David St George and Richard Osley

“TA-ta mate, be well, be lucky.”

Every call, every conversation and every drink with David St George ended with a warm send-off like we might never meet again.

In recent years, he’d sometimes hint that he was unwell but, unfailingly polite, he would instead always ask about my children rather than dwell on any inconvenient illness. Many others will tell you he was just as convivial with them too.

Dave, or DSG as everyone at the CNJ knew him, watched a lot of us grow up and the old dog had run rings around us all since we were young journalists. He did so in a cheeky but avuncular way though, in which he’d tease you and teach you at the same time.

One of the big takeaways from those days with him was that being a reporter didn’t mean being a furious hothead at all times, or instantly outraged by any court clerk who didn’t have the information you wanted.

He got more done by nurturing his contacts with care until the whole building wanted to help him.

I first met him 20 years ago as a clueless but willing new starter and he did what he always did with cub reporters interested in how it all works and gave an impromptu tour of the hidden corners of the Old Bailey, including a rude statue not to be looked at a certain angle.

And then came another educational walk… to the pub on the opposite side of the road.

During the lunch break he insisted I have a pint of lager even though there was only 15 minutes to go until the court resumed. I was struggling about a third of the way through the drink when he picked up his jar, downed its contents and said: “What are you waiting there for?”

Of course, journalism has changed for the better in many ways and is no longer full of smoky rooms full of men fond of a beer – but don’t be mistaken. DSG was a pro, and his office was full of meticulously collected scraps of information from cases running back over four decades.

The only ones that were missing were lost to an IRA bomb blast outside the Old Bailey in 1973.

He knew where to be when and who would say what, spotting the top-line in an instant. He got what he needed for his reports with the precision of a heart surgeon and then was off.

I saw court reporters down there struggling through pages of shorthand notes to work out the most important lines to use from the case we had just watched, but on one folded size of A4 paper, DSG had scribbled down everything any reader would want to know.

He didn’t waste a word on waffle.

Really, he should have been more of a show-off with all the stories he had – but he wasn’t a bore. Regularly he would tell an anecdote that was new to me and I’d think why he hadn’t told me this sensational titbit before.

He always had one more story to tell for a rainy day, and all of us here will miss hearing them.

Ta-ta, Dave