THE byline photie at the top of this page does not tell the full, ugly truth.

It does, of course, reveal too much for the more squeamish reader. However, both the history and the very surface of this fizzog have been disguised so that The Herald can be delivered into homes with children, flighty animals and those of a nervous disposition.

First, to the history. Famously, the allied forces did not find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. However, they did discover a Herald in the Baghdad souk (an obsequious character with an obsession for eating newsprint) and this was considered not only a clear and present danger but a viable reason to invade any country. There was not one dissenting voice in the United Nations.

Second, to the surface and its need for disguise. My napper has suffered more damage than a vegetable plot in Flanders during the First World War. These facial craters were inflicted by sport or, more accurately, by people trying to stop me in the pursuit of playing sport.

The dents were caused by golf club and elbow. The first was sustained when - madly and impulsively - I sank a putt in the Busby Back Garden Open and was immediately tapped forcefully with a 5-iron wielded by my brother who disguised his appreciation of my effort with an outbreak of incontinent anger that was totally in character.

My chin, too, has a scar that was the result of an assault, sorry tackle, by self-same brother in which I slid across an ash pitch in the same manner as Tom after Jerry has tripped him up. There was so much debris in my chin that the doctor brought in two miners and, eventually, a JCB before stitching the entire mess with a length of rope.

My gub, too, was the target of elbows, particularly in amateur football. I had so much dental work the tooth fairy went into receivership.

The solution was clear. There had to be remediable work on the heid. This ended in tragedy. I had a plastic surgeon but left him too near the fire.

This is why a graven image of me is placed in the tourist attraction the London Dungeon. It is covered with a blanket until 4.45pm when it is whipped off. It helps them clear the area of visitors before the 5pm closure.

All this is the reason I am interested in the latest initiative by Madame Tussauds. This is not - as one might expect - a plan to make waxworks that bear some resemblance to celebrities. Though, Madame Tussauds should try that some time.

It is, rather, to have a competition to decide which player in World Cup history deserves to be made into wax for an exhibition next year. I would nominate the Scottish back four to be made into a waxwork if God had not got there first.

Then I proposed wee Gordon Strachan trying to step over the hoarding after scoring against West Germany. It would be cheap as one would only have to find a pot of paint, a small brush and an old Action Man.

There could be a recreation of Alan Rough's attempt to save Zico's free-kick but there is a danger there would be more movement in the waxwork. Or how about Big Joe Jordan's gumsy celebration, with the wide open gub offering a waxwork that can also serve as a litter bin?

But it has to be Pele or Diego Maradona. I would go for Maradona simply because he did much of his work on performance-diminishing drugs. He took so much cocaine his passport had to be altered to contain under distinguishing features: white moustache.

However, given that Madame Tussauds is in London there may just be a strong local vote. If it has to be Wembley 1966, my suggestion would be to have a white line - possibly borrowed from the Maradona exhibition - and a ball in another gallery; that is, nowhere near crossing said soddin' line.

In more mellow moments, I accept the credentials of such as Bobby Charlton, a wonderful player and one of the good guys. I even ponder that I should nominate Bobby Moore holding the Jules Rimet Trophy. Then I remember that my brother still has that 5-iron.