One in the eye for the bosses when picketers produce a Royal edition

The weekend came and the weekend went.

The journalists in Basildon were still locked out by the Westminster Press Group management.

The printworkers were still refusing to return to work unless the lockout was ended and the journalists also allowed to return.

On that Monday morning in November, with the wedding of Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips just two days away, the only news being published was the news sheet being put out each day by the combined unions disputes group.

The news and sports journalists were out gathering news and the subs were editing it and getting as much of it as possible into a daily news sheet (always leaving a space for updates on the dispute).

The printworkers had found a local printers (a union shop of course) to print them off each evening and our pickets were dishing them out at the picket lines around Basildon, including in the town centre.

The message we were intent on getting through to local people, and advertisers, was that we were not the ones stopping the news being published in the Evening Echo and the weekly newspapers in the group, it was the WP management with their refusal to end the lockout.

We appeared to have got our message over within 24 hours as the people handing out the news sheets, we didn’t ask a single penny for them, were being given donations and told to put it towards whatever support was needed for the people involved in the dispute.

Even more, some small local businesses offered financial support with just an acknowledgment in the news sheet to say they were backing the journalists and printworkers. Every penny helped.

Each day an approach was made to management asking them to end the lockout and every day management refused. They did say that the printworkers could return at any time but they refused to return without us.

This summed up, for me, the true meaning of socialism and solidarity and gave me a completely different perspective on the people in other unions, especially the print unions.

We were still at this status quo on Wednesday, 14th November, 1973, when Princess Anne walked down the aisle at Westminster Abbey to marry Captain Mark Phillips.

Normally this would have been a big event in Basildon, especially for the Evening Echo which would have run a special souvenir edition on the day, with pages of pictures and stories about Anne going from a little girl with blonde curls, pictured on a savings stamp, to the bright young horsewoman who had captivated her cavalryman.

Late afternoon editions would have run stories about the event itself with pictures from London of the ceremony and the departure of the coupl,e from Westminster Abbey in a horse-drawn carriage.

All this would have attracted shedloads of advertising.

Unfortunately for the advertising department there was no Echo that day and therefore nothing to sell advertising space for.

Meanwhile, back on the streets, our pickets were having a great time with people making sure they had our disputes news sheet for the day which on the top half of page one carried a letter from those involved in the dispute with a great big black heading: DEAR ANNE

The letter went on to congratulate the princess on the occasion of her marriage and apologising for not being able to report on it in the way we would have wanted.

The background to the dispute was then outlined once again.

We printed more than double the daily news sheets that day, the lower half of the front and the whole of the other A3 side included news items and sports reports as usual.

They were all snapped up and not one person would take one without making a donation to dispute funds.

I believe that was the straw that broke the WP camel’s back.

Within days management were ready to talk to an NUJ official from London who came down to Basildon. Our print colleagues were quite prepared to allow management and the NUJ to sort out our lockout first after which they could agree to return to work.

Our official had the knowledge that the printworkers would not return to work until and unless the journalists were allowed to return.

Altogether the whole thing lasted about a fortnight (although after almost 50 years my memories of exact timings are a bit hazy), yet within a day or two it was as though nothing had ever happened.

This was probably because at the Standard Recorder offices we were far enough way from head office management to ensure that our relationship with our management, the editor Tony Blandford, had not really been damaged. At heart Tony was a journalist and I think that in that heart he had been backing us all the way.

It was my real initiation into the work of the unions and the power the workers could wield when necessary. It was not to be my last but the next round was still a few years away.

I Am Not Yours

by Sarah Teasdale

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

The Poet As Hero

by Siegfried Sassoon

You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented,
Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why
Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented--
My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry.

You are aware that once I sought the Grail,
Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;
And it was told that through my infant wail
There rose immortal semblances of song.

But now I've said good-bye to Galahad,
And am no more the knight of dreams and show:
For lust and senseless hatred  make me glad,
And my killed friends are with me where I go.
Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs;
And there is absolution in my songs.

Promises Like Pie Crusts

by Christina Rossetti

Promise me no promises
So will I not promise you:
Keep we both our liberties,
Never false and never true:
Let us hold the die uncast,
Free to come as free to go:
For I cannot know your past,
And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been
Warmer towards another one:
I, so cold, may once have seen
Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
Who shall show us if it was
Thus indeed in time of old?
Fades the image from the glass,
Snd the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might not grieve
For lost liberty again:
If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain.
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more, but nothing less:
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess.

Natural suspicion takes a back seat when it comes to bosses v workers

In my early days as a journalist, especially when I worked at Holywell and used to go to the head office printing works with Peter Leaney, one particular point was always drummed into me: “Don’t upset the printworkers.”

Once the stories for the newspaper had been sourced, written and subbed the journalists passed over control to the printworkers, who came in many shapes and sizes.

In those days printers mainly belonged to one of three unions, the NGA, SOGAT and NATSOPA (which joined SOGAT but then left before rejoining in the early 80s) , each representing a different set of workers in the printing process.

The National Graphical Association represented typographers and related workers; the National Association of Operative Printers and Media Personnel mainly represented the press operatives and machine minders; the Society of Graphical and Allied Trades, represented those dealing with graphics in newspapers.

Journalists were allowed into the printworks but had to remain on the opposite side of the stone (a metal-topped bench on which blocks of print were set into forms as part of the process to make printing plates) to the printworker. Journalists were not allowed to touch anything, not even to pick up an item dropped by a printer which happened to land by your feet.

Such an action could immediately lead to a call to down tools and it could take hours of discussion between union officials and management before normal work could be resumed.

This tended to create a wariness between the two groups of people who made their money from the same product.

On that November day in 1973 it wasn’t the printers who had stopped work at the Westminster Press Group offices in Basildon – it was the journalists.

The NUJ had called for a 24-hour stoppage during negotiations with the Newspaper Society for changes in pay and conditions.

Having walked out at 11 am all the journalists were prepared to start work at 11 am the next day – except management, who had accepted the 24-hour stoppage, decided to change the rules and demanded a return to work of all staff at 9am.

The journalists stuck to their guns but when they attempted to return at 11am they found they were locked out.

While waiting instructions from NUJ head office a temporary roster for pickets had been set up.

At 3pm one of the pickets returned to the meeting room early, saying: “We’ve got company.”

Behind him we could hear feet on the stairs, lots of feet.

Then in came a large body of men – the printworkers.

It was not normal for printers to take action other than when it involved their own sphere of the production process. Today, however, the printworkers had held their own chapel meetings and all of the unions had decided to stop work in support of the journalists.

We still hadn’t heard back from the NUJ head office but in the meantime we accepted the presence of our colleagues with gratitude.

Before long the printers, who with their combined numbers outnumbered the journalists, were starting to get everything organised – then again they had more experience than us in these meetings.

The first thing suggested was the formation of a temporary joint chapel with the officers, FoC, Deputy FoC, Clerk and Treasurer (if this lasted we would need to raise money), being drawn equally from the individual chapels.

The print unions had soon agreed on their choice of delegates and I suddenly found myself being put forward as a journalist representative. Maybe head office journalists, subs and reporters, felt it better not to have too high a profile and my own colleagues, possibly aware of my socialist leaning, were quite happy to put me forward.

The official roles were then allocated and it apparently seemed obvious that the journalist should be the Clerk of the Chapel.

The first job was to inform management that the printers had joined us (although by now I thought that would be obvious); then new groups were rostered for pickets at head office and at the town centre office as well as district offices (Billericay and Wickford).

Rather than everyone performing picket duty it was also agreed to utilise the talents of the individual workers and one thing that came to the fore was getting the local people on our side.

The chief sub-editor and a group of subs and journalists were immediately put onto preparing daily news pamphlets to offer a limited news and sports reporting content as the Echo and Recorder would not get printed. The news sheets would also include details of what the dispute was about.

Going against all the principles of good journalists we would be putting propaganda into our publications – but this was in a good cause.

A small group of printers were sent out to find local printing companies (union works only) to print these news sheets for us.

I was impressed at the efficiency of the print union workers in getting a dispute headquarters up and running within an hour of them joining us.

There was much to be done as we did not know if the stoppage would last a day, a week or a month. After all without printers management could not produce newspapers and would lose revenue from advertisers.

At that point we were a bit like the British soldiers in World War One and just as they expected it to be over by Christmas we expected it all to be over by the weekend.

The journalists tended to know any major diary stories for the next couple of weeks but didn’t expect to still be out when these happened. Certainly nobody was worried at that time about not being back in time for special editions covering the marriage of the Princess Royal, Princess Anne, to Captain Mark Phillips, on November 14th.

We were mistaken.

Light Is More Important Than The Lantern

by Nizar Qabbani

Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than the both of us.
They are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.

Lenore

by Edgar Allan Poe

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! - a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, has thou no tear? - weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read - the funeral song be sung! -
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young -
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her - that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read? - the requiem how be sung
By you - by yours, the evil eye, - by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did  to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let not a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The light upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life upon her yellow hair - the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven -
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven -
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then, - lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it does float up from the damned Earth!
And I! - tonight my heart is light! - no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"

Normal services interrupted as chapel members take a walk

Despite my search for real socialism and my fascination with the story of the labour movement, as opposed to the Labour Party, I did not find myself involved in any serious union activity until I moved down South.

As I have said I joined the National Union of Journalists while working in North Wales. Other than paying my subs on a monthly basis, the branch treasurer was the sports editor (he might have been called assistant editor but mainly I remember him doing sport) Bill Prandle and he always made sure we were up to date.

I don’t think I remember even attending any meetings and we certainly didn’t take any action as far as I can remember.

When I did move South my membership was transferred to the Southend branch, which covered Basildon. The branch included people from other news media as well as freelancers but the journalists on the Standard Recorder, not including the editor, Tony Blandford, and the journalists at the Evening Echo, also part of Westminster Press, were in another level of the union called a chapel.

From the time the NUJ was formed, 1907, the union meetings or groups used the same references as the print workers for their workplace groups which were traditionally referred to as chapels. The main officials of the chapel were the FoC (chairman), deputy FoC (deputy chairman) and the Clerk of the Chapel (secretary and often treasurer as well).

Before I get accused of sexism I would point out that at this time there were fewer women in journalism and the printing works in general as compared to men and most chapels would have an FoC, but when a woman was elected they did become known as Mother of the Chapel or MoC.

Our chapel was rather quiet in my early days in Basildon, or it might be I didn’t always get the notices of meeting as they would be held at the head office and works which was out on one of the industrial sites.

Late in 1973, however, as the NUJ got stuck into pay and conditions talks with the newspaper owners, in the form of the Newspaper Society, chapel meetings were called to keep us up to date with negotiations.

By the autumn negotiations were not going well and eventually we were informed that there would be a 24-hour stoppage to remind the NS of our major weapon in such fights, the right to withdraw our labour.

Work would stop mid-morning, which would mainly disrupt work on the Evening Echo, and return exactly 24 hours later, which would still cause disruption on the evening paper.

The stoppage began as planned and when we left the weekly office it was on friendly relations with the editor. We met up at a local social club where a room had been made available. Pickets were dispatched to the head office and other offices with official placards from the NUJ. Other teams were set up to relieve them every two hours and once pickets were relieved they could go home. All picketing ended at 5pm and everyone would gather at the meeting room at 8am, in preparation for a return to work at the end of the 24 hours.

Just after 8am a courier arrived from head office with an envelope addressed to the FoC. The message was from the board of directors and, although couched in business-like language what it amounted to was:

“You have made your point but we see no reason for you to continue the stoppage and we expect to see everyone back at their desks by 9am.”

There was a 10-minute debate on what should be done and, despite two or three who thought management had a point, it was agreed stoppage would continue for the full 24 hours and the return to work would be at 11am as agreed. A member of head office editorial, who had a motorbike, volunteered to take the reply.

He had only been back 10 minutes when the head office courier arrived with a further message. This one simply stated that all editorial staff should be at their desks by 9am and after that the doors would be locked to prevent anyone else entering the building.

A short debate ended with the same decision: a return to work at the end of the 24 hours. The courier had been asked to wait to take our reply.

We then all set off at staggered times to ensure each group arrived at the appropriate office to return to work at 11am.

When we arrived at the Recorder office we went to the front entrance as that was where we had departed for our 24-hour stoppage. Tony was at the door and told us he had been instructed not to allow us in if we arrived after 9am.

We returned to the meeting room at the social club and before long we were all together again.

The trouble with most provincial journalists at that time was that they were more at ease with reporting on other people on strike (even though we were not on strike we had been locked out) than actually participating.

It took some time to come up with a plan of action on the basis we did not know if this would last a few hours, a few days or even longer. The first item on the action list was to inform NUJ head office and ask for advice on what to do next.

The second item was to set up a roster for pickets. At that time of the year nobody wanted to be out in the cold for too long.

I was scheduled for a late shift.

While we waited to hear back from the NUJ head office those of us not on picket duty were at a bit of a loose end.

The big change came mid-afternoon when one of the pickets came back early and announced: “We’ve got company.”

NEXT TIME: Settling in for the long haul and saying sorry to a princess.

Strange Meeting

by Wilfred Owen

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, --
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground;
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mastery; 
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

'I am the the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . . .'

The Kiss

by Edith Nesbit

The snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
Even to see your face, my dear,
Your face that was sun;
There is no spring this bitter year,
And summer's dreams are done.

The snakes that lie about my heart
Are in my wintry sleep;
Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,
No more they curl and creep.
Love with the summer ceased to be;
The frost is firm and fast.
God keep the summer far from me,
And let the snakes' sleep last!

Touch of your hand could not suffice
To waken them once more;
Nor could the sunshine of your eyes
A ruined spring restore.
But ah - your lips! You know the rest:
The snows are summer rain,
My eyes are wet, and in my breast
The snakes' fangs meet again.