Nobbut Laiking, by Ross Brewster
It may have been Rotary or the U3A, or quite possibly a WI. I was booked to give a talk on my long life in journalism. What, they asked, was the title of the talk.
Initially my thoughts turned to James Herriot of the famous TV vet books. He titled one of his first books It Shouldn’t Happen To A Vet.
But then I recalled a chap called Michael Green who, in the 1980s, had considerable success with a series of little books, each beginning with the title The Art of Coarse… It might be fishing, rugby, cricket, golf, Boy Scouting, pretty well anything you can think of that supplied a series of witty anecdotes largely based on the author’s own misfortunes. Somehow the Art of Coarse Journalism never featured.
I suppose I could vary mine and call it The Art of Bluffing Your Way Through Life. After all, not many 16-year-olds left school having failed their exams only to walk into two job offers.
Since I was 13 I had been cricket correspondent of the Keswick Reminder under the pen name of Mid Wicket. I’d obviously caught the eye of a local journalist who employed me in the school holidays.
I had also caught the attention of the captain of the cricket club. He managed the Labour Exchange and urged my parents to let me start work in his office. I had proven good at writing appeals for cricketers who got into disciplinary trouble and this was to be a key part of the job as junior clerk with prospects.
However journalism won the tug of war and, 60 years ago, give or take a few weeks, I made my first nervous entrance into the reporters’ room at the Cumberland and Westmorland Herald. You were supposed to have GCEs, but they didn’t ask for my certificates. I’d bluffed it you see.
And so I was propelled into the dizzying world of courts, councils, May Days, agricultural shows and fetes worse than death. The chief reporter ran a freelance agency on the side and I quickly learnt the art of writing concisely for the national newspapers and radio.
Being head hunted at 18 by the BBC, getting a dream job covering football, two years as a racing tipster, district reporter, features writer and columnist. Yes, I always managed to grab myself a column.
One of my editors once told me the worst crime of a columnist wasn’t to be wrong, it was not to have an opinion, and I have stuck with that philosophy ever since.
I’ve been sacked twice. Different bosses, different ideas. Yet I’ve bounced back more times than Alan Partridge. Once I applied for my own job — and got it. A good bluffer, you see.
It’s funny how folk never remember the big stories. The double tragedy on Scafell, the bus crash, the scooter riots. These all got me on the front page of the nationals.
No, I’m walking down the street and a stranger comes up to me. “You were Huntsman, I used to back your tips,” he says. The racing expert. I once gave six consecutive nap bets. People were ringing in asking if Huntsman had a bet tomorrow. Sadly I followed with 20 losers and they stopped calling. There are some things you just can’t bluff your way out of.
I’m not sure looking back is always a good thing. One week recently the nostalgia columns of the Keswick Reminder were all my past work — delving back 50 years. Odd seeing those stories again. No repeat fees either.
One of my first tasks as a junior reporter was to pore through old files and write the Looking Backward column. Never thinking one day I’d be in it.
It did seem fitting when I retired and returned to the Herald with a new column. That was 14 years ago and I still regard myself as having a weekly conversation with friends. Flatteringly they’ve kept the original picture at the head of the column. Defying the ageing process. Another bluff.
If my life was recorded in song I think it would be along the lines of Still Bluffing After All These Years.
When driving tests included hand signals
Showing my age. When I started work they were insistent that I learn to drive. When I took my driving test you had to be able to demonstrate hand signals.
Curious little flapping motions to suggest slowing down, and circular actions for turning left.
No lark in winter, driving with the window down. My first car had no flashers, just a little orange arrow that popped out when I turned a switch on the dashboard.
Some modern cars now have CCTV fitted instead of wing mirrors. Sometimes you can have too many fancy gadgets.
The Herald had a photographer who removed the passenger side front seat and installed a paraffin heater. The reporter was ensconced in the back of his car to keep it going. Health and safety? Not in those days.
If hand signals were part of today’s test I reckon there wouldn’t be a candidate under the age of 65 who passed.
