Robin's Nest

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.

As I Grew Older

by Langston Hughes

It was a long time ago.

I have almost forgotten my dream.

But it was there then,

In front of me,

Bright like a sun–

My dream.

And then the wall rose,

Rose slowly,

Slowly,

Between me and my dream.

Rose until it touched the sky–

The wall.

Shadow.

I am black.

I lie down in the shadow.

No longer the light of my dreams before me.

Above me.

Only the thick wall.

Only the shadow.

My hands!

My dark hands!

Break through the wall!

Find my dream!

Help me to shatter this darkness,

To smash this night,

To break this shadow

Into a thousand lights of sun,

Into a thousand whirling dreams,

Of sun!

The last days of real journalism

Q. What links Friday; a war over eggs; and coffee?

A. The (ig)noble art of journalism.

Daniel Defoe, who gave us the tale of Robinson Crusoe, the sailor marooned on a deserted island with only a single companion – Man Friday, was the first well-known journalist.

He was also a spy, a pamphleteer, a trader and a writer – none of which put him above the way we view many journalists these days.

He is regarded as the pioneer of modern journalism because of his publication of The Storm which was the account of a severe storm which hit London in November 1703 and lasted seven days.

In providing the first ever report of a hurricane in England he used eye-witness reports. He didn’t actually work to a deadline for his report as it wasn’t printed until early 1704.

Jonathan Swift, who wrote Gulliver’s Travels, a tale which recorded details of the war between Lilliput and Blefuscu over which end of a boiled egg should be opened, edited The Examiner, a political periodical, from 1710 to 1714.

We talk today of media bias to one or other of the political parties. This was as nothing compared to this period in English history.

The Examiner promoted a Tory perspective of British politics at a time when the new monarch, Queen Anne, had replaced the Whig ministers of her predecessors (her sister Mary and Mary’s husband King William III) with Tories.

Although the Tories were in power the majority of the print media at the time favoured the Whigs which is why John Morphew launched The Examiner – to counter the Whig press.

Swift was also a man of many parts as a priest, a poet and a political pamphleteer.

Finally we come to the coffee, often the best way to round off a delightful repast.

Edward Lloyd ran a coffee shop in London where merchants, brokers and shipping agents used to meet and discuss business.

To make life easier for his customers Edward produced a weekly summary of shipping movements which became known as Lloyd’s List and continued in print form from 1734 until 2013 when it became an online publication.

Lloyd was a coffee shop proprietor, who also became an auctioneer, and the publication that bears his name is probably better known to the public than he is.

These were not, of course, the first newspapers in Britain.

In the 16th century the main centre for newsletters was in Antwerp where the printers and publishers could send copies to France, Britain, Germany and the Netherlands, in one direction, and to Spain, Portugal and Italy in the other.

The main news at the time centred on wars, other military actions, what was happening in the major royal courts, and, the staple diet of many newspapers to this day – gossip.

By the 17th century news pamphlets were still controlled by the state and became more popular because they provided fairly reliable sources of news especially by the middle of the century with the Civil War.

The Royalist ones that did not fall by the wayside included Mercurius Aulicus, Mercurius Melancholicus, and Mercurius Electicus.

Certainly not the sort of titles you would ask for in your local newsagent. It doez give you an idea where the modern newspaper title Mercury originated.

The London-based news sheets nailed their colours to the Parliamentary mast with such delights as the Parliament Scout, Spie, and The Kingdome’s Weekly Scout.

Despite all we hear about the draconian rule by Oliver Cromwell and his Puritan followers the press was reasonably free during the time of the Commonwealth.

This came to an end with the Restoration when Charles II brought in the Printing Act 1662 which restricted printing to: the University of Oxford; Trinity College, Cambridge: and to the master printers of the Stationer’s Company in London.

This reinstated the regulations and restrictions previously lifted by the Puritans.

It took another major upheaval to gradually loosen the chains around the press and it was the Protestant King William III who eased the shackles once more and this was mainly because he didn’t want to upset the burgeoning press in light of the growing politicisation of Parliament.

Over the centuries newspapers have come and gone but also many have stayed. Whether the level of journalism remains constant is another matter.

In the early days you only needed a publisher for you to become a journalist, quite often an editor.

Nowadays you only need access to the web to call yourself a journalist.

No real change there then.

In between there have been examples of real journalists. Some in the latter years of Victoria. Definitely some during both world wars but real journalists were still going strong through the 1950s, 60s, 70s and into the 80s.

As the old hands died off or retired there remained very few true journalists by 2000 and 20 years later the real journalists are an endangered species hovering on the brink of extinction.

We are not dinosaurs – we are principled professionals.

A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed

by Jonathan Swift

Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,

For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;

Never did Covent Garden boast

So bright a batter’d, strolling Toast;

No drunken Rake to pick her up,

No Cellar where on Tick to sup;

Returning at the Midnight Hour;

Four Stories climbing to her Bow’r;

Then, seated on a three-legg’d Chair,

Takes off her artificial Hair:

Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,

She wipes it clean, and lays it by.

Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse’s Hide,

Stuck on with Art from either Side,

Pulls off with Care, and first displays ’em,

Then in a Play-book smoothly lays ’em.

Now dextrously her Plumpers draws,

That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.

Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums

A Set of Teeth completely comes.

Pulls out the Rags contriv’d to prop

Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.

Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess

Unlaces next her Steel-Rib’d Bodice;

Which by the Operator’s Skill,

Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,

Up goes her Hand, and off she slips

The Bolsters that supply her Hips.

With gentlest Touch, she next explores

Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores;

Effects of many a sad Disaster;

And then to each applies a Plaster.

But must, before she goes to Bed,

Rub off the daubs of White and Red;

And smooth the Furrows in her Front,

With greasy Paper stuck up on’t.

She takes a Bolus e’er she sleeps;

And then between two Blankets creeps.

With pains of love tormented lies;

Or if she chance to close her Eyes,

Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,

And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;

Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,

At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;

Or to Jamaica seems transported,

Alone, and by no Planter courted;

Or, by Fleet-Ditch’s oozy Brinks,

Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks,

Belated, seems on watch to lie,

And snap some Cull passing by;

Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs

On Watchmen, Constables and Duns,

From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;

But, never from Religious Clubs;

Whose favour she is sure to find,

Because she pays them all in Kind.

CORINNA wakes. A dreadful Sight!

Behold the Ruins of the Night!

A wicked Rat, her Plaster stole;

Half eat, and dragged it to his Hole.

The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss’d;

And Puss had on her Plumpers piss’d.

A Pigeon pick’d her Issue-Peas;

And Shock her tresses fill’d with Fleas.

The Nymph, tho’ in this mangled Plight;

Must ev’ry Morn her Limbs unite.

But how shall I describe her Arts

To recollect the scatter’d Parts?

Or show the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,

Of gath’ring up herself again?

The bashful Muse will never bear

In such a Scene to interfere.

Corinna in the Morning dizen’d,

Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison’d.

Love Sonnet XI

by P Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day.

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sweet laugh,

Your hands the color of a savage harvest,

Hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

The sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

And I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

Hunting for you, for your hot heart,

Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

First Love

by Brian Patten

Falling in love was like falling down the stairs

Each stair had her name on it

And he went bouncing down each one like a tongue-tied lunatic

One day of loving her was an ordinary year

He transformed her into what he wanted

And the scent from her

Was the best scent in the world

Fifteen he was fifteen

Each night he dreamed of her

Each day he telephoned her

Each day was unfamiliar

Scary even

And the fear of her going weighed on him like a stone

And when he could not see her for two nights running

It seemed a century had passed

And meeting her and staring at her face

He knew he would feel as he did forever

Hopelessly in love

Sick with it

And not even knowing her second name

It was the first time

The best time

A time that would last forever

Because it was new

Because he was ignorant it could never end

It was endless

Misogyny

by Gwyneth Lewis

I see you, great literary men, holding a party

Just beyond me. You are loving and greeting

Each other while I’m caught in the junk room

Of your misogynies: mahogany furniture

Shipped from crises on older continents,

Is blocking my way. Massive and polished,

They shine in the gloom, recalcitrant. Grand

Lyrical Men who tried to fuck me

(You know who you are) I see you wave in

Those who you favour, leaving me pinned

To the wall by a linen press. Brass teeth,

Ferocious, snap at my nipples. An insistent caster

Sucks at my mouth, while a cabriole leg

Juts up my jacksie. Aggressive chattels

Of others’ unstated fears. What do you see

In me so disgusts you? What has to be

Fucked then blotted out so that you

Can bear it? That you were babies once,

Helpless? That the world’s a bad breast, doesn’t

Obey? Or, horror of horrors, the will

Doesn’t work power’s beside the point.

Grow up. This is your junk and I refuse it. From

My dead end, I see others in traps of ice

And iron, we wave at each other, we’re coming,

Your days are numbered. So will we project

Onto you, make you a hedgehog, pierced

By your furniture’s splintering? No.

Look, here’s my mother’s clothes horse,

What if we cover it with a blanket

Making a room where anyone may play,

And learn not being afraid together?

London

by William Blake

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,

In every Infants cry of fear,

In every voice: in every ban,

The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweepers cry

Every blackning Church appalls,

And the hapless Soldiers sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlots curse

Blast the new-born Infants tear

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.