Hello, is there anybody in there, is there anybody home...

It's been a while, I know, but stuff happens.

There's been a lot going on. Things were fraught over the summer at work as we were down a few people and those of us who remained were kept rather busy. But things have settled down, we're up to almost full strength and work is keeping me busy.

Leveson. Ye Gods but it's causing trouble. The predicted trouble is not Leveson and his recommendations. That, I can handle. And to be honest, I agree with much of what he wrote, if not all of it. He was particularly insightful and kind towards us local newspapers

But, as predicted - at least by those of us in the newspaper world who didn't hack phones, didn't blag medical records, didn't bribe coppers or DVLA staff and didn't lie about not doing it afterwards - the backlash has begun.

I remember a reporter friend at my previous paper who was told to go down to the queueing mourners at the civic centre who were all ready to sign a book of condolences for Princess Diana following her death in a horrifying car crash in Paris. Hundreds of people were in the queue and the reporter was tasked with getting a few comments from a handful of them, explaining why they were there, how they felt, why signing the book was a way of offering their sympathy for those left behind. However, very quickly what he got was criticism, and then outright abuse.

"Why are you here? It's your lot that killer her. You lot killed her you bastards... You scum!"

Yes - a 25-year-old ginger-haired reporter from Southend who liked doing stories about house music had apparently been the cause of a Royal death in another country. Or at least someone very much like him...

Obviously, trying to point out the difference between a local scribe and French paparazzi was a mute point. I mean, they're all the same, aren't they? All the same. All vermin. Like those on benefits, eh? All skiving scum.

Except that one doesn't represent all. It's a hard concept to have to accept. It means having a few calm thoughts, recognising the difference between good and bad, right and wrong, and having the conscience to not take the easy "you're all the fecking same" and accept that one's opinions could do with being tweaked a little.

So, as I said, the backlash has begun, again. Already in my role I'm having a few problems with officers who think I have horns, a curly tail and cloven hooves. That I will taunt them and call to them with my siren song, tempting them onto the rocks of corruption with a well stuffed brown envelope and the promise of a well paid column after their retirement (possibly their enforced "A19" retirement).

I know... mental, eh?

I have bribed cops you know. Oh yes. A cup of tea at Capn Jaspers. To date I have bribed two Chief Superintendents. I bought them a cup of tea and insisted the deposit went in the Fishermen's Mission charity box afterwards. Oh, and a Sergeant. He got a cup of tea as well. And a burger. In payment of the burger he'd bought me a few weeks before. I promised him it would balance out.

Scandalous, aren't I!

Devon and Cornwall Police have responded to Leveson by taking on recommendations by HMIC to ensure that all contacts between journalists on daily publications and police officers is recorded. Reporters on our sister weeklies don't have to go through the same thing, but the paper I'm currently working on, telly and radio, all have to submit to it. The copper has to note down on their computer system their name, the date, who they spoke to and from what organisation and what they talked about. The information gets sent off to the police press office who "monitor" it.

Of course, any suggestions that officers will be carpeted if they speak to the wrong person, or say the wrong thing, are scurrilous, unfair and a downright untruth and I will horsewhip any of you who suggest such a thing...

Sadly, despite these vicious rumours of it being used to terrify officers into choosing not to talk to the press, some officers appear to have found it far easier to, erm... well, not talk to the press.

I get a lot of "oh God, not you Carl, now I'll have to fill in one of those bloody forms and I'm up to my eyeballs in paperwork as it is... tell you what, you bugger off and I won't have to fill it in". I also get a couple of "but we're not allowed to talk to you anymore Carl - I'm sure there was an e-mail from one of the Chiefs saying not to talk to you. Everything has to go through the press office now. Yes I know they've gone home, but that's the new rule". I've even had a couple along the lines of "Can't really talk to you Carl. Apparently you're person non grata at the moment with the bosses. It was after that article you did... you know, the one about the Plymouth Headteachers having concerns about Op Encompass not working as well as it used to..."

I also occasionally get a few "feck the forms, this is not 1984 and I won't have some busybody in Middlemoor telling me I don't know what I can and can't talk to you about. Now, I've got this appeal I want in the paper and I want it prominent. And I've had a result on that racial assault and they're up in court next Thursday, can you get your magistrates reporter to cover it". Which is nice.

Anyway, there are trolls about, it's late and I've got to get home. Those brown envelopes won't stuff themselves you know...

PS

I've just learned that Amy Childs, from that telly programme The Only Way Is Essex, is coming to town and I am praying to God, or in my case Billy Bragg, that I won't be sent to cover it. Please Billy, watch over me and keep me safe from celebrities...

"Whine, Whinge, Moan, Gripe" - yes, now you too can speak Plymothian like a native...

"You love us, you really love us..."



Ooooooooooooooh, some people. I mean, really, some people. It's gets so that you hurry the day when you have to pass a test and get a licence to allow you to put comments on the internet.

Fortunately, that day isn't here and anyone can put the boot in on anyone else, ideally under the cover of a false name with no chance of anyone finding out who you are... unless you have the bottle to say who you are... or are stupid enough to say who you are. Yes, I am the latter, welcome to my small world.

I found this on a story which I'd spent much of a Saturday out in the rain covering, then followed up with a corking tale about an escaped suspect from a police station. By the time I got home (around 8.30pm), the kids were abed and upset I hadn't read them their bedtime story as I always try to do, dinner was cold and the Mrs was doing a fair impersonation of a highly unamused partner. And who could blame her? I am not the kind of guy you find in 50 Shades of Grey... more like 17 Versions Of A Sickly Green Colour...

I mean Nevman has a point, I'm not saying he doesn't. But he seems to think we have an army of reporters and the kind of backing seen at The Mail, the Sunday Times or the Observer, with hosts of reporters, plus stringers, freelances, part-timers and oodles of subs and proof-readers. We don't. We're a local paper. We do, however, have articles which those three newspapers, along with all the other nationals, regularly partake of (read "steal") and then put their name to.

So it got me to thinking, what the blinking flip have I been doing since I got here. I mean, I'm no investigative journalist. I'm no Nick Davies, or Seymour Hersh, or John Sweeney (although I have worked alongside Sweeney on a piece of investigative journalism which I'm particularly proud of and really, really got up the noses of the MoD, but that was another time and another news organisation)

So, I had a bit of a dig in respects to what could be construed as my own "lack of depth and background to articles" and my own "absence of investigative journalism":

Well, we could start here – which we got first and then BBC et al followed up on… http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Man-tried-tell-police-seen-escaped-rape-suspect/story-16514502-detail/story.html

Earlier this year there was - http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/pound-950k-seized-Plymouth-club-boss-Jersey/story-15306195-detail/story.html - this one took, off and on, a year of digging and being knocked back, even to the point of getting an MP to ask a minister who appeared to not give the full picture.

http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Dance-Academy-boss-tells-unimaginable-torment/story-14436666-detail/story.html

Then there’s some late night being out on the beat:

http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Inside-raid-Border-Agency-targets-Plymouth/story-16364272-detail/story.html –having already done a day’s work in the office, and yes, this'll get to be a moaning theme of mine, as it does with every crime reporter because our subjects do not like to keep respectable hours)

Then there’s the times I’ve been out into the very early hours – having already done a full day at work - http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/line-war-poachers/story-13470919-detail/story.html & http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Plymouth-police-target-deer-poachers/story-15505538-detail/story.html (and no, we don’t ever, ever got overtime payments… again another theme with reporters, sorry to go on... and on... and ... you get the picture)

There's kind of a theme with these three:

http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Gang-smuggled-heroin-Plymouth-jailed-40-years/story-14228066-detail/story.html

http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/gang-flooded-Plymouth-drugs/story-13619976-detail/story.html

http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Area-manager-flooded-city-streets-drugs/story-14228011-detail/story.html - which again took ages of interviews with detectives who weren't usually okay with talking to a reporter. 

Then there’s this ongoing story which I'm particularly proud of for personal and professional reasons, yet no other news organisation was interested in for around a year, where Plymouth schools, council and police lead the entire country on something truly worthwhile -

http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/phone-school-save-life/story-12859696-detail/story.html

Which, for a longer read you can go to http://public.merlin.swgfl.org.uk/establishments/997pgr4/DevonandCornwall/OperationEncompass/Supporting_documents/Forms/AllItems.aspx

as long as you ignore the commendation bit... I'm vain, but there's only so much adulation you can take.

Add to that the Kelly Edney story (http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/ERRORS-LED-ESCAPE-VIOLENT-RAPIST/story-11403887-detail/story.html) which took nearly two years of FoI haggling with Prison Service and Information Commissioner. Okay, it's a bit old, but cases like that don't come around often in sleepy Plymouth.

And the backgrounders on Nicky Reilly http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/turned-terror/story-11375525-detail/story.html &  http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/ll-support-son/story-11468132-detail/story.html & http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Bomb-brought-community-closer/story-11421187-detail/story.html

 And Vanessa George many of which really did give me nightmares by the end...  http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Nightmare-endures-George-s-ex-colleagues/story-11397210-detail/story.html & http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/New-identity-George-tale-ridiculed/story-11439851-detail/story.html & http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Nursery-ideal-abuse/story-11498962-detail/story.html & http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/POLICE-FACED-RACE-CLOCK/story-11377587-detail/story.html

Now this is just a quick-as-I-could-get selection of stuff I’ve written in the past four years… there’s lot of stuff I know I’ve written but can’t find online about police investigations - the Chinese brothels/traffickers case, the Essex/Plymouth cocaine dealers,  the Vietnamese cannabis crime gangs which I was the first to highlight down in the South West, even the in depth interviews with rape victims, victims of domestic abuse.

Now, that’s just my stuff. Admittedly, I could be doing more, but there is the day to day gubbins to be getting on with, writing about incidents and crimes, doing picture captions for charity events, schools events, amateur theatrics, appeals for witnesses (many of which work and I have coppers galore admitting to me that they’ve had a result from The Herald and/or thisisplymouth appeals), plus fluffy bunny stuff like http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/VIDEO-Plymouth-s-Charlotte-Holmes-crowned-Miss/story-16456523-detail/story.html and http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Heading-headig-headig-heading-headig-headig/story-13630670-detail/story.html (I know, shame about the heading, eh)

Now, add to this some of the phenomenal material dug out by people at The Herald like Edd Moore who covered the Plymouth Argyle shenanigans solidly for more than a year so brilliantly that other news organisations were reading him to find out what was going on. Some of political reporter Keith Rossiter’s work, and health reporter Diana Prince’s work has been incredible, insightful and revealing, covering both the nitty gritty of the NHS and council to the personal stories.

Not to mention the award-winning work of defence reporter Tristan Nichols who spent three months alongside “our boys” in Afghanistan, one of the first local reporters to be embedded for such a length of time with frontline operational servicemen.

I really think not enough credit is given to The Herald for having not one, but two full time court reporters Stuart Abel and Graham Broach - one for the magistrates and one for the crown. My last paper in Essex had one such reporter, just for crown and just for Basildon. The Southend office would occasionally go to mags and crown court, as would the Thurrock office, but not everyday and not both courts. So to have two is quite remarkable and really gives Plymouth a view of the justice being meted out in the public’s name. I wonder if the Plymouth people would rather that was hidden from their gaze?

One thing which bothered me was the dismissive tone about the “human interest” stories. My old news-ed (Dave - he'd been a reporter for longer than I’d been alive by the time I started at the Echo) used to say “people like to read about people”. Which meant that whatever the story, however big, however seemingly divorced from mere mortals, it would actually always have a human dimension worth revealing. A massive new housing development? Who will it benefit and who will it harm? Incinerator near a school? Talk to the pupil or teacher with asthma. A crime or court verdict? Talk to the copper and the victim, or the victim’s family. 

Dave also used to say "Eve, what's this sh**? Can't you spell properly? If you send me one more bit of copy with a 'teh' instead of 'the' I'll come over there and rip out your liver you feckin' muppet" on a regular basis, so take what he said about people-wanting-to-read-about-people with a pinch of salt if you wish...

As for not noting Plymouth’s weaknesses? What, like this paper has never ever mentioned the city's racist element, it’s above-average number of child-abusers, it’s small-minded stuck-20-years-behind-rest-of-UK mentality, it’s crap internet speeds and train-to-London timetable, it’s lack of a bleedin’ airport, diminishing dockyard and lack of use of its derelict spaces and properties left to rot….

I mean, the paper loves the city, but you have to be honest in any relationship, don't you?

Personally speaking, and keeping in mind I'm not local, as is often said to me with a finger jabbing into my chest by someone with three-too-many fingers on a regular basis, I’ll tell you one thing we really don’t focus on in this city as much as I’d like to since I arrived here six years ago – how much people in this city feckin’ moan… I mean they REALLY do moan a lot. Everything from the sky to the ground, the sea to the rivers, the view to the smell, the streets to the pavement. (Although, the potholes are a real pain in the suspension if you know what I mean, I'm with you there on that one folks)

What I will say in defence of the paper is it’s not perfect, despite the efforts of the staff at the place. It’s easy to carp from the sidelines, (especially anonymously, without risk of being identified), it’s easy to forget the good articles (such as the Support for Devonport campaign), it’s easy to remember the spelling mistake, or the missing word or comma.

It is not perfect, but I'm pretty sure that here, as with many other local newspapers up and down this green, pleasant and wet land that the reporters and others at those papers will continue to do their best to get the news of their town/city to the people of aforementioned town/city.

Meanwhile, for those of you who girded your loins to read this ongoing pile of horse manure I write, if you've been invited by the guvnor of The Herald, why not take a shot and give it a go? What have you got to lose, other than your pre and mis conceptions?

Love, as always... (mutter, mutter, grumble, grouch, mutter, grumble...)

I asked the barmaid for a double entendre - and she gave me one...

I like writing, even when not at work. I joined a writing course after moving down to Plymouth, thanks to my colleague William Telford. It was led by a wonderful, funny and earthy teacher called Roy York. Roy was a sprightly, "senior citizen" with a good line in rude one-liners, a love of film noir and a vast knowledge of literature, writers, the art of writing and comedy.
Roy encouraged my writing like no-one else since I was a schoolboy and lusted after Mrs Smith, my English teacher, for whom I would would write lavish stories in the vain hope that one day she'd see me as a kindred soul, dump Mr Smith and be my Mrs Robinson.
She didn't, but it never stopped me trying.
Roy would encourage amatuer writers like me, but also he'd amuse and entertain us with his own big book of funny anecdotes and observations during the classes we took out at Millfields. If I wrote something a bit too saucy or gritty for the older members of the group, he was as supportive as if I'd written something mature and worthy. I rarely did write anything mature and worthy. Well, what d'you expect? But we both like an element of filth and an element of gritty violence.
Sadly, Roy passed away recently after fighting a variety of illnesses that Fate likes to put in our way. His death leaves a very big hole in a lot of Plymouth writers' lives.
Here's something I wrote for one of our evening classes, to highlight the kind of meetings I've attended as a reporter, but also to give a big nod to the likes of the I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue radio programmes and the Carry On film series. We read all our stories/poems/haikus out loud, so when you get a laugh from your classmates, it's joy to the ears. But getting a grin from Roy... that was always gold. Bless you Roy.






July Committee Meeting of the Innuendo and Double Entendre Association (Little Nobbing branch)

1) Apologies for Absence:
Vice Chairman Humphrey de-la Fleur offered his apologies. He said he wasn’t feeling himself tonight but hoped to be coming out later this evening before his wife got home. 

2) Declarations of Interest
Committee Secretary Sasha Boomdiere revealed she had an ongoing interest in the Little Nobbing Rovers football team, the Little Nobbing Cricket Team and the First Nobbing Scout Troop.
Social Secretary David Gimlet asked the committee to note he regularly wrote for the town’s weekly paper for a small sum.
Ms Boomdiere said she had often cast her eye over Mr Gimlet’s column and congratulated him on its length and content, adding it always brought a smile to her face.

3) Minutes of last meeting:
Branch secretary Gerta String read the minutes of the previous meeting which were agreed by the committee. She said she hoped this meeting will not go on for as long as the last meeting as she often found her fingers became quite stiff after taking down everyone’s particulars.

4) Treasurer’s Report:
Eileen Felt said there was very little cash left in the kitty as of last month after members had been regularly whipping it out.
She hoped members would remember to make substantial deposits into her safe-box in the coming weeks. Eileen said either a cheque or postal order would be preferable and members could give her one at the end of any meeting.
Eileen said she had sought out a financial advisor who had made a couple of suggestions about where she could get a lot of interest.
Eileen also wanted to reassure all members that she had a firm grip on the finances and had bent over backwards to ensure her kitty was easily available at all times.    

5) Social Secretary’s Report:
David Gimlet was pleased to note the association had enjoyed a few busy nights on the social diary of late with a host of organised events.
He said what with the bad weather he had worked up quite a sweat on many a filthy night, trying to come up with activities for members to get stuck into.
One such was a evening of golf. All members got a chance to play a round, and we were given tips on how to improve our swinging from a pro who been entered in the Open. One of our number apparently had a birdie on the 18th hole and celebrated by throwing their balls into a nearby bush.
Some of the more alcoholic evenings at our local – the Duck and Swallow – have resulted in a few members finding it hard to remain erect by the end of the night. One of our lady members was said to have had more than one Bishop’s Finger inside her, leading to her being in a rather excitable state come last orders.
David said he also appreciated the help from the Chairman’s wife, Sarah Loins, on the stalls for the summer fayre. He said she was invaluable with the extra-large snakes and ladders board she had created, with David later learning that Mrs Loins had been working on the game for quite some time.

6) Chairman’s Report:
Our chairman, Roger Loins, remarked on the impressive number our association had grown to in recent years. He was particularly pleased the Little Nobbing branch was now larger than our sister branch at the neighbouring village of Nibbling-under-Lyme.
He wish to offer commiserations to the outgoing chairman of the Nibbling-under-Lyme who was retiring early due to advancement in years and ill-health, adding he hoped there was no hard feelings. Former chairman Hamish McTaggart said he had harboured no hard feelings for a while now.
There was also a hope the two branches could meet up for a forthcoming social event at nearby farmland he had inherited from his good friend, the widow Macintosh, who sadly passed away last month. He said she had always promised him she would leave him with a couple of acres and, as usual, she didn’t disappoint.
Chairman Loins queried his failed attempts in recent weeks to contact our Treasurer regarding deposits and withdrawals. It appears he had little joy in asking the receptionist at her workplace when was the best time to get Eileen Felt.
 
7) Any Other Business:
Church warden Bernard Hind has asked the committee if it could vacate the church hall early next month as he needed to prepare the flags and insignia he bought for the next Scout and Guide parade. It appears he will be asking Brown Owl and Akela to spend most of the evening helping him polish his regalia.
Chairman Loins also urged members to be cautious when advertising their membership of the association to the local press, noting how one gentleman at a branch in Scunthorpe had been hung out to dry by the tabloids.

We're So Sorry, Uncle Albert

Right. I know. Yes, yes, you're right, I'm sorry. No really, I am.

I have been somewhat lapse.

There's some good reasons. One of the main ones was disillusionment. I retorted to some comments which were added to a story I wrote and in hindsight, I shouldn't have. I mean, part of me still feels I should have the right to respond to intimidation, but arguing with anonymous commenters... well. As better and more experienced bloggers have noted before, feeding the trolls is a kind of pointless and damaging exercise. Trolls like the oxygen of publicity and responding to them is grade A oxygen, fresh from the mountain-tops of the Himalayas. Added to which, I got my nuts slapped (metaphorically) by my "work" and bluntly told to shut the feck up. Which was good advice, albeit too late for my benefit.

Needless to say, it does put a little pinch on your desire to write freely, openly and without any fettering. So, I've held off.

Also, time... three sons keeps me rather busy, as does the full time job, as does the full time partner, as does the full time dog, cat and new cat. Yes, new cat. Thank you Woodside. Thank you for yet another cat to feed. Hopefully this one will be friendly and settle on my lap, giving me an excuse to say "honey... I can't get up to help you with the dishwasher... the new cat has just settled on my lap and it'd be cruel to get up now" [and no, I don't think that will ever work, for the record]

Also... this cold. No really - I've had this cold since November last year. I say cold, but it's a blocked nose and enough mucous coughing up and down my airways to supply the next Alien film with that material that drips from its mandibles. I'm actually getting worried about it and even thinking unmanly thoughts about going to the doctor's *again*. I know, second time in six months - what an absolute girls' blouse, eh?

The repeated nightmares about Zombie Apocalypse has not affected me however. I still believe it will come and only those with shotguns and high ground will survive. Alternatively, only those who can set up running machines all around the outside of their house will survive. The Walking Dead cannot run and thus when the treadmills are set to jog, they will be buggered. These are facts, ignore them at your peril.

Anyway, point being, I will return to proper blogging now as there's a lot of stuff I'm in the mood to chat about again. I'll even take requests. No really, I will, but obviously "naff off hippy journo filth" will not be acted up, regardless of how many times you shout it Mum...

I still enjoy writing, any kind of writing. The writing club I've joined is fun, the writing I do for The Herald is still my very enjoyable job, and writing on this blog is cathartic.

However, I don't think I'll be dual publishing the notlocal blog on the thisisplymouth site anymore.... Plymouth has a lot of great things about it, it really, really does... but it also has a lot of Trolls and people who are happy to let the Trolls have free reign. I think thisisplymouth will get along fine without me. Anyways, they can always come over to my gaff here and try their luck. I still work on the basis that no-one's listening/reading and I'm the last one left, on the shortwave radio to a barren wasteland. It's that Zombie Apocalypse again... I told you it was on my mind a lot, didn't I?

Anyways, Hi, hope you're all well and let's see how we go...

Carl - and I'm still not local.

Can't Stand Losing You

One of the reasons I like being a reporter is you do get to hear some interesting stuff. And 'interesting' is a very broad church.
I do get to hear gossip, and intrigue, and truly slanderous stuff, inside information, dirty deals, inappropriate material. And being such an inquisitive - alright, nosy - geezer, I do love it. Downside is you get to hear some very upsetting stuff, and despite what you think about the cold heartedness of reporters, most of the time it does get to us.
I mean, I got all choked up when a Navy sub came home earlier this year, because all of the families on the dock, the hugs, the atmosphere, the brass band playing, the wives and girlfriends breaking down, the sailors clutching their partners and cuddling their children.
One of my fellow reporters recently worried that she wasn't being tough enough because she blubbed at the return of HMS Ocean.
I told her I'd wobbled and it was okay because we are human.
No, honest, we are and I have a doctor's certificate to prove it.
I won't deny I've occasionally cried at funerals of people I don't even know, because the service is so moving, the music so haunting, the words spoken so honest and sad.
I've always cried at funerals for kids.
I hate covering a child's funeral. Really, really hate it. They're always the most heartbreaking things to cover as a reporter and personally speaking, the smaller the coffin, the more awful I feel being there.
One, because any child's death is a sad affair.
Two, because as a parent myself my heart goes out to the parent of the dead child and how much agony they must be in, and three I darkly imagine how I'd get through it if it was one of my kids in that little box with rows of people sitting numbly in front.
Now, there's been a lot of debate online about reporters covering deaths, particularly what is termed in the "industry" as 'death-knocks'.
The main point of the debate boils down to "why do evil, callous, parasite reporters knock on people's doors within hours of them losing a loved one, the evil, callous, parasitic b'stards?'
It's not necessarily an unfair question. But if you've done them, the answer is easy.
You're sent, because that's your job.
What isn't easy is actually doing them. Nor is understanding why people do talk to you.
In fact, understanding why the great majority of people you knock on the door of, do want you to come in and talk to you... well, it doesn't seem to make sense... until you do them.
Because when you've lost someone, you all sit around together, heartbroken, stunned, hollow, trying to come to terms with what to do next.
Then in walks someone who doesn't know this dead person and asks straight out, 'can you tell me about them, what were they like, what did they say that made you laugh, what did they do that infuriated you, what was their favourite music/film/book/meal, what did they want to be when they were little, what will you miss most about them?
'Who were they, that other people could possibly know what they've missed out on. Who was this person they will never know. Can you help me write something they helps explain why they were so wonderful to you, explains why their leaving this world means you feel so terrible right now.'
And so, they do tell you.
And you often wish you did know this person, because they sound just like someone you would like.
I don't like doing death knocks at all.
I do know reporters who are decent people who don't have as much of a problem with them.
I don't think I've ever met a reporter who 'enjoys' doing them.
But the one's I have done, the person who's telling me things is often smiling as they do so.
It's the first chance they've had since their loss to enthuse with another human about the person they love who has gone.
I've interviewed families - parents, siblings, friends - as a group and often they start to tell stories to each other, surprising each other with tales that other family members never knew about.
They often learn new things about the deceased, a tale about who was really responsible for a broken plate when siblings where young, or a dad lets slip about them on a weekend away that mum never knew, or some medal grandad was awarded that no-one but grandma knew about.
The stories are often warm, jovial, endearing, full of humour, admiration, love.
A couple of times, I leave the house and there's been more smiles than tears.
Good memories of a loved one, not sadness.
So, I go back to the office and try and put that person across on paper, the way their loved ones have done so to me, to let you - the readers - know what you missed, never got the chance to meet, to know, to love as much as their family did.
I consider it an onerous task. I've been given a great responsibility. It's not the sort of thing I should take lightly.
And I don't. Ever.
Neither do my colleagues, at least all the ones I've ever worked with.
That's a death knock.
When you've written it, it becomes a 'tribute' piece.
And before you ask, yes, I've done death knocks on people who've been complete gits most of their lives.
But even the most obnoxious git has someone who loves them and mourns their passing.
And I'll record that too.
Until you're there, in that situation, you can't know or understand the way it'll go.
Maybe you'll close the door quickly, maybe you won't even answer it. Maybe you'll open it wide and let the reporter in.
Regardless, reporters will still call, still record what's said, and write it.
That, as I said earlier, is our job.

****************************************

To end, I'll give an example of what I mean.
I once did a death knock on a mum who's 19 year old son died when his car span off the road and hit a tree.
Lovely woman, really kind, in shock. Her friend was with her, giving support and I called on her for the tribute. We had cups of tea. She told me all about him. He sounded a typical Essex teenager really. A bit of a lad, one for the ladies, liked his motor more than anything.
I got back to the office late and started writing.
Then I got a call from his best friend, effing and blinding, shouting about how evil I was, how obscene it was that I'd bothered his mate's mum, how stinking vile I was, why the bloody hell I'd bothered her?
'Because as of right now, your mate is number 15, and that's all he'll ever be if I don't write this.'
*Eh? What are you going on about?* he shouted.
'Your mate was the 15th person to die on this county's roads this year. Just another number in a long list of people who've died. Next week there will be a number 16, then 17 and so on until we start all over again with number 1 next year. This way, he's John Smith, a teenager who was loved by his mum, who liked cars, liked girls, liked certain music and clothes and had some really good mates. He's not another statistic, he's a person and people will be able to remember him as a person, not a statistic'.
It all went quiet for a while, and then his best friend apologised profusely, stumbling over his words, trying to take it all back.
I made it very clear that it was completely alright, there was no problem at all, it was very understandable and he wasn't to worry, fer chrissakes he'd just lost his best mate, of course he's upset and angry and everything.
He shyly asked if he could add some comments of his own to the article I was writing.
I was more than happy to oblige.
The kid's mum phoned up later, wanting to change a word. She'd said he was a bit of a devil, or something which didn't really match him properly.
I already knew what she'd really meant when she said it, and I'd changed it to something like tyke or rascal.
She said that was what she'd really meant and thanked me.

What I did is nothing unusual. It is what most reporters (local - can't talk for the nationals) do everyday.
It may seem strange, but there it is. I hope that helps the debate.

Listen, do you want to know a secret, do you promise not to tell..?

So, there’s stuff I can’t tell you, there’s stuff I won’t tell you and stuff I shouldn’t tell you. Eventually, after all that, there’s the stuff I do tell you.

You’d think I would be allowed to tell you everything. But there’s the law, like contempt of court and libel. There’s promises, there’s off-the-record, there’s ‘it’s only a rumour’, then there’s a basketcase-full of ‘no, I swear it’s true, no really, would I lie to you?’

Looking back over the past few months there’s been so much stuff I can’t impart. If I go back even further, there’s material I may never be able to print. Like the major drug dealer who got put away for quite a bit, who admitted to me he pretty much did dish out all the torture he was accused of doing but never, ever, stuck a certain something up someone’s Aris.
But back to recent-ish events, I can’t really tell you about two ‘organisations’ in our fair city who decided to get a bit tasty with each other. And possibly why. And how far it nearly got.
I can’t really tell you about who’s buying which business, who they’re linked to, what the person they’re linked to is up to and how frequently they’re linked to questionable people and questionable incidents.
And, despite all this hoo-haa currently in the media and legal circles and blog-world about worrisome links between the police and the media, my conversations with some members of Plod has to stay close to my chest. Sometimes it’s just gossip, sometimes it’s about silly cock-ups, sometimes it’s a bit more, but revealing it would compromise my source. Sometimes it’s a massive, monumental feck up which I try different avenues to publish my other means, but fail to do, due to lack of hard evidence. I’m looking at one currently, and it’s a doozy.

Then there’s who’s about to be nicked, or charged, who’s got a good brief, who’s got a duff one, who’s been found “not guilty” because their barrister was sharper than the CPS and got half the evidence struck out, which if the jury heard it they’d have absolutely, definitely have found them guilty, assuming the CPS hadn’t cut a deal or the judge decided he’d accept the deal rather than go to the expense of a trial. I mean, a jury? What’s the point, eh? It’s not like the justice system is based around trusting 12 people to have the common sense to hear the evidence and decide whether the person in the dock is guilty or not guilty, is it?
No really, I was in a court room not long ago and that happened. You’ll be seeing a person who’s pleaded guilty be sentenced for something that even the investigating officer has admitted to me they didn’t do. This person did something else, but by coughing to an alternative charge, they’ll be dealt with, a jury won’t be necessary and the troublesome expense of a trial will be saved for the public purse. The fact there’s no evidence at all for what they’re admitting is not the point… don’t you worry your pretty little head about it sweetie.
I know. But as the Bard of Barking said: “This isn’t a court of justice son, this is a court of law”…
So, why don’t I tell you?
Sometimes, I’d like to. But there’s reasons – perhaps I can’t stand it up. Perhaps it’d mean a whopping great libel action which means money we can’t afford. Or it’d mean a contempt of court, which means more money on legal fees, an embarrassing time in court and possibly an even more embarrassing time in prison. And I am no Andy Dufresne or Lennie Godber.
Sometimes, it’s best you don’t know.

Oh, you think?

Okay – sitting in the magistrates court for Vanessa George when they described what she did in graphic detail. Or in Crown Court to hear what child rapists Robert Rohleder and Darren Campbell did?
I can’t imagine you do want to hear the details, because I know I didn’t when I had to write it down in my notepad, because it comes back to your mind’s eye when you forget to block it out.
Or that a recently convicted rapist targeted a woman who was a prostitute, because her business wasn’t the reason she was targeted, she was targeted because she was a woman and she was there and she became a victim and what she does to get by from one day to the next is none of your damn business.
Yeah, yeah, so maybe you should be allowed to hear more, maybe you deserve to hear more. I agree, no really I do.

But it’s just that, well… there’s just some things I can’t tell you, there’s some things I won’t tell you and there’s some things I shouldn’t tell you…

And let’s be honest… there’s a lot of stuff you lot don’t tell me.

There’s also a lot of stuff the criminals don’t tell me.

And, hardly surprising this, there’s the stuff the police don’t tell me. Like when they get warned off from raising their concerns about the cuts to me, such as the 80 or so civilian investigators who are being tossed out the door next week, which will mean less investigators trying to solve the same number of crimes. Or they just don’t tell me stuff because they think I’m an interfering git, which is more often as not the real reason. Well, I mean they think it… not that I am an interfering git. Well, not all the time anyway.
So, y’know, it all balances out in the end, no?

And you didn’t hear that from me, right?

At the tone, leave your name, number and morality...

Thanks to an old friend of mine who suggested the topic, I thought I'd put my half-pee's worth in on the recent "media cack-storm".
Being a local reporter, especially a crime reporter, is mainly about trying to get people to trust me.
I know. It's like the joke about the guy who puts his dick in the mouth of a lion at a circus and asks if there's anyone brave enough to do the same. And one wag shouts up, 'sure, but do I have to kneel down in all that sawdust?'
Actually it's probably not, but I thought I'd put that in there because it always makes me laugh.
Is this Hackergate stuff a laughing matter though?
No, not really.
Personally, I've felt rather pleased to see reporters and news organisations I have loathed for decades - who've behaved in a way that makes me angry and frustrated that my job title is sullied by them, who've come to town and crapped in my field whenever a big story takes place on my patch - finally get their comeuppance.
Problem is, when you've chosen to fart at a disco, everyone standing nearby gets given the same look of disgust and disdain.
Some of the vitriol and bile poured out across the interwebbything has been undoubtedly cathartic for many outraged folk (however faux - I mean, some of it has sounded similar to the righteous indignation from the hysterical whipped up frenzy that was of Manuelgate, and that didn't produce half the resignations).
What's caused me to bang my head against my keyboard in exasperation and depression has been the increasing vitriol and bile aimed at local reporters on local/regional newspapers.
Case in point -this well-meaning article which further down reveals the hatred of the keyboard warriors, who, (quelle surprise) rarely use their real names when they comment. Much like our own 'popular' website, hmm?
Oh, I can handle the jokes from my plod contacts about "are you recording this call Carl?" or "Oi, Eve, have you got a brown envelope with cash for me?"
Mainly because my retort of "I dunno, have you been out killing my paper sellers recently" usually halts all hostilities in their tracks.
The thing is, it's all about ethics. And no, that's not a lisp for my home county.
I was taught journalism with a heavy nod towards the ethics line. I worked on a paper where the news editor was a mean bugger who would swear and shout at his reporters until they cried, but by God he instilled a sense of ethics in you.
If you want to do the job right and get a result you can stand by, then you bloody well behave yourself. However if you are uncovering proper wrong-doing or actual iniquity then and only then can you take the gloves off and fight dirty.
In Essex, I watched as a number of reporter colleagues move onto tabloids like The Sun and the News of the World (and the Daily Mail) and I felt a) sorry for them, b) envious of their new wage and c) absolutely no desire to follow them. (Quick aside - Andy Coulson used to work on my old paper in Basildon, but he left a couple of years before I joined. I know, six degrees of separation, eh?)
This paper is equally tight on its ethics. There are strict rules and Cliff Richard forbid you play fast and loose with them. No impersonating, no bin rifling, no breaching confidence.
Of course, it means we don't get or do some stories. Like all papers you try to get as close to the wire as possible, but you cannot afford to go over it. Not when the margins are so tight as they are these days.
I wrote about the Danielle Jones murder in Grays, Essex and recently heard her phone may have been hacked. I remember her parents. I remember a senior police officer genuinely lament that he had been forced to meet such wonderful people in such an awful circumstance. I would concur completely as Danielle's parents were lovely people who, more often than not, I just wanted to hug tightly and make it all better for them.
If true, then the news about Danielle's phone being a potential target reminds me again of how it was just another cheap and unenlightening story for a paper to swagger about boasting it was the "Greatest Newspaper in the World" with its gargantuan sales figures and 168 year history of paying people to tell them things.
Quick note here - my "payments" to informants? A cup of tea. That's it. Probably at Capn Jaspers and the change goes into the charity Sea Mission box. If I have a spare tenner or twenty it goes to me and my family. My motto is if you have to pay for it, you don't deserve it because you're not a good enough journalist. Just because a source is greedy doesn't mean you should be.
Ratings and sales should not be at the expense of breaking the confidence of the parents of dead children.
I hope that, in the main, the interviews I've had with people who would've otherwise have been snapped up by tabloid hacks with chequebooks, were because they trusted me to not dick them over.