I guess I’ve simply got saddle-sore. After a quarter of a century of commuting into various newsrooms, reading in and climbing steadily towards a daily deadline - it’s time to get off the news cycle.
This is the first of an occasional column (very occasional by the way) in which I’ll follow my nose instead and write when I wish.
This is the first of an occasional column (very occasional by the way) in which I’ll follow my nose instead and write when I wish.
| The next year or two is about travelling through South America and South East Asia - gathering stories as I come across them. Some will turn into news items, certainly - others will be stored for future use. This website will be my shop window in the meanwhile. |  |
That news cycle has become very short hasn’t it? From rumour to history in a matter of hours. Exhilarating stuff a lot of the time - a grind sometimes too. I certainly welcomed breaks from the day-to-day : the special investigations and documentaries...
Technology has allowed us to add value in a richer and far more efficient manner compared to when I started off in journalism with an electric typewriter, rotary-dial telephone and a list of the usual suspects in my contacts book. But more frequent deadlines can drag daily journalism back to the superficial.
I guess I was first personally impacted by a breathless tightening of the news cycle with the advent of continuous news stations in Britain in the late 80s. I saw the Death Knocks come around quicker and crueler.
Generalising somewhat, the previous routine was to cover a shooting or bombing with witness reports first, of course, then interviews with local politicians, priests, friends - before gradually circling in on the victims’ families for comment - all of which could take two or three days.
Technology has allowed us to add value in a richer and far more efficient manner compared to when I started off in journalism with an electric typewriter, rotary-dial telephone and a list of the usual suspects in my contacts book. But more frequent deadlines can drag daily journalism back to the superficial.
I guess I was first personally impacted by a breathless tightening of the news cycle with the advent of continuous news stations in Britain in the late 80s. I saw the Death Knocks come around quicker and crueler.
Generalising somewhat, the previous routine was to cover a shooting or bombing with witness reports first, of course, then interviews with local politicians, priests, friends - before gradually circling in on the victims’ families for comment - all of which could take two or three days.
| Soon the wait was just a day to get to that goal. And then just the later programme that same day. And then the next hour. |  |
 | Much less time for families to be told about what had happened. Very little time to prepare for the attention of well-meaning ghouls like me. In Northern Ireland the detective work was easier, finding the bereaved. |
You could often drive into the village of the family concerned, or city street, and see a line of hunched, respectful, murmuring locals queuing up at the ‘right’ doorway. The glimpse just giving you enough time for your stomach to hit the floor before you swung open the car door - wielding a mic, a taut face and a trite introduction.
The news cycle was so tight once that I turned up at a victim’s house before she even knew her son has been shot dead. I still don’t really know how it could be possible, but this was the era before mobile phones. Instead, as she held her keys in her hand, on her doorstep and in the inflamed orange glare of the street lamps, I was the messenger. Except I didn’t quite do that. I scared her half to death anyway by asking her “If she had heard some very bad news...” and suggesting she get a relative around.
Then I got back into my car and soon heard her visceral howls of pain.
I haven’t had to carry out a Death Knock for a few years now. Needless to say I don’t miss them. Quite understandably I was treated with contempt for my intrusion. Or hatred. Or stunned silence. Sometimes I spent long hours counselling. But perhaps the worst was when I was treated with warm hospitality and courtesy when I knew the families had better things to do.
I particularly remember a bright blue-eyed, black-haired girl, about ten years old, who brought “the man from the BBC” a cup of tea and selection of biscuits while I talked about her father’s death with her Mum. She smiled shyly and with a touch of excitement too.
I knew that soon after I left, as dusk fell, that she’d remember again that her Daddy wasn’t coming home.
The news cycle was so tight once that I turned up at a victim’s house before she even knew her son has been shot dead. I still don’t really know how it could be possible, but this was the era before mobile phones. Instead, as she held her keys in her hand, on her doorstep and in the inflamed orange glare of the street lamps, I was the messenger. Except I didn’t quite do that. I scared her half to death anyway by asking her “If she had heard some very bad news...” and suggesting she get a relative around.
Then I got back into my car and soon heard her visceral howls of pain.
I haven’t had to carry out a Death Knock for a few years now. Needless to say I don’t miss them. Quite understandably I was treated with contempt for my intrusion. Or hatred. Or stunned silence. Sometimes I spent long hours counselling. But perhaps the worst was when I was treated with warm hospitality and courtesy when I knew the families had better things to do.
I particularly remember a bright blue-eyed, black-haired girl, about ten years old, who brought “the man from the BBC” a cup of tea and selection of biscuits while I talked about her father’s death with her Mum. She smiled shyly and with a touch of excitement too.
I knew that soon after I left, as dusk fell, that she’d remember again that her Daddy wasn’t coming home.
 | That’s a pretty rare story, to be frank. But not for positive reasons. The sheer volume of killing washed so many other faces into my forgetfulness. A mercy for me. And perhaps the accelerated news cycle helped too. No time to dwell. Unlike the victims' families. When I started this column I didn’t intend it to end here. Certainly not in such a dark place. And although I fear I might plunge into the world of the pseudo-profound again sometime, I promise a mixture in my blogs. Some business commentary. Some travel writing. Some plain fun too. Whatever I pick up along the way. |
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