I HAVE reflected how my world of newspapers has changed over the years, but the side of the industry that experienced the biggest upheaval was the printing. Watford was once the printing capital of Europe but now little is left as a reminder of the halcyon days.

I enjoyed the composing room, which was full of colourful characters. I recall one character who dated a girl who worked at the London Palladium. On occasions the receptionist would call out his name over the loud speakers, as there was a call for him. As he walked to the nearest phone, the whole composing room whistled the Palladium theme from the Sunday night TV coverage.

It was a friendly place, full of leg-pulling, wind-ups and “trots” – the placing of a false trail or rumour - but naturally there were differences with the set rules and practices, which the unions had won down the years to ensure their members were not abused. Yet in all such aspects, be they management or workers, inflexibility often caused problems. Journalists, who worked all hours and rarely kept to the set number of hours proscribed – a 75-hour working fortnight – were regarded by the printers as having only themselves to blame for the wages and conditions.

The West Herts Post provided a good start to my career and there were many successful journalists who cut their teeth there. The New Musical Express (NME) was purchased and catapulted to the forefront of pop and rock journalism, pioneering the concept of UK charts, by a former West Herts Post journalist.

Gradually I moved onto Sport, working two days a week on the local scene before returning to obituaries, my record column, news and features towards the end of the week. To be honest, I enjoyed writing features best but they were only occasional.

The Editor, Dobby, appreciating the increasing importance of youth in 1960, recruited me to work on the Youth on Parade page. This enabled me to cover the Tech’ College Rag Day with a colleague, Pat Knight, and we cobbled together a feature. We also went on a Riverboat Shuffle, organised by Ted Parrish and the Kings Jazz Club, which made for a decent feature. I loved that period.

As the years moved on I had to undertake vox pops –interviewing people at random- to canvas their views on various subjects, such as: “Do you feel you are living under the shadow of The Bomb”.

The bomb made no difference whatsoever to my life. Living “under the shadow of the bomb” was a popular excuse for strange behaviour among the younger element of society. Something akin to those who spot a stroppy toddler and claim: “He’s tired bless him.”

The Bomb did not make a difference to my life but a friend of mine, who was going out with a girl, suddenly found the physical restraints removed when his girlfriend decided she did not want to die a virgin. That was during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

But I used to go out and interview various young people on a variety of subjects. One, answering a question about the shadow of the bomb was a chap called Stan who later became a good friend. He dismissed the concept of the shadow out of hand. “How did they feel in France after Crecy and the English longbow had decimated their army. Did they decide to ban warfare? No they just made their own longbows.”

It was a good time to be posing such questions because youth was beginning to take an increasing interest and participation in the world of politics and policies, so old, Pickwickian Dobby was on the money by giving a page over to youth.

When I finished my indentures, I did go through a period of doubt because I knew local journalism was never going to finance a great standard of living. So I dropped out and worked in computers for six months, which I found boring in the extreme, even though it was the business of the future and promised wealth. I managed to get back to the West Herts Post after a couple of unsuccessful interviews elsewhere, and licked my wounds.

I did consider public relations and being a press officer, but again you were straitjacketed and had to toe the company line. I had been programmed since childhood to think in terms of prospects and pension schemes and so I opted for a press office job producing the company magazine. During the interval between application, interview and being offered the job, I was drafted in to cover for the sports editor while he was away for a week. I then prepared to give my notice, little knowing that my future was going to be decided by other events. On the Thursday, I was offered the job of sports editor.

I went home and talked it over with my parents who urged me to offer my notice and shake the dust of “the local rag” from my feet. It is ironic that recently I met a gentleman at an event at Watford Museum, who knew my father back in those days and recalled my father did not know what was to become of me.

I was confused by the constant goading to seek a profitable career, but in my heart I enjoyed journalism.

The next day I came into the office and accepted the job and my old boss helped me write the letter turning down the press officer job. There was a heavy atmosphere at home and I was told that I would never amount to anything worthwhile as I lacked ambition.

An experienced journalist did tell me I would make a prat of myself within six months and on such encouraging notes, I took on the job. The die was cast and I became the sports editor. We took the new Watford manager, Ken Furphy, out for a meal. He had also had a meal with our rivals at the Watford Observer. During the meals, Ken had let it be known he had written a column for his local paper in Workington.

When I got back to the office I agitated for action, checked if we could afford the weekly payment now our balloon allowance was cut, and the thumbs up came back from Luton by five that evening. I rushed down the club, caught Ken as he was leaving his office and made an offer. Ken duly signed an agreement and we were able to announce our scoop. Ken wrote for us for the next two seasons, much to the chagrin of the Watford Observer.

In effect it put the West Herts Post and, to a degree, me, firmly at the heart of the Watford FC scene. We were no longer bit parts. Far from making a prat of myself, I reckon I finished the first six months slightly ahead.