Here's a true tale that some may find interesting, it involves the established media and how they perceive those
who aren't in their 'little clique' or those deemed deplorable by their manners or social-standing.
In 1983 -with assistance from my father who worked there for two decades, I got a job at a local newspaper.
The UK's recession was still bearing down on the North-East of England and employment was scarce for
both skilled and unskilled persons. So when my Pa mentioned that there was an opening at his place of work,
I willingly jumped at the chance.
However, he also mentioned it was 'drudge-work' and not elaborating, I ignored the comment and asked if he
could wrangle an interview.
Actually, there were two vacancies. Both positions required the person to start work at 6.00.am.
One was a cleaner's role, tidying-up an aging building and chasing the eternal grime that sought every surface.
Namely paper-dust and ink. Deliveries were to be carried in and the vast amount of rubbish to be taken out.
The other involved recycling the lead used in creating text for typesetting. You've seen the little metal blocks of
letters that are arranged to for a sentence...? Well, the material is reused, lead bars are put into a melting pot
of something called a Linotype machine (below) and cast into the words that will become the news that people
enjoy every morning. Then after use, the metal text is collected and melted down again into bars.
![[Image: attachment.php?aid=9355]](http://rogue-nation3.com/attachment.php?aid=9355)
A Linotype machine and the lead text. (The object with the 'V' at the top are keys that impress the letters
into the molten lead.)
For this type of employment there was a perk, a bonus -if you will. A free daily bottle of milk for the person melting
the wheelbarrow-loads of lead text back into bars. Apparently milk somehow stopped the fumes of the bubbling lead
bothering the human body!
Just as a side-note, I never saw a face-mask offered in the whole time that that particular job was open.
As it turned out -due to another person wishing for a position in the newspaper company and that had a relation
who was in the management, I got the cleaner's job. But considering the quiet hours of the day and having free
range of the building, the tasks kept me busy and I must admit, I enjoyed that time.
.............................
Years went by and the work became more varied. Occasionally, I'd assist on the Press and this brought large
amounts of overtime, a rare commodity these days with the introduction of 'flexibility'! With the evolution of
printing from Linotype to Phototypesetting systems, the need to have me available to help became more and
more vital. And oh how the money rolled-in!
From six o'clock in the morning, I'd work until the night arrived and sometimes it seemed it'd be easier if I should
just sleep on the premises. I knew everyone by their first names and when a person would ask if I could 'acquire'
something for them -folk who ranged from a common Press-hand to the Managing Director... well, the requested
article always seemed to end-up in their locker or on their desk.
But the one thing I found fascinating was the attitude from the Journalists during my years there.
Before the introduction of computers and with the initial early hours of my work, I would rarely meet anyone from
that profession. But as my tasks increased, one would possibly find me scouring-out a lavatory at 8.00.pm on a
winter's Wednesday night or dragging out piles of forgotten newspapers from beneath a Journalist's desk as
he-or-she looked on with their fellow-scribblers and discussed the merits of imaginary paper mites.
However, it always seemed I was unworthy of their parlance or being perceived away from my position with the firm.
I was a toilet-cleaner, ergo my intellect would struggle to comprehend their subtle bon mot and high prate.
Individually, a Journalist seemed equitable and even though I saw the veneer of their even-handedness was thin,
I always offered my genuine opinion and hoped that my guttural presentation didn't hinder my personal outlook.
But as a group, I was only tolerated by them.
.............................
Back to the meat of my yarn.
When the decision was made to print the newspaper at a remote site, it seemed like it was all hands to the pumps.
Days and nights merged with me and a younger co-worker assisting in making the changeover as smooth as possible.
Workers who'd already been presented with redundancy, were feebly asked if they didn't mind being on called if the
new project went tits-up and with a demand of a non-negotiable hourly payment from those asked, the workers agreed.
From time-to time, the brand-new Press -fifty-miles away, would break down and the ancient Hoe Printing Press back
home would rumble and shudder in it's dried-out foundations due to a Mall being built close by and its deeply-sunk piles
redirecting an underground waterway.
As the klaxon reverberated through the building, my friend and I would hurry with our current tasks and then dash to
where the grime and ink would fill our nostrils. We were printing.
Avoiding slicing our hands open, we'd carry magnetic plates from the foundry and appreciate that these flexible sheets
weighed far-less than the cast-lead half-moon plates. Then massive foot-crushing paper-reels were needed to be arranged
for a quick changeover, deadlines were never diluted -even if one's employment had been.
Running along the walkways of the roaring monster, we'd race towards helping the Despatch Room and prepare for another
night of not being home. The papers would arrive through an opening the wall on a conveyer-like appliance called 'The Fly'.
The constant row of newspapers would be separated by a single edition sticking out at the twentieth position, this was known
as 'the kick'.
Digging our fingers behind the kick, we would grab each choir (twenty) of papers and pile them up into a quantity of sixty
These piles were then taken away to be sorted into the correct amounts for Newsagents and then wrapped and sent out
to waiting delivery vans.
It seemed the hours that also piled up during that monotonous job would never end and even when a paper-reel changeover
was required and the fly was halted, this just meant that we had to hurry downstairs to help in getting the Press to roll again.
It was only when the welcomed shout that we were finished during one of these emergency printings, that I saw the reason
for my writing of this piece. The Despatch Room guys were wandering off to get their coats and call it a morning and I was
contemplating whether to empty all the trashcans before returning to the ground-floor in order to undress the Press from last
night's toil.
That was when I noticed six people standing near the Dispatch Room door.
There were three Journalists, another was a newly-trained IT guy and the other two were a Composing-Room Manager and
a photographer.
I nodded at them as I adjusted my overalls and wondered what these people could possibly be doing down here amongst the
unwashed and so late in the morning.
They never spoke as I passed by and only offered sheepish grins. Me...? I ran off to join my co-worker, if we were quick and
everything went by-the-book, we could get back to our daily tasks and look forward to getting home sometime in the early
evening.
Remember, we started at 6 o'clock every morning and were supposed to finish at two in the afternoon.
That luxury hadn't occurred in years and if one day spilled over to the next... then the overtime just piled-up like newspapers
coming off the Fly.
.............................
There's a book written by one of the Journalists that acknowledges me in helping of its creation. I'd progressed from smelling
of bleach and looking like I hadn't slept in months, to the adjustment and manipulation of physical photographs and electronic
images via a computer.
During this time, a chap from the Editorial Desk had decided to write a history of the very newspaper I worked at. A tome that
explained the socio-politics of creating an editorial at a time of local wealthy and powerful families and the realities of getting
such an undertaking off the ground. For my work in preparing the images for his endeavour, I and a fellow-worker were given
the book along with a thank you. A rare instance of humanity from a Journalist!
Only now, eleven years after being given the book, have I began to read it. I was just about to put it down after reading about
a past Editor who tragically died on the Titanic, when I thought I'd browse the images in the book that I'd been involved with.
There... towards the back-end of the book, in a chapter that explained the trials and tribulations of moving a modern-day
newspaper to a remote site, was a photograph. Holding a bound-parcel of newspapers and situated in the Dispatch Room,
three Journalists and the IT guy stood beaming into the camera. The Composing Room Manager stood next to the binding
-machine and looked like he'd just eaten a lemon.
Beneath the image was a caption that explained how this unflinching quintet had saved the day and 'mucked-in' to put the
paper to bed. I read the couple of sentences and suddenly, the faint whiff of Swarfega hand-cleaner passed my nostrils.
Now I believe it was to block out the bullshit if I'd given those words utterance.
Journalists... they move in mysterious ways.
who aren't in their 'little clique' or those deemed deplorable by their manners or social-standing.
In 1983 -with assistance from my father who worked there for two decades, I got a job at a local newspaper.
The UK's recession was still bearing down on the North-East of England and employment was scarce for
both skilled and unskilled persons. So when my Pa mentioned that there was an opening at his place of work,
I willingly jumped at the chance.
However, he also mentioned it was 'drudge-work' and not elaborating, I ignored the comment and asked if he
could wrangle an interview.
Actually, there were two vacancies. Both positions required the person to start work at 6.00.am.
One was a cleaner's role, tidying-up an aging building and chasing the eternal grime that sought every surface.
Namely paper-dust and ink. Deliveries were to be carried in and the vast amount of rubbish to be taken out.
The other involved recycling the lead used in creating text for typesetting. You've seen the little metal blocks of
letters that are arranged to for a sentence...? Well, the material is reused, lead bars are put into a melting pot
of something called a Linotype machine (below) and cast into the words that will become the news that people
enjoy every morning. Then after use, the metal text is collected and melted down again into bars.
A Linotype machine and the lead text. (The object with the 'V' at the top are keys that impress the letters
into the molten lead.)
For this type of employment there was a perk, a bonus -if you will. A free daily bottle of milk for the person melting
the wheelbarrow-loads of lead text back into bars. Apparently milk somehow stopped the fumes of the bubbling lead
bothering the human body!
Just as a side-note, I never saw a face-mask offered in the whole time that that particular job was open.
As it turned out -due to another person wishing for a position in the newspaper company and that had a relation
who was in the management, I got the cleaner's job. But considering the quiet hours of the day and having free
range of the building, the tasks kept me busy and I must admit, I enjoyed that time.
.............................
Years went by and the work became more varied. Occasionally, I'd assist on the Press and this brought large
amounts of overtime, a rare commodity these days with the introduction of 'flexibility'! With the evolution of
printing from Linotype to Phototypesetting systems, the need to have me available to help became more and
more vital. And oh how the money rolled-in!
From six o'clock in the morning, I'd work until the night arrived and sometimes it seemed it'd be easier if I should
just sleep on the premises. I knew everyone by their first names and when a person would ask if I could 'acquire'
something for them -folk who ranged from a common Press-hand to the Managing Director... well, the requested
article always seemed to end-up in their locker or on their desk.
But the one thing I found fascinating was the attitude from the Journalists during my years there.
Before the introduction of computers and with the initial early hours of my work, I would rarely meet anyone from
that profession. But as my tasks increased, one would possibly find me scouring-out a lavatory at 8.00.pm on a
winter's Wednesday night or dragging out piles of forgotten newspapers from beneath a Journalist's desk as
he-or-she looked on with their fellow-scribblers and discussed the merits of imaginary paper mites.
However, it always seemed I was unworthy of their parlance or being perceived away from my position with the firm.
I was a toilet-cleaner, ergo my intellect would struggle to comprehend their subtle bon mot and high prate.
Individually, a Journalist seemed equitable and even though I saw the veneer of their even-handedness was thin,
I always offered my genuine opinion and hoped that my guttural presentation didn't hinder my personal outlook.
But as a group, I was only tolerated by them.
.............................
Back to the meat of my yarn.
When the decision was made to print the newspaper at a remote site, it seemed like it was all hands to the pumps.
Days and nights merged with me and a younger co-worker assisting in making the changeover as smooth as possible.
Workers who'd already been presented with redundancy, were feebly asked if they didn't mind being on called if the
new project went tits-up and with a demand of a non-negotiable hourly payment from those asked, the workers agreed.
From time-to time, the brand-new Press -fifty-miles away, would break down and the ancient Hoe Printing Press back
home would rumble and shudder in it's dried-out foundations due to a Mall being built close by and its deeply-sunk piles
redirecting an underground waterway.
As the klaxon reverberated through the building, my friend and I would hurry with our current tasks and then dash to
where the grime and ink would fill our nostrils. We were printing.
Avoiding slicing our hands open, we'd carry magnetic plates from the foundry and appreciate that these flexible sheets
weighed far-less than the cast-lead half-moon plates. Then massive foot-crushing paper-reels were needed to be arranged
for a quick changeover, deadlines were never diluted -even if one's employment had been.
Running along the walkways of the roaring monster, we'd race towards helping the Despatch Room and prepare for another
night of not being home. The papers would arrive through an opening the wall on a conveyer-like appliance called 'The Fly'.
The constant row of newspapers would be separated by a single edition sticking out at the twentieth position, this was known
as 'the kick'.
Digging our fingers behind the kick, we would grab each choir (twenty) of papers and pile them up into a quantity of sixty
These piles were then taken away to be sorted into the correct amounts for Newsagents and then wrapped and sent out
to waiting delivery vans.
It seemed the hours that also piled up during that monotonous job would never end and even when a paper-reel changeover
was required and the fly was halted, this just meant that we had to hurry downstairs to help in getting the Press to roll again.
It was only when the welcomed shout that we were finished during one of these emergency printings, that I saw the reason
for my writing of this piece. The Despatch Room guys were wandering off to get their coats and call it a morning and I was
contemplating whether to empty all the trashcans before returning to the ground-floor in order to undress the Press from last
night's toil.
That was when I noticed six people standing near the Dispatch Room door.
There were three Journalists, another was a newly-trained IT guy and the other two were a Composing-Room Manager and
a photographer.
I nodded at them as I adjusted my overalls and wondered what these people could possibly be doing down here amongst the
unwashed and so late in the morning.
They never spoke as I passed by and only offered sheepish grins. Me...? I ran off to join my co-worker, if we were quick and
everything went by-the-book, we could get back to our daily tasks and look forward to getting home sometime in the early
evening.
Remember, we started at 6 o'clock every morning and were supposed to finish at two in the afternoon.
That luxury hadn't occurred in years and if one day spilled over to the next... then the overtime just piled-up like newspapers
coming off the Fly.
.............................
There's a book written by one of the Journalists that acknowledges me in helping of its creation. I'd progressed from smelling
of bleach and looking like I hadn't slept in months, to the adjustment and manipulation of physical photographs and electronic
images via a computer.
During this time, a chap from the Editorial Desk had decided to write a history of the very newspaper I worked at. A tome that
explained the socio-politics of creating an editorial at a time of local wealthy and powerful families and the realities of getting
such an undertaking off the ground. For my work in preparing the images for his endeavour, I and a fellow-worker were given
the book along with a thank you. A rare instance of humanity from a Journalist!
Only now, eleven years after being given the book, have I began to read it. I was just about to put it down after reading about
a past Editor who tragically died on the Titanic, when I thought I'd browse the images in the book that I'd been involved with.
There... towards the back-end of the book, in a chapter that explained the trials and tribulations of moving a modern-day
newspaper to a remote site, was a photograph. Holding a bound-parcel of newspapers and situated in the Dispatch Room,
three Journalists and the IT guy stood beaming into the camera. The Composing Room Manager stood next to the binding
-machine and looked like he'd just eaten a lemon.
Beneath the image was a caption that explained how this unflinching quintet had saved the day and 'mucked-in' to put the
paper to bed. I read the couple of sentences and suddenly, the faint whiff of Swarfega hand-cleaner passed my nostrils.
Now I believe it was to block out the bullshit if I'd given those words utterance.
Journalists... they move in mysterious ways.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.
