An Irishman’s Diary: Observing being observed – a veteran journalist looks back

Big Brother is always watching, George Orwell believed. And I can assure you he was absolutely dead right. In fact I even have the scars to prove it.

After more than 40 years in journalism, most of it on this newspaper, I have had a few unnerving experiences with Big Brother. It hasn’t made me paranoid, but it has certainly made me wary . . . very wary indeed.

One experience which springs to mind was during the kidnapping of the Dutch industrialist Dr Tiede Herrema in October 1975. The Garda tracked the kidnappers down to a housing estate in Monasterevin, Co Kildare. The stakeout in the little village was primative and uncomfortable. The media used a rota of reporters and photographers as the vigil went on for a long time. We operated a 24-hour roster – 12 hours on, 12 hours off – observing the house. We were pushed back about 200m by the gardaí, to prevent us from seeing too much.

On night duty we used to stand around a big log fire on a piece of waste ground, waiting, waiting. When you were not on the night shift, there was a nearby hostelry where you could have a few pints and chill out. This became very popular as the days went by and the kidnappers seemed to have no intention of releasing the long-suffering Dutch man.

Guitars

About 30 journalists would banter and sing into the small hours. One or two had brought their guitars and all the ballads of the time took a good hammering. It was fun, quite enjoyable.

Each night in the pub I noticed that this quiet guy was always in attendance. I felt that he did not belong in the press pack. There was something about him that did not click. I asked a colleague who he was and he replied: “Oh, he is just another one of those foreign reporters covering the story.”

I said there was something suspicious about him. He did not join in the singing or the craic. He just seemed to stand there, hour after hour, watching intently. Quite weird.

Then I forgot about him and he went out of my mind. Six months after the siege was over I was sitting in the office working on some story. My colleague who had been in Monasterevin came up to me, all excited. “Remember that guy that you were suspicious of? he asked, laughing. “Yes,” I replied, not thinking what this was leading to. “Well, he was a foreign psychologist studying journalists’ behaviour under pressure. He has just had his thesis published in a big European medical magazine,” he disclosed, still laughing. That fairly floored me. That’s the last thing I thought he was.

Journalists are supposed to be the observers, but often there is someone watching them too.

Orwell was right – Big Brother is always watching. In the late 1960s and early 1970s I was reporting from Northern Ireland. In the hotel where most journalists stayed, the guy at the end of the bar in the suit looking into an empty pint was invariably a detective. We all knew that. It was no problem. He was the poor devil who drew the short straw and was ordered to keep his eyes on the press guys, overhear their conversation and see what he could pick up. But we also kept an eye on him.

Special Bran ch

I have had other unsettling experiences of Big Brother.

In the 1970s the Special Branch called to my house and wanted to know why I was at a meeting of a left-wing organisation. Apparently they took the number of my car and got my address from that. They then put two and two together and got seven. They quickly decided I was a dangerous subversive. I brought them into the house for a cup of tea and explained I was a journalist going about my business. I attend all sorts of strange meetings, depending on the mood of my news editor. They apologised and left.

Detectives are people I prefer to see in the movies or on television. There is a certain menace about them, even when they are being pleasant.

On another occasion I covered a left-wing meeting in the Mansion House. I left early to get back to the office to meet my deadline. As I was walking I felt I was being followed.

Sure enough, as soon as I got into Grafton Street, this guy caught me by the shoulders and flung me into a doorway. He flashed a Special Branch card under my nose and demanded my name and address. He roared laughing when I gave my address. Subversives apparently did not come from my area. Then I told him I was a journalist, but he didn’t believe that either. When I showed him my press pass the penny dropped.

Yep. Big Brother had been watching. Like the other experience, gardaí had been sitting in a car outside the Mansion House and saw me coming out. They could not resist following me.

I never got around to reading the thesis by our foreign psychologist friend, but he would not have found out much during his late night research in Monasterevin.

If he thought that listening to music and drinking pints was pressure, he was very much mistaken.