Newspapers

Thinking Aloud On a Sunday

~ beetleypete ~ 82 Comments

Junior Reporter.

Last week, I had a conversation with one of my cousins. It turned out that he had never heard about my short-lived career as a junior reporter on a newspaper. When I woke up this morning, I was thinking about that for some reason, so thought I would tell you about it.

In 1970 at the age of 18, I was between jobs. I had a job, but also the promise of a better one to come soon. I was marking time until that second job gave me a start date. One day, I was idly flicking through the local ‘Free’ newspaper, and saw an advertisement for a reporter required, to work on that very paper. Immediately, visions of Jimmy Olsen (look him up) flashed into my mind. I knew I could write, and felt sure that this could be the start of a wonderful career as a respected investigative journalist.

I arranged an interview, and got the job. With still no start date for my promised job in a record company, I resigned from my office job, and started as a ‘newspaperman’ two weeks later. The News Shopper Group has a series of titles, and covers the Kent commuter belt, as well as most boroughs of South-East London. I was to be based at the Orpington office. Although that wasn’t too far from where I lived with my parents, it was an awkward journey by public transport. Besides, I had got the job on the understanding that I had access to a car. I had a car, so I drove there.

I have to confess that I was actually carrying a tan raincoat. I was convinced that no self-respecting reporter would cover a story without wearing one. I had also bought some new notebooks, and three ballpoint pens. I was excited to know what my first reporting assignment would be, and rather deflated to be told that I would be on the front desk, taking classified advertisements from members of the public who came in and paid cash.

My first ever task as a junior reporter was to accept an advertisement from someone who had some baby lop-eared rabbits for sale.

The day went by fast, as it was actually very busy on that desk. Cars for sale, Lonely Hearts, tradesmen advertising services, even a young woman selling her wedding dress after her fiance had jilted her at the altar. (She was crying throughout the transaction, and I gave her my clean handkerchief. I never saw that again.) Pleased with myself, I got ready to head home, when the Deputy Editor came down, and asked me to talk to him in his tiny office.

“What are you doing with all these classifieds, Pete? You are supposed to ‘sell-up’. Get them to use more words, suggest bold type, tell them a box will get much more attention. And those trade ads? Tell them we can add a graphic, like a paint brush for painters and decorators. All the stuff you took today won’t even cover the cost of setting and printing”. It hadn’t occurred to me that talking people out of their cash was part of my job. I had helped write some of the small-ads, but never thought to try to double the cost of them by suggesting all the expensive extras. And nobody had shown me what to do. But I didn’t mention that.

The man shook his head. “I have a different job for you tomorrow, come and see me when you get in”.

The next day, I was told that I would now be ‘Zodiac’. The ‘Your Stars’ was one of the most popular sections of the newspaper, as people liked to get their predictions for the week ahead. I told him that I hadn’t a clue about astrology, and went on to add that it was meaningless anyway, as there were thirteen signs of the zodiac at one time, until they were trimmed to a more manageable twelve.

He laughed. “Don’t concern yourself with any of that, just use this box”. He produced a very long file box, containing cards in sections marked by tabs. “This is how it works. Go back six months on the date tabs. Whatever was that weeks prediction for Pisces now becomes this weeks for Capricorn, and so on. Take out the prediction card, get them in the right star-sign order, and lay them out ready for the typesetter”. I was incredulous. All those people basing their lives and aspirations on a few lines from a newspaper zodiac had no idea that a few months ago, that same prediction was for someone born under a completely different sign.

As I left carrying the box, he called out behind me. “And check if there’s a full moon on the calendar. If there is, mix them up a bit, and add a few lines about how the moon will be affecting their mood”. I turned and asked him, “Won’t they catch on that everyone is supposedly affected by the moon?” Without looking up, he replied, “They only read their own sign. Nobody cares about someone else’s sign”. I spent the rest of my first week between being ‘Zodiac’, and helping out at the front desk trying to ‘sell-up’ advertisements with little success.

The following Monday, I was beyond excitement to receive the news that I had to go out and cover some stories. The first one was to interview an elderly lollipop lady (crossing guard) who was retiring after 20 years in the job. I drove over to the arranged place to find a perky 80 year-old dressed in her uniform, clutching her sign on a pole. She was accompanied by the head teacher of the school that she worked outside of, and her own daughter, who was as proud as punch of her Mum. I wrote down the lady’s story, making sure to also take the ages of everyone there, and their full names.

Back at the office, I was thrilled to be sitting in the reporter’s room, alongside the other two reporters based there. Using an ancient manual typewriter, I wrote up that mundane story as if it was a report about the D-Day landings. When I corrected the typos and read it back, I had to admit I had exceeded even my own expectations. The sub-editor laughed all the way through as he read it. Using a thick red pencil, he deleted over two-thirds of my text, and corrected some spacing and capitalisation. When he was finished, he handed it back. “This can go through. Get the boy to take it for typesetting, and make sure the picture editor approves any photos”.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Photos? There are no photos. There wasn’t a photographer there, and I don’t own a camera”. Shaking his head, he reached out for the sheet of paper, and when I handed it over, he impaled it on a metal spike. “You should have booked a photographer. What use is a local-interest story like that without a photo of the old girl and her lollipop?” I was red-faced. Nobody had told me to book a photographer. They had just presumed I would know that.

My next potential ‘scoop’ was booked for the next morning. I had to travel into South-East London to interview a war veteran. He was dying of cancer, and whilst at hospital receiving treatment, someone had stolen his treasured medals. I was told that I didn’t need a photographer, as the interviewee had his own photos of himself wearing the medals, and was happy for us to use them.

But the next morning, my car wouldn’t start.

At the time, my Dad was in hospital, having an operation to rectify a slipped disc on his spine. Parked outside our house was his brand new company car, which he had only got a couple of weeks earlier, before he went in for surgery. Desperate to get a story in the paper, I took the keys from a hook inside the house, and drove his new car to my appointment. Before I got to the address, I got a little lost in the maze of unfamiliar streets in that district. Checking my paper map book, I found where I needed to go, and accelerated across a junction without noticing a STOP sign. A car driving fast along the road with right of way hit my Dad’s car so hard, it literally ripped the front section off it. That car slewed across the road, and went through the front wall of someone’s garden opposite.

By any estimation, it was a bad accident.

The other driver was trapped, unable to get out of his car. I had a very painful shoulder, but was otherwise uninjured. The police arrived, the fire brigade arrived, and then an ambulance arrived to deal with the other driver. A couple of people who had been waiting to cross the road gave statements about what they had seen, and I was also asked to explain why I had driven across a stop sign into the path of an oncoming car. As I had no idea what to say, the policeman reported me for ‘Driving without due care and attention’. When he discovered that the car belonged to my Dad’s company, he also reported me for not having insurance to drive it. “You will have to go to court”, he told me with a smile.

I found a phone box, and rang the newspaper. When I told the deputy editor what had happened, he wasn’t sympathetic. “So no story, and now you don’t have a car. Don’t bother to come in tomorrow, I will send your cards in the post”.

As I walked to a bus stop to work out how I was going to get home, I had to reflect that my career as a newspaperman had lasted less than seven days.

Thinking Aloud on a Sunday

~ beetleypete ~ 75 Comments

In print.

There was a time when I used to buy a lot of newspapers. I had them delivered by a local shop, and read them every day, every page except any sport coverage, which I always skipped. Even as long ago as the 1970s, my monthly newspaper bill was hefty. But I considered it essential to keep up with the news, and be aware of international, national, and local issues too. In Britain, newspapers never tried to hide their political affiliations. Most people understood that if you had nationalist or right-wing sympathies, then you would read the Daily Mail, or Daily Telegraph. Left-wingers were served by the more liberal newspapers, like The Guardian, and The Observer. In the middle were the tabloid-size popular newspapers, constantly changing sides politically, and promoting a new style of populist newspaper, containing photos of glamour girls, and offering prize competitions, cheap holiday vouchers, and a very basic news output. Then there were the weekly local papers, The South London Press, and similar titles all over London. I bought that too, to keep up with the area where I used to live

Weekdays, I bought The Guardian and the Communist daily The Morning Star, and at weekends, I had The Observer, and The Sunday Times. Those weekend papers were huge. They came with numerous sections, including Literature, Arts and Culture, Motoring, Gardening, Film and Television, Political editorials, and even a cartoon section for children. They also started to feature a colour magazine, lavishly illustrated with often outstanding photos taken by the leading photographers of the time, alongside page after page of advertising, also presented at the highest level. Most of the time, I could never finish a Sunday newspaper in one sitting, and would still be reading the supplements later the following week.

Then there came a time when everything started to change. Just some little changes at first, but it soon became apparent that big business was starting to dominate the industry. Murdoch’s company took over many titles, both tabloid and broadsheet, and advertisers began to abandon the policy of placing the same advert everywhere, instead targeting the tastes of certain demographics they knew to be reading particular newspapers. Any pretence at neutrality was discarded too, with editorials and front page banner headlines urging you to vote this way or that, during elections. Opinion pieces started to get nasty and very personal, along with the trend to follow and report on the actions of any celebrity, no matter how tiny their supposed fame. The former glamour photos now showed busty, topless women every day, girls who kept getting younger, and revealing more and more of the bodies. Certain girls became celebrities based on their chest measurement, and then their daily lives began to be reported as if they were news.

Sport soon went the same way. Where once there had been match reports, lists of scores and table placings, perhaps a photo of a good goal, we now had the personal and private lives of popular sports stars plastered all over, being treated as news. If the manager of a top team was seen out in a nightclub, reporters would soon be at his home, trying to interview his wife about how terrible it was to live with such a man. The actual sport was secondary to the circus that was invented by the press to surround it. The same applied to tennis stars, and anyone famous in any sporting activity. The age of the Paparazzi had arrived, and they soon turned their attention to the world of acting, and the British Royal Family. Actual News was finally taking a back seat to the so-called news being invented by the people who still had the temerity to call themselves ‘journalists’.

All was not lost. Some serious newspapers still carried in-depth reports on current affairs, and serious issues at home and abroad. But they were not selling enough copies anymore, and the advertisers were leaving in their droves, seeking the larger audiences elsewhere. They had to put up their prices, then put them up some more, until they began to seem unaffordable, to most ordinary people. Broadsheets reduced their size, to save money on paper, then began to feature powerful front-page photos, often the same ones seen on every newspaper in the rack. Not long after that, I stopped buying daily newspapers, sticking to my local weekly, and a reliable Sunday title. I cancelled my order with the shop, intending to just buy them as and when I was out.

Then came the Internet, followed by 24-hour rolling news on TV. The newspapers were just telling me what I already knew, courtesy of the BBC. Since moving to Norfolk, I no longer read any newspaper, and I am not sure I ever will again.

A very public death

~ beetleypete ~ 15 Comments

On Wednesday, a young man was killed by Muslim extremists in South London.  The murder was quickly reported on TV news, with helicopters racing to the scene, and reporters arriving as near as they were allowed. It soon became apparent that the victim was a serving soldier, from the nearby barracks, and that there had been two perpetrators, both of whom had been shot by Police, and were still alive. This was fairly normal news reporting, and up to that point, is was acceptable, and informative.

However, it soon degenerated into a tasteless media circus, the like of which is rarely seen in this country. Reporters alleged that the young man had been ‘hacked to death’, and that his head had been cut off with a meat cleaver, wielded by one of the murderers. The helicopter footage was soon zooming in on the scene, focusing on the bloodied weapons lying in the street, the blood on the road, and any point of ‘interest’ that they could find. One reporter, hardly able to contain his excitement, updated the viewers with the news that the victim had been run down by a car, repeatedly ‘hacked at’ with bladed weapons, then finally decapitated, in what he confirmed was a ‘terrorist’ attack. At this stage, no relatives had been informed, so we can only imagine the anguish felt by the families of the hundreds of serving soldiers who may have been posted to that barracks, and that area generally.

I was disgusted with this type of coverage, and this from the BBC, an organisation I expect to have higher standards of reporting. I stopped watching it, and was left with a feeling of sadness for the death of this young man, in horrific circumstances, as well as a growing sense of annoyance with this gutter level of sensationalist news coverage.

Later that evening, it got a lot worse. Mobile phone footage, shot by bystanders, was ‘obtained’ by reporters. Not only was this referred to, it was then shown, with the dead body clearly visible nearby, and the blood-soaked murderer speech-making to the crowd, about his reasoning, and personal motives behind the killing. There had still been no identification of the victim, and his family had still not been informed. Not only was this tasteless in the extreme, it also gave the ‘terrorists’ the media platform they desired in the first place, and made their actions justifiable to others of the same extreme views. The footage of the blood-stained killer was shown over and over again, often in slow motion, pointlessly repeated ad nauseum. ‘Witnesses’ were interviewed in the streets, with no confirmation of what they had actually seen, or proof of whether they had even been there. Any connection was seized upon, and numerous ‘experts’ rolled out for studio interviews. Ex-soldiers, former police officers, military strategists, all got their performance fee, for speculating on the reasons behind the murder, the response of the Police on the day, or the history of such attacks around the world.

Nobody was asking the questions that needed to be asked. What of the dignity of the victim, and the horror and trauma inflicted on his family by all this? Why show the ravings of an extremist murderer on mainstream British TV? What use did any of this serve, and was it all nothing more than gory and ghoulish headline grabbing? No public interest was served by any of it, that is certain. There were no outstanding suspects, no danger to anyone else that evening, in that area. Could this not have been left until later, when the family had been informed, and calmer heads perhaps decided not to show such distressing images?

This is supposed to be related to military action abroad, and involvement in the ongoing wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Africa. Ironically, when reporting from those countries, the BBC and others normally choose not to show ‘graphic images’, on the grounds that they will upset viewers. They also decline to allow the extolling of ‘extremist views’ from participants in those foreign conflicts, so why abandon all this for an incident that happened in London? They also sought out local Muslims, and asked for their views on what had happened, then attempted to second guess public reaction, with the possibility of ‘revenge’ attacks on Muslim targets. By doing so, they added irresponsibility to bad taste, and completely abandoned all pretence of serious journalistic intentions.

I feel that we turned a corner this week, in the path of media reporting. It was a nasty corner, made worse by use of unpleasant mobile phone footage, and pandering to the ‘Facebook generation’. The next morning, with few exceptions, all the main newspapers carried a large front-page photo of the bloodstained murderer, with emotive and unnecessarily unpleasant use of the phrases ‘hacked to death’, and ‘beheaded’. Absolutely no consideration was given to the distraught family, friends, and colleagues of the victim, who was stripped of his dignity at the moment of his death.

The media threw away their own dignity at the same time. I am ashamed of all of them.

Things I don’t like

~ beetleypete ~ 43 Comments

I saw a bit of a TV programme called Room 101. Minor celebrities compete to get things they hate put into ‘Room 101’ by the host, symbolising the removal of those things, on a permanent basis. It is supposed to be funny, and it isn’t at all. However, it got me thinking about things that I would like to ban, or make disappear, and here is a short list of them.

Centre Lane drivers. On a three lane motorway, there are always drivers who insist on never moving out of the middle lane. They usually drive quite slowly, or just on the legal limit, making it hard for slow lorries to get out of the left lane, or for other drivers who have overtaken them, to move back in safely. Even when there is no traffic, say during the early hours of the morning, they still hug this middle lane, like some kind of tarmac safety blanket. What is their thought process? I would love to know. There seems to be no definite type, as both men and women, and the old and young, can be found carrying on this strange habit. I just wish that the Police would pull them over, and point out the stupidity of their actions. It has gone on forever, seemingly, and shows no signs of going away.

Tabloid Newspapers. What is the point of these rubbish, so-called newspapers? Their silly punning headlines, huge typefaces, and slang terminology, make a mockery of the Press, and ruin the English Language. The pictures of half-naked girls inside are so outdated and tired, they are almost something of historical interest. They are full of Bingo games, Lottery competitions, and advertisements for cheap holidays, cheap food, and anything else owned by the corporation that happens to also own this mockery of a newspaper. Actual news is thin on the ground, and consists mainly of speculation, unfounded allegations, and gossip about TV reality shows. There are at least three main ones on sale in England, and they are all, without exception, complete and utter shit.

Car Servicing Companies. There are numerous, well-known companies that offer servicing, and fitting of parts, such as tyres and exhausts, supposedly while you wait; that is if you are prepared to wait a very long time. They sport huge banners, advertising fixed prices for specific services, and special offers on the exhaust system, or tyres, that are just right for your car. Once you drive into them, your problems really begin. It always turns out that they don’t have any cheap tyres in stock, in the size you need. So, that will be twice as much please Sir. Despite having the country’s most common hatchback car, your exhaust will have to be a ‘special order’, unfortunately excluded from all current deals. As for servicing, they are guaranteed to find something terrible, lurking beneath the placid exterior of your mundane runabout. With a sigh, and an upward glance, they will tell you how sorry they are, but you need new discs, new suspension, new steering rack, wheel alignment, and balancing. That will be £600 please Sir. Why don’t they just advertise themselves accurately? They should have a name that reflects their business ethic, like ‘Quik Crooks’, or Fast-Fit Bandits’. Don’t even think about going around the corner to the competition, as they are all the same firm, just using different names, to make you think that you actually have a choice.

Very noisy motorbikes. I have nothing against motorbikes. I used to ride them, and they are ideal for commuting, or for a nice trip on a sunny day. They are cheap to run, as they are economical on fuel, easy to park, and you can even go in bus lanes, at least in London. But why do some owners have to make them so noisy? The big cruisers, like a Harley-Davidson, are loud enough to start with. By the time they have been modified for maximum ‘grunt’, they sound like an approaching Tiger Tank, and can be heard for miles. This is exacerbated by the tendency for them to ride around in packs; accountants and van drivers trying to emulate the wild freedom of the Hell’s Angels. Come on guys, it is just unnecessary, and a bit embarrassing, to be honest. There are also the mad teens on go-faster, learner legal, off-road bikes. Limited to a maximum speed of 30 miles per hour, the only way that they can jack-up their riding experience, is to mess around with their exhaust, until it sounds as if they have a million angry wasps trying to get out of their engine. Pack it in, please.

Inappropriate wearing of sunglasses. It is often advisable to wear sunglasses. On a sunny day, they can be beneficial, stopping you from squinting, and keeping harmful UV rays from damaging your eyes. They might even be excused in a very bright interior, though I can’t think of an example of one just at the moment. It is also acceptable for blind people, like Stevie Wonder, or Ray Charles, to wear them at all times, as it stops people staring at their eyes. But, tell me, please do, when it is ever OK to wear sunglasses at night, or in clubs, pubs, cinemas, and gig venues. It is just pretentious, emulating sad pop stars, or even sadder celebrities, in the hope that you are considered special by association. A spin off of this, and just as annoying, is the ‘placing’ of sunglasses, but not wearing them. This can be seen everywhere, with sunglasses placed carefully on the head, as if ready to drop into place, should light levels exceed 60 watts. Grow up and stop doing it. You know who you are.

Men who wear wigs and toupees. Most men suffer hair loss, in fact the great majority. Some lose their hair early, most during their 40’s and 50’s. We may not like it, but we have to ‘man up’, and accept it. Cut it short, or shave it off, and NEVER resort to the terrible comb-over. Many men, especially those in show business, as in TV and Films, think that it is alright to wear a toupee (hair piece) or, unbelievably, even a full wig. Even those with wealth of untold millions, like Elton John, can never carry this off. For most of the others, the result is either a bit of old doormat stuck to their head, or a completely unsuitable full head of shiny black hair, resembling a cross between Roy Orbison, and Elvis Presley. And it always, always, looks completely fake. Nobody is ever fooled, so people who would not warrant a second glance by being bald, become objects of derision, sniggered at, and catcalled in the street. Why do you do it? Why?

Men with pony tails. This is similar in many ways to the section above, though dealing with a different foolishness. Men should never have a pony tail. Young or old, nerd or well-known rock musician, it does not work, at any level imaginable. There are distinct types of pony tailed men. The young ones tend to be found in shops that sell comics, or small figures for fantasy gaming. They can also be tracked down in electrical retailers, and specialist computer shops. They often pair the pony tail with similar obscenities, like a beard without moustache. They usually have fair, sandy, or red hair, a tendency to plumpness, and never have a girlfriend. The older pony tail aficionados, fall into easily recognisable groups. There is the smart group. Suit-wearing, late 40’s, normal job, house in the suburbs, and a go-faster car. They have noticed that their hair is disappearing rapidly at the front, so they begin to grow it longer at the back. They slick it down, and wear the pony tail tightly wound, with a secure fastening. The end result, is that they look like a Latino drug dealer from Florida, which is never a good look for someone called Darren, living  in Pinner. Then there is the Old Hippie, or Academic group. Proudly grey, glasses-wearing, concerned by Green Issues, and growing vegetables in their garden. They will have compost bins, wear very large belt-buckles, and might even have a second home, in an unusual part of France. They still like Bob Dylan, and read a lot, often writing to local newspapers about their concerns too. They have a favourite old leather jacket, and a ‘different’ car, like a Saab, or Citroen, perhaps even a Volkswagen camper-van. Despite all this, they still end up appearing to be totally ridiculous, sporting a straggly grey pony tail, looking like the wrong end of a tired old horse, on its way to the knacker’s yard.

Obese people who say ‘it’s my glands’. We have all seen them on TV, or worked with one, or come across one in our everyday lives. Men and women who are usually grossly obese by the time that they are 40, yet are adamant that they hardly eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. They trot out the same old mantra, that they have ‘glands’ that convert a lettuce leaf into ten pounds of ugly fat within an hour. Making no mention of their round the clock diet of fast food, as well as extra chips, crisps, sweets, pizzas, and ice cream, they blame the whole problem on these mysterious glands, so that is OK then. I have nothing against people who want to eat crap, and get fat. Good luck to them, each to his or her own, we all have our problems. Just stop telling me that it is your glands, and not the food that you shovel down. As an ex-colleague of mine from the Ambulance Service once memorably stated, and to a very fat woman, ‘you didn’t see any fat people liberated from Auschwitz, saying, ‘it’s me glands’, did you love?’

‘Basics’ groceries. Each supermarket chain has some sort of twee name for these. Whether ‘Basics’, ‘Value’, or ‘Everyday’, they all refer to the same thing; cheap shit for poor people. Poor quality ingredients, lacking any goodness, in simple packaging that tells the world that you are hard up. The flimsiest sliced bread, anaemic-looking baked beans, burgers so thin they are almost see-through, and many more the same. It is exploitation of the poor, disguised as some sort of Public Service, and should be stopped. It actually saves the buyer nothing, as they have to eat twice as much to feel satisfied, or use twice as much of the useless toilet paper to wipe their arse properly, or blow though twice as many opaque tissues to clear their nose. False economy, impersonating good value. It is just bollocks, and they know it.

That is my list of just some of the things that I don’t like. Let me know what you think.