I can't work on your page any more, I have to go and put fire out

In those days in the late 1950s, parents still retained a great influence on their children and my father was totally against my becoming a journalist. The indications were that if I did not follow his plans, then I could look for a roof over my head. At the age of 17, naive and bereft of self-belief, I was in no condition to find my own way in life but after almost 18 months in a prestigious London insurance office, I knew that was never going to be part of my life’s path.

Hence the nervous interview at the West Herts Post that I mentioned last week. So, somewhat belatedly, I became a local journalist but the days when the paper was printed on site had gone forever, although only a couple of years previously. Economically it made no sense to have such vast and expensive machines used occasionally during the week so the company that owned the West Herts Post, Home Counties Newspapers, commenced a policy of economies that were to dominate their every thought.

The Watford paper, along with several other local newspapers from Beds and Bucks, was printed at a large centre in the head office at Luton. It would be unfair to pillory the newspaper group for this economy, because the policy made sense. The rivals, The Watford Observer, printed behind their High Street office and later moved the whole enterprise to Rickmansworth Road. Before the 1960s came to an end, they too opted for centralised printing and the Watford Observer was printed in High Wycombe for a number of years thereafter.

So the claim to have printer’s ink in my blood would ring a trifle hollow because that visit to what is now known as the Medway News, provided a rare insight into the final stage of newspaper production.

It soon became evident, even to my naïve eyes, that there was the element of wing and a prayer to this new concept of sending pages and newspaper copy to a centralised plant. This was done by means of bus parcels and so Frank Major, a real, often cantankerous character, who had been with the firm for decades, would pedal a large and cumbersome bike down to Clarendon Road at various intervals during the day and pass the Luton-bound parcel of advertising and editorial matter to the conductor, who would drop the parcel off to the waiting messenger at the Luton end.

For some reason, in order to spread the load, the sports pages were sent to Leighton Buzzard by train and set up and printed there. These in turn were transported to Luton where the paper was printed.

Of course there were the occasional mishaps with parcels going astray and turning up at Ware or Liverpool but it was a typically rustic production. The overseer had a religious bent and if there was a problem with the pages, he would say that he had been told to love thy neighbour but on this occasion he was finding it difficult to love me.

The economies practised by the firm were often stupefying. We had boxes of promotional balloons and each balloon contained the message, “West Herts Post, Every Thursday”. These were handed out to organisations that were holding fetes etc.

It was with great hilarity that we received a message delivered via the van-driver, printed and signed by the Big Chief.

“At the board meeting today, it was decided to cut your balloon allowance by 30 per cent.”

That was early 1960s management at its best.

My first boss was very helpful and to a degree took me under his wing. We went to Spurs together, when they had mid-week evening games back in the days when they were a sight to see. He left for Bermuda and wrote regularly saying there was a job out there if I wanted one. I did not have the bottle to up sticks and head out. Perhaps, with that in mind, I emigrated to France in 2005, having found the bottle.

My subsequent boss Tony Cook became sports editor and shocked the powers that be by proposing to visit the Leighton Buzzard printing centre on a Wednesday morning and sign off the pages. This introduction of greater professionalism caused a stir, not least because the firm had to pay the expenses for such a trip.

It was an interesting experience and I recall many characters at the Leighton works. I remember a compositor putting together the metal page and suddenly he dropped tools and rushed out. He was a part-time fireman and the fire-engine had arrived outside.

There seemed to be an unstated divide between printers, who earned more money, and the journalists. I know throughout my career I always regarded them as part of the whole scene and I would like to think there were several who regarded and still regard me as a friend.

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