An Irishman's Diary

When people ask questions such as "What do you do?", many people feel a little uncomfortable. And are reasonable grounds for this discomfort, given that occupation is closely linked to social status. The question can be seen as an intrusion, probing someone's ranking in the scheme of things.

Indeed, this enquiry is often posed more directly, as in: "What are you?" And this is not - as it might seem - a query as to whether or not one might be an existentialist, an environmentalist, a euro-sceptic or a new-age traveller. What am I, indeed?

In my own case I have a slight problem. When I say I am a journalist the reaction invariably is: "And what do you write about?" When I respond that I am a sub-editor, often the response is an impressed, "Oooooohh!" They think the position is one down from the editor. Fortunately or unfortunately the truth is otherwise, and while sub-editors sometimes do become editors, more often than not they remain behind the scenes, checking reporters' copy, re-writing where necessary, devising headlines and shaping and designing the pages where you read the work of the reporters, correspondents, specialists and commentators.

Gentlemen It wasn't always so. Not many years ago - in a more genteel era, may I add - sub-editors were known as the Gentlemen of the Press (ladies didn't work in newspapers then, it appears). They were seen as the educated and exalted ones who put factual and grammatical manners on the hasty scribblings of the more plebeian reporters. Of course that impression, I hastily add, was no doubt as inaccurate as the current one.

Anyway, somewhere along the line popular perceptions took a turn for the worse for sub-editors, as an extract from David Boulton's book on the UVF clearly shows. He is quoting the Protestant Telegraph newspaper in the early 1970s: "Pressmen were: `. . . the whirring multitudes of pestiferous scribbling rodents commonly known as Press reporters, newsmen and journalists. This gangrenous population, to be found in every rat-hole in Fleet Street, however, are not as perilous as the typhus carriers, i.e. sub-editors and editors. These creatures are mentally flaccid, physically hairless, repulsive and repellent. They usually sport thick-lensed glasses, wear six pairs of ropey sandals, are homosexuals, kiss holy medals or carry secret membership cards of the Communist Party. Most of them are communistoids without the guts of a red-blooded Communist, or Roman Catholics without the effrontery of a Pope Pius XII. Sometimes these anonymous editorial writers are a mixture of the two . . . But, because of it, as maliciously perilous as vipers.'".

While this somewhat jaundiced view of things may very well have been justly applied to one or two sub-editors I have encountered, we are generally a harmless bunch.

Sad occasion

All of the above, mentioned by way of digression, was prompted by a sad occasion: the death earlier this summer of a former sub-editor colleague on the also-deceased Irish Press.

Seamus McGonagle, who died in May, was a member of the first category mentioned above - a gentleman (and gentle man) of the press. It was he who introduced me to the quote in Boulton's book, laughing to tears at that unfavourable view of our fellow tradesmen and women.

Seamus was the author of one book, not about any of the great current or historical conflicts, issues or people, but on the history of the bicycle. Entitled The Bicycle in Life, Love, War, and Literature, it book was favourably reviewed by the Washington Star newspaper (on July 12th, 1970), which referred to the book's "charmingly thorough" appeal. He was also an accomplished cartoonist who contributed to the Press newspapers, The Irish Times, Phoenix and Tribune magazine, London. And he had two radio plays broadcast by the BBC.

Widely read and travelled, Seamus was a treasure trove of stories, such as those about his time in Soho in the 1960s where he shared a public house with the likes of the bohemian painter Francis Bacon and his set. He enjoyed regaling the Irish Press subs' desk with stories from these times, especially after he returned from a break in the White Horse or Mulligans.

The diminutive Derryman's trademark delivery was in the mock-pomp manner of W.C. Fields, and his stories were liberally peppered with "schweethearts". His answer to the travails of life was always: "That's showbiz, folks".

Reminiscences

Such was Seamus's great popularity, his former colleagues and friends held a special remembrance Mass in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel on Batchelor's Walk in Dublin. It was in keeping with his happy and gentle manner, with music - the Derry Air prominent, naturally - poetry and reminiscences, all lovingly provided by those with whom he had shared the desk at the Irish Press. Shoppers who wandered in for a moment's reflection that Saturday stayed on for the spiritual "show" and laughter abounded. Seamus would have liked that.

Afterwards those former colleagues, friends, relatives and his grieving partner Kay repaired to Wynn's Hotel for refreshments. Much to our amusement, we ended up in the hotel's Saints and Scholars' bar (Protestant Telegraph, please note). Many of those present were Irish Press refugees who have survived that paper's slide beneath the waves at Burgh Quay and have taken sanctuary in The Irish Times.

It has been reported that The Irish Times may relocate to the former Press building, overlooking the Liffey. Should that happen, some of those present in Wynn's will be returning to a place of happiness and heartbreak; and there will be flashbacks of a laughing Seamus McGonagle in full anecdotal flight. But hey, folks, that's show business!