Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time

by Dominic Utton

  Are you proud, Martin? Are you reassured and relieved that I am the kind of nice boy you hoped I was? I hope so.

  And guess what? There’s more! More integrity!

  I turned down the job. I refused the other offer I couldn’t refuse. I won’t be leaving the scandalous and scandal-hit and failing and failed (more of that later) Sunday Globe. Or at least, not yet. And not to join the most powerful PR company in the country. Not to look after the media interests of the most famous crooner in the land.

  Believe it or not, Martin, you were right. I mean, I had my suspicions – but you were right. It took your letter for me to see it, it took your letter to spell it out to me, in black and white (and read all over). They weren’t interested in me, were they? They hadn’t been following my career since the Jamie Best scoop at all. They didn’t want me for my brilliance and insight and tabloid nous. They were just trying to shut me up. They’d got wind of what I’ve got wind of and they were trying to shut me up.

  (Of course, they didn’t admit any of that when I told them yesterday that I wouldn’t be accepting their generous offer, that I wasn’t interested in a (senior) position at their company. They simply told me they were very disappointed. That they wished I would reconsider. That if money was an issue they were sure something could be worked out. And then when I told them the answer was still no, they told me I was an idiot. They told me I was arrogant and stupid and doomed to go down with the rag I worked for.)

  And you know what I did, when they told me that? I laughed. I told them they were right. Because I called them minutes after the managing editor had announced to the whole paper that we were going to fold.

  That’s right. We’re folding. The Globe, most-read English-language newspaper in the world, scourge of bent politicians and dodgy dealers and liars and cheats and hypocrites worldwide, is going to cease production. Undone by Barry Dunn. Killed by the last victim of the Beast of Berkhamsted. Shafted by a man in a kilt. A victim of corporate housekeeping.

  We were all summoned to the main conference room (those of us who are left, that is); we were told together that the paper had become too toxic, too tainted, by the actions of some in the past, to continue as a going concern. ‘We are a business,’ he said. ‘And as a business we have to put aside romanticism and emotions and think like a business. And as a business the truth is we cannot continue.’

  The weird thing is, nobody seemed overly bothered. Nobody was shocked. Everyone knew it was coming. Deep down, everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Even me. Especially me.

  So, we’ve got a last day. A final day. A deadline. Sunday May 20. Put it in your diary, Martin, enter it into your Outlook. You’ve got four more issues of the most famous newspaper in the world to come. And if I am going to go down with the newspaper, perhaps I might go down with some integrity after all, eh?

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  PS – You blew up a bunch of vinyl records? What are you, some kind of Nazi? What’s next? Book burnings? You can’t go round exploding old albums, Martin. That’s our cultural heritage, right there! Where’s your integrity?

  ‌Letter 92

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 3. Amount of my day wasted: six minutes. Fellow sufferers: Guilty New Mum, Universal Grandpa, Train Girl.

  All right, Martin? Nearly the weekend. Cup Final weekend! What will I be doing this Saturday? Well, I’ll be watching the Cup Final too, of course, from the office (they didn’t confiscate the TVs at least). As I’m filing copy for the ante-penultimate edition of the Globe, I’ll be keeping an eye on the action. It’s the reds for me, but I won’t hold it against you.

  The word is out, of course, about our closure. They’re dancing in the streets outside our office – the placards have changed, from angry and accusatory to jubilant and spiteful. My personal favourite? The same lady who used to wave a cardboard banner declaring: ‘You have stolen from the innocent dead’ (nicely poetic turn of phrase there I thought – positively Blakeian) now has a new sign. This one reads: ‘RIP Tabloid Scum’. Lovely! What a lovely, forgiving woman!

  There are changes inside the building, too. Where once we had to submit to pat-downs from our own security staff, now we’re getting full-on searches from a couple of embarrassed-looking police officers. Every time we go in or out of the newsroom, we have to go through the same routine. Nip out for a cigarette? Submit to a search. Pop to the loo for a wee? Submit to a search. And when you come back again a minute later? Search. It’s ridiculous. What do they expect to find? Anyone with anything to hide, anything to smuggle in or out, will have done it by now.

  It’s got to the point where we’re now nicking stuff just to see if they’ll find it. We’ve got a sweepstake going (our first sweepstake in ages – what with all the arrests and sackings and resignations and hatred and general horror, we’ve sort of let our office sweepstakes slip a bit): we’ve got bets on who can smuggle the most office equipment out of the building. I’m in third place at the moment (out of seven of us) – I’ve only managed three staplers and an A4 pad. The current leader is Bombshell (of course) – she’s managed to get eight whole laptops out. Eight laptops! Her technique is to stand square in front of the police officer, power-suited and micro-skirted, balanced expertly on four-inch heels and with her chest thrust out, and looking him straight in the eye, demand he pats her down. Naturally, he doesn’t. You’ve got to love her for that.

  She’ll be all right, will Bombshell. Word is that she’s already had offers from the monthlies. Say what you like about Amazeballs! but it’s very well thought of in the industry.

  Anyway. I’ve just got time to tell you about something else, something utterly unrelated to lowlife tabloid scum or North African despair or even the low farce of my own life. Something proper: something real.

  A lovely thing happened on the train today, as we paused for breath near Didcot, as we took a moment to collect ourselves before the last limp into that station… a magical thing happened. I saw a kite!

  Not that kind of kite! Not the Mary Poppins kind, the ‘up to the highest height’ kind. I mean a Red Kite. A bird of prey. It was massive! It hovered above the cornfields, it paused… and hovered… and paused… and then… BAM! Dropped like a stone! Whoosh! Up it came with something in its claws and flapped hugely away. Martin! It was amazing! Worth six minutes of anyone’s time.

  Thank you, Martin. Well done. If you’d been running an efficient service I’d never have seen that kite. If you’d been doing your job properly, I’d have missed out on it all. Nature in the raw! I owe you one.

  Enjoy the footer! Do give my love to the chief of the Met when you see him at the corporate bar on Saturday!

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  ‌Letter 93

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 21.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, May 3. Amount of my day wasted: six minutes. Fellow sufferers: no regulars.

  Any ideas, Martin?

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  ‌Letter 94

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 8. Amount of my day wasted: eight minutes. Fellow sufferers: Train Girl, Universal Grandpa, Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum.

  Morning, Martin. How are you?

  Look! It’s Tuesday again: the start of another working week at the biggest-rising-circulation newspaper in the country, the doomed and damned Globe! We’ve only got two more issues to go now, and, paradoxically, brilliantly, circulation is rising. It’s going through the roof. Since the announcement that May 20’s paper will be our last, everyone’s been eager to see what the fuss is all about. The paper’s been flying off the shelves
every Sunday. They’ve had to increase the print run to cope with demand. Whether it’s morbid curiosity, a kind of vulture tourism or people snapping them up for their souvenir value, our sales are climbing. Rocketing, in fact.

  Isn’t that funny? I think it’s hilarious. It’s ridiculous. It’s typical. Each man kills the thing he loves, right? We’re fascinated by what repels us. The people wanted the Globe dead – and they’re flocking to get their hands on it before it goes. They’re all slowing down to watch the car crash. How fantastically British.

  And here I am, right in the wreckage. Writing this letter to you on a train that’s also slowing down (literally slowing down, of course). We were doing so well, too – I didn’t need to get my laptop out and start writing until after Slough. But now, on this final approach into London, on these last hurdles, we appear to be stumbling, stalling, stopping. We haven’t got the legs to see it through.

  I’m not in my usual seat on this service, next to Train Girl, in the middle of Coach C. I’m towards the back, crammed in next to Universal Grandpa. Our knees are touching, but it’s not the same. It’s really not the same. He’s not mentioned his daughter recently; I haven’t brought the subject up either. To be honest, we’re both a little embarrassed at having to sit together like this – nods and winks and the odd extended greeting on the platform are one thing; the prospect of an hour in each other’s company something else entirely. He’s currently engrossed in his crossword, though I know from experience he would normally have finished it before Maidenhead.

  Train Girl and I haven’t spoken since we, well, spoke. She’s ignoring me, and though I can’t really blame her, I do miss her, oddly. I mean: I miss having someone to chat to, to laugh with, in the morning. I don’t miss the sexual tension. I don’t miss the constant feeling that every conversation with her presented me with a new dilemma. So perhaps I don’t miss her, after all.

  Do I miss Train Girl? You know what? I think maybe I don’t. There’s a turn-up.

  Also, I spoke to Beth again at the weekend. Another long chat. Another good chat, with no accusations. I felt like we might be becoming friends again. She told me Sylvie’s missing me. I told her I missed Sylvie more than she could know. She told me she was missing me too. And I told her I missed her in return. I told her that in an odd way I felt like we’d been missing each other for a while before she left. She cried a bit at that point, but it was OK. It wasn’t angry tears, or hurt tears. It was just… what-if tears. Tears of regret. And if only I could get that image of her and Mr Blair out of my head, I’d have put the phone down and got the first train to her mum’s I could and held her until she stopped crying.

  But I can’t. That’s the problem. Beth and I – we may be missing each other, we may be becoming friends again, but I can’t lose that awful thought. My wife and Mr Blair, arms and legs entangled, eyes on each other, lips touching… I can’t lose it, Martin. God knows I want to, but it’s there. It won’t go away. How can I make it go away?

  But, we did talk. And it was a nice talk. And she said she was worried about me. At the paper, I mean. I told her that things at the paper were better than they’d been for months, weirdly. Because they are, you know. The atmosphere – now the uncertainty’s gone, now we know we’ve lost the battle, the war – is almost euphoric. The only question is: do we go out with a bang? Do we go gentle into that good night – or do we rage, rage against the dying of the light?

  What do you think, Martin? What would you do?

  Au revoir!

  Dan

  From: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  To: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 8.

  Dear Dan

  Thank you for your recent correspondence and I am sorry that once again you have found our service to be less than excellent. I can tell you that your train on April 25 was held up when a passenger was found in possession of what the guard deemed to be an offensive weapon. Despite the fact that the guard repeatedly told the girl’s father that her age was irrelevant and that according to our safety guidelines (available for all to see on our website) he has the power to confiscate anything he might deem to be a danger to himself or the other passengers, the girl’s father became aggressive when the guard confiscated the ‘Flower Fairy Barbie magic wand’ and refused to return it to the five-year-old girl in question. As both father and daughter had to be ejected from the train at the first available station, the service was necessarily held up.

  On May 3, a malfunctioning mobile water-heating device in the buffet carriage meant that hot beverages were sadly not available for passengers, and your train was delayed while an engineer was called to service the device in question. Sadly he was unable to rectify the situation, and so I am doubly apologetic if you did attempt to purchase a cup of tea or coffee on that service also.

  On other matters, I can’t help feeling pleased you turned down your offers from both ‘Train Girl’ and the public relations firm. Loyalty is amongst the most admirable of virtues, and you have shown commendable loyalty, even to a newspaper whose methods and ethics I can’t help but disagree with.

  I am glad also that you are patching things up with your wife. Who knows – this time next year you may both laugh about this!

  Best

  Martin

  PS – Yes I did attend the Cup Final, as it happens, though not in the corporate seats. I took my nephew. It was his first ever football match – a seven-goal thriller! I fear he may now expect to go every year!

  ‌Letter 95

  From: DantheMan020@gmail.com

  To: Martin.Harbottle@premier-westward.com

  Re: 22.50 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, May 15. Amount of my day wasted: 14 minutes. Fellow sufferers: Overkeen Estate Agent.

  Hey, guess what? I am in an exceptional mood! Despite this horrible, stinking train I’m on, despite the fact it stood still and useless and uselessly still at Paddington for long after its scheduled departure time and now it seems to have the air-con on full despite it being 11 at night and actually surprisingly cold outside for the time of year! Despite all that! Would you like to know why? Of course you would!

  It’s not the alcohol that’s put me in this mood (though that helps, and there has been a lot of it to help, too). It’s not even the news from North Africa, the establishment of a proper interim government, organised by the people but enforced by the UN. It’s not down to what one might call a ‘satisfactory conclusion’ to that whole business down there.

  Nope. What’s put me all of a jangle and a jitter tonight, what’s got me fizzing and buzzing and fidgety and, um, buzzing (sorry, Martin, I’m drunk: I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to think of another ‘b’ word that means buzzing… and I can’t. You’ll just have to let that one pass. Oh! Hang on! Bouncing!), what’s got me fizzing and buzzing and fidgety and bouncing is the impending final issue of the super soaraway Sunday Globe. It’s going to be a whopper! It’s going to be a scorcher! It’s going to be sin-sational!

  Or, at least, it might be. It hasn’t been fully decided yet. It hasn’t been totally signed off. But it might, you know. It just bloody well might!

  There was a meeting today. A conference. Not like a normal conference, though – this conference involved the whole paper. We were all there. The editor: he said he wanted every one of us to have a say in what we put in the last-ever issue and that he wanted every single person who works on it, from the most senior journalist to the lowliest work experience kid, to have a byline. (Not necessarily to actually write something, that would be madness, but to at least get a byline somewhere. If I write, say, five stories for the paper – which is about usual – then I’d give out bylines for four of them to some kids who’ve written none.)

  Nice, eh? Lovely touch, as they say. But that wasn’t the exciting bit. The exciting bit wasn’t even when we discussed what the front page should be. Our final scoop. Our last s
plash. Because we don’t have one yet. Although we do have options.

  I mean, it’s not unusual that we don’t have a splash just yet. It is only Tuesday. What is unusual is that we have options – options we dare use, I mean. All those stories in the vault – the unprintably litigious, the best-used-for-leverage, the only-ever-half-stood-up and the liable-to-wreck-professional-relationships-for-ever – we could use those. We could use one – or we could use all. We could go out in a blaze of glory, on a hara-kiri high, with a kamikaze final paper that ruins all of our prospects of ever getting work in this town again but would ensure that our name liveth evermore. We could do that.

  Or… we could think of something else. But we all agreed that it’s essential we do something amazing. Something spectacular. One last historic shocker from the ultimate scandal rag. Which means, of course, that my work’s cut out. Five days to get the scoop of my career? Where’s that going to come from?

  And then the exciting bit happened.

  It was decided that as well as giving bylines to every junior researcher and editorial assistant and grad trainee and work-experience kid in the building, we should sneak bylines in for all those who have been arrested. Another nice gesture. A nice two-fingered gesture, in fact.

  And that’s when I had the Greatest Idea Of All Time.

  The Greatest Idea Of All Time, Martin!

  So there I am, brow furrowed, pen chewed, tie askew, trying to think of what to do about Sunday’s front-page story, of where I might get a good story from, a story good enough, big enough, to deserve the splash on the last-ever Globe – and behind me I’m dimly aware of someone saying something about giving bylines to people no longer at the paper… and suddenly everything clicked.