It Was In A Book I Read...

[BIAD]

...I used to have a block of that linotype. A single line from a single column of a forgotten edition of the "Akron Beacon
Journal" from around 1970 or 1971. I don't recall the precise year I acquired it on a tour of that facility...

In my area, it was required from local Scrap Metal Merchants to report any printing lead that came their way to the
Police or the company I worked for. Printer's lead isn't a good commodity to sell, it's an alloy consisting of lead,
antimony and tin, a mixture not conducive with the regular uses of lead.

However, it could be used to make lead weights for fishing and it wasn't unusual to find the guy who recycled the
lead-text back into bars, carefully pouring the molten metal into a mixture of moulds kindly provided by the
Typesetters-cum-Anglers!

It was funny to see a queue of men waiting quietly outside of the steel-lined and pornographic-covered room where
the bars (called pigs) were made. Skilled, heavily-backed Union men relying on a labourer to help with their hobbies!
.............................

I recall the day we had a visit from a dignitary connected to the company that owned the newspaper.
The Duke of Atholl (George Murray) is allowed his own private army and is the last to do so in Europe.
Traditionally, the tall slightly-effeminate man would arrive late morning and chat to selected management until the
Managing Director's Secretary brought him his gin and tonic.

This particular Secretary could never use her vacation-time when it was announced the Duke was doing a tour in England.
Only she could mix his drink just right and I'd heard from those in the room at the time, that the Duke would get quite upset
if she wasn't there when he arrived.

With his two burly security-men, he would be gently shown around the building -mainly to the large office of women (even
though I initially thought he was gay) who dealt with advertising and finally, he would pass by the Composing Room and chat
for a few minutes in the Editorial Department. One may suspect that the correct high-toned accent and appropriate vocabulary
were the reasons.

By this time, the Secretary had plied him with enough juniper-juice that he was semi-drunk and the tall lanky man talked loudly
and usually with little knowledge of the industry that he was -I think, an honorary Chairman in. After this, the Duke was whisked
away for a fancy lunch and no doubt, more alcohol.

Except on one visit, he took a wrong turn and instead of using the fancy ornate stairway to the Editorial floor, he used the Staff
stairs for the Composing Room. Decked out in his fine suit, the merry Duke and his entourage stepped into a noisy, clanking
area where men in aprons busied themselves with preparing the materials for that night's editions.

Then he did something that made the General Manager gasp. He turned right and aimed his tipsy journey towards a large sliding
door at the rear of the Composing Room floor.

As it turned out, the regular smelter was on holiday and I was covering his job. I had a fresh barrow of used lead-slugs waiting to
be tipped and shovelled into the melting pots and I was hoping I'd made enough bars so I could get on with my own tasks of the
day.

The Duke of Atholl stepped into a world of burning string, hot lead, melting plastic coffee cups from the vending-machine and a
bounty of naked women exposing parts of their body not normally seen on his usual route around the building.

The General Manager stood there -all red-faced with shame and the unsure security men could do nothing else except follow
the gaze of their half-drunk protectee.

As the barrow crashed its load the floor, I saw the two men jump in front of the mesmerised gent in the fancy duds.
He was grinning like a Cheshire cat at the thirty-or-so centrefolds taped to the grimy walls and realising the embarrassment
that the General Manager was enduring, I thought it prudent to make a comment.

"Yer' don't see pots like these -these days" I quipped and lifted the lid of one the smouldering containers.
Keeping his eyes firmly on the alluring beauties on the wall, the Duke murmured that he agreed.

Then as I shovelled some of the disgorged lead from the floor to drop into the pot, the Manager realised what might happen when
coffee-residue from the discarded cups comes into contact with molten metal. A clue lay in the spatters of lead on the ceiling above
the pots.

"Er... well, shall we be on our way, Sir?" he stammered and his eyes warned me not to drop the shovel-full of print into the cauldron.
Realising my life of Riley in regards of overtime was in the balance, I stood like a statue and watched the irregular scene.
Wandering out of the room, the dazed Duke and his men slipped back into normality as behind them, a large bang of liquid meeting
hot lead imitated a one-gun salute to his visit.

It's nice to know that -even for those with affluent backgrounds and important responsibilities, the ladies-on-the-wall could still
enchant with their... their charms.