On a beak, a wing and a prayer

He is holding a lollipop and has barely entered his teens, but that doesn't make it any less startling. "Oi! Eagle!" screams the voice in the crowd. The nipper can no longer contain himself. "Tosser!" he bawls.

A rolled-up programme - the first of what feels like hundreds - pitter-patters down onto my head. Hands snake forward from all angles, each trying to yank off a wing or beak. I find myself being dragged into an advertising hoarding. "Tosser!"

I have been warned about the elder members of the club's junior section - that is, the 12- and 13-year-olds - who can be trouble. They are enjoying their pre-match entertainment.

My instinct is to move on pronto, but that's not easy when you're dressed as a giant acrylic eagle, with Herman Munster's shoes and a head the size of a space hopper. And I have been very firmly told that retaliation of any kind is out of the question. Even a verbal reprimand - and how I am tempted - is off-limits. "Don't incite anyone. And remember eagles don't talk."

So I suffer silently until my assailants begin to tire of their joshing and I manage to pull myself clear to continue round the pitch for the scheduled waving, hopping and wing-flapping.

It is a little before 3pm. I am at Selhurst Park - and for the next few minutes I have the honour of being Pete the Eagle, mascot of Crystal Palace Football Club for their match against Burnley. Like all football mascots these days, I have to be on my best behaviour.

Not everyone is as well-mannered as me. A few days ago, the Football League announced that it is to introduce a code of conduct for mascots following some appalling incidents involving grown men - in 7ft-high outfits - who should know better. These include Wolfie, the Wolverhampton Wanderers wolf, setting about the three pigs at Bristol City, the now notorious Cyril the Swan (of Swansea City) removing the head of Millwall's Zampa the Lion and booting it into the crowd, Hartlepool's H'Angus the Monkey's attempt to pleasure a woman steward at Scunthorpe and Aston Villa's Hercules the Lion groping a beauty queen.

On the day of my Crystal Palace appearance, news breaks that Bury have sacked their mascot Robbie the Bobbie - the V-signs Robbie made at Lincoln City supporters were the final straw in a career that has also seen him rip Peterborough's Peter Burrow's ears off, break Barclay the Cardiff City Bluebird's nose and "moon" at Stoke City supporters. The code of conduct will stipulate that mascots may not "moon", distract opposing players, go onto the pitch during a match, or, most important, attack other mascots.

"Some mascots just get carried away," says Keith Blackwell, the enthusiastic Kent headmaster who normally inhabits Pete the Eagle's costume and has been a Palace supporter for 45 years. "The worst? I won't name names ... but the Welsh!" The worst reception he ever received from opposing supporters was during a match at Selhurst Park against Ipswich Town. "I've never heard such vitriol as I did coming from a 20-year-old female. I can't repeat it - and the venom in her eyes."

Keith did not react as Robbie the Bobbie might have done, however. To him, the job comes with real responsibility. "What do you think of when you think of Wolverhampton Wanderers? Exactly, the three pigs episode. You don't think of Wolves being top of the league. The important thing is that you are representing the club. Players are more distant these days and you are the link between them and the fans." The real reason Keith is moved to dress up as a giant eagle every other Saturday is because, "It's a way of getting on the pitch, a way of meeting your heroes."

It's a schoolboy dream. And one I share. As a keen young footballer in the mid-Seventies I received a Christmas card from the legendary Crystal Palace manager, Malcolm Allison, he of the fedora hats and post-match bubble baths with Fiona Richmond. Apparently, Palace were interested in signing me. It all came to nothing but I still have the card. Until last Saturday, I thought my chance of running onto the Selhurst Park turf had passed for good. But I did it.

Believe me, with the smell of freshly mown turf and liniment in your nostrils, star striker Clinton Morrison patting you on the back and the roar of 19,000 people all around (even if some of them are calling you a tosser) it is possible, just for a moment, to feel like a hero - and to forget that you are are dressed up as an 7ft eagle.