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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

Bentley felt a sadness washing over him as he watched the evening news on television. The news reader had announced the death of England’s legendary fast bowler, Sir Alec Bedser, aged 91. Bentley looked at the black and white photographs flashing on the screen, Bedser in impossibly white cricket gear, in full flight, his arm stretched rigid above his head, letting fly a rocket. Amid the melancholy, Bentley also felt a thirst coming on, a craving for hops on the tongue. … [Read more...] about Death of a Boy’s Own hero

ROSIE the bag lady might have had nothing but she still managed to scrape a few coins together to buy a loaf of bread each day for herself and her beloved pigeons. She lived on the streets of  Hobart, refusing the offers of short-stay, sheltered accommodation, not that it was always offered. Rosie preferred it on the streets, where she would say she was among friends. These were her pigeons who always paid her close attention, fighting sometimes to catch her eye. Unkemp … [Read more...] about Life on the streets