I’m also pleased to hear that my troubles at work are proving so entertaining. Not sure I see it that way exactly, but still. It’s nice to make someone else feel happy, right?
So what have I been up to? Well, Harry the Dog and I have been in the pub a fair bit. He’s got his eye on one of the trainees and we’ve been entertaining her with tales from the tabloid front line, some dirty stories of the filthy trade. To be honest, it’s the sort of thing we talk about anyway, but it’s always nice to have a new audience. She’s tiny, Scottish, shy, keeps her eyes down, but files remarkably good copy. We call her the Wee Tim’rous Trainee.
Last night we were joined by the editor of Amazeballs!, the magazine that comes with our paper: the 60-odd pages of celebs and fashion and beauty and those unbelievable real-life features (‘I married my daughter’s first boyfriend’, ‘My goldfish is possessed by Satan’, ‘Meet the women turning lesbian for God’, etc) that supposedly give the girls something to read on a Sunday too.
Anyway. The editor of Amazeballs! is Rochelle – but everyone calls her Bombshell. (Don’t worry, Martin, it took me a while to work out, too.) And the thing is: she is, too. Five foot four of pure energy. Swears like a soldier, drinks like a docker, looks like a film star. She’s amazing. She’s also terrifying. And last night she was on top form.
‘We ran a feature last week,’ she said, holding aloft a pint of Guinness in perfectly manicured hands. ‘Wash in/wash out hair dyes, right? Get the look. One model, four glossy pages, four different hair colours. Looked totes amaze. I mean, sodding beautiful. Like, utterly spesh, right?
‘But you know what,’ and she took a pull of her pint and winked at the trainee. ‘The model was blonde. She stayed blonde. In all the shots, she stayed blonde. We didn’t dye her hair at all. Of course we didn’t! WTF? We can’t go round dying models’ hair four different colours! We totes did the whole shizz on Photoshop!’
Wee Tim’rous Trainee stammered something about ethics, and Bombshell burst out laughing.
‘Like – oh em gee! Ethi-whats? Darls, it’s not exactly PCC stuff, is it? And anyway, we totes matched the colour to the colour on the pack. Happens all the time. If you’re shocked by that then you’ve got a lot to learn, sweetie. Like for example that piece we ran a few months ago, our Naked Beauty spesh. Nine top stars, sans make-up! Not any old desperadoes either – strictly A-list, strictly as nature intended. Well, maybe not A-list as in Hollywood A-list, but as A-list as Amazeballs! is going to get, right? No reality saddos, anyway.’
She turned to Harry. ‘You remember that, don’t you, darls? Everyone went totes crazy over it. Massive pick up. World-freakin’-wide. Showed just how beautiful we can be without all the slap. And nobody could quite believe we’d persuaded all those girls to do it.’
She grinned and winked at us. ‘Do you want to know how we persuaded them? What our secret was? Promise you won’t tell?’
We all nodded.
‘The secret was, they weren’t without make-up at all. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they had make-up on, you silly fuckers! Just very, very well-applied make-up. Make-up so beautifully subtle that it gave the impression of there being no make-up at all. Do you really think anyone in their right mind would do a shoot without any make-up? None of those stars are going to pose without make-up – that would be totes massively insane.’
She laughed and drained her pint. ‘Tell you what, sweetie,’ she said, fishing out a credit card and sliding it across the table. ‘Get another round on there and I’ll tell you a real journo trick, something you can use, a secret about doorknocks. About how to get into the house that mad bastard Goebbels sends you on, about how to get that line he’s going to go totes apeshit if you come back without. Oh – and don’t forget the receipt for those, darls.’
Drinks duly replenished, she continued.
‘Three things. First: you have to remember these are real people you’re dealing with. Normals. Ordinaries. They don’t know the game, and chances are they think all journos are scum, right? Right. Second: at the end of the day you’ve got Goebbels screaming down the phone at you to get something, and so you have to get something or it’s your ass totes getting whipped around the newsroom. Third: sadly you can’t just make it up any more. So what do you do to get in?
‘I used to always turn up without a coat. And a potentially see-through blouse. Major bonus if it’s raining, actually. Nothing like a pretty girl looking forlorn in the rain to get some of that sympathy going. For really difficult ones I used to keep an onion in my bag. First time you’re knocked back, you scootle around the corner and take a big bite from it. Hurts like fuck, actually – but once you’re crying you’re well in there. Give them some fluff about what an insane cocksucker your editor is and Fanny’s totes your aunt.’
Harry started laughing, but she ignored him. ‘But here’s the really clever bit,’ she continued, pointing her glass at each of us in turn. ‘As well as that onion, always carry a bottle of wine in your bag. Everyone likes wine. Grieving people most of all. You’re turning up with something they actually want! And the best bit of all? Once they’ve had a drink they’re more likely to talk. Simples! Cheers!’
Harry and she clinked glasses, but the trainee and I looked at each other uncertainly. Here’s the thing, Martin. Everyone who’s anyone has been on doorknocks, they’re like a rite of passage every journalist goes through. And everyone has their little tricks to get through the door.
Except me. I’ve never done one. I managed to skip that whole part. Because of the way I got into the paper, through the celebrity route, missing out any kind of trainee scheme, dodging that whole journalism qualification thing, I’ve never had to use those tabloid tricks like everyone else.
And thank God, too. I hate writing about normals. I may work for the Globe, but – and let’s keep this between ourselves – I’m actually pretty uncomfortable with the way we treat the normals sometimes. Leave the real people alone, that’s my philosophy. Take out the celebs, go after the wrong ’uns… but leave the ordinaries be. They’ve not signed up for any of the stuff. They don’t know how the game works. And treating them like they do… well, it’s just not fair, is it?
Beth used to call it my saving grace. Or at least she did before Goebbels ordered me to start getting so vicious.
Now? Well, like I say, she’s worried about my standards. She’s not the only one, if I’m being honest.
Au revoir!
Dan
Letter 40
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 20.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, October 14. Amount of my day wasted: eight minutes. Fellow sufferers: Sauron Flesh Harrower.
Dear Martin
I made a resolution last night. Or rather, Beth and I made a resolution last night, and then I made another one this morning. Beth and I: we had a chat last night (I was home on time for once) about us, about us and Sylvie, about what’s happening to us all – and we resolved to have a proper, longer chat over the weekend. We’re even – and this is huge, Martin, this is massive – going to go out.
A table for two is booked, a babysitter secured, and on Sunday night the pair of us are going to leave the house together and go out together and eat together and have a good long chat together as man and wife. As a couple. I can scarce believe it.
It’s been so long since we’ve done anything together as a couple I’ve almost forgotten we are a couple. It’s been so long since we had a drink, and a laugh, and a meal out together, I’ve almost forgotten we ever did. And it’s been so long since we sat down and had a good long chat together – about us, about what we’re feeling, about what we feel and how we feel about each other – that I’m not even sure I’ll know what to say. But I am pretty sure that it’s a pretty good idea. After all these months of arguments and sullenness and simmering resentment, I reckon it can only be a good idea to do something nice together again.
So that was last night’s resolution. This morning’s came on the train. I sat, as usual, next to Train Girl (this recent dip in temperature doesn’t seem to have affected her dress sense much, by the way. The arms are still bare, the skirts are still short; when we sit together I can often see the mark left on her knees where my suit trousers have accidentally scratched the skin. But I digress…) I sat, as I always do when she’s there, next to Train Girl and after the usual hellos and the coin-toss to see who pays for the coffee, we also had a chat.
The thing is, Martin: you and I and she know that nothing has happened between us – and of course that despite her extreme hotness and her funniness and cleverness and the fact that we get on so well and have such a good time together, I don’t fancy her because I’m a married man and not that kind of person at all – I’ve nonetheless been a bit worried about the whole Train Girl situation in general.
I’m a bit anxious that my relationship with her might be misconstrued. I’m concerned that it all could be taken the wrong way. And not least of all by Train Girl herself. I know it’s ridiculous of me to even think that she might fancy me, but nevertheless I can’t help the niggling, gnawing fear that I might be leading her on a bit.
So, we had a chat. I told her that what I was about to say might sound weird, and that saying it was a bit awkward, and that she really shouldn’t take it the wrong way, and that if anything I was only saying it at all because I think she’s so brilliant… but that maybe we shouldn’t go out drinking together again. Or even sit next to each other on the train so much. What with her being so hot and me being so married and everything.
Do you know what she did, Martin? She laughed. And then she kissed me on the cheek. And then she said: ‘Of course, darlin’, don’t sweat it. You take care of yourself, all right? And I’ll maybe see you around.’ And then she picked up her coffee, swung her bag over her shoulder and tripped off down the carriage and sat next to Universal Grandpa. Who – unbelievably, outrageously – looked her up and down from over his Telegraph and then shot me the sauciest wink I think I’ve ever seen.
So, I guess you could say it went well, right? I mean, a little disappointment on her part would have been nice, but at least she didn’t cry or anything. She didn’t look in the slightest bit bothered, to be honest. Which is good, I guess. Better than the alternative.
So there you have it, Martin: we’re talkin’ about our resolutions. Make that change!
Au revoir!
Dan
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 20.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, October 14.
Dear Dan
Thanks again for taking the trouble to write to me. I do hope the very minor inconveniences you experienced this week did not upset your plans too much.
To address your other concerns, I’m pleased to hear that you and your wife have resolved to sit down and address any difficulties you might have been having. I did tell you that things would look better once her hormones had calmed down, didn’t I! I am of course sorry that you feel your friendship with ‘Train Girl’ can’t continue, however. She sounds like a fine young lady.
As for your startling revelations concerning the underhand goings-on of the press: I must confess I am rather shocked. Mrs Harbottle will be especially disappointed, as I remember her pointing out the very same ‘stars with no make-up’ article to me – she was very impressed with it at the time, though I dare say will be markedly less so now.
So you see – we sometimes do get the Globe! Mrs Harbottle does confess to a guilty love of the ‘real-life’ features in Amazeballs! magazine. But surely they can’t be real, can they? I just assumed they were made up.
And I’m afraid I was rather sorry to see England ‘crash out’ (as you newspaper types like to say!) of the Rugby World Cup. Regardless of what happened in the game or your feelings towards rugby in general, I do feel that the conduct of the Argentinian team with regard to their anti-Falklands slogans was nothing short of disgraceful and surely deserving of ejection from the tournament and a lengthy ban. If I had my way we’d send the aircraft carriers down that way to show them who’s boss all over again!
Best
Martin
Letter 41
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, October 20. Amount of my day wasted: 11 minutes. Fellow sufferers: Lego Head, Guilty New Mum, Train Girl, Universal Grandpa.
Morning, big man. It feels like ages! It’s been nearly a week. Just imagine: nearly a whole week without delays! The mind is quite literally blown.
Tensions keep rising in North Africa, where nobody really knows who’s in charge and the new boys in the Imperial Palace can’t decide on the colour of their new flag, let alone how to start rebuilding a smashed and shattered state.
And meanwhile, along the borders, the friendly troops keep amassing. There have been skirmishes, incursions, a little gunfire and a strengthening of positions. And, of course, it’s all been in the name of stability.
Because, Martin, let’s not forget that the Neighbouring Regime is friends of the raggle-taggle new government. They welcome the people’s revolution; they applaud the passing of the old order. And the army lining up along the border like so many angry dogs straining against an invisible leash… it’s there to help.
There are no hard and fast numbers coming through as yet, Martin. We’re woefully short on facts. It’s tricky to stand up a story when it’s coming across thousands of miles of desert and through a media blackout. But what we’re all hearing in the newsroom, what Harry the Dog’s sources are telling him, is that the friendly soldiers are taking control of the border towns. They’re in North African territory now. Keeping the peace. Looking towards the larger towns.
How long before they stop pretending and just start invading? I pulled out Christmas Day in Harry the Dog’s latest sweepstake. I reckon that’s a duff choice. I reckon it’ll all be long over by then. We’ll be on to the next thing.
And meanwhile, the world keeps turning; forever smoothly, forever flawed.
In the Royal Courts of Justice, the accusations mount up, the charges amass. The way they tell it you’d think we were actual criminals. And there’s a new whisper buzzing around the place too, a new panic.
According to the word in the pubs and the bars and the less-discreet emails (seriously: when will people learn about emails? You’d think they would realise that, given all that’s happening right now, undeletable electronic records are perhaps not the best medium for communicating indiscretions. You’d think that, like me, they’d not only open up new email accounts for that kind of thing, but also get new laptops like the very one I’m using right now to write them on), according to industry gossip, one of your so-called quality papers is lining up something against us. They’ve got themselves a story, apparently. Something related to but not directly concerned with the court case. Something big. Something horribly big. Something that could cause more trouble than our litigious friend could imagine in the wettest of his dreams.
I think you can probably guess what the worry is in the Globe newsroom. When we’re not all placing bets on the future wars and extent of bloodshed of innocent people thousands of miles away in the dirt and sand, when we’re not trying to dig up something new and nasty about our crooner friend, when we’re not busying ourselves with the business of putting out the world’s most-read English-language newspaper every week… we’re bricking ourselves about where this whole thing might lead.
Where will it lead, Martin? If you want my opinion, I’ll tell you: nowhere. The world will keep turning, the accusations and allegations will come and be proved or disproved and sooner or later the whole thing will be forgotten. Today’s news: tomorrow’s chip wrapper. That’s the way it’s always worked.
And in the meantime, I’m going to be 11 minutes late for work. And, it being Thursday today, that gives me 11 minutes less to prepare for conference; 11 minutes less to get a list of stories together to take into our morning meeting, the meeting where we decide what’s going into the paper, the meeting where Goebbels traditionally rips to shreds any ideas not meticulously researched and properly stood-up. As it stands I’ve got one solid line on the secret stripping past of a soap star, a couple of super-flimsy leads on the extra-marital shenanigans of a couple of bonking headmasters at a top public school, and a potential cracker on a Conservative MP, the school friends of his three teenage daughters and what could only be described as a highly improper use of taxpayer’s money. But I need more time, Martin. I need more time to make it tight before I can show it to my boss.
And you know what? Eleven minutes might have at least helped a bit. It would have been a start. And Lord knows we all need one of those, eh?
Au revoir!
Dan
Letter 42
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 20.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, October 25. Amount of my day wasted: 11 minutes. Fellow sufferers: Sauron Flesh Harrower.
Evening, Martin. As our dungeon master friend opposite me on this evening train might say: Hail weary traveller! Thine, I dunno, staff looketh bent and haggard and thine sword hangs heavy in the sheath. What news of the war, fellow adventurer?
Truth be told, Sauron Flesh Harrower isn’t looking himself tonight. Something’s changed. Something’s wrong, something’s not quite right. It’s almost as if he’s… happy? He keeps grinning at the screen, making amused little noises to himself; I swear I saw him actually rub his hands together in glee.
Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time Page 15
