is nothing more than shallow.

Because I had cut my hair rather short only the week before, to emphasise the Mohawk look required me to rid myself of any hair on each side of the strip.

As all crew-cutted individuals know, haircuts are graded by the numbers five to one.

Five will give you a fluffy not-to-short not-to-long kind of look while one is your 'down to the wood' cut.

I had a number 0 which entailed stripping off all the attachments of the clippers. Needless to say it is very, very short.

My haircut may not have been as well coiffured as the England captain's (the strip was kind of zig-zaggy -- it is hard enough to walk in a straight line when drunk, never mind cut your own hair) but mind did not cost a couple of hundred quid and it looked just as good and I actually thought it suited me.

Comments from the LSM and friends however reminded me that the style icon that is David Beckham could carry off such a radical cut.

I looked more like an extra from The Hills Have Eyes. I paraded it around Sunny Rochdale for the weekend attracting my fair share of frowns. But to stand out in a town full of freaks and weirdos is not an easy task.

By Sunday however I knew it had to go for a variety of reasons, not least because it simply would not do to look like a poor man's Taxi Driver while representing a respectable newspaper. Another main reason for getting rid of it was that it had become so old hat. I'm not a slave to fashion in the first place but I do know that a Beckham-cut is so yesterday. Even Beckham has not got a Beckham any more!

So I took to the clippers once again. This time stone-cold sober perfectly able to witness the last strand of hair mown from my head. In a matter of minutes I went from a bad imitation of David Beckham to a not-entirely great Andre Agassi.

I thought I could feel the cold before but it is surprising how warm a thin strip of hair running along the middle of your head can keep you. So much as a turn of my head is enough to send a chill through my skull.

Come Monday and I had sort of got used to the new-look but the radical departure of style would have to go before the most critical jury there is. The office.

No sooner as I had walked in than the comment started. Accompanied by the howls of laughter.

The exact details are a blur but no doubt they included "have you had a fight with a lawn mower" and "here's 50p to finish it off" etc.

The long explanation -- which you have just read (booze and Beckham) -- did little to stem the mirth. In fact it lead them to the knee-jerk reaction that I am somehow the office clown.

That I cut my hair "because I'm mad, me."

That I am one of those annoying office jokers who turns up at Christmas dos with a revolving bow-tie and accuses those of not finding me funny as having a sense of humour transplant.

I am not. I am a serious reporter who just happens to have no hair.

Anyway now that's off my chest I'm off. I have a bath of pink custard to sit in.

Well, you've got to make 'em laugh haven't you!