Truth In Sentences

Newcastle Herald

Saturday September 3, 2005

with Mark Rothfield

CRIKEY, I'm cranky. Spittin' chips. Feeyoo-min. And it's your fault!

That's you, collectively, as in the public. The great unwashed. The people who continually rank hard-working journalists down with the bottom-dwellers of the professional trust pond the cheap-suited car salesmen, dodgy politicians, psychics and the like.

Fancy-panted ambulance officers get all the kudos, just ahead of firefighters, which proves that you only need to look cute in a uniform, drive a boisterous little van and save the odd life to win over the masses.

But here are journos, putting their necks on the frontline in war-torn nations, delving into the murky underworld, exposing myriad crooks and snake oil salesmen, and getting their bottoms pinched by inebriated ex-Liberal leaders for their trouble.

Oh, the media got it wrong, they moan when it suits. You can't trust what you read in the papers.

It's an affront. Not personally, I should add, because I'm one of the new breed who'll never let the facts ruin a good story. Nope, it's an affront to the grand journos of yore.

The deeds of these gents are discussed with reverence over a beer whenever one of our long-term colleagues pulls the pen. Such gatherings are dwindling, though, for young journos today come brandishing university degrees but are seemingly bereft of spontaneity.

They are, by and large, a sanitised, politically correct lot.

Not like in the good ol' days, of course. The grizzled, hard-drinking, chain-smoking characters will never be forgotten, nor replaced.

They knew everyone because they drank with them. They'd invariably be out on the town when news broke and yet still be fit to file their copy, hastily scratched on a soggy coaster.

It just wasn't done to miss a day's work because of a hangover. They'd fall asleep at their desk first.

There was the odd hiccup like the excruciating headline "The angony and the etctasy" but overall they were consummate professionals.

None, in my book, embodied the legendary publishing ethos more than a sports writer by the name of Spook.

Of an evening he'd phone the Masonic Club which, at that time, was across the road from the Herald. "Keep the bar open, I'm coming over," or "Get me a coupla long necks,' he'd bark into the receiver.

The first four digits of the number were the same as those of the editor and often Spook would forget to secure an outside line.

The editor's door would fly open and out he'd steam, crying, "You bloody drunkard!"

Of course, ill health has a habit of stalking such characters. The good journos die young, or at least too soon after retiring.

Inevitably it was cancer that claimed the Spook. He was in Royal Newcastle when word filtered back that the prognosis was grim.

The young council reporter happened to inquire about his condition, only to be told, "The news ain't good. Spook won't be coming outa hospital."

And at that very moment through the pall of cigarette smoke which blanketed the editorial floor, thick as a London fog emerged the spectre of Spook.

He staggered his way unerringly towards his desk, as he'd done countless times when half shot, then he pulled out the bowls column.

His throat was so sore that he was unable to swallow tablets, but the hospital had furnished him with a liquid painkiller. As he subbed, Spook would sporadically dip his pen into the medication then nonchalantly suck the end.

It had the desired effect and, pretty soon, Spook was humming. He quietly reached into his drawer and withdrew his bottle of scotch.

Again it was too raw for his parched throat so off went Spook in search of milk to mix with his scotch. There was none in the canteen, none in the Coke machine. But there was chocolate milk, which served in a crisis.

The sports department still has its share of characters though few people venture in there because the flatulence would kill a brown dog.

Another journo is showing potential, recently being found asleep on his driveway at 3am, clutching a half-eaten frozen pie to his chest. Of course, he failed to show next morning for work. Young blokes can't trust 'em.