Wo Shing Wo Is Me: Roger Cook Died This Week and Took a Piece of My Childhood

Roger Cook died this week.

Eighty-three years old.

Now before we go any further, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I didn't know Roger Cook. He wasn't my mate. He never popped round for a cup of tea. We never shared a pint. For all I know, he might have been an absolute twat to sit next to at a dinner party.

But I was genuinely sorry to hear he'd gone.

Not because he was famous.

Not because he was a great journalist.

I was sorry because Roger Cook belonged to a part of my childhood that doesn't exist anymore.

You see, kids today have got Netflix, YouTube, TikTok and God knows what else. If they want to watch a bloke fall off a skateboard they can watch a million of them before breakfast.

When I was a kid there were three channels.

Four if you were posh.

That was it.

The whole country watched the same stuff at the same time.

And if you missed it, tough shit.

You waited for a repeat or spent the next six months pretending you'd seen it.

Back then, television seemed so samey.

Not samey in the modern sense where people complain about somebody's opinion on social media.

Every week there seemed to be a programme featuring gangsters, villains, armed robbers, terrorists or some other collection of wrong 'uns.

I absolutely loved it.

One minute there was The Sweeney.

Jack Regan tearing around London in a Granada, smoking forty cigarettes before lunch and looking like he'd happily nick you for farting too loudly.

Then there was The Professionals.

Bodie and Doyle.

Now there were two blokes who could solve absolutely any problem provided they had access to a Ford Capri and enough ammunition.

As far as I remember, every episode involved somebody being kidnapped, shot at, blown up or chased through a warehouse.

And somehow Cowley always knew exactly what was going on.

The man must have been psychic.

One episode I particularly remember involved Chinese Triads.

Doyle ended up in all sorts of bother.

Gunfire, violence, panic.

The sort of thing that made perfect sense when you were fourteen years old and thought every major city contained secret criminal organisations lurking around every corner.

The thing is though London probably did feel a bit like that back then.

Or perhaps it was just television convincing us it did.

Then along came Roger Cook.

Unlike Bodie and Doyle, Roger wasn't fictional.

That was the best bit.

The villains were real.

The gangsters were real.

The dodgy businessmen were real.

The con men were real

Even if they were some skinny little antiques dealer from Shropshire, they might still come at him with a stick or iron bar.

And Roger Cook would go looking for them armed with nothing more than a microphone and a complete disregard for his own personal safety.

Week after week he'd knock on doors that most sensible people would avoid.

He'd follow crooks through shopping centres.

He'd confront fraudsters in car parks.

He'd ask awkward questions to people who clearly didn't want to answer them.

And every now and then somebody would punch him.

I genuinely think Roger Cook spent most of the eighties being punched in the face by Britain's criminal classes.

The amazing thing was he kept coming back for more.

These days investigative journalism seems to involve somebody sitting in a studio looking serious.

Roger Cook looked serious because somebody had usually threatened to kill him ten minutes earlier.

As a kid I found him fascinating.

Not because I wanted to become a journalist.

Fuck no.

I had enough trouble staying out of trouble without deliberately seeking it out.

But there was something compelling about watching somebody who genuinely wasn't frightened of asking difficult questions.

Or perhaps he was frightened and did it anyway.

That's probably braver.

The thing that always sticks in my mind is Soho.

Back then Soho was like a magnet to me.

I spent a lot of time hanging around there.

Every television programme had an episode set there.

Chinese restaurants.

Dark alleyways.

Neon signs.

Secret gambling dens.

Triads.

The famous Wo Shing Wo gang.

At least that's the name that always stuck in my head.

It was from a episode Roger did called meet the Triads

He had a "Partner" on that one , some Chinese bloke who they secretly filmed when the Triads beat him up, eight or so blokes came in the fake shop and knocked the fuck out of him and instead of running to his aid they just let it happen , good for evidence, bad for the little Chinese bloke.

But whenever I hear the words Wo Shing Wo, I don't think of organised crime.

I think of sitting in front of a television.

I think of growing up.

I think of being too young to hang around soho but doing it anyway, even tho it was a dangerous place.

Because that's what television did back then.

It created myths.

If you watched enough episodes of The Sweeney, you became convinced London was overrun with armed robbers.

If you watched enough episodes of The Professionals, you assumed international terrorists were operating from every industrial estate in Britain.

If you watched Roger Cook, you started believing every second-hand car salesman was a criminal mastermind.

It was glorious.

Of course, when you become an adult you realise life isn't quite like that.

Most people are decent.

Most restaurants aren't controlled by Triads.

Most businessmen aren't crooks.

Most people are simply trying to get through the week.

Pay the bills.

Raise the kids.

Keep the roof from leaking.

The excitement largely exists in television.

But not entirely.

Because every now and then somebody like Roger Cook comes along and reminds you that there really are villains out there.

Con men.

Fraudsters.

Bullies.

People who make their living from exploiting others.

And occasionally somebody needs to stand in front of them with a microphone and ask questions they'd rather not answer.

I suppose that's why I was sad when I heard he'd died.

Not because I knew him.

Not because I'd followed his career.

Not even because I watched every episode.

I was sad because another little piece of my youth disappeared with him.

The same way it does whenever somebody from those days passes away.

One minute you're hearing a name on the news.

The next you're transported back forty or fifty years.

Back to the living room.

Back to the old television.

Back to a time when Bodie and Doyle were saving Britain every Saturday night.

Jack Regan was locking up villains.

And Roger Cook was somewhere in Soho annoying dangerous people for our entertainment. I love the way that works.

One man's obituary becomes somebody else's time machine.

So farewell Roger Cook.

The most beaten-up journalist in Britain.

You gave us some cracking television.

And if there's a Chinese Triad waiting for you at the Pearly Gates, I suspect you've already got your microphone out and you're halfway through asking awkward questions.

Wo Shing Wo is me.