First In, Last Out: Memoirs of an Expressman

By Andrew Fyall

Journalist Andrew Fyall reported from every corner of the globe during the 1960s and '70s. As a foreign correspondent for the Daily Express, he travelled to more than seventy countries.

From the Cuban missile crisis, when the world held its breath and nuclear war seemed inevitable, to the emergence of Martin Luther King and his crusade against racial segregation, he was there, providing first-hand eyewitness accounts Express readers had come to expect.

Whether hunting for Nazi fugitives, 'sparring' with Mohammed Ali, or dealing with show business legends such as The Beatles, James Cagney, Lauren Bacall, and Katherine Hepburn, for Expressmen and women, there were no boundaries.

"First in, last out" was the mantra of the foreign correspondent. This is the story of one of them and a fascinating and vibrant account of how frontline journalism used to be, when hot metal and hot tempers ran Fleet Street, and covering the story meant living the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528964814

Andrew Fyall

Andrew Fyall was a reporter, feature writer, columnist and foreign correspondent for the Daily Express during the 1960s and '70s, a time widely regarded as the golden era of Fleet Street. In the course of his career, he covered a wide range of assignments, from politics, riots and revolutions, to the world of entertainment. Now retired, he lives in Edinburgh with his wife, Bet.

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Downhill

About the Author

Andrew Fyall was a reporter, feature writer, columnist and foreign correspondent for the Daily Express during the 1960s and ’70s, a time widely regarded as the golden era of Fleet Street.

In the course of his career, he covered a wide range of assignments, from politics, riots and revolutions, to the world of entertainment.

Now retired, he lives in Edinburgh with his wife, Bet.

About the Book

Journalist Andrew Fyall reported from every corner of the globe during the 1960s and ’70s. As a foreign correspondent for the Daily Express, he travelled to more than seventy countries.

From the Cuban missile crisis, when the world held its breath and nuclear war seemed inevitable, to the emergence of Martin Luther King and his crusade against racial segregation, he was there, providing first-hand eyewitness accounts Express readers had come to expect.

Whether hunting for Nazi fugitives, ‘sparring’ with Mohammed Ali, or dealing with show business legends such as The Beatles, James Cagney, Lauren Bacall, and Katherine Hepburn, for Expressmen and women, there were no boundaries.

First in, last out was the mantra of the foreign correspondent. This is the story of one of them and a fascinating and vibrant account of how frontline journalism used to be, when hot metal and hot tempers ran Fleet Street, and covering the story meant living the story.

Dedication

For my wife, Bet; daughters, Debbie and Jennifer; and son, John. Without their help and inspiration, this volume would never have been printed.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Andrew Fyall (2019)

The right of Andrew Fyall to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528926751 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528964814 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

In putting together my memories of Fleet Street days, I record, with thanks, the part played by my Edinburgh friends, whose pressure I found impossible to resist.

Led by the late Johnny Haynes, a former captain of England and Fulham Football Club, they pestered me continually to put my words into print. Equally persistent were Eddie Cobb, Ron Sutherland, Hamish More, Hamish Henderson, Alan Dickson, John Mckay, Vivian Linacre and my long-time friend and former Edinburgh City councillor, David Brown.

I am indebted to two of my friends and former colleagues – James Mathews of Sky News, and Martin Hannan of The National. James for his regular cajoling, forcing me to the keyboard; and Martin, whose support helped me discard my lethargy.

More insistent than most, was my old friend of more than 50 years, Harry Benson, one of the world’s finest photojournalists, whose foreword to this book is received with heartfelt thanks.

And to my daughter Jennifer, I express my gratitude for her assistance in the production of the manuscript.

I make no apology for not sticking to a strict chronology, but I accept that any errors that might have crept in, belong solely to me.

Foreword

For a number of years now I have been telling Andy Fyall to lay down his golf clubs for a while and pick up his pen again, and I am delighted that, at last, my persistence has paid off. He has so many interesting stories to tell, many of which we shared, that it would have been a waste to allow them to wither and disappear with the passage of time.

I first met Andy more than fifty years ago, as adversaries. I was working for the Sketch in Scotland and he for the Daily Express. Although we were on opposite sides in a tough and sometimes-violent environment, it became quickly clear that we shared a common goal – to break free of the limited domestic shackles and play on a bigger, international stage. In that respect, we have both been successful, eventually working together on a wide variety of assignments that took us from the tropics of the South to the vast expanse of the icy landscape of the Arctic.

What Andy has done is to write more than just his memoirs. Through his stories, he has charted an important record of media history, as only one who was there can do, an eyewitness to the fall of the once mighty Express and the end of Fleet Street as we knew it.

In the early years, under the control of a demanding but benevolent owner, Lord Beaverbrook, we sharpened our skills and Andy emerged from the pack to claim his place as one of the finest foreign correspondents of his time. It was a privilege to work with him and to share some of his most memorable moments.

For young journalists of today – especially those who aspire to be foreign correspondents, and many others from different walks of life who simply want to know what life was like in the ‘hot metal’ period of newspaper production – Andy’s account is compelling reading.

Harry Benson

New York

Prologue

Looking back after 50 years in journalism of one kind or another, I can honestly say that good fortune kept me company most of the way.

I achieved all that I ever wanted, and I was immensely privileged to spend more than twenty years on the Daily Express when the paper was at the height of its popularity and fame. I travelled to 71 countries in its service, staying only a few hours in some, a few days, weeks or months in others and nearly six continuous years as correspondent in New York, from where our territory stretched from Alaska to Argentina and as far as Manila – about half the world.

I covered many major historic events – earthquakes (two), hurricanes (two), war (Biafra), and all manner of riots and revolutions. I reported on the failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, the Missile Crisis, which nearly plunged the World into global nuclear war; and the civil rights campaign in America’s Deep South.

I marched the streets of Birmingham, Alabama, with Dr Martin Luther King, rode the ‘Freedom’ buses through hostile southern states, huddled in the Ripley Street Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, with more than a thousand followers, as Ku Klux Klansmen laid siege outside and opened fire on the building while Dr King pleaded on the phone to Attorney General Robert Kennedy to send in the National Guard before it was too late.

I was, more often than not, in the right place at the right time; and good old ‘lady luck’, as much as considered judgement, played a major part.

I covered, with colleagues, the murder of Malcolm X; his body riddled by gunshot as he spoke at a meeting in New York’s Harlem.

In Dallas, Texas, I reported the trial of Jack Ruby, the man who shot Lee Harvey Oswald, President Kennedy’s assassin, and was there when Ruby, unbelievably, was permitted to hold his own ‘press conference’ every day before court proceedings began.

No assignment was beyond the capability of Express-men and women, instant experts we were supposed to be. We were not, of course, but we were all pretty good reporters.

I covered the Beatles arrival in the United States, ‘ghosted’ articles in the Express for George Harrison, listened to their music in their suite in the Plaza Hotel and was as close to the bandstand as you could get when they played their memorable concert in Shea Stadium in Queens, Long Island.

I played kick-about football in Central Park with England’s captain Bobby Moore and his teammates from West Ham, when they were in New York for an international tournament. We were joined by Tommy Steele and Anthony Newley; both appearing on Broadway at the time, with Joan Collins, then Newley’s wife, a glamorous distraction on the sidelines.

I had good reason to regret my encounters with Newley and Collins. They nearly cost me my job, which I will explain later. The duplicity of politicians could also be career threatening. Two, in particular, caused me considerable grief. More on them later too.

Former Prime Minister Anthony Eden lied to me and taught me a lesson I never forgot. Same with George Brown when he was foreign secretary.

Yet, it was all so stimulating and to hell with the expense. Money, in those days, was never a problem.

I could be following an international debate at the United Nations one day…a show business interview the next…then off to a tragedy with hardly a pause for breath. My overnight bag was always packed, ready for a quick getaway. The Express had a philosophy then – ‘first in…last out’. Like many Express-men I carried two passports for a while. It was one of the few concessions our government permitted; they appreciated that journalists travelling between hostile countries could be in danger if they produced a document bearing an offensive visa or stamp, for example, travelling to countries in conflict.

When communication became difficult, some countries, particularly America and Russia, would allow their journalists to use embassy lines to file their stories. The best we could hope for was a message, via the foreign office, that we were alive and well. We envied Americans in those circumstances but not the Russians. We thought most of them, if not all, were agents of the KGB first, journalists second. To be fair, I believe some of my own colleagues did work for our intelligence service, despite the warning that they would be dismissed if found out.

Failure to carry a passport at all times, even for home-based reporters, was a sacking offence, we were told. I never actually knew anyone who was fired that way, but I do recall, when working in Fleet Street, a young reporter telling the news editor he had lost a story because the quarry he was pursuing had boarded a plane to Paris. Asked why he didn’t follow, he sheepishly confessed he had forgotten his passport.

It was suggested the young man might be better off pursuing another career, and, sure enough, he left soon after…voluntarily I have to say, but I reckon he felt it would take too long to recover from his failure before he got another chance to shine. The Express could be ruthless that way. Good reporters, and sub-editors too, could be put into ‘cold storage’, denied prime assignments until they resigned or waited for a new regime to take over. This was not uncommon after Beaverbrook died and the paper, sadly, began its downward spiral.

Before I left, I had served under nine editors!

As foreign correspondents, the paper always came first…families and friends second. It was, perhaps, less demanding for reporters at home, with back-up readily available. But the correspondent in faraway places was frequently the only one available to cover stories, often thousands of miles apart. Birthdays and anniversaries were frequently missed; and I spent one Christmas in Addis Ababa, where I lay too long in a hammock after a party at the British Embassy and got sick with sunstroke. Luckily, the only cable I got that day was to wish me a Merry Christmas.

In return for total devotion and loyalty, the Express could also be incredibly kind and considerate. We travelled everywhere first class – families too, when posted to friendly countries…in ocean-going liners, like the Mauritania, the Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, United States and the France. It had all stopped by the time the QE2 came along, but in the truly golden days of the Express, we always had seats up front in planes, hired our own aircraft if the story was big enough. We drove the best cars, chartered the best boats. Same with hotels – first class every time. And if a correspondent or any of his family became ill, the Express paid for the best treatment available.

Rene MacColl, doyen of the foreign correspondents at that time, told me an amusing story about the unpredictable Beaverbrook, who often summoned ambitious journalists, particularly those chosen for overseas assignments, to his flat in Arlington House, in London, for a personal grilling; an experience I was fortunate to miss.

Beaverbrook’s favourite question was, Where do you stay when you arrive in a foreign country?

Believing that he would impress His Lordship with his frugality, one young hopeful replied, I am always conscious of the cost, sir. I check into a modest hotel.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, thundered Beaverbrook, When you work for me, you stay in the best hotel in town…but in the cheapest room!

Rene dined out on that story for years and, like all of us then, took regular advantage of Beaverbrook’s philosophy.

The man who became known to us as ‘the principal reader’ had a point, of course. He used to say, Who would be impressed by my reporters if they booked into a cheap hotel?

I met him infrequently and always harmoniously. But he could be mean, cruel and vengeful when displeased and often made unreasonable demands of his staff. I had one such distasteful assignment – to ‘spy’ on the distinguished writer, Norman Mailer, who had married his niece, Lady Jeanne Campbell. I have never revealed, until now, how I handled that one.

Interviews with show-business personalities could be particularly delicate and frustrating.

Getting past the barrier of protective agents and minders was a major achievement in itself. But James Cagney revealed the secret of his successes, and how he had planned his retirement (he never did); Lauren Bacall talked about Humphrey Bogart, Katharine Hepburn about Spencer Tracy, and Barbra Streisand hardly talked at all…one of the most difficult and abrasive encounters I ever had with a superstar.

I was at Frank Sinatra’s ‘stag party’, the night before he married Mia Farrow. Well, I am cheating a bit here. He didn’t actually invite me. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

That was the froth of life, trifling and irrelevant compared to death and destruction; the inevitable hallmark of the biggest stories. Like all my colleagues around the world I saw more than enough of suffering.

Train crashes, plane crashes, natural disasters like floods and famine; the massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics; they all brought with them painful scenes of human misery and despair. There was no question of compensation or counselling for us either. We were constantly reminded that we were there to report, not to participate. If we couldn’t handle that we would quickly be replaced.

Inside Alcatraz, America’s island fortress prison in San Francisco Bay, before they turned it into a tourist attraction, I met prisoners who had long since given up the expectation of freedom, masking their hopeless situation with feigned bravado.

The pursuit of power produced tragedy on a massive scale. Idi Amin’s butchery in Uganda was only surpassed by the enormous and sickening indifference of military and political leaders to the tragic plight of little children during the Biafran war.

I was there when Black September massacred Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics. It brought me face-to-face with death again, and, as far as I was concerned, the disgraceful insensitivity and selfishness of many organisers and competitors.

When Germany later did a deal and released the terrorists who had survived, I was on the tarmac at Zagreb airport, to witness the handover. I was the only British correspondent there; the credit going unreservedly to the Deputy Foreign Editor Jim Nicoll, a truly remarkable colleague. Everyone who served the Express at that time has a ‘Nick’ story, and no chronicle would be complete without them.

Muhammad Ali was Cassius Clay when I met him, and the Royals were a lot more royal than they are today. The Express covered Royal tours in those days; hardly ever now.

The queen mother was always gracious, but I also saw, at first hand, the petulance and vindictiveness of Princess Margaret, and the lofty arrogance and bullying behaviour of the duke of Edinburgh, which he has long adopted as his personal trademark.

I have put together memories of these stories and my years as a foreign correspondent for the Express for a number of reasons, not the least of which is to satisfy the curiosity of my son and two daughters, now grown up, who seldom knew where their father was, or what he was doing. Another reason is purely personal. It is to drift back to an exciting time now gone, almost certainly never to be seen again.

I am sure we were no better or braver than correspondents are now. It is like trying to compare athletes of the past with their counterparts today. It simply does not work.

Would Muhammad Ali have beaten Rocky Marciano? Would Joe Louis have beaten them both? Was Duncan Edwards of Manchester United, tragically killed in the Munich air crash, a better player than David Beckham. The comparisons are endless and invidious.

It was different, that’s all, very different. We would have loved to have had satellite links and mobile phones, just as I am sure correspondents today would have enjoyed our lifestyles; and we would have been happy with the leisurely, graceful pace of those who preceded us.

Pat Thomas, an eminent cricket writer, used to recount his wonderful trips to Australia to cover the Ashes tests. He went by boat, and it took six weeks!

All I have done is to open the door a little, to allow those who are interested to see it as it was.

More important are the stories behind the stories; the ones we couldn’t or wouldn’t tell at the time. Some funny, some sad, some triumphs, some failures, some which wounded then and still hurt today…the ones which have never been told before.

Failures were few but one, in particular, was truly spectacular, a fiasco, a ‘scoop’ (a word seldom used in Fleet Street), which turned out to be a journalistic nightmare. Newspaper historians and critics called it the most embarrassing story ever printed by the Express, and they were not wrong.

It was the day the Express claimed, wrongly, to have found Martin Bormann, Hitler’s deputy, hiding in South America.

The heavy hand of secrecy tightened its grip on that shameful episode, explanation or speculation forbidden.

Not anymore.

Starting – A Foot in the Door

I have often been asked how to get into journalism today, and many ambitious youngsters have wanted to know what they have to do to become a foreign correspondent.

Frankly, there is no single or simple answer to those questions. I can only tell how I got there, and the same path is not necessarily the right one to follow today.

It has never been easy, and I believe it could be even more difficult now. For a start, there are fewer papers with huge staffs, and overseas bureaus have been cut drastically since my days on the road. Competition has always been fierce, especially when good postings were coming up, but now the universities and colleges are spewing out a conveyor belt of media graduates at such a rate that if there might not be enough jobs to go around at home, far less abroad. More worrying is recent criticism, from news editors in particular, that many of today’s students are being taught by people who have never worked on a newspaper or in a television newsroom, and quality has suffered.

As for foreign correspondents, I was reminded recently of an article which appeared in the UK Press Gazette as far back as May 1986, written by my old friend and adversary, Jeffrey Blyth, who was head of the Daily Mail’s New York office in the 60s.

He asked, Foreign correspondents – are they a dying breed?

It was, he said, a subject keenly debated in Costello’s bar, a favourite Manhattan hostelry of Fleet Street’s finest abroad. I suspect that there was more than a little self-interest as Jeffrey saw, with dismay, the number of correspondents slowly, but persistently, dwindle. Those that were left waited apprehensively for the dreaded call to pack their bags and return to London.

Jeffrey went on to chart the decline of the foreign correspondent and to recall, nostalgically, how Fleet Street once led the world. In the 50s and 60s, there were well over a hundred British journalists living and working abroad. This did not include many more that were given short-term foreign assignments while based in London. They were known as ‘firemen’, rushed to the scene of conflict if they could get there first or simply dispatched to help the resident correspondent if the story was big enough. That’s how most Express reporters, myself included, got their first taste of working overseas.

In America alone, in the 60s, the Foreign Press Association listed 40 members from the UK. By 1986, when Jeffrey did his head count, the Brits would have had difficulty fielding a cricket team.

At one time, the Daily Mail had five full-time staffers in America, the Express even more, and the Telegraph beat them both, in numbers at least.

Now, even Costello’s – dark, dingy watering hole that it was – yet home to so many newsmen, and women, has gone, replaced by an up-market French restaurant.

At least that was what it was last time I was there.

The answer to Jeffrey’s question is simple. The foreign correspondent is not extinct; there are just fewer of them. But many fine journalists still travel the world today, often reporting from dangerous places. Some – friends and colleagues – have paid the ultimate price, and many more have been wounded while trying to do their job. Others have mysteriously disappeared; their fate unknown.

My former Express colleague Nick Tomalin was blown up by a shell while reporting in Israel. Paul Guilhard, a friend who worked for Agence France-Press and the Daily Sketch, was murdered, shot in the back in Mississippi. I arrived early for that story, a few days before Paul and, like those of us who had experienced that good old-fashioned Southern hostility at that time, quickly summed up the ugly, festering mood that was growing by the hour. Knowing that Paul had never covered a racial story in the Deep South before – he was normally desk-bound in New York – I warned him of the danger when he called me on the phone. A few hours later he was dead.

So, to those who believe a reporter’s life can be a thrilling adventure from start to finish, think again. I wanted to be a reporter from my teenage years. That’s after I realised I wouldn’t make it as a footballer, or any other kind of sportsman for that matter. I played schoolboy football in my hometown, Kirkcaldy, in Fife. On the left wing was Andy Matthew, who went on to play for Glasgow Rangers. In the centre was Rab Stewart, an aggressive and talented player, who went south, to Preston North End, I believe. I went nowhere. I played cricket moderately, rugby without distinction, golf with enthusiasm but not much else, and ice hockey perhaps just a little better. There was an ice rink in Kirkcaldy – it is still there – and I made it to the Fife Flyers junior team. Later I played a season in Edinburgh, for the Murrayfield Royals first team, the pinnacle of my sporting achievements.

I mention these interests because they were important to me at that time. I decided that if I couldn’t be a sportsman, I might become a sports reporter. The problem then, as now, was how to get started.

In the late 40s and early 50s, a university degree was mostly disregarded by national editors and news editors, the men who hired and fired. It was much the same in provincial dailies and small local papers.

The local papers wanted young but fairly well-educated school leavers – at least those who could read, write and spell, with some initiative. The pay was poor, but no one I knew ever complained. In return we were taught the basics, covering every conceivable story of interest to readers who lived, in most cases, within a 25 mile’s radius. That was roughly the extent of our influence.

Those of us who eventually moved from provincial papers to the ‘dailies’ were welcomed. We arrived well trained, we knew how the business worked, and we could write shorthand. It is different now. More and more reporters and correspondents are graduates, quick and confident learners. And they don’t need shorthand if they can carry a tape recorder in the palm of the hand. My route is still open…but for how long? Like most reporters then, I did not go to university. In August 1949, wearing my best suit – my only suit – smart shirt and tie and highly polished shoes, I walked into the offices of the Fife Free Press, my local paper, and asked for a job.

Sorry, said the girl behind the desk, who appeared to be the telephonist, there are no vacancies. She sounded as if she had said that many times before because she quickly turned her back to me, indicating that further discussion would be futile, while a lady of mature years, who was obviously her boss, nodded approval and gave me the kind of dismissive smile that said close the door on your way out. I was crushed, turned down without getting past the public office.

There was another weekly paper in town, the Fifeshire Advertiser, but it did not have the advertising muscle of ‘The Press’, and, consequently, its circulation was much lower. It wasn’t even easy to get to either, tucked away behind the busy High Street, accessible through a narrow, grotty, alleyway. But I got on my bike, literally, and presented myself at that front office, steeling myself for another rejection. The welcome this time was friendly but hardly encouraging. The office manager, Joan Myles, didn’t think they would be taking on any juniors, but the editor-in-chief and proprietor, the Reverend Andrew Richardson, just happened to be in his office and agreed to see me.

The Rev. Richardson was a gentle, compassionate man of many parts, combining his ecclesiastical duties with those of running a newspaper, while chairing the board as principal shareholder. The antithesis of a newspaperman. We talked for more than an hour, and I must have convinced him of my determination to become a reporter because he finally smiled and spoke the magic words, You can start in two weeks.

My mother didn’t approve. She thought it was not a proper job. My father was more impressed, particularly when I told him that I would have a pass for the press box at Starks Park, home of Raith Rovers football team. His regular place was on the north terracing behind the goal, before they even built a shelter for spectators. He frequently endured the bitter cold and driving rain to support his team, win or lose. I, on the other hand, would have shelter and warmth in the press box. I am sure he was proud of my good fortune, but it would be some time before I had a regular seat there.

My early duties were to run up and down a narrow, iron spiral staircase to phone match copy to the Sunday papers for the senior journalists, who did have a seat in that box. I hardly saw any of the action, and I hated that staircase. If I was lucky, I would reach the top and catch a glimpse of the players for a few minutes; but more often than not the next batch of copy was handed down to me before I got to the top, and it was back to the phones. I was no more privileged than those who bought the evening sports papers, except that I had read the reports about the game before they did.

That dreaded staircase, below the grandstand, became my symbol of servitude, but it also provided me with an amusing episode of those vintage years. It was the day that the legendary Alec James, long retired from the game but retained as a pundit by one of the Sunday papers, came to Starks Park.

Alec, like Jim Baxter of Rangers and Scotland, who came along decades later, began his illustrious career with Raith, before moving on to Arsenal. That was how teams like Raith survived, by selling their best players to bigger clubs, and it hasn’t changed today. James was one of the great stars of his time – a Scottish Internationalist, one of the famous ‘Wembley Wizards’, all small men, who defeated England on their own ground and were hero worshipped ever after.

Alec was in great form, especially during the half-time break when he was a guest in the directors’ boardroom. He emerged when the game was well into the second-half, having been on the receiving end of bountiful hospitality and approached the dreaded staircase in the manner of a man whose body swerves used to send defenders the wrong way. This time, however, he faced an immovable opponent he could not influence – the dreaded staircase.

Alec, who could never be described as a lean machine even in his playing days was, to put it kindly, on the portly side. With a supreme effort of will over wine, he got halfway up before he appeared to become stuck and turned his head and said to me, Give me a shove, son.

So I shoved, and he didn’t budge. I couldn’t tell if he was stuck or simply too tired and emotional to continue, but no amount of exertion could free him from the clutches of the iron stair. After several unsuccessful attempts at upward progress, we both found it easier to pull than to push, and Alec finally admitted defeat and retreated; his notes clutched in his hand.

Will you please phone these over for me? he asked. And just fill in the second half and the score. He pressed a ten-shilling note in my hand, and that’s when I became Alec James for a day.

I would have done it for nothing, but ten shillings was a lot of money these days; and so I added a few words, got the score right and telephoned his report. I was delighted to see his by-line on the piece the next day, although some of the words, at least, were mine. I felt as if I had just helped him score a goal at Wembley.

My first day at work on the Advertiser was memorable too, for a reason which had nothing to do with journalism, and which jolted me out of my fantasy world and brought me down to reality with a thud. It was September 1949, just before my 17th birthday. News editor, Albert Crichton, welcomed me politely and pointed to the fireplace (there was an open fire in the newsroom) and said, It’s your job to carry the coal from the cellar and light the fire – and better make sure it doesn’t go out.

It was nearly nine months before the paper hired another junior, and I was able to pass on this lowly chore, with relief.

Fine journalist that he was, Albert could never be described as a workaholic, preferring to delegate the assignments as much as possible without him having to leave the office. He had spent six years in the army during the war, fought in the Italian campaign and, as he reminded us frequently, that was as much as he ever wanted to see of a foreign country.

I doubt he ever set foot out of Scotland again. He had survived the war and was comfortable with the position he held. So, under his strict, but expert tuition, reporters on the Advertiser prospered and quickly learned the trade.

After lighting the fire and running the errands, I soon moved on to cover the juvenile court, the police court and finally the sheriff court. I took shorthand lessons, read up on Essential Law for Journalists, reported weddings, funerals, council meetings and, finally, Raith Rovers games, home and away. I earned my seat in the press box at Starks ark. I was on my way…sports reporter, or so I imagined then.

If there was a defining moment in my fledgling career, however, when I had doubts about becoming a sports reporter, it was when I returned after two years of National Service in the Royal Signals, another period without notable distinction. I still enjoyed sport, but I now had a wider vision, which I knew would only be achieved by leaving home. I had written many stories for the local edition of the Scottish Daily Express and was on first name terms with some of their senior reporters and newsdesk executives, including the redoubtable news editor Jack Coupar. Just before Christmas l955, I asked him for a job, and he agreed, summoning me to the Glasgow head office for an interview.

You won’t be ready for Glasgow yet, son, he said, as he guided me from the Albion Street headquarters of the Express in Scotland to Tom’s Bar next door. I’ll start you in the Edinburgh office and see how you shape up. I was in but on trial.

That was when I discovered just how much inspiration journalists on the Express acquired from regular visits to Tom’s. All the big names on the paper sought stimulation there – Magnus Magnusson, long before he became a national television personality and presenter of Mastermind, Assistant Editor Drew Rennie, Leader Writer Charlie Graham and feature writers, like Brian Meek, Jack Webster and Neville Garden; all supported by an eager pack of reporters and sub-editors.

The young Magnusson was a formidable figure in those days, often leading teams of aggressive journalists on circulation blitzes around the country, descending like locusts on unsuspecting towns, always leaving a long-lasting impression while boosting sales to justify their heroics. Few dared cross Magnus’ path then. Even by Glasgow standards, he was more than capable of ‘looking after himself’, and those who challenged generally regretted stirring his Icelandic blood. Magnus was one of the few graduates on the staff and one of the best writers. It was no surprise that he progressed as far as he did.

Just listening to Jack Coupar and those around him was intoxicating enough, but what I realised later was that he was testing my stamina. Being able to hold your liquor was almost an essential requirement at that time, and whisky came in quarter gill measures. I must have passed the test, although I have little recollection of catching the last train home that night. What stuck clearly, however, was the offer of £12 a week, double my salary on the Advertiser, and I couldn’t wait to sign on.

There were 26 reporters in the Edinburgh office then, four photographers, a teleprinter operator, dark room staff, two cars and three drivers working shifts. The Express believed in strength by numbers, with back-up facilities to match. We had a news editor, a deputy news editor and a night news editor, and we filled two pages of the paper every day. Glasgow employed many more journalists, so it was not surprising that we beat the opposition nearly every time.

There were staff men and women in other outposts too – in Aberdeen, Dundee, Ayr, Kirkcaldy and Inverness.

I arrived at the Edinburgh office in February 1956, at the same time as another young hopeful, from Kilmarnock – Hugh Mcllvanney. We became instant friends, sharing our dreams and determination to move onwards and upwards.

I went to London and Hugh to the Scotsman, briefly, before heading south to the Observer and later the Sunday Times. Hugh’s hero was Marlon Brando and, for a time, he fancied a career as a scriptwriter in Hollywood. Fortunately, he abandoned that notion, to become one of the finest sports writers in the world, the only Briton to be inducted to the American Boxing Writers Association hall of fame.

Our friendship was string for more than sixty years, until he lost his long battle with cancer in early 2019.

In our last phone call he said he was not yet ready to throw in the towel. Sadly, this was one fight he could not win.

We were together in Edinburgh for less than a year, but some memories have endured, one in particular. An accident in a West Lothian pit had left several miners trapped underground, with anxious relatives gathered at the pit head. Both office cars were on other jobs, so we called out our usual hire company, and they quickly responded with the only vehicle they had available – a ROLLS ROYCE!

The Tory supporting Express was not exactly the miners’ favourite, but turning up at a disaster scene in a ‘Roller’ was not only insensitive but dangerous. We both came from mining areas, Fife and Ayrshire, and we were acutely aware of what would happen to us if we were spotted. So we abandoned our luxury vehicle, instructed the driver to hide until we returned and progressed on foot. I don’t know what the locals thought when we appeared, seemingly from nowhere, but we talked their language and got the story.

Express reporters hardly ever got by-lines in those days, and we didn’t get ours on that story either, but at least the masters at head office knew who had got there first, even if it was in a Rolls-Royce. Together we covered major floods in the borders and took great pride in beating the opposition – but still our names did not appear in the paper. In fact I never got a by-line on any story I did while working for the Scottish Daily Express, and I don’t believe Hugh did either.

It was about then that I decided to by-pass Glasgow if I could, and I believe Hugh felt much the same.

We returned to our district backwater and got on with the more important events in life, like kicking the shit out of the Daily Record football team. We borrowed kit from Hibs and Hearts and, sartorially speaking, looked like footballers, with only the skill factor missing. They didn’t have red cards in those days, otherwise, Hugh and I, and several others, might have reached the pub much earlier than we did.

The big problem we shared was how to move on. Natural progression was through the Glasgow office, but there were no foreign correspondents there. Overseas assignments were controlled by the foreign desk in London, with reporters in Scotland getting an occasional trip, and only then if there was a particular Scottish interest. If I was going to achieve my ambition, I had to get to Fleet Street. But how?

There was genuine hostility to any moves in that direction. The word was out…no more transfers to Fleet Street. Jack Coupar had seen some of his best reporters go south from Glasgow, and he didn’t like it. He imposed his personal ban, and I had not even made it as far as Glasgow. The first stepping-stone was beyond my reach.

Luck, good fortune, being in the right place at the right time – call it what you like – has always played a part in a reporter’s life. It did with me, and that is how I leap-frogged Glasgow and arrived in Fleet Street. Jack’s edict, at that time, extended to Glasgow reporters; he presumably discounted his district office staff.

No one had ever gone straight to London from the Edinburgh office.

This is how it happened.

The Edinburgh Festival was the one event certain to attract the big name writers from the

Express in Fleet Street. The music, drama, television and film critics all came. Even the London news editor sent one of his team every year; not to work but to have a ‘jolly’ as a reward for service. The fortunate recipient that year was John Whelan, a friendly junior executive paying his first visit to the festival. I was delegated to ‘look after him’, and we struck up an instant rapport. He was interested in everything Scottish, and I drooled over his tales of Fleet Street. When he left, he insisted that I should contact him next time I was in London. He would show me around the office.

I told him I was visiting a relative there in a couple of weeks. That wasn’t true. I hadn’t made any plans, but this was an opportunity I was not going to miss. I quickly applied for some holidays I had due.

John’s invitation, fortunately, was genuine. Not one of those throwaway lines – ‘you must come visit’ – hoping like hell you would never turn up. We lunched, we drank, we talked and eventually made it to the marble hall of the Express, where a sculptured head of Lord Beaverbrook, in bronze, by Neiman, dominated the entrance, a statement of who was in charge.

I saw Chapman Pincher hurry by, then the suave racing correspondent Peter O’Sullivan. Noel Goodwin, the drama correspondent, who was a regular festival visitor, recognised me and said hello. John pointed out Sports Writer Desmond Hackett and Norman Smart, the foreign editor. Finally we arrived in the newsroom, the heart of the Express, where News Editor Morley Richards wielded immense power, answerable only to one man, Arthur Christiansen, the most famous Express editor of all.

Morley and ‘Chris’ were a long established and respected team; they worked together, socialised together, trusted and supported each other. It was a unique partnership, which was the foundation of the success of the Express at that time.

Morley did not fit the popular conception of the news editor of the biggest, most successful newspaper in the world. He was short, fat, with chubby red cheeks and looked more like a West Country farmer when he spoke. He was originally from that part of the country, and he had an addictive love of cricket. Only a brave man with a good reason dared interrupt when Morley was watching his favourite sport on the newsroom television.

He was watching a game when we entered the room.

The batsman cracked a ball to the boundary. Morley threw up his arms and cheered, and the players trooped off for tea. He could not have been in a better mood when he turned to greet me. Who said luck never played a part?

His first words to me were, Know anything about cricket up there in Scotland? It wasn’t what I had expected, but I waffled on a bit, dredging up the little knowledge that I had. I told him I had been to a ‘clinic’, given by Edrich of England, and he whooped with delight. You’re not all heathens, then, he declared. "All the Scots I