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• 02 Oct 2009 05:55

  ‘You don’t often see it around, but take my advice: if you do come across it, leap on it and lap it up.’ – the Pulpfiction website, describing Tony Delano’s second book on Fleet Street scoops Issue # 115 October 2, 2009 We moaned about the shortage (by which we meant the near-total lack) of obits and we have one this week from Ray Snoddy, one of the first guys to make a living out of writing – authoritatively – about this trade. What does the science editor of the Financial Times do with his copy when the bench spikes it? David Fishlock sent it instead to Erotic Review. Well, you would. That’s the sort of tale that doesn’t get told, unless a mate writes an obit. And, a bit late, but none the worse for that, Paddy O’Gara dredges from his fuddled memory a short about Waterhouse (see also Ranters, passim). The News Chronicle died almost half a century ago. Amazingly, its survivors still meet every year and are now planning a big thrash for the 50th anniversary lunch next year. When the paper folded the Newcastle staff was: Jimmy Dolan and Stanley Blenkinsop, photographer Alan Haughton and sports reporter George Taylor. Now ex-sub Tom Welsh wants to know: Anybody got any old Chron stuff in the attic? Comedian Les Dawson – not a journalist but a lovely writer – is being remembered by Louis Barfe. There must be loads of untold stories about Les, who never refused a chat. And Louis is looking for more of them, for a book. Is it too early to write the obit on this government? moves from the bright lights of the big city (last week) to the illuminations of Blackpool and relives some strange times at Labour party conferences. With odd memories of Lancaster Jeff Blyth pens an obituary to the United States. But it’s only the liner on whose maiden voyage he sailed 57 years ago, and which may now be doomed for the scrapyard. Joyce McKinney, last we heard, is still alive and well, but her life has been chronicled by Tony Delano. You know all about it, of course. But a reminder never hurt anybody, Revel Barker reckons. Way to go By Raymond Snoddy David Fishlock, science editor of the Financial Times for nearly 25 years, was staying in the Swan Hotel Southwold, Friday before last. He had a breakfast of smoked haddock and two poached eggs and then toddled across the road to a traditional butchers where he picked up two ham hocks, miles of sausages and pork pies to take home. He keeled over with a heart attack after stepping out of the hotel lift. He was 77. A qualified chemist, David was one of the most distinguished science writers of his generation and had the gift of being able to talk to Nobel prize winners and relate the importance of their discoveries in language that the average FT reader could understand. In fact his greatest achievement over more than 45 years of technical and scientific journalism was to act as an ‘interpreter’ between the worlds of academic and research science and those of business and investment. His books included The Business of Science, The Business of Biotechnology, The New Materials Man Modified, a review of the rapidly changing nature of medicine and technology. In retirement he founded and published, for more than 10 years, the monthly R & D Efficiency, a newsletter devoted to understanding how large multi-national corporations could best organise their research and development activities. It became almost an international private club for the world’s leading R & D executives. He was awarded honorary doctorates by both Salford and Bath universities. David Fishlock was perhaps best known for his understanding of, and support for, the nuclear industry in all its manifestations – from nuclear bombs to nuclear energy. He never wavered in his support despite the Three-MileIsland and Chernobyl accidents. In later years he was quietly pleased that nuclear energy was once again taking centre stage in the fight against man-made global warming – though naturally he was sceptical about the man-made part of that equation. David Fishlock was never shy about engaging environmental campaigners in public when he thought – as was often the case – that their arguments were based on poor science. He once caused consternation in Jordans in Buckinghamshire where he lived by writing an article in the FT arguing that he would be perfectly happy for nuclear waste to be stored in his village. He hadn’t bothered to consult his neighbours before offering the location. When animal rights protesters turned up at his home because he had shares in Huntingdon Life Sciences he turned a hosepipe on them – and immediately doubled his investment. As David Kynaston, author of the centenary history of the FT noted, David Fishlock had even ‘enthusiastically’ endorsed President Reagan’s Star Wars project though the paper itself decided the move would be more likely to re-ignite the arms race rather than render it obsolete. Despite his personal views he won a British Press Award in 1986 for his objective coverage of the Chernobyl disaster and was one of the first to reveal that there had been a massive explosion at the plant. David Jocelyn Fishlock was born in Bath on August 9 1932 and was educated at City of Bath Boys School and the Bristol College of Technology. After National Service in Hong Kong he spent seven years working for the Westinghouse Brake and Signal Co before becoming a technical journalist with McGraw Hill in . After five years working for New Scientist as technology editor he was recruited by the legendary FT editor Sir Gordon Newton to be science editor with the aim of expanding science coverage in a paper that was still emerging from its earlier rather narrow City origins. It was a role he fulfilled, accompanied by prodigious journalistic lunches of the old-fashioned variety, for successive editors until his retirement in 1991. One of the many paradoxes about the man despite his deep knowledge of hard science was his inability to master simple devices of the current age such as mobile phones, computers and e-mail. He insisted on writing in longhand, starting usually around 4am, and then had the work typed up, or entered into a computer. His troubles with the equipment caused difficulty a year ago when asked to write an obituary on a pioneer of the British nuclear industry for the Independent. How to get the copy across in time? With great glee he found out that the Press Association still maintained a copy-taker for emergencies such as those. David Fishlock was a larger-than-life character in every sense of the word – serious about science but passionate about everything from real ale to obscure Scottish distilleries, from traditional butchers and offal to scientific instruments and the history of chastity belts. He was irritated that the FT unaccountably declined his illustrated article on the chastity belt. No matter, the Erotic Review snapped it up and he happily listed his links with that organ in Who’s Who alongside his work as columnist for rather different publications, such as Nuclear Europe Worldscan and Chemistry World He was awarded the Silver Jubilee Medal in 1977 and made an OBE in 1983. He is survived by Mary, his wife of nearly 50 years, and his son Bill who publishes Business in East Anglia WATERHOUSE How far did you go? By Patrick O’Gara Reading all the tales about Keith brought this back. Hundreds of years ago (the Seventies, no doubt) and in a bar (absolutely no doubt), Keith, Jeff Bernard and myself formed a small and exclusive club called The Gonetoofar. The sole qualification for membership was to have been told by at least three women – preferably wives – ‘This time you have gone too far, you bastard.’ The last two words were optional. Jeff was nominated president by acclaim. I cannot recall whether we ever acquired any other members. If we did, and if any have survived (unlikely, to be sure) will they please make themselves known so work can proceed on a reunion before it is entirely too late. Cash in the attic? By Tom Welsh News Chronicle veterans planning to attend the annual get-together on October 15 (a lunch-time party at the Witness Box in Tudor Street ) have been set a challenge. The organiser, Betty Thomson (ex-Chron reporter and daughter of Francis Williams, editor of the Daily Herald), wants to collect funds towards a grand anniversary occasion next year to mark the 50th anniversary of the paper’s closure, and is asking for ‘anything that is Chronicle-orientated and worth selling’ – for a raffle. What a predicament that will be for the old gang! I have three cherished Chronicle objects. The first is my framed copy of the last issue on October 17, 1960, which has hung on my wall for 49 years and would be missed. Beside it, and the same size as the front page, hangs the framed original of a splendid cartoon by Ronald Searle entitled ‘Layman’s guide to the journalist’s anatomy’, showing a bedraggled figure complete with his notebook and with a ‘60 proof’ bottle projecting from his pocket. His ‘anatomy’ is itemised in detail – ‘coat for turning’, ‘eye for the news’, ‘forelock for touching’, and so on. I won it in the raffle at the ‘wake’ that marked the Chron’s closure all those years ago. How could I part with it now? But my most cherished Chronicle memento is neither of these, though the memories it brings back are far from happy. In fact they recall my two most traumatic experiences in The Street. My first night on the paper was, unfortunately, memorable for all involved. In 1959 I was subbing on the Oxford Mail when it was hit by a printers’ strike, so I was able to go to Bouverie Street for a three-night trial on the subs desk. Frank Saunders, chief sub, explained I had to write my name, Welsh, on the top folio of all my stuff. I had a busy evening. I was quite surprised at the number of stories I had to handle. It was my first visit to a national newspaper subs room, but as the evening drew on I sensed that something was going badly wrong. The back bench kept getting into a huddle. Finally Frank dashed down and said, ‘For Christ’s sake stop putting your name on the top of your copy. It’s all going in the galleys for the Welsh edition.’ We narrowly avoided missing the trains with the first edition that night. The incident was recalled even in the trauma of the Chronicle’s last night. Robin Findlay, who was chief subbing, had sent two completed pages away when head printer Harry East came in looking puzzled. Didn’t Robin know the paper wasn’t coming out that night? Harry had just sent the blocks for the cartoons to the , in which they would be appearing the following day. When finally the news sank in, I went to the composing room to say goodbye to the printers. Harry presented me with the rubber stamp that said simply ‘Welsh’, and which he had used to stamp all my first-night copy. He said it would be a reminder of another night he would prefer to forget. I still treasure it. (I suppose technically it still belongs to Mr Cadbury.) Much later that night, tired and emotional, I returned to the office with Peter Vlieland, another sub, to get my coat. In the Mucky Duck I had said the best memento would be the bust of Charles Dickens, the paper’s first editor, which stood on a pedestal prominently in the front hall. In the foyer a television team was interviewing the commissionaire, so while no one was looking (I’m not proud of this!), as Peter and I went up the stairs we lifted the bust off its pedestal and carried it up. The great man was surprisingly light. By the time we reached the first floor the idea had lost its appeal and we left him there. Later revellers, finding him, deposited him head downwards in a bucket in the men’s loo on the fifth floor, where he was found the following morning. (Sorry about that, Mr Dickens. I know it wasn’t your fault.) The had a neat cartoon illustrating the former editor’s plight. Now, that bust would really have been a memento worth raffling. Sed Les By Louis Barfe I am writing a biography of Les Dawson, celebrating his life and career. If any Ranters encountered him and are willing to share their memories of him with me, I'd be very pleased to hear from them. Going through the cuttings, he seems to have always had an excellent relationship with the press, but then he seems to have got on with absolutely everyone, which is wonderful for me, spending a year or more of my life following his trail. I have already interviewed many of his former writers and producers, but always have room for more memories of the man. My email address is jabberment@louisbarfe.com . Thanks, in advance. The Golden Mile with Uncle Joe Sawdust mouths, hangovers, clattering tongues, smiling deception, rampant egos ... ah, those wonderful political party conferences where ambitious people of all kinds and persuasions paraded their talents like tarts in a side street. Not BrightonBlackpool for me, of course. Where else? Political writers from Dahn Sarf were never really happy with Blackpool. Didn't go with the proper image. Not up their Shaftesbury Avenue at all, this Norf. I wasn't too sure about it myself at times, but loyalty, loyalty. You know what it is. You have to defend the territory of your birth and stop people noticing too much. Uncle Joe's Mint Balls, for example. To Sarfs, the name was hilarious. If you were out and about with the writers, you could conceal tins by standing in front of the display, but if you succeeded there, they always spotted the advert from the windows of their train returning to Euston, and another jokey column would be born. It usually followed the one drawing attention to the appalling state of food in this or that Blackpool establishment. That hurt. Well, twinged. Prime Ministers and Prime Ministers-in-waiting used the same suite at the Imperial Hotel and in advance of one or other of them, I went on a security patrol of my own – eating a mint ball of course – and stared at the precise place where they would put their feet in the bath, wearing the same shower cap. It somehow put life into perspective, this naked truth. The proper security lads gave everything the once-over, unscrewing the bath panels and so forth. But I found – exclusive! – a shoelace in a plant pot, buried two inches beneath the surface. It had plainly escaped their attention. A fuse of some sort? It looked harmless enough, but you never know. It could have been controlled by radio. Innocent until primed, creeping out of its pot, guided onto the floor at dead of night and edging itself towards the vulnerable neck of one of our Great Leaders, there to strangle him, or her, in sleep. I didn't tell anybody. I reasoned that if a prime minister was garrotted by the shoe lace, I had an exclusive. We all have to make a living. What's more, I put my Uncle Joe's wrapper in the plant pot, too. There was nowhere else suitable. When Sir Trevor Evans, industrial man for the , turned up, he introduced me, at different times, to two people: Harold Wilson and a Great Writer. Wilson kindly told me what the weather in Blackpool was like at the time (nasty), then exited to pay full attention to his pipe. Great Writer bored the hell out of me all night long. Literally all night. Evans knew what he was doing. He went to bed, leaving me with this endless gramophone of rasping sandpaper. Great Writer went through his life several times – ‘This hotel in the Middle East... Got talking to the owner... We chatted about people we knew... This (internationally known) name cropped up... How a man can contrive to defecate on the ceiling of his room...’ Was I hearing aright? On and on. Next morning, at breakfast, he walked right by my table and obviously didn't know me. The shoelace sprang to mind. If only I could find its controls and head it towards his neck I was sitting with a large group at a conference when Terry Lancaster, then a political writer, went by. He was following Bob Edwards (the People), his editor. ‘Hello!’ I called to Lancaster, and he carried on without expression, turning, and mouthing the word, ‘Later.’ I was a bit miffed. We knew each other well. The walk-by reminded me of another place, another time: our earlier incarnation together when I tried to nobble Fidel Castro. (I know you did not expect him to step in at this point so I will wait until you adjust your concentration... Ready?) It was all down to a Yates's wine lodge and what they called Australian Red All-ins. I tried one or two and think the slices of lemon might have been 'off.' At any rate, it occurred to me that I should talk to Havana It seemed entirely reasonable at that precise moment, and possibly only at that precise moment. The world was in torment because of tensions between Cuba and the US. The Cuban leader, Fidel Castro, was about to go to the United Nations. So I went to the library, and looked up Cuba. There it was, convenient to America. A mere inch away. And the lot only six inches away from my office. A doddle. I sent a telegram to Havana saying that I would appreciate a word with Fidel. Quietly, like. I was alarmed – the effect of the lemon had worn off – when I got a message back saying that the leader was on his way to and would I make contact there? This posed a serious problem. How was I to explain to the in my urgent need to talk to Fidel Castro in ? I decided to admit to the foreign editor that I had flipped. That foreign editor was, at the time, Terry Lancaster, the very Terry Lancaster who had whispered ‘Later’ in Blackpool. Well, he thought the matter over carefully indeed and with Solomon's wisdom concluded that if I left Castro alone, he would not interfere with Manchester United. Those were his very words. Deal done. Would that Cuba had been settled so simply. We had a reasonable relationship, you see, which is why I could not understand the whispered ‘later’. Mr Lancaster in his Express days had been despatched to to hide. He was in waiting for Higher Things. It was felt that he might reasonably sit next to me in Features, and supply what help he could. It wasn't much since he couldn't sub. He made up for it by talking. When the man in charge of 's Hickey phoned to complain that his work was being supplanted by Northern stuff in Manchester and threatened all kinds of dire consequences, not excluding excommunication, Lancaster was hopping about by my side sensing an enjoyable fight. Better still, fun. ‘Tell him to bugger off,’ he advised. ‘Tell him, tell him! We'll decide, here, not him. Tell him...’ Well it was all right saying ‘Tell him’ but I had a mortgage, a wife and three children and decided on caution. I advised the Hickey man that I was responsible to only to my editor so any complaints should be addressed to him. There was a brooding sense of unease for weeks. In the meantime, I had dinner with Lancaster and backed my car into a tree afterwards. A slice of lemon again, I suspect. I was a martyr to them. He was in another car and I heard shrieking laughter alerting anything within 500 yards of my dilemma. He had just eaten an abnormally large scampi. ‘Mine,’ he proudly announced to the restaurant in general, ‘has gout.’ Anyway, there we were in Blackpool, Great Writer, Lancaster, Bob Edwards, a prime minister, a stalking shoelace (maybe), plus, possibly, Norf-Sarf unease about Uncle Joe's mint balls. And what sparks all this rambling is that people making those very mint balls in all their commendable glory might be on the move. Large new premises, advanced technology and all that. On the cards, I gather. Uncle Joe's – wait for it, wait for it – are now being sold in Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Plus Where's the editor who said there was no north-south divide? I want him to have a crateful. Gratis. For without doubt, the divide that never existed in his mind alone has done a Berlin Wall: it is positively, absolutely crumbling in reality, and now, he could be right. Be so kind as to pass the Fisherman's Friends, would you? # The fast lady By Jeffrey Blyth The SS United States, once the world's fastest passenger liner, which for several years has been rusting away at a berth on the Delaware River in Philadelphia, is reportedly up for sale. So far, according to the Wall Street Journal, there have been no bids. Not too surprising. She bears little resemblance to the fast sleek ship that back in the fifties reigned over the Atlantic. News of the possible sale nevertheless took me back to her maiden voyage in the summer of 1952, which I covered as the shipping correspondent of the Daily Mail. On her maiden voyage the United States wrested the speed record for the Atlantic crossing from the Cunard Line's Queen Mary by making the trip from New York to Southampton at the staggering average speed of 35.6 knots, the equivalent of 41 miles an hour. She made the trip in three days, twelve hours and twelve minutes. I can still recall the fireworks, the flares and the blaring ships' horns as we sailed up the Solent into Southampton. On the way back she broke the westbound record too – ensuring her right to the prestigious Blue Riband of the Atlantic. At a celebratory luncheon aboard the linerthe day after in Southampton an executive of US Lines was about to light up a cigarette (remember this was the fifties) when an aidereminded himthat smoking was permitted at official eventsin the UK only after the Royal toast. Unabashed the American replied ‘Dammit, let's have the toast now.’ So we had the toast to the Queen between the soup and the fish.... What wasn't known – or reported – at the time was the fact the United States was capable of even greater speeds. On her sea trials it was said she came close to an unprecedented 50 miles an hour. Reason for the secrecy? Built at a cost of $58 million, she was designed not just to be a luxury liner, but in the event of another war to be the fastest – and safest – troop ship in the world. A role she never filled, of course. Her capability was never more obvious than on a subsequent voyage when she overtook the Queen Mary in mid Atlantic. Her first captain, John Anderson, jokingly radioed his counterpart on the Queen Mary ‘Greetings from the SS United States. Do you need a tow?’ To which the captain of the QM signalled back ‘No thanks, Maybe you have forgotten... proper ladies don't keep fast company.’ The United States still has a band of devoted fans. They take nostalgic trips out into the Delaware, just to touch the old ship’s hull. They all hope for some new life for the veteran liner, perhaps as a floating museum or a luxury waterfront hotel. It is unlikely however that anyone will put up enough to renovate her, scrape off the rust and send her to sea again. What they fear is that she will be sold to a scrap dealer and end up in some Far East breaker's yard – which is more than possible. The story behind the scoop By Revel Barker After the tremendous and deserved triumph of his first foray into Fleet Street scoop revelation, Tony Delano produced a repeat performance with similar success. The first (in case you’ve been on a desert island) was called Slip-Up: How Fleet Street found Ronnie Biggs and Scotland Yard lost him. It was described by Keith Waterhouse as ‘Perhaps the best analysis of Fleet Street at work ever written’. The BBC made it into a film, and got Waterhouse to do the script. It was compared – favourably – with Scoop the obvious advantage being that Delano’s tale is all true. He followed this with Joyce McKinney and the Manacled Mormon and in case your memory of the late 1970s doesn’t serve you well this was the running Page One saga of the American beauty queen who pursued one of those door-to-door missionaries to godless Surrey, kidnapped, handcuffed and held him prisoner and – allegedly (because she fled the country instead of appearing at the Old Bailey) – raped him. It was another of those classic capers where the pop papers fought, sometimes literally, for the story while the ‘heavies’ pretended to hold themselves aloof but were desperately scrabbling to keep pace, Delano’s forensic eye captured all the detail, yet again. In those days the thought it would be clever to produce ‘instant’ books in the immediate aftermath of big stories, to get out on the bookstalls while the story was still hot, still fresh in readers’ memories. Reporters worked fast, that much they knew, and the publishing team –  more used to handling comics – had the idea that a book could be turned round in a long weekend, although sometimes they’d be prepared to allow that work period to stretch to a full week. Delano, as the paper’s chief US correspondent, involved on the periphery of the reporting, was given the task of collating the story while it was still running but suddenly – when McKinney and her accomplice skipped bail and it was established that Scotland Yard was not particularly fussed about chasing round the world after her – his draft notes were urgently required to allow the mighty presses to roll. It certainly wasn’t the finished work that Delano had envisaged; re-reading it in preparation for the new revised edition, he confesses to being appalled at how ‘sloppy’ it actually was. Nevertheless, it was a great tale. Another great paper chase. And as he says, ‘it came across as a cheerfully diverting story, particularly in regard to the cut-and-thrust newspaper mischief in the heady spirit of the Fleet Street of those times.’ Reviewers described it as 'The ultimate tabloid story'... 'A fantastic read...' Nobody mentioned that they found it ‘sloppy’. The single print run quickly sold out and it immediately became a collector’s item, with copies being offered on the Internet earlier this year for more than $300. The website Pulpfiction said: 'You don't often see it around, but take my advice: if you do come across it, leap on it and lap it up.' The new version – edited, cleaned-up, new information added and updated and with news about the bizarre life of McKinney following her flight to freedom – is available again, now for less than a tenner. Reviewing the new edition for Ranters, Derek Jameson said he reckons the new version will be as big a sensation as the original. This is typical of Jamey’s big heartedness, for he was on the losing side of the battle for the story of the Manacled Mormon. He was editing the at the time and his team had tracked McKinney down and bought her up, against fairly desperate opposition from the Sun. But even as their scoop – about how McKinney saw herself as the totally chaste and cherubically innocent victim in this Fleet Street drama – was being hammered out on the lino machines, the Mirror presses in Holborn were preparing to produce the real story, about her bizarre life as a call girl in Los Angeles, performing ‘sex acts’ to fund her pursuit of unrequited love across the Atlantic. The real story of the real McKinney had been patiently unearthed by Mirror chief photographer Kent Gavin, during an assignment in California covering George Best. That’s why Joyce McKinney and the Case of the Manacled Mormon can justifiably be claimed as a classic. They simply don’t make stories like that, these days. Or, they probably do but nobody seems to find them. And that’s why we refer to them as The Great Days of Fleet Street, I suppose. Joyce McKinney and the Case of the Manacled Mormon is available from amazon, from Waterstones, and from Book Depository (with free delivery worldwide) in the UK. And from amazon or Barnes & Noble in the USA.

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