OLD cliches never die and, sure enough, time really is a great healer. So I thought on joining the glowing tributes to Lord Attenborough and the film that made him famous, Brighton Rock.

Fifty years ago the town was reeling under the shock waves created by the young actor Richard Attenborough, who scared the daylights out of everyone with his portrayal of the evil killer Pinkie Brown.

All was forgiven as we gathered in the Gardner Arts Centre at an Argus-sponsored evening to pay homage to the great man. Lords and ladies, Government ministers, local dignitaries, the arty-crafty rubbing shoulders with the glitterati.

We sat spellbound as Barry Norman and the cameras of Sky Television took Dickie through his life from baby-faced star to celebrated actor, director, producer and patron of the arts and education.

But then something stirred in my old memory box, bearing in mind I was about the only person present who saw the film when it came out in 1948.

As I recall, the town's elders almost had a fit. They had taken a dim view of Graham Greene's novel ten years earlier, not least because he was then a notorious scribbler rather than literary giant.

He peopled Brighton Rock with villains, but wasn't too hard on the town, which he described as a bustling seaside resort, visited by 50,000 bank holiday trippers in trains that arrived every five minutes.

All the same, he knew he had caused offence and claimed his Brighton was an imaginary place. Nearly 50 years were to pass before he noted he had been forgiven. He died in 1991.

The film made matters ten times worse. It depicted Brighton as little more than a huge slum where life came cheap and gangs armed with cut-throatrazors - we called them shivs - were busily engaged in murder and extortion.

The council complained that the film lowered the tone and wanted it banned. The crew was chucked off the racecourse even before filming was finished.

Yet Brighton Rock turned out to be a classic, breaking new ground by exchanging cut glass accents for the gritty reality of street life. People flocked to see it - especially in Brighton - though sadly the realism was at the town's expense.

It was years before Brighton shed its gangland image, though past embarrassement was not on the agenda when we happily honoured Dickie.

Oddly enough, I got the feeling he wasn't too crazy himself about playing Pinkie Brown. He confessed the threat of being typecast as a cheap hood almost made him give up acting.

"The film certainly made me and established a lifelong connection with Brighton," he said. "That's one thing I've never regretted."

PRINCESS MADE SURE LIGHTING UP TIME WAS ALWAYS EARLY

THE Palace decision to drop the Royal coat of arms from packets of fags implies that someone important has just given up the deadly weed. Princess Margaret perhaps, who once got through 60 a day.

As reporters covering lunches and dinners, we were always glad of Margaret's presence.

Smoking was allowed after the loyal toast. In her case, that came with the soup.

Not so Prince Charles - we had to wait until he was departing.

MEN SHOULD BUTTON THEIR LIP

WHY can't men be more like women and put a sock in it? Are their verbal banana skins down to ego, arrogance, ignorance - or simply a desire to shock?

No sooner had the dust settled on Glenn Hoddle's teachings about reincarnation than Chris Woodhead, Chief Inspector of Schools, pronounces that an affair between teacher and pupil might be educational in some circumstances.

The survival of those who drop these bombshells seems to depend on their standing in the community. Hoddle surely would still be England's football coach had we won the World Cup. Woodhead seems safe under David Blunkett's protection.

Gerald Ratner lost control of his chain of jewellery stores by telling the world his goods were 'crap', but the Duke of Edinburgh never suffered more than a dirty look from his wife for some of his gaffes.

But double-talk can save the day. My worse moment came as Saint Bob Geldof stirred the world's conscience with his Live Aid crusade. "They were starving in Africa when I was born, and they'll be starving when I'm dead," I said on television.

Foreseeing trouble, I added quickly: "Charity should begin at home."

DAY THE CHIPS WERE DOWN

FANCY Hollywood star Johnny Depp paying £11,000 for a bottle of burgundy at the Mirabelle restaurant.

Years ago, a famous editor took me there with the aim of poaching my services. The menu was in French and I insisted on ordering chipolatas with my steak, thinking they were chips.

"They're bloody sausages," hissed the great man, highly embarrassed. He changed his mind about offering me the job. Not to worry. I was sitting in his seat a few years later.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.