Much later an investigative journalist, W S K Webb of the London Daily Clarion, discovered Wilson's notebook. On the cover it said: ``W W Wilfen, Amberfide Moor''. At first Webb was sceptical. The 'f' instead of 's' seemed a clumsy attempt to antiquate the document. Webb wondered if he was being taken for an aff. Nowadays he might suspect that they were taking the piff. However he became convinced of its authenticity when he found it contained the recipe for Wilfon's elixir of life.

For obvious reasons I cannot publish the entire recipe, which is now in the hands of Mr Dobson, the Health Minister, who will no doubt presently offer guidelines as to how it might be distributed on the National Health. Expert opinion is it will make Viagra look like a wine gum. Some of the ingredients listed are: ``Witch Hazel, Hamameliff Virginia XIII and V; Atropa Belladonna XV; Saxifraga Herba, XC and XII; Thymuf VII; Willow herb, Espilophium XX and Digitalif V.''

Webb eventually found Wilson, who was 145 years old, and tried to persuade him to give his elixir to the world. The great man said it would have to wait until he returned from fighting the Hun, because if he published before volunteering for the RAF it might prove difficult to persuade the authorities to give a Spitfire to someone who had been eligible for the old age pension for 80 years.

Webb's book ends with the report that in a major air battle over the channel 135 German aircraft were shot down. We lost 20, including Squadron Leader W Wilson DSO, DFC and bar, who was officially posted as missing.

Wilson, however, came back from the dead. I have in front of me a Wizard dated Jan 8, 1955, which contains news of Wilson's cricket team in Australia in 1954-55. Apparently the official MCC team suffered plane crashes in northern Australia in which two players were injured. Sabotage was suspected. Wilson put a scratch team together to confront the Aussies. They sneered until he challenged the Australian tennis champion to a game and so humiliated him the Aussies swore revenge on the cricket field.

Typically Wilson chose a curious collection of players. Only six of his team had played first-class cricket. The non-players included Dr Moffin, the atom scientist, and Archie Austin, who had emigrated from Bolton to drive buses in Adelaide.

Wilson practised at the Gabba on the day before the first Test by bowling at a sixpence placed just short of a length on the wicket. He aimed to hit it seven times out of eight (in those days Australia had the eight-ball over). His first run-up measured 200 yards, which he cut down to a 25-yard approach.

As this was one of his first games of cricket he had no idea how fast he bowled. Dr Moffin, the atom scientist, brought some equipment to the ground and measured Wilson's average delivery at 120mph, 30mph faster than any ball measured before or since.

Wilson's achievement was witnessed by Larry Quegg, a disreputable tabloid journalist who wrote an article asking: ``Should not such bowling be defined as dangerous before stark tragedy stalks the field?'' As he wrote those words ``Quegg chuckled and lit another cigarette'', proving he really was a cad and a bounder.

Australia won the toss and batted. Wilson ran in and bowled. No one saw the ball, but they did see the bat fly from the batsman's grasp as he staggered and crashed to the ground. At that point ``a sinister thunderous roar of anger broke from the crowd''.

I am unable to tell you what happened next because the story ends there and I haven't got next week's comic. The only clue is contained in the last paragraph which states: ``Read next Tuesday how Wilson bowls an eight-ball over and five catches are dropped off it.'' Some things never change.

All this and much, much more, I have learned about Wilson from information provided by readers. Judging by your response there are thousands of people who not only remember Wilson, but were inspired by him. There are one or two sceptics. A few point out that the elixir of life could be regarded as a performance-enhancing drug, in which case Wilson's feats are ineligible for the record books.

A more worrying concern is expressed by a reader in Derbyshire who thinks Wilson might have ``feet of clay''. He points out that when Wilson was a prisoner of war he took ``an unnatural interest'' in another athlete called Tom Vale, who had an injured leg. Wilson was always insisting on massaging the limb for Vale. My correspondent says: ``We had a scoutmaster like that.''

My own view is that Wilson lives. I think he will emerge in time to save the 2002 Commonwealth Games in Manchester from bankruptcy. What is more, I think I saw him on a sunlit day in 1947 when Barnsley beat Southampton.