Don Knowler

Don Bentley was one shave behind the world and one drink ahead of it. He sat at the bar in Mahoney’s, half listening to a conversation between a colleague, Michael Cooper, and a friend of Cooper’s who had arrived for drinks. They were talking mobile phones, and comparing their instruments and the different applications they had obtained for them. Like the radio waves buzzing around him, it all went over Bentley’s head in the Hobart pub. Bentley had initially shown a glimmer … [Read more...] about Ringing the changes

Don Bentley sat in the Hobart Magistrate’s Court, waiting for his name to be called. The matter at hand was a contested traffic infringement but, as on the day Bentley may or may not have committed the offence, the defendant let his attention drift from the road ahead. Bentley was surveying the press gallery in Court No.1 and, more specifically, its empty seats. He was thinking of the time when the press gallery would be crowded, like the court itself. The daily parade of … [Read more...] about At the court of King Jones

The “Stop Press Express” carried midnight’s children, journalists who shunned the nine-to-five masses, who would never dream of saying as they entered the front door, “Hi honey, I’m home!’’ The train left Waterloo station at 11.55pm sharp with Fleet Street’s finest, among them eccentrics, misfits and drunks who could never make their way in the real world. The Stop Press Express was the service of choice for journalists who lived in the more far-flung suburbs of greater … [Read more...] about Midnight’s children

EVERYTHING was so relaxed in the old days. Yes, you had deadlines but in between stories and the rush there was time to chat, and wander for a drink at the office pub; time to talk journalism. Don Bentley was thinking these things one night, looking across the newsroom to where the reporters sat. He had just crossed the floor to make an observation about an “intro’’ to a story written by a new recruit. The composition had been laboured and Bentley had sharpened the intro a … [Read more...] about A master of the written word

“Hey you, you long streak of piss. Do four pars on this as fast as you can.’’ It was Don Bentley’s introduction to Fleet Street, the place where he had always wanted to be. He had arrived. “And I want a decent headline. Active verb. Not that shit from down your way.’’ The man was Ray Mills and “down your way’’ was a reference to where Bentley had come from, the Woking News and Mail. Bentley had arrived in Fleet Street by not the route he had wanted, as a reporter, but as … [Read more...] about The long, tall streak of piss