Larger-than-life characters in newsrooms of old

It's not just journalism which has changed dramatically over the years. Journalists have, too. Former ODT sports editor Brent Edwards reflects on some of the characters in his early years in the trade.

Journalism has changed dramatically during the past 40 years and so have journalists.

Just as hot metal has been replaced by computerisation, young journalists these days seem more sophisticated and better educated than when I started in the trade in 1967.

And, I might add, much more respectable.

There are few of the characters now who filled the newsrooms back then.

They worked hard and played hard.

They bashed away on battered old typewriters and the only university many had been to was the school of hard knocks.

I began as a cadet reporter at the old Evening Star where I was paid 9 and 2d a week, 5 of which went on board.

Cadets faced a baptism of fire, much of it engendered by fear of the chief sub-editor, Bill Cave.

Reporters dropped their copy on his desk and retreated as quickly as possible.

But often I would have gone a few metres only before his voice boomed: "Edwards, what is this s...?"And I would have to about-turn and face Cave's wrath in front on a bench full of sub-editors, all of whom smirked and were glad they weren't me.

I'm told that, away from work, Cave was excellent company but, at 17, I was too young to socialise and his charms passed me by.

When I had been there a week, I overhead the subs talking about me and the consensus was that the wet-behind-the-ears teenager from the country wouldn't last.

I'm glad I proved them wrong.

One day, when it was raining heavily, I was sent to the Post Office with copy and, as soon as I returned, I was sent again.

The process was repeated four times.

I presume it was an attempt to break my spirit.

It was much friendlier in the reporters' room, among such journalists as Frank Campbell, Trevor Carson, Teddy Isaacs, Mary Buchanan, Herb Martin, Ross Waby and the up-and-coming Neville Peat.

The back of the room was occupied by the racing editor, Tony Howley, and the women's editor, Shona McFarlane, two great characters.

They referred to each other as Shone and Tone and their voices boomed across the room.

I had arranged to attend university lectures at 5pm but, invariably, I was given an assignment at 4pm or 4.30pm.

That's the way it was in those days.

When Herb Martin left, I was thrust into the role of rugby writer and I remember my first big match, Otago against New South Wales Country.

I managed, just, with the help of the doyen of radio commentators, Iain Gallaway, who was in the box next door.

Clarke Isaacs, the chief of staff, ruled the roost when I joined the Otago Daily Times, then in Lower High Street.

Isaacs was noted for his 2pm rallies when reporters would gather in front of his desk and be briefed on their assignments.

"Rally, rally, rally," Isaacs would bark in his distinctive voice.

It was often difficult to tell when he was serious and when he was taking the mickey.

Clarke mellowed over the years and he was a good companion.

Dave Hay, the chief sub-editor, was feared as much by some reporters as Cave had been at the Evening Star.

He did not suffer fools and he was a stickler for the basics being done correctly.

No-one relished a lashing from his tongue.

But, as I came to know Dave over the years, I developed an immense respect for his professionalism and his immense all-round knowledge, not least of rugby.

Much of the social life centred on the lager bar of the old City Hotel on the corner of Moray Pl and Princes St, not only after work but at lunchtimes.

Reporters were an irreverent lot in those days.

I recall one who, after a prolonged session on the turps, attended a musical competition and startled the audience by wandering unsteadily on to the stage and starting to interview the judges.

There was another time when a reporter, the worse for wear after a session at the lager bar, lifted up Dave Hay - who was vertically challenged - and threatened to drop him out the window.

Geoff Clarke, the New Zealand amateur golfer and a schoolteacher by day, made tea for the subs and ran messages at nights.

One of his most frequent stops to pick up meals for the subs was the pie cart in Dowling St.

The newsroom in those days was noisy and thick with smoke and the smells of food, and fish and chips and, on some nights, stale beer.

And, of course, the gin bottle was seldom far from reach in the photographers' darkroom.

Reporters from the Evening Star and Otago Daily Times shared cars to away sporting events in the 1970s and I remember vividly a trip to Timaru with Ross Nicholson to cover a rugby match between Otago and South Canterbury.

After the game, won 9-0 by South Canterbury, I drove to the Timaru Herald to write my stories while Ross met up with an old friend.

By the time I had finished my work, Ross and his mate were well lubricated and there was no way I could prise them away from the bottle of Johnny Walker.

It was almost 11pm before we left Timaru and Ross was soon comatose in the passenger seat.

I muttered away to myself to remain alert and said: "You know, Otago was lucky to get nil".

Imagine my surprise the next day when I picked up the Evening Star and Ross's report started: "Otago was lucky to get nil when it was soundly beaten by South Canterbury in Timaru yesterday".

So much for being asleep!I was fortunate to have as my mentor Dudley Manning, one of New Zealand's best sports writers and one of nature's gentlemen who had a different joke for every day of the week.

He became a firm friend and gave my wife away at our wedding.

Dudley delighted in telling the story of his first trip away with an Otago team, to play Southland in Invercargill.

On the way home the Otago prop Laurie Kovaleski confronted him: "You're the new boy.

We better have a look at your story".

Dudley replied that his typewriter was safely locked away in the boot of the bus.

"Well, where are your notes then?" Kovaleski demanded.

"In here," Dudley replied, tapping his forehead and thinking he had won the battle of wits.

Kovaleski turned to his team-mates and said: "She's going to be a damned short report in tomorrow's paper, boys!"Jack Morris, the racing editor, was a kindly but volatile man and the air around him could turn blue.

I used to marvel at how he could fit five or six pieces of carbon paper into his old Olivetti as he sent off his stories and tips to a host of other newspapers.

Sid Scales, the cartoonist, was a brisk, lively personality and I recall Sid each night, satchel under his arm, rushing to catch the Waverley bus home.

My Evening Star counterpart when I became sports editor in 1975 was Steve Scoles.

We were next-door-neighbours and close friends but also keen rivals.

Not once during our convivial Friday night sessions did we let slip confidences from our contacts.

It was a hammer blow to everyone when Steve was killed in a car accident in 1977 and it was a blow to journalism when the Evening Star closed two years later.

But the memories linger, of the characters who filled the newsrooms of both Dunedin newspapers.

I wonder what they would make of the comparatively quiet, well-ordered modern newsrooms.