THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
By TERRY MANNERS
NOTICE anything amazing in this picture from the 1961 award-winning film The Day The Earth Caught Fire? How did producer Val Guest create the collapsed railway bridge at Ludgate Circus? He only had a few minutes to film on some days after police stopped the Fleet Street traffic.
Answer for hacks and cinema buffs: the ruined twisted ironwork of the collapsed bridge was painted onto a sheet of glass which was then held in front of the camera lens by a lad on his hands and knees, to physically mask out the real, perfectly intact bridge at the back of the screen as the live footage was shot. High-tech 1950s style, eh?
Keir Starmer’s decision to resign as an MP is interesting for its timing.
And it begs the question whether he is lining himself up to be the next Secretary-General of the United Nations.
It just so happens that the selection process for the 10th UN boss is currently underway. The second term of the incumbent, António Guterres, expires on 31 December.
The official appointment by the UN General Assembly is expected later this year, with the new five-year term beginning on 1 January 2027.
Several hats are already in the ring. There are eight candidates so far, five of them women, but none of them is a household name: Michelle Bachelet (Chile), Ivonne Baki (Ecuador), María Fernanda Espinosa (Ecuador), Rafael Grossi (Argentina/Italy), Rebeca Grynspan (Costa Rica), Olara Otunnu (Uganda), Carolyn Rodrigues Birkett (Guyana), and Macky Sall (Senegal).
If our former Prime Minister wins the prize don’t forget you read it in the Drone first.
By TOM ROCHE
Jeff Connor’s story [see below] about being starstruck by the lithesome athlete Mary Rand reminds me my first less-than-successful encounter with a celebrity, in my case, the lovely Hayley Mills.
The English actress, daughter of the late Sir John, had entranced many a young man since her days as a child star and was a bona fide Hollywood name. In February 1971, she was pictured with her then husband, the director Roy Boulting, rushing through Heathrow Airport to inspect their villa in Nice, which had been burgled.
I was just sixteen, a copyboy (basically a human Dictaphone) in my first job with the Fleet Street News Agency, based above a photography shop in the then not-so-trendy Exmouth Market, a good bit north of the Street of Shame.
I must have been making a decent fist of the copy-reading (“close quotes, point-par”) as news editor Bert Reavley decided to give me the chance of my first scoop. I was given a telephone number and told to call for details of the robbery.
To my astonishment, Ms Mills herself answered and listened politely while I explained who I was and what I wanted, but left me nonplussed. “Well…?” inquired Bert. “I’m sorry,” says I, “but she says she’s too upset to talk about lt.”
However upset Hayley Mills must have been about the loss of her valuables, it was surely nothing to the rage that swiftly etched itself across the face of the infamously-combustible Reavley. I was warned in the most robust terms that if I didn’t get back on the effing phone straight away and get some information out of her, my less than glittering career would be over before it had begun.
Fired up at the thought of being fired, I did as instructed, pleading with Hayley to tell me more and luckily came away with a full description of her stolen jewels and a few remarks about how awful it had all been. Never take “No” for an answer? Well, never again.
The Infernal Intern
By HEIDI HIGHGATE
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
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DISPATCHES FROM
THE FRONT
By RICHARD DISMORE
OFF THE SPIKE
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RANDOM JOTTINGS
By ALAN FRAME
STAND AND DELIVER
By Hermione Orliff
And so, as we predicted, it has come to pass. That screeching of brakes, the whiff of burning rubber. It’s Bambi executing a shame-faced handbrake turn. And he hopes we won’t even notice. Instead he bigs himself up in his first Commons statement as PM. But remember when he said there was ‘nothing more’ he could do to block the early release of PC Andrew Harper's swaggering, crowing, remorseless killers? Well there was. He’s just done it. They will stay behind bars. Burnham must have known all those weeks ago that he’d have to find a way and to relent. Surely it didn’t need countrywide uproar, a petition signed by more than a million and the unprecedented lobbying of 50 police chiefs. So at last he’s done the right thing. Now he knows he’s going to have to stand up to the faint hearts and the gainsayers and the Sir Humphreys who sidle up and say: ‘Can’t be done, old boy.’ Because it can.
And talking about U-turns, what about John Healey? You wouldn’t want to buy a ‘pre-loved’ Challenger 3 battle tank from him without checking the log book and kicking the tyres (I don’t believe the Challenger has either. Just sayin’ — Ed). Remember it was Honest John, man of principle, who, just five minutes ago, resigned as Defence Secretary. He condemned the Starmer administration for being ‘unable’ and the Treasury ‘unwilling’ properly to fund the nation's security, warning that failing to spend 3% of GDP on defence by 2030 would leave Britain vulnerable. Then incoming Bambi made him Chancellor. Huzzah! Defence funding secure, then. Er, no. Healey has deferred the milestone decision, kicking the can down the road and pushing the formal timeline pathway out to next year's comprehensive spending review. Maybe. He looked very pleased with himself on the front bench as Parliament resumed. But, really, who are these people?
Following our recent reference to the double standards of those who seek to rule us, more on Energy Secretary Miatta Fahnbulleh. You’ll remember that she supported the spiteful Labour policy of imposing VAT on private schools. This was despite attending one herself and having her three children similarly educated. Now she is attempting to justify herself. She tells the News Agents podcast: ‘If the question you’re asking me is do I believe that parents should have a choice to send their kids to independent school? I do. Parents can do that for a whole host of reasons. Because it’s a good school, because their kids have special educational needs, because they want schools that are geared towards sports and arts. That is OK. I don’t think that precludes me or anyone else who holds that belief from being part of the Labour team or the Labour family.’ Well that’s all right, then.
The tariffs spat between the US and Canada is largely economic, of course, or just Trump being bloody-minded. But there is a growing irritation in the States about Canada’s increasing wokeness, its federal emphasis on multiculturalism, diversity initiatives. An example: the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation has issued new guidelines on how to report on 9/11. An internal memo reads: ‘Do not refer to the Sept.11 attacks as terrorist attacks. The hijackings led to passenger jet crashes. The World Trade Center was destroyed.’ As The Free Press comments: ‘By next year it’ll be that it was just a total accident, a setback for passenger plane safety. After that, it’ll have never happened.‘ And Canadian Conservative MP Rachael Thomas says: ‘This is absolutely shameful. The CBC is choosing to redefine terrorism in a way that downplays the atrocity of 9/11.’
Mind you, Americans are a pain in the arse, too. They love to dump on Britain by pointing out that even the poorest US state, Mississippi, is ‘richer’ than the UK. But, says Oli Dugmore in The New Statesman, the measure used – GDP per capita – doesn’t tell you anything. If you look at GDP per hour worked, the picture changes completely. Workers in the States may be about as productive as other Westerners, but Europeans, including Britons, spend their efficiency savings on leisure, while Americans put in more hours at work. And in Mississippi, men die 12 years younger, on average, than they do in the UK; infant mortality is more than twice as high. Now who is the richer?
Nice touch from Dominic Lawson in what he says is his final column for The Sunday Times ‘after almost 18 years and more than a million words.’ He pays tribute to Rob Nash, ‘the sub-editor of this column’ and adds: ‘Without his unerring eye for error, both factual and grammatical, I would have embarrassed myself much more often’.
In just four minutes a gang grabbed Europe’s most extensive prehistoric artefacts. A 3,000-year-old collection, known as the Treasure of Villena and valued at more than $2 million, was lifted from a museum in eastern Spain. The raiders took all but seven of the collection’s 66 pieces — bracelets, bowls, bottles, and other pieces made of gold, silver, mixed metals, and amber. The robbery is the latest in a series of museum heists in Europe.
We’ve all seen them, those saplings protected by plastic tubes and planted along motorway verges. How many survive, though? Drive along the A303: mile after mile of shrivelled, dying treelets. Out of 860,000 trees planted on the rejigged A14, 45% failed. And yet, this summer emphasises the value of trees and shade. In Lambeth at the height of a heatwave the temperature on a sunny bench topped 43C. Just yards away under a canopy of trees it was 26C. A decade ago, Medellín in Colombia was a sweltering concrete jungle. But, says Alice Thomson in The Times, a new mayor announced he wanted greenery everywhere. By 2021 the city had 880,000 new trees and 2.5 million smaller plants. The results have been ‘miraculous’ Streams have opened up, embankments throng with 30 species of butterfly, the elderly chat in the shade and teenagers use outdoor park gyms. The streets are almost litter-free, mental health has improved and deadly respiratory infections have fallen.
The Pope: fashion icon. Vanity Fair has put the 70-year-old Vicar of Christ on its best-dressed list. They say it’s because he’s able to pair a cassock with Nike trainers and a baseball cap. The mag praised Leo for propelling sartorial matters to ‘heavenly heights’.
Much has been made of the seemingly encouraging stats about the reduction in small boat crossings etc this year. Let’s hope it’s an improving trend because the Government is spending more than £500,000 every day transporting and housing people in immigration detention or Border Force custody who have come here illegally. As the Taxpayers’ Alliance says: ‘The Home Office needs to pull the handbrake on this eye-watering waste immediately. This is money we wouldn’t need to spend if our borders were secure. If you do not control your borders, if you do not control migration, these costs are going to go up.’
As more England cricketers stumble out of nightclubs, Irish bars or wherever, our visiting tourists tend to assume the high ground. ‘Pakistan players will never have a problem with alcohol,‘ announces former captain Ramiz Raja at Lord’s. Milk is their drink of choice. Whoah, there, Raj. Naughtiness doesn’t just come out of a bottle. What about the Pakistani Test star detained at Dubai International Airport for possessing opium? The bowlers arrested for smoking weed on a beach in Grenada? The player ruled out of the 2009 T20 World Cup because he had genital warts? The great who climbed into the stands and hit a fan over the head with his bat for calling him a ‘fat potato’? At least he would have had an excuse if drink had been taken.
Having said that, though, the behaviour of some England cricketers has been condemned by two of the greatest to have played the game. Stuart Broad and Jimmy Anderson criticised the ‘extreme and tiresome’ flood of negative stories around the England cricket team’s drinking and socialising habits. Anderson, England’s all-time leading bowler, said: ‘It is just mind-numbing that people can still be putting themselves in these positions.’ They were speaking at Lord’s at the unveiling in the Long Room of a portrait of the two of them together. The pair, the top two Test wicket-takers at the home of cricket, are pictured in their whites. Poignantly, Broad’s sleeveless sweater is an old-fashioned ivory white: it belonged to his father, Chris, an England opening bat of distinction.
SportingSnippetettes: Borussia Dortmund midfielder Jobe Bellingham, brother of Jude, can name every single Champions League and European Cup winner in order. His grandad, William Bellingham, was also pretty handy when he appeared on Mastermind in 1987. Darts star Gerwyn Price is offering a ‘small reward’ to anyone who has info about his missing pet ferrets. A Vietnamese Man United fan is currently in the process of cycling from Hanoi to Old Trafford. He’s been going for 163 days, and he’s made it as far as Kyrgyzstan. Rookie Shiyazh Pete, all 6ft 9ins, 303lb of him, has become the first member of the Navajo Nation to sign an NFL contract.
GoFigure: Middlesbrough has the highest crime rate of any local authority outside London. It has one of the smallest police forces: 1,500 officers serve 590,000 people. Cleveland police received £139,000 less funding than Surrey last year and had 851 fewer officers. This is despite having a comparable population. Funding in Cleveland has increased by £75 million since 2015-16. In Surrey it has risen by £122 million.
JustTheJob: Premier League star Phil Foden is looking to hire a ‘brand and social media manager’ on £50,000 a year for his seven-year-old son, Ronnie. The lad has four million followers on Instagram, 750,000 on TikTok and his own YouTube channel.
WordOfTheWeek: Cobot — a specialised collaborative robot which prioritises safe, direct interaction with humans. They use advanced force, torque and proximity sensors and can be programmed on the job.
TheThingsTheySay: ‘Stop going on about the jam, Jan, I hear you cry! By Jove, your jammy judginess doth jar. Yet I cannot stop. Meghan’s jam has cast a spell on me.’ — juicy Jan Moir taking the pith out of the Duchess of Sussex in the Mail.
It’sOnlyMoney: A Labour justice minister splurged £34,000 of taxpayers’ cash on a fact-finding mission to the States which happened to coincide with the World Cup. Jake Richards, the sentencing minister, whose responsibilities include youth justice reform, said the aim of the trip was to learn from the ‘globally recognised system’ in the US. While there, he appears to have watched England’s World Cup game with Argentina. The cost breakdown for the trip, according to Guido Fawkes, included £24,000 for flights as well as roughly £4,000 for ground transport, £3,000 for accommodation and £2,500 for subsistence and hospitality. The minister reportedly travelled with his private secretary, a civil servant specialising in youth sentencing, a videographer/photographer, and an ‘international engagement adviser’.
NIBS
The National Union of Journalists said Reach has told staff of plans to cut 24.2 full-time equivalent roles in regional print production, placing 67 jobs at risk. (Press Gazette update)
Substack has partnered with AI plagiarism checker Pangram to introduce a new ‘scan for AI text’ feature. (Press Gazette)
Google advertising revenue (including search, Youtube and Google Network) reached $81.6bn in the three months to 30 June. CEO Sundar Pichai said: "Our popular AI features are driving Search query growth." (The Hollywood Reporter)
OpenAI is renewing its investment in the American Journalism Project by committing an additional $5m in funding for local news and $3m in tech credits over the next two years. (Axios)
Around 30 newsroom jobs are being cut at the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age in Australia with the "extreme state of disruption" from AI blamed. The publisher plans to retrain and hire for "digital-first, reader-savvy, data-informed roles". (The Guardian)
The New York Times will reportedly argue in a federal court hearing that the White House is abusing the justice system to uncover its reporters' sources in a story that outraged President Trump. (NPR)
The publisher of Yorkshire Post and Scotsman Iconic Media stayed in profit in the nine months after it was bought by Media Concierge once extensive one-off costs are taken into account. (Press Gazette)
By JEFF CONNOR
The Olympian Mary Bignall Rand, who died in March this year, had been resident in America for over five decades. She was out of the loop as they say and obituaries in the British Press were spare.
To many of us growing up in the 60s, however, she will always be not only one of the most talented female athlete of any era but a woman blessed with spectacular looks and rare charisma.
It was easy to fall in love with Mary. Many men did.
She was, literally, the first of our Golden Girls. In Tokyo in 1964 she broke the world record in winning long jump gold and followed that with a silver in the pentathlon and bronze in the 4x100m relay. The pentathlon gold went to one of the Russia’s Press sisters, both of whom ‘retired’ when sex verification became mandatory in 1966.
That second gold should really have gone to Mary. It was her Tokyo room-mate Ann Packer (also to win gold in a memorable 800m final) who said: ‘Mary had it all. She had the talent, she had the looks and she had the determination, and she was just as nice inside and out.’
At the height of her fame in 1964 Mary was named BBC Sports Personality of the Year and awarded an MBE a year later. Off the track she was offered a role in a Bond movie, was married three times and Mick Jagger is alleged to have offered her a date despite the fact that she had a baby daughter at the time. Mick never got close but I’m happy to announce that I did.
I was 19 when I moved to London to work for the trade magazine Furnishing World (you have to start somewhere). We were based on Waterloo Bridge. The after work ‘local’, to anyone interested, was the Hole in the Wall underneath the arches.
I’d been there less than six months when the editor sent me to Myers Beds offices in Vauxhall where none other than Mary Rand was going to show off the company’s new selection of beds. In those days athletics was strictly amateur so I guessed that in lieu of filthy lucre Mary would get at best a new bed or at worst a new headboard. It took me some time to find a connection between a gold medallist long jumper and a new bed. In fact it was a piece of marketing genius.
She arrived in a mini-skirt and as with other charismatic female athletes (the cyclist Victoria Pendleton and the sprinter Merlene Ottey come to mind) Mary took over the show. She jumped on the bed, rolled over around the sheets and lay there in full Snow-White mode. She was obviously enjoying it even more so when a small army of Myers staff arrived to see the show.
There was a Press interview at the end. I do recall the smile and a West Country accent but little else. I can’t remember what I asked her and a word she said in return. I was mesmerised.
I did later buy myself a Myers bed though.
NAUTICAL BUT NICE
Izzard’s latest book floats His Lordship’s boat
LORD Drone’s good friend and former colleague BRIAN IZZARD has found the time to write another book about boats (in joke — he calls them ships.)
His latest offering, Houdini of the Sea, is about Charles Lightoller who is known primarily as the most senior officer to survive the sinking of Titanic, but that was just one chapter in his remarkable story.
To avoid the cotton mills of his native Lancashire town, a 13-year-old Lightoller joined the crew of a four-masted sailing ship, and he would remain at sea on various ships until 1920. During his 30-year maritime career and beyond, he would survive four shipwrecks, a Zeppelin bombing, a duel with a U-boat and a perilous motor-yacht mission to Dunkirk, ultimately emerging as a hero of both world wars.
The book’s blurb says: “Compiled using extensive research, including previously unseen family information, Houdini of the Sea is the extraordinary tale of a man who escaped death many times over.”
Lord Drone has read the first few pages and reports: “It’s a rattling good read.”
Houdini of the Sea is published by The History Press (£22.99) and is available from Amazon for £22.49 HERE
Will this do, Clint? — Ed
Blown out by Hurricane
He quit our crazy golf game — to play World Title match
By GEORGE DEARSLEY
Snooker genius Alex Higgins could be belligerent and downright rude. But occasionally he could also be charming.
It was 1982, and I had been sent by the Daily Star to do a feature on the then-new trend of snooker stars wearing flamboyant, floral waistcoats. Higgins, pictured, was an early adopter.
I had been waiting in the lobby of the (now demolished) Grosvenor Hotel, in Sheffield for four hours. Messages to Higgins’ room and to his agent went unanswered. Then I spotted him getting out of a lift.
“Alex, could I have a word?” I asked.
In a typically Irish reply, he said: “Do you play golf?” "Sure," I lied.
Higgins took two clubs from reception, and we went to the hotel’s famous crazy golf area. While putting through tunnels, over bridges and around gnomes, he generously answered all my questions.
However, I began to worry because one of the most important matches of his career – the World Snooker Championship semi-final – was looming, in just 45 minutes.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the Crucible?” I asked.
“Let’s play on,” he insisted. And so we did.
Ten minutes later, he just stopped and said “Fuck it.” Then he whacked his ball as hard as he could into the horizon. And off he went.
He won the match, (against Jimmy White) and the final, (against Ray Reardon), his second World title. The Hurricane died in 2010, aged 61.
The question I failed to ask Hockney that might have cost me millions
CHRISTOPHER WILSON had a memorable meeting with David Hockney by that famous Hollywood pool during which the artist made a few pencil sketches of his young interviewer. Wilson’s one regret was that he was too polite to ask for the sketches, which he now reflects could be worth millions.
Sharon Ring’s tale of her family’s Holocaust ordeal
SHARON RING, wife of the late, lamented Phil Walker, has written a moving account of her family’s life in the Holocaust during World War 2.
It’s a rare account of Jewish survival in Berlin and adds a completely new aspect to the history of the war as it focuses on Mischlinge which is the German word for mongrel, half-breed, mutt, usually used about dogs but the Nazis cruelly took it to describe men, women and children with mixed Aryan ancestry.
Mischlinge by Sharon Ring is published by HarperCollins for £16.99 in hardback, and is available on Amazon in all formats HERE.
Fangs for the memory
By GEORGE DEARSLEY
Photographers are often given Mission Impossible assignments by their desks, and none more so than staffer Ken Bingham, working for Sport Newspapers.
His boss wanted him to illustrate a story about an East German woman called Bertha, who claimed she spoke to her late husband via his false teeth, kept in a glass by her bedside.
Unable to fly abroad, Ken thought he had bitten off more than he could chew.
But fortunately, he solved the problem by borrowing his mum’s dentures to pose as the psychic gnashers.
I couldn’t resist sending the story to Press Gazette’s Dog Watches Dog column, which had Ken, who died in Spain in 2016, chomping at the bit.
But it was the tooth and nothing but the tooth.
That’s enough tooth gags, George, I’ve nothing left for the headline — Ed
EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!
Robohacks are coming sooner than you think
By AI ADDIO, last man standing
NOT so long ago we would have laughed at the notion of robosubs or robowriters but make no mistake, they are trundling our way.
The oft-predicted apocalyptic day when AI will finally replace all journalists seems to get closer and closer, warns Popbitch.
Marie Claire magazine accidentally left an AI prompt in one of their recent articles, an explainer on The Odyssey.
“This version feels a little tighter and more magazine-style,” it helpfully reads. It was particularly proud of the phrase “embracing his villain era”.
Even worse, Take A Break, one of the UK’s most profitable publications, has announced its fiction section will from now on be 100% AI.
And an AI film studio announced they will be making a fully AI-generated adaptation of The Odyssey, set for release later this summer.
STILL STANDING (JUST)
The World’s Greatest Lunch Club celebrates its 100th anniversary
JOY and jubilation came to Covent Garden as the World’s Greatest Lunch Club celebrated its 100th meeting. Sadly its numbers were diminished since the palmy days when eight (subs pse check) of us sat down for a glass or two of lunch.
Three members managed to stagger to the Boulevard Brasserie. Pictured above are, from left, Alastair Mcintyre, Alan Frame and Roger Watkins (Miss).
Languishing at home suffering from a variety of ailments were Dick Dismore (hernia), Terry Manners (bad leg) and Pat Pilton (knackered).
Absent friends who have passed to the Great Nosebag in the Sky include Craig Orr, Terry Evans, Ashley Walton and David Eliades.
Glasses were raised to their memory.
CHUMS WE HAVE LOST
Paddy Clancy, 82
ANOTHER big figure from old Fleet Street, former Daily Express reporter Paddy Clancy, has died aged 82.
Clancy, who was well known in his native Ireland for his broadcasting work, died on Friday, 23 January at Sligo University Hospital surrounded by his family.
He is survived by his wife Bernie, two daughters and a son.
The Irish Taoiseach Micheál Martin said Clancy was "an enormous presence in Irish journalism for over six decades. His distinctive take on RTÉ's morning paper round up was essential listening.
"His reporting and columns were essential reading for many years in the Sligo Champion, Donegal People’s Press, Irish Sun and Mirror."
Retro Rambleshanks, author of the acclaimed Drone series Yesterday Once More, writes: Ashley Walton, LOTP, used to tell of the time when, as a new reporter, he was sent by Night News Editor Mike Steemson to fetch Paddy Clancy and fellow Irishman Mike O’Flaherty back to the office from The Cartoonist where they were ‘resting’.
‘How will I know them?’ he asked. ‘Easy,’ says Steemson, ‘they’ll be standing at the bar wearing just their underpants.’ And so it came to pass. When Ashley returned to the office Steemson asked what the response had been. ‘They said to tell you to go fuck yourself,’ reported Ash. ‘Oh, good,’ said Mike, ‘they’re coming back, then.’ And so, fully clothed, they were.
James Mossop, 89
One of the great sports writers, James Mossop of the Sunday Express, has died aged 89.
Jim covered ten World Cups, eight Olympic games, dozens of world title fights, major golf tournaments and Formula One races.
He started his career on the North West Evening Mail and developed a passion for journalism that never waned. He spent most of his career on the Sunday Express before joining the Sunday Telegraph.
Alex Montgomery, former chairman of the Football Writers’ Association, said: ‘He was the very best of journalists, an outstanding football writer who had to be read and who was on so many occasions in a class of his own.’
The family, who are having a private funeral, have set up a tributes page.
CONTRIBUTE HERE
The Drone is particularly sad to announce the death of one of the funniest men in Fleet Street, Express sub-editor John Mulcock.
Mullers, as everyone called him, died on 18 October at the age of 81.
Drone editor Alastair McIntyre said: ‘Mullers was a great and dear friend and our joint insanity helped to keep us both sane during crazy and stressful days on the Express in the Noughties. I grieve for him.’
Tony Boullemier said: ‘A top sub and an extremely funny man. If he wasn't firing off a quip, he was saying something that you just knew was leading up to one.
‘And when political correctness spread over newsrooms in the 90s, he was one of the last journos to ignore it.’
John Mulcock, 81
TIMES READERS’ LIVES TRIBUTE
Ivor Davis, 87
ONE of the big stars of the old Daily Express, West Coast correspondent Ivor Davis, died on Sunday 29 March surrounded by his family in Ventura, California. He was 87.
The Express assigned him to cover the Beatles in 1964 when the toured America for a month. His wife, Sally Ogle Davis, died in 2012, and they had two children Gideon and Rebecca. In 1969 Davis co-wrote Five to Die, the first book ever published about the Sharon Tate-LaBianca murders, and covered the trial for the Daily Express.
As a foreign correspondent, he traveled throughout the western hemisphere covering riots, floods, earthquakes, and politics.
As Editor-at-Large for Los Angeles Magazine, he and Sally wrote more than 100 major magazine and cover stories. In 2019, he wrote about his journey with the Manson Family title Manson Exposed.
Davis was the best selling author of books about his travels with the Fab Four —“The Beatles and Me On Tour” and three books about his experiences with the Charles Manson murder case. His latest book is “The Devil in My Friend —The Inside Story of A Malibu Murder”— about a friend who turned out to be a murderer.
John Smith told the Drone: “Sad news about Ivor Davis, and farewell to another of Fleet Street’s greats. Our paths often crossed when I was New York correspondent for the Daily Mirror back in the sixties.
“He was fiercely competitive when chasing a showbiz story, but always amiable and cheerful company, ever ready to give me guidance when coping with the Hollywood scene that he covered so brilliantly for so many years.”
David Eliades, 92
THE Drone is particularly sad to report that David Eliades, who manned the Daily Express foreign desk for many years, has died at the age of 92 at his home in Switzerland.
There was more to David than just journalism. He was an author too and one of his works is still playing to audiences at various locations in Italy.
Stephen Bacon, 79
Stephen Bacon, one of the great Daily Express lawyers and a thoroughly nice man, has died. He was 79 and had been suffering from prostate cancer.
Stephen practised for 11 years in Manchester chambers before joining Express Newspapers from where he retired as head of legal. He later became a media law consultant mainly for The Times, The Sunday Times and The Sun.
Stephen leaves a wife, Felicity, who is a retired Express features sub, and a daughter, Cleo.
Compton Miller, 8o
Richard Compton Miller, the last of the gossips from the great days of Fleet Street has died at the age of 80. He had been in hospital with pneumonia when he caught an infection and had also been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease.
The funeral is on Tuesday December 16, at 1.30 at the Temple Church, Middle Temple.
Peter Grosvenor, 92
PETER Grosvenor, long-standing literary editor of the Daily Express, has died two months short of his 93rd birthday. He joined the Express in 1962 when Beaverbrook was still alive and taking more than a passing an interest in his newspapers. He remembered one call in particular when the Beaver informed him: "Mr Grosvenor, we have more readers in the Social AB class than any other paper. So it's a very important job you do Mr Grosvenor.” There would have been a hint of menace in the Beaver's delivery.
Gaiety at Eighty for Tony
IT was nosebags all round for the Class of 1970 when former Expressman Tony Boullemier took his old friends out to dinner to celebrate his 80th birthday.
Adding to the entertainment was Kelvin MacKenzie, who got married for the third time earlier this year. He confided that each time he marries he moves a junction or two of the M25. He is currently at Junction 11 and he confessed that he is currently considering Junction 16.
Pictured at the Queen’s Head in Weybridge, Surrey, are Kelvin MacKenzie, Julia Boullemier (Tony’s daughter-in-law), Alastair ‘Bingo’ McIntyre (appearing by kind permission of Lord Drone), Chris ‘Lady Bingo’ McIntyre, Craig Mackenzie, Lesley MacKenzie (Kelvin’s wife), Tony ‘Monsewer’ Boullemier, and his son Richard ‘Ric’ Boullemier.
Lord Drone is honoured for 20 years of his Fleet Street organ
LORDING IT: Drone as imagined by Scott Clissold of the Sunday Express
THE Daily Drone is 20 years old? Shurely shome mistake. Believe it or not it is true and to mark the anniversary His Worship Lord (Bingo) Drone was presented with a magnificent caricature hand-tooled by Scott Clissold, talented cartoonist of the Sunday Express.
The ceremony took place in front of disinterested diners at the Boulevard Brasserie in London’s Covent Garden, the venue for numerous drink-sodden gatherings of the World’s Greatest Lunch Club.
The brasserie is a favourite with WGLC members not just for the excellent cuisine but also for the fact that Le Patron provides old-age pensioners with half-price food.
Lord Drone gave a long address of thanks to gently sleeping members which can be summed up as “thanks awfully chums”. He left shortly afterwards in a sedan chair after proffering his fondest thanks to Roger Watkins (chairman), Terry Manners, Dick Dismore, Alan Frame and Pat Pilton for their generous gesture. (Will that do M’Lud? — Ed)
CRICKETERS IN THE FRAME
DAVID RICHARDSON, pictured above in sunglasses, has been clearing out his loft and come up with a few sporting pix involving Daily Express journalists. But who are they?
My brain scan and cognitive test proves that I’m as sharp as Trump
By IAN BAIN
I failed the Montreal cognitive test, the one that Donald Trump claims to have passed four times. So the Medicines for the Elderly Department, which I believe used to be called the geriatric unit, sent me for a brain scan. Three weeks later they called to say the report was in.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“We’d like you to come in for a chat,” they said. “Allow for two hours and bring your wife.”
“My wife’s a psychoanalyst and would have to cancel patients.”
“Ten o’clock on Friday,” they said.
We were met by a cheerful staff nurse who immediately handed Sharadha a questionnaire to fill in. Did I have mood swings, etc.
“So, the scan results…” I ventured.
“You’ll be seeing the doctor when we’re finished here,” the nurse said.
I was getting a little alarmed, more so as she demanded multiple examples of my forgetfulness and homed in on my driving. Earlier in the week a friend who came to dinner asked in too jolly a tone if I thought they might take away my licence. Until that point I hadn’t.
“Before we start,” said the nurse, “can I just ask if you've given power of attorney to your wife... or anyone else?”
That was my rabbit-in-the-headlights moment.
“Now don’t get upset,” she said, “because you’ll need to focus on this next exam.”
She got out her stop watch. This was the Montreal test on steroids, the dreaded ACE-III.
“All the words you can think of beginning with P… Go!” The first was easy — panic. That was just one of seemingly countless individual tests. My fear of failing must have fuelled a mental agility I didn’t know I had.
Then it was into the doctor’s office for a joint interrogation after which I dared to ask “er… the brain scan…?”
“Oh that was fine,” said the doctor. “Very good for someone of your age.”
PS: Spurred by terror, I score 96 out of 100 in the ACE-III test.
Liddle used to get drunk and make shit up say Sunday Times subs
A SLEW of obituaries for Rod Liddle came out over the past week or so, most — with some notable exceptions — written up glowingly by his friends. It’s always tempting after someone dies to present the best, most sanitised version of the person they were while they were here.
The Drone does not feel constrained in this matter. All the news that’s not fit to print is our motto.
Behind the scenes, reports Popbitch, some of his other colleagues have been in touch with memories that didn’t make the obits. Rod had a thorny relationship with the Sunday Times, where his penchant for sock puppet accounts (using a false identity online — see story below) wasn’t the only issue.
Subs were warned to check everything he submitted with a fine tooth comb because Liddle had a habit of filing under the influence and getting liberal with the facts.
Or, in their words: “He just gets drunk and makes shit up.”
As a result every scoreline and piece of trivia mentioned had to be double and then triple-checked before publication. And almost every single one was confidently wrong.
In other words, he didn’t exactly endear himself to the rest of the staff (most of the video team found that it was impossible to find a single editor or producer willing to work with him). But Rod did always capitulate to the editor, to whom he always gave in when he was told what he wanted to write was actionable - or too racist, homophobic, or misogynistic.
Farewell to the Great Eliades
CHEERS DAVID: Raising a glass to David Eliades are, from left, Kim Willsher, Alan Frame, Geoff Levy, Gill Martin and Chris Williams
By ALAN FRAME
Before David Eliades joined the Daily Express in 1963 he worked briefly one floor up on the SX. Until, that is, the ghastly old lecher John Junor called him in and said: ”I’m afraid we shall be parting ways” to which David replied: “Sorry to hear that, where are you going?”
That was one of the many stories told when friends of the great man celebrated the 92 years of his life in the St Bride’s Glee Club, more formally known as the Humble Grape wine bar at the rear of Fleet Street’s parish church.
The event was hosted by David’s widow Lamar, pictured, who had travelled from Lugano with her daughter, son-in-law and three grandchildren who took in their stride the sight of old hacks drinking vast quantities of fine wine.
Kim Willsher arrived straight from the Eurostar that had brought her from home in Paris. She told of David persuading Nick Lloyd to splash on the news of the Chernobyl disaster (we led the way on the appalling effects of the fallout which lasted for decades) and ensured that she had a well-deserved pop at Nick in the process.
One of David’s great gifts was in encouraging young female reporters, in spectacular contrast to the likes of Mike Parry, and it was no surprise that so many of them were there to raise a glass to him; Liz Gill, Gill Martin, Melanie Whitehouse, Gill Swain and Jo Gourlay. Louise Court would have been there had she not just lost her father Monty, former news editor of the Mail and editor of Racing Post.
Sadly David Richardson wasn’t well enough to make it from Languedoc but his daughter Lucy dashed down from her job in the City to read a message from the old boy.
Two distinguished former Express defence corrs were there, John Ingham and Michael Evans who excused himself after a mere three hours to write a piece for The Times.. Chris Williams came down from Glasgow, the indomitable Kate Hadley from Cambridgeshire, as had Esther Harrod, and David’s goddaughter Emma Freemantle from Herefordshire. Somehow I made the seven miles from Gipsy Hill and David Wigg the three from the King’s Road.
It was a great show of the affection we all had for David; Sue Peart, Maureen Paton, Caroline Hendrie, John Burns, Jeremy Gates and Geoff Levy all shared their memories and if I hadn’t ended up in the Bell with Williams, Willsher and Ingham I might well be able to recount them.
Thank you Lamar, and most of all thank you David. You were a star!
The things they used to say on Boulevard of Broken Dreams
By PAT WELLAND
With nothing better to do, I’ve been re-reading a couple of books about the Boulevard at a time now seen – as one of the authors remarks – “as remote as the Byzantine empire”.
From political commentator Alan Watkins’ excellent A Short Walk Down Fleet Street, two conversations between Jack Nener, “a foul-mouthed bow-tied Swansea boy” who was Mirror editor 53-61, and his deputy, Dick Dinsdale:
1. “What we need on this paper, Jack, are a few Young Turks.”
Nener: “I can see we could do with a few new faces about the place, but why in fuck’s name do they have to be Turkish?”
2. “The sub-editors, like most people who work long shifts in unchanging company, had a number of catchphrases, or joke sentences. One of them – it comes from the film of Tom Brown’s Schooldays, rather than from the book itself – was: ‘Flashman, you are a bully and a liar, and there is no place for you in this school.’
Nener was overheard asking: ‘Who’s this Flashman, then, Dick?’
‘Flashman? Flashman? I don’t think we’ve got any one of that name on the paper, Jack. Is he a reporter or a sub?’
‘I don’t give a fuck what he is, but get rid of him fucking quick. He’s a bully and a liar’.”
3. From Matthew Engel’s equally enjoyable Tickle the Public – 100 years of the popular press: “There is a story that around 1926 John Logie Baird went into the Express office anxious to show his new invention (TV, as any fule kno) to the editor (Beverley Baxter). Baxter, in keeping with the paper’s reputation for percipience, sent down the message ‘Get rid of that lunatic. He may have a knife'.”
The day I was told to rewrite Tom Stoppard’s copy (and share his ancient typewriter)
JOHN SMITH remembers a mad day at the Bristol Evening World in the 1960s when a gas explosion rocked the city. Tom Stoppard was one of several reporters sent to cover the drama. Trouble was that young Tom was not a news man and wrote far too much. Consequently a frazzled chief sub told Smith to rewrite the Bard’s lyrical prose.
The Night Howls
Two members of the Daily Express news sub-editorial team fill their time after returning from the pub late at night in the 1980s. If memory serves, this was the final of the Arthriticson Howling Contest which involved shouting HERE DOWN PLEASE! in the manner of Foreign Sub Jack Atkinson, an aged Ulsterman. By the look on the face of Lord Drone, left, he has received a high score from adjudicator Mr Robert ‘Algy’ Smith.
We thank you most kindly, as the late Mr Arthriticson would have said.
Fleet Street in the mist
Looks eerily quiet, doesn’t it? This slightly moist pic of Ludgate Circus taken from the foot of Fleet Street dates from 1972 and found by Terry Manners in his dusty drawers.
The photo was snapped by City copper PC Lew Tassle walking home after his beat in EC4.
He would have been standing outside the Albion so one can’t help wondering whether he had slipped into the pub for an out-of-hours snifter. Just about everyone else did.
PC Tassle often displays his pictures in the wonderful Spitalfields Life website which opens a window to how London used to be.
ALLAN HALL, of this parish, has written another book, which will be published next January but can be preordered today.
He told the Drone: “Conceived in delirium, written in Berlin, edited in Bavaria, printed in Cambridge — The Duck Press is the incredible story of the kidnapping of one Kelvin Calder MacKenzie! AND it's NOT self-published! (Spoiler alert: Kelvin survives.)
“Other than that, it’s a bit of a romp featuring a grieving father who lost his only son at Hillsborough, a gay crimper called Desmond, a Saaarf London villain named Vic, a Sun femme fatale, a fired Sun hack, a compassionate detective, a man-eating lizard called Cecil and the biggest beast of them all, Keith Rupert Murdoch. Sun staff in the book are sometimes real, sometimes fictional characters.”
The author pledges to squander all royalties on strong drink.
Allan Hall is retired now but was formerly a crime reporter at the Daily Mail, chief reporter at the Daily Star, US editor for The Sun and US editor at the Daily Mirror. He is the author of 30 books on crime, mysteries and the paranormal, including the bestselling Monster about Josef Fritzl.
NEW BOOK ALERT
Inside story of the kidnapping of Kelvin MacKenzie (up to a point)
WE’VE GONE BANANAS, READERS!
Swim’ll Fix It for the Donald
FRUIT AND NUT
The cheesy grins say it all. Lord Drone’s magnificent organ has staggered to the rescue of Donald Trump as he waits for his Nobel Peace Prize. We sent our columnist Helena Handcart (Mr) to dress up as a banana and hand the President the 10 metre swimming certificate (s)he won in the 1950s.
The Halfwit in the White House (what’s left of it) looks well pleased with the gift, doesn’t he readers?
FLEET STREET GOES TO WAR
An atmospheric picture from 1915 showing men queuing in Fleet Street to sign up to fight in the First World War. It makes one wonder if any of these brave lads ever returned from the killing fields.
This pic was submitted by Tom McCarthy who spotted them on a social media site called Old England in Colour, which features colourised photos.
RUPERT THE RUTHLESS
Rupert Murdoch was a ruthless operator from an early age, says Andrew O'Hagan in The New Yorker. The media tycoon's first job in the UK was a summer placement at the Birmingham Gazette, arranged for him by his father through the chairman of the paper's parent company, Pat Gibson. The editor, Charles Fenby, later recalled that he took young Rupert under his wing, befriending him and showing him everything he could about the business. "And what did he do? He wrote a filthy letter to Pat afterwards saying I should be fired."
MURDER!
(Of the Engliẝh language)
HERE is an excellent example of how language changes over the centuries.
It is a report of a murder case from 1674. Sixteen people died when someone poisoned boiling meat with rat poison.
Good job they eventually invented sub-editors. Thanks to the best of that particular breed, Terry Manners, who discovered this gem in the Bishopsgate Institute.
Poignant story behind these three cobblestones buried in memory of DX showbiz writer Ian Lyness in the land he loved so much
By BRIAN EMSLEY
THESE three cobblestones have been interred bearing messages in fond remembrance of former Express showbiz writer, and my friend, Ian Lyness.
The Drone ran an obituary four years ago after he died aged 70 in Colorado, where he lived with his American wife Catherine. But he suffered terrible homesickness for England.
Ian had asked me back in 2011, after first getting lymphoma, that his ashes be scattered in Hadley Wood, near High Barnet. But when his ashes were sent to me by his widow they were blocked by UK Customs for paperwork reasons and ended up in a lockup in Utah. His wife had by then relocated to Maryland.
A profound patriot, Ian would be turning in his urn that he could not rest in England especially when masses of illegal immigrants pour in with no paperwork. So, to honour his request, I and another chum buried cobblestones in the wood, messages penned on them. One of his favourite films was I’m All Right Jack, hence one of the messages.
He was a great supporter of King Richard III, who as a teenager, commanded the Yorkist army that crushed the Lancastrian army on the same spot at the Battle of Barnet. So, I hope Ian’s happy!
A MONOCLE-POPPING MOMENT AT THE EXPRESS
Do you mean us, Annie?
WHAT-HO! Express subs Alastair ‘Bingo’ McIntyre, Bob ‘Algy’ Smith and John ‘Bertie’ Brooks enjoying a refreshing glass of supper in the 1980s
MUCH has been written on these pages about the madcap Dronery on the Daily Express during the 1980s and 90s and our man TERRY MANNERS has found more evidence.
He writes: While browsing yet more publishing archives I came across this revealing quote from an interview with a local councillor for Salisbury, named Annie Riddle, pictured, in the December issue of the digital magazine Inside Salisbury.
Sounds fascinating, eh?
Talking about her time as a sub-editor in Fleet Street, she says: “When I was at the Express. There were a bunch of young lads there, four of them, they were very good, but they used to push it.
“They had this thing called the Drones Club and would pretend to be characters out of Bertie Wooster with the monocles and this would go on for the whole shift…
“Fleet Street was very male-dominated then. Heavy drinking was the norm but there was a lot of fun and I worked with some really clever people.”
Who could she be talking about, I wonder?”
(Drone editor dives under nearest desk)
Who the hell is that man gatecrashing our quiet lunch? McEntee? Nuff said
MAIL diarist John McEntee really put his foot in it when he arrived late at a lunch to celebrate his cousin Catherine’s 50th wedding anniversary with husband Mick.
So when he saw all the guests sitting at dining tables he wasted no time in addressing the assembled company.
But there was a hitch as the former William Hickey editor admitted.
He said: “l arrived late and all were seated including the happy couple, their children Gareth and Andrew and two grandchildren plus childhood friend Majella Sullivan and her husband Nick. The upstairs room was chocka block with about 60 covers.
“Before the food was served and without Catherine I dashed to the front of the room banged a wine bottle with a spoon and called for silence.
“Addressing the throng I described growing up in Cavan with my cousin and how wonderful it was to be here with her family and friends marking her splendid milestone with Mick.
“I called for a toast just noticing out of the corner of my eye the lovely Catherine with her head in her hands. Returning to my seat nothing was said. Then during the dessert course I noticed that the room had emptied down to three large tables containing Catherine's invitees. Behind me were dozens of empty tables.”
Catherine explained: “They weren't part of our party. They were just people I don't know having lunch.” Doh!
DRONE PICTURE SPECIAL
My chum and colleague Ivor Davis, famed West Coast reporter for the Daily Express
Ivor Davis drives a robot in his car in pursuit of a story in 1984
BY PAUL HARRIS
THE death of Ivor Davis made me think of my life as a photographer from Barnstaple, North Devon, where I lived for 29 years too frightened to try and compete with Fleet Street.
In 1975 I sailed with my car to South Africa where there were lots of jobs as many white families were fleeing the country because of the fear of war.
I ended up in The Rhodesia Bush War but it was Terry Fincher who got me to Hollywood and Ivor Davis who enhanced my career in California.
DOLLY DANCING WEATHER
MIDSUMMER MADNESS AT THE DAILY DRONE
SLIPPERY SLOPE: News subs try to pop out for a livener between editions forgetting their bells are a giveaway
BY MORRIS AUSTIN
An exciting new pastime has been introduced for journalists affected by a major shake-up in the world of online newspapers: morris dancing.
A new troupe, the Drone Dollies, will soon be cavorting on the greensward and pub car parks of rural England.
The group is made up of journalists employed by Lord Drone. A spokesman explained: ‘Following the recent decision to reduce the World’s Greatest Online Newspaper publication a bit, His Lordship was concerned that his staff would become more bored and fractious than they already are.
‘Morris dancing seemed the ideal way to prevent the devil making work for idle hands, as it were.’
The Dollies intend to perform a mixture of Hersham Gay Morris and Heckmondwike TipToe. In some cases the dancers’ white silk hankies and traditional pig bladders or balloons on sticks will be replaced by elbow crutches, walking frames and mobility scooters.
*Morris Austin is not related to Austin Morris, writes Fiesta Ford
ATTA GIRLS: Members of the Women’s and Fashion Dept cease their incessant backbiting to strut their stuff
HIGH FLIERS: Elite Drone Back Bench team showcasing some nifty moves as the first edition deadline looms
Ace Star reporter George is the only journalist to be banned from writing for the Sunday Sport … possibly
By GEORGE DEARSLEY
The recent furore concerning newspaper mogul David Sullivan reminded me of an unusual claim to fame in my journalistic career. I believe I may be the only journalist ever to be banned from contributing to the Sunday Sport.
The ban was imposed by the then editor Drew Robertson, whom I had upset by writing an innocuous piece in the trade journal Press Gazette, the content of which has dissolved in the mists of time.
Robertson was later sacked in 1990 for running an adverse Press Council adjudication under the headline BOLLOCKS TO THE PRESS COUNCIL. Around that time, the Sunday Sport had also caused uproar when it snatched a picture of television actor Gorden Kaye as he lay injured in hospital after a car accident. Robertson went on to form his own media company and, among other things, has done sterling community work throughout Derbyshire.
An old friend of mine — Ian Pollock, ex Daily Star — took his post, leading Journalists Week to write the classic headline BOLLOCKS OUT – POLLOCK IN. My ban was immediately lifted and Ian commissioned me to write many pieces for the paper, including a full, graphic, no-holds-barred account of a man, who underwent a sex change operation to become a woman.
Another assignment concerned a TV ad about a giant hedgehog, which flattened cars on a country road. I had to interview the hedgehog. Them were t’days.
DRONE PHOTO NEWS
What goes around comes around: Young bloods Press ganged into reporting on the 1969 Troubles
By GEOFFREY SEED
FOOTAGE from the recent attempted pogrom in Belfast was enough to remind old hacks of how grim it was in the early days.
From memory, the Daily Mirror placed this ad in Press Gazette when young shavers like me were flown in for four week 'tours' to help out the permanent guys.
The Daily Mail's Belfast office was run by Ted Scallan and John Thorne, later of the BBC. I joined them periodically, soaking wet behind the ears, between 1969 and 1972 when almost a thousand people were killed —soldiers, police officers, civilians.
Stories could be filed until about 3 a.m. and six hours later, the whole bloody business started all over again.
I left newspapers for television in '74 but returned to Northern Ireland to film in the 'H' Block dirty protest and later, to produce three Panorama investigations into the British State's secret involvement in running terrorists.
All good clean fun. If nothing else, these experiences provided material for when I dyed my hair grey and began writing political thrillers.
CAPTAIN KIRK’S COCK-UP
HISTORY NOTE: In the early days of Star Trek in the 1960s, Press photographers snapped Captain James T Kirk, of the starship Enterprise, played by actor William Shatner, helping out behind the scenes by arranging his favourite rocks on distant planets.
Polite caption written by T. MANNERS
BAD TASTE CORNER
So. Farewell then, Hatters
LATEX AND LAMENTED: Roy with his Spitting Image alter ego
Lord (Roy) Hattersley, politician, journalist and writer who was deputy leader of the Labour party for a decade, has died aged 93.
He was a good chap who regularly visited the Daily Express’s London offices in Blackfriars clutching his weekly column to present to the editor. We speculated that he spent the rest of the evening enjoying a fish-and-chip supper ‘washed down’ by a pint of light and bitter.
Editor at the time was Rosie Boycott who was brought into turn the Express into a left-wing paper. Fortunately the readers seemed not to notice but they would have been furious if they had found out.
Life on the Express was like that.
ONCE MIGHTY PAPER POSTS £53m LOSSES
At the going down of The Sun we will mostly remember Kelvin’s great front pages
By JAMES BALL, writing in The New World
WHEN, in July 1995, Tony Blair controversially flew halfway around the world to give a speech to Rupert Murdoch and his top executives, he was not doing so to gain the endorsement of The Times. It was The Sun – then the most influential media outlet in the UK, and the tormentor of his predecessor Neil Kinnock – wot Blair wanted to win over.
Blair’s decision to woo Murdoch at the exclusive Hayman Island resort in Queensland, Australia, came with political cost. Murdoch had broken the print unions to move his operation to Wapping, and The Sun’s vile false front page the day after the Hillsborough disaster just six years earlier was still a relatively fresh memory.
Kelvin MacKenzie, who had run The Sun as a feisty, sometimes funny but mostly desperately racist, sexist and homophobic battering ram against Labour, had only departed as editor the previous year. Many within the Labour movement were appalled to see a fresh-faced, electable Labour leader even giving Murdoch the time of day, let alone flying to a private island to see him.”
But now The Sun is surely setting, just like its proprietor. Its readership is much diminished, its political power is all but used up, and it doesn’t even make money any more. Last week it announced losses of £53million in the previous tax year, up from £18million the year before.
Where once the paper was at the heart of the national conversation, it now barely reckons in it. Stop to think for a moment: what’s the last Sun front page that you can actually remember?
The truth is that newspapers as a whole have less power in 2026 than they did in the 1990s – in the internet era, there is simply a lot more competition for our attention. This has shown in their sales: in 2010 the Sun was the UK’s top-selling paper, shifting around 2.9m copies a day, a comfortable 800,000 copies ahead of the second-place Daily Mail.”
“Part of the cause of the Sun’s woes is the phone-hacking scandal, for which it is still paying compensation and legal costs more than 15 years after the scandal broke. The newspaper made a profit of £103m in its last accounts before the phone-hacking revelations, but has failed to ever turn a profit since – with cumulative losses totalling £1.3bn over the last 15 years.”
“The question is how much longer the Sun itself lasts. Insiders believe it is safe for so long as 95-year-old Rupert Murdoch is alive – but after that, it could easily be put up for sale, or even shut down entirely.
©The New World
Changing face of Fleet Street
This is how the Street of Shame looks like in July 2026. This pic, taken from the top of an N551 bus in the early morning, shows the progress of the works to build new law courts and an HQ for the City Police.
Also promised is more seating (handy if you’re too pissed to get back to work) and wider pavements (which will make the gutters a little bit farther away).
These admirable developments are, of course, too late for us old timers, but a big vote of confidence in the next generation of drinkers.
The night our noble Sir Osbert brought the chapel house down
LETTER TO THE EDITOR
Milord, Your Oldie cartoon – Osbert Lancaster, obviously – brings to mind that curious chain-smoking genius from another world who sat among us every afternoon while he composed his pocket cartoon to adorn the Express's front page.
Once those little squibs contained sharp social commentary, coming from the mouths of his chief heroine Maudie Littlehampton and her upper-class cronies, but by the 1970s the jokes were maybe wearing a little thin. Still, it was an honour to have this bow-tied knight of the realm calmly working away at his desk while the daily rage and noise went on around him.
One day there was a compulsory union meeting, maybe – probably – about money, and the space around his desk was commandeered by reporters, subs and snappers all eager to have their say on the latest management outrage.
Suddenly, like a porpoise breaking surface, Sir Osbert rose from his desk with his arms outstretched.
“My fellow wage-slaves…” he began.
This was the millionaire author of 45 best-selling books, set designer of 25 productions ranging from the Covent Garden Opera House to the Old Vic and back again, and creator of many other lucrative publications.
But in that moment this crusty old gent from a world so very far removed from the Ink became one of us. He brought the house down.
Yrs to a cinder,
C. WISLON
Little Hampton
Nosex
NOT BLOODY LIKELY!
ANOTHER HEADLINE TO WHICH THE ANSWER IS NO:
From the Mail On Sunday, natch!
DRONE EXCLUSIVE
Reach want to sell the Daily Express say heroic staff who struggle to get the paper out
By MONTY MOLE, Our Man Under the Desk
THE APPALLING stress undergone by the staff who continue to produce the Express, Mirror and Star titles has today been laid bare.
An Express insider at the Canary Wharf headquarters of Reach said it was rumoured that bosses wanted to sell the Express.
He told the Daily Drone in an exclusive interview: "The Daily Express has been produced on a shoestring since the former editor Gary Jones left in disgust.
“Journalists are now forced to share content with the Mirror because there are too few production staff to produce an entire Daily or Sunday Express.
"Morale is good among those few who remain, but there's almost nobody left. The Express's online traffic has slumped but still they've cut the editorial budgets by half. Amazingly there is a core of loyal readers who are prepared to pay the continuing huge increases in cover price — but the management are stretching their patience and loyalty to breaking point and seem to be going out of their way to kill the print product.
"What they should do is separate the national and regional papers, but they've all ben lumped together even though they're serving different markets — they don't seem to understand that.
"Everyone left here is bracing themselves for another autumn of cuts and another round of redundancies, although there's hardly anybody left. This summer we are so understaffed it looks like there are about six people getting the paper out.
"It was a great newspaper and the content is still good, but there's no money to buy anything. There are rumours swirling around the PR world that Reach would like someone to buy the newspaper — and obviously there are takers out there — though we wouldn't want the likes of David Montgomery. This is not how journalism works."
There’s nothing journalists like to write about more than other journalists, so the death of a divisive columnist like Rod Liddle has been a content godsend for both the pro and anti sides, writes Popbitch.
It would be much too tiresome and far beneath us to take a side in these culture wars, naturally, so instead here’s a newspaper legend that was recounted to us from Liddle’s heyday:
Back when Alexander Lebedev bought the Independent for a quid in 2010, it was widely reported that Liddle was on course to be his preferred choice of editor.
Rod supposedly met with Lebedev, and laid out his demands — absolute journalistic freedom and final sign-off on all editorial decisions. Lebedev obliged, until Rod came back the next day with his proposed first front page headline: “Putin is a poof”.
The job was quickly given to existing editor Simon Kelner.
🔴Rod Liddle created a fake Sunday Times reader account to secretly defend himself in the comments under his articles. Editors at The Times intervened and politely asked him to stop.
PUTIN IS A POOF!
Headline that cost Rod Liddle
editorship of the Independent
RUPERT’S NOT A BEAR? KEEP IT UNDER YOUR HAT, SAID HER MAJ
THAT busy bee Gyles Brandreth, author, event host and just about everything else, who seems to collect friends from a personal Who’s Who like other people collect postage stamps and butterflies, now reveals an important meeting with the late Queen … about our dear Express friend Rupert Bear.
Gyles, who is an arctophile (lover of teddy bears) reveals in The Oldie magazine, that he was chatting with our beloved late Queen one day (as you do), when they got on to the subject of Rupert the Bear.
“Oh, I used to give his annuals to my Charles when he was a little boy,” said the Queen.
Gyles replied: “Really? But did you know there are some arctophiles who don’t believe that Rupert is a bear at all?”
“Oh dear.”
“Look at the illustrations, Your Majesty and you will see that Rupert has hands with fingers and on his feet and he wears lace-up shoes. Rupert does not have paws, and he is never seen on all fours.
“So, many people think that Rupert is not a bear. He is a boy with a bear’s head!”
The Queen narrowed her eyes and looked at Gyles steadily.
“There are some things in life I think, that are better not to know!” she said.
TERRY MANNERS
The Daily Drone is published, financed and edited by Alastair ‘Bingo’ McIntyre with contributions from the veteran journalists of old Fleet Street, Manchester, Glasgow, Welsh Wales and the worldwide diaspora. Dedicated to scribblers everywhere.
©Lord Drone, Whom God Preserve 2005—2026
