Start from scratch to stay in touch

In the early years, when a young journalist is still in training, where they first work can make a great deal of difference.

I was raised in a large, busy, seaside town where my father was a businessman and one way or another I knew a good many of the people in Rhyl – the goodies and the baddies.

I started my proper newspaper training, however, in a small, inland rural town where I had to find my contacts from the base up.

If I had started in Rhyl I might have found it too easy to rely on people I knew already for my stories rather than building up my own network.

Obviously because I had attended a college in the area I did have a few contacts in Holywell, Dilys for one.

In the main, though, I was starting from scratch.

That is how you find the best contacts.

A reliable PC or police sergeant might tip you off to a good story which puts you in a strong position when you are talking to the inspector or chief inspector in charge of the district.

You don’t talk to the magistrates about upcoming stories – better to get your info from the magistrates’ clerk’s office. Not necessarily the actual clerk (who is normally a senior solicitor and far above talking to junior reporters) but one of the clerk’s juniors.

The bosses of these contacts don’t really mind basic information being passed on because it saves them time when you are really just asking for official confirmation.

At the end of the day, however, the real strength in your early days learning by experience is the type and measure of what is happening.

In Holywell it was quieter and more laid-back. Even crime was much more gentle. Very few armed robberies or political shenanigans.

At times the biggest thing to hit the news might be a row over who really should have won the prize for best giant marrow at the local vegetable show.

This time was not wasted, however, and at the end of the day what mattered most was reader interest and circulation.

A revelation about rates being frittered away on jolly jaunts (investigative studies in council parlance) for councillors and council officials would do less to sell papers than a report with pictures of the local school sports day.

A picture of the five winners of the major sports day events could add 30 or more to the circulation figures.

Each little Jack or Jill will have two lots of grandparents wanting a copy as well as: Uncle George who now lives down South; cousin Mary whose parents moved to Australia 30 years ago; godparents who now live in Scotland or England; and two or three spares in case somebody has been forgotten.

At the end of the day local papers serve local people and they tend to want local news.

There is only so much news in a rural township, however, although a bright spark did say, once upon a time: “Isn’t it amazing how there’s always just enough stories to fill a newspaper each week.”

If he only knew that sometimes there isn’t enough and what there is has been padded out, or “leaded”, to make the copy go further.

At other times there will be more than enough and some reports will be held over for a week but will still get in.

After all local newspapers are as much a matter of record as they are of news.

First Day at School

by Roger McGough

A millionbillionwillion miles from home

Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)

Why are they all so big, other children?

So noisy? So much at home they

Must have been born in uniform

Lived all their lives in playgrounds

Spent the years inventing games

That don’t let me in. Games

That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings

All around the railings.

Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?

Things that carry off and eat children?

Things you don’t take sweets from?

Perhaps they are to stop us getting out

Running away from the lessins. Lessin.

What does a lessin look like?

Sounds small and slimy.

They keep them in the glassrooms.

Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name

Mummy said it would come in useful.

Like wellies. When there’s puddles.

Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.

I think my name is sewn on somewhere

Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.

Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

by John Keats

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew;

And on the cheek a fading rose,

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meadows

Full beautiful, a faery’s child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

A faery’s song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew;

And sure in language strange she said,

I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild sad eyes —

So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,

The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried — “La belle Dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke, and found me here

On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

The Flower that Smiles Today

by Percy Shelley

The flower that smiles today

Tomorrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies;

What is this world’s delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

Virtue how frail it is!

Friendship how rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,

Survive their joy, and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,

Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day.

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,

Dream thou — and from thy sleep

Then wake to weep.

The Fall of Slavery

by John Harris

Musing, by a mossy fountain,

In the blossom month of May,

Saw I coming down a mountain

An old man whose locks were grey;

And the flowery valleys echoed,

As he sang his earnest lay.

“Prayer is heard, the chain is riven,

Shout it over land and sea;

Slavery from earth is driven,

And the manacled are free;

Brotherhood in all the nations;

What a glorious Jubilee!

“God has answered, fall before Him,

Laud His majesty and might;

On the knees, O earth, adore Him:

Now the black is as the white;

Hallelujah! hallelujah!

Every bondsman free as light.

“Whip and scourge and fetter broken,

Far away in darkness hurled;

This a grand and glorious token,

When millennium fills the world.

Hallelujah! O’er the nations

Freedom’s snowy flag unfurled.

“God has answered! Glory, glory!

O’er the green earth let it speed;

Sun and stars take up the story,

Nevermore a slave shall bleed;

Shout deliverance for the freeman,

Send him succour in his need.

Glory be to God the Giver.

Slavery now shall brand no more;

From the fountain to the river

Freedom breathes on every shore.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Brotherhood the wide world o’er.”

She Walks in Beauty

by George Gordon Byron

I

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

III

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Water Lilies

by A. A. Milne

Where the water lilies go

To and fro,

Rocking in the ripples of the water,

Lazy on a leaf lies the Lake King’s daughter,

And the faint winds shake her.

Who will come and take her?

I will! I will!

Keep still! Keep still!

Sleeping on a leaf lies the Lake King’s daughter . . . .

Then the wind comes skipping

To the lilies on the water;

And the kind winds wake her.

Now who will take her?

With a laugh she is slipping

Through the lilies on the water.

Wait! Wait!

Too late, too late.

Only the water-lilies go

To and fro.

Dipping, dipping,

To the ripples on the water.

Break of Day in the Trenches

by Isaac Rosenberg

The darkness falls away

It is the same old Druid time as ever,

Only a live thing leaps my hand,

A queer sardonic rat,

As I pull the parapet’s poppy

To stick behind my ear.

Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew

Your cosmopolitan sympathies,

Now you have touched this English hand

You will do the same to a German

Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure

To cross the sleeping green between.

It seems you inwardly grin as you pass

Strong eyes, fine linbs, haughty athletes,

Less chanced than you for life,

Bonds to the whims of murder,

Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,

The torn fields of France.

What do you see in our eyes

At the shrieking iron and flame

Hurled through still Heavens.

What quaver — what heart aghast?

Poppies whose roots are in men’s veins

Drop, and are ever dropping;

But mine in my ear is safe,

Just a little white with the dust.

From copy boy to the editor’s chair (if you’re lucky)

Training in journalism before the 1950s was based mainly on luck.

Getting a job at a newspaper, for instance, could be pure chance. After all publishers did not have a permanent post available for any or every bright young spark who popped into the editor’s office.

You had a better chance if you lived in or near London because a hopeful young journalist could get a job as a copy boy at a major publishing group and work their way up.

In the regions a job on a daily or evening paper might turn up occasionally if a senior reporter moved on to Fleet Street.

Similarly a weekly newspaper reporter might get a job on a regional daily leaving an opening as everyone on the weekly moves up one.

Quite often staff on weekly newspapers might be there for their whole lives. Going from junior to senior reporter; becoming chief reporter or specialising as a sports reporter could be the next step; then deputy editor and the peak of achievement — editor.

Training was often based on observation by a junior (in those days generally male) who might actually be allowed to type up an occasional report from submitted information (much as happened in my first job at Holywell).

The lucky junior might be taken under the wing of a very experienced senior reporter. One who had put in the years but was also happy staying in a seaside town or a pronvincial city.

To make it all the way to Fleet Street a “copy boy” (or girl) would need to be very good or very lucky.

The system of training took a turn (possibly for the better) in the late 40s, following a call from the National Union of Journalists and members of the Labour Party, a Royal Commission was set up to investigate the ownership, control and financing of the UK press.

It was published in 1949, after two years of investigation, and had many far-reaching consequences including the formation of the Press Council.

One of the lesser-known results was the setting up of an official system of training journalists under the authority of the National Council for the Training of Journalists, which was formed in 1951.

The NCTJ was not a headliner in the report but it proved invaluable to generations of cub reporters.

Regarding training the report said: “The problem of recruiting the right people into journalism, whether from school or from university, and ensuring that they achieve and maintain the necessary level of education and technical efficiency, is one of the most important facing the Press, because the quality of the individual journalist depends not only on the status of the whole profession of journalism but the possibility of bridging the gap between what society needs from the Press and what the Press is at present giving it. The problem is the common interest and the common responsibility of proprietors, editors and other journalists.”

In the main those entering the profession at the bottom of the ladder were still arriving in their mid-teens straight from school.

Under the new system they would be indentured for a three-year apprenticeship with the company being responsible for their proper training.

In the early years they studied one day a week at colleges of further education and were examined, after their three-year apprenticeship, in the General Proficiency Test.

By the 1960s the level of training became more intense and by 1965 block release courses were introduced.

This involved initial working “on the job” for six months to a year and then spending an eight-week period of study at an accredited college, followed by another period working “on the job” and then a final block release course before taking a proficiency exam before the end of indentures.

As it happened my real entry into journalism began in 1967 and I did six months on my “probation” before switching to a new employer and spending almost two years working full-time before going on my first block release course.

By this time experimental pre-entry training courses were held and then 18 to 20 week fast-track postgraduate courses for those who went to university.

The next step was for accredited postgraduate degree courses.

The old Proficiency Test was scrapped and a National Certificate Examination was introduced.

By the end of the 70s most new entrants to journalism would have had some pre-entry training and there were very few raw recruits in their mid-teens entering journalism.

Since then the NCTJ has accredited undergraduate degree courses with a vocational aspect; some larger companies introduced their own training programmes; and there are even private groups running journalism courses.

A cub reporter is no longer an endangered species – it has become extinct.

You are unlikely to find some bright-faced teenager in a newspaper office fetching tea and coffee for the hacks whilst trying to find out how to become one of the elite.

There are many of my old colleagues who still believe you cannot teach someone to be a journalist. They have to have something there to begin with.

Nowadays journalists seem to arrive in the office fully-fledged and with their eye already on the editor’s chair.

The problem nowadays is that there are not many chairs left for those wannabe editors

Endymion

by Thomas Kinsella

At first there was nothing. Then a closed space.

Such light as there was showed him sleeping.

I stole nearer and bent down; the light grew brighter,

and I saw it came from the interplay of our two beings.

It blazed in silence as I kissed his eyelids.

I straightened up and it faded, from his pallor

and the ruddy walls with their fleshy thickenings

— great raw wings, curled — a huge owlet stare —

as a single drop echoed in the depths.