When the Globe put a nude on page three and sold two million copies for the first time, McAlvoy declared at morning conference, ‘Over my dead body.’ No one felt able to point out that two or three of his best reporters had recently left the Citizen to join the Globe, while only Rushcliffe had made the journey in the opposite direction.
As Armstrong continued to spend a great deal of his time preparing for a takeover battle in New York, he reluctantly continued to accept McAlvoy’s judgment, not least because he didn’t want to sack his most experienced editor only weeks before a general election.
When Margaret Thatcher was returned to the Commons with a majority of 144, the Globe claimed the victory as theirs, and declared that this would surely hasten the downfall of the Citizen. Several commentators were quick to point out the irony of this particular statement.
When Armstrong returned to England the following week for the monthly board meeting, Sir Paul raised the subject of the fall in the paper’s circulation figures.
‘While the Globe’s continue to rise every month,’ Peter Wakeham interjected from the other end of the table.
‘So what are we going to do about it?’ asked the chairman, turning to face his chief executive.
‘I have already put some plans in hand,’ said Armstrong.
‘Are we to be privy to these plans?’ asked Sir Paul.
‘I will brief the board fully at our next meeting,’ said Armstrong.
Sir Paul didn’t look satisfied, but made no further comment.
The next day, Armstrong called for McAlvoy without bothering to consult anyone on the board. When the editor of the Citizen entered the proprietor’s office, Armstrong didn’t stand to greet him, and made no suggestion that he should take a seat.
‘I’m sure you’ve worked out why I’ve asked to see you,’ he said.
‘No, Dick, I haven’t the slightest idea,’ replied McAlvoy innocently.
‘Well, I’ve just seen the JICNAR figures for the past month. If we continue at this rate, the Globe will be selling more copies than we are by the end of the year.’
‘And you will still be the proprietor of a great national newspaper, while Townsend will still be publishing a rag.’
‘That may well be the case. But I have a board and shareholders to consider.’
McAlvoy couldn’t recall Armstrong ever mentioning a board or shareholders in the past. The last refuge of a proprietor, he was about to say. Then he recalled his lawyer’s warning that his contract still had five months to run, and that he would be unwise to provoke Armstrong.
‘I assume you’ve seen the Globe’s headline this morning?’ said Armstrong, holding up his rival’s paper.
‘Yes, of course I have,’ said McAlvoy, glancing at the thick, bold print: ‘Top Pop Star Named in Drugs Scandal.’
‘And we led on “Extra Benefits for Nurses.”’
‘Our readers love nurses,’ said McAlvoy.
‘Our readers may well love nurses,’ said Armstrong, flicking through the paper, ‘but in case you haven’t noticed, the Globe had the same story on page seven. It’s fairly clear to me, even if it isn’t to you, that most of our readers are more interested in pop stars and drug scandals.’
‘The pop star in question,’ countered McAlvoy, ‘has never had a record in the top hundred, and was smoking a joint in the privacy of his own home. If anyone had ever heard of him, the Globe would have put his name in the headline. I have a filing cabinet full of such rubbish, but I don’t insult our readers by publishing it.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time you did,’ said Armstrong, his voice rising with every word. ‘Let’s start challenging the Globe on its own ground for a change. Maybe if we did that, I wouldn’t be looking for a new editor.’
McAlvoy was momentarily stunned. ‘Am I to assume from this outburst that I’m fired?’ he asked eventually.
‘At last I’ve got through to you,’ said Armstrong. ‘Yes, you’re fired. The name of the new editor will be announced on Monday. See that your desk is cleared by this evening.’
‘Can I assume that after ten years as editor of this paper I will receive my full pension?’
‘You will receive no more and no less than you are entitled to,’ shouted Armstrong. ‘Now get out of my office.’ He glared at McAlvoy, waiting for him to unleash one of the tirades for which he was so famous, but the sacked editor simply turned and left without uttering another word, closing the door quietly behind him.
Armstrong slipped into the adjoining room, toweled himself down and changed into a fresh shirt. It was exactly the same color as the previous one, so no one would notice.
Once McAlvoy was back at his desk, he quickly briefed a handful of his closest associates on the outcome of his meeting with Armstrong and on what he planned to do. A few minutes later he took the chair at the afternoon conference for the last time. He looked down the list of stories vying for the front page.
‘I’m putting down a marker for tomorrow’s splash, Alistair,’ said a voice. McAlvoy looked up at his political editor.
‘What do you have in mind, Campbell?’ he asked.
‘A Labor councilor in Lambeth has gone on hunger strike to highlight the unfairness of the government’s housing policy. She’s black and unemployed.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said McAlvoy. ‘Anyone else pushing for the lead?’ No one spoke as he looked slowly round the room. His eyes finally rested on Kevin Rushcliffe, to whom he hadn’t addressed a word for over a month.
‘How about you, Kevin?’
The deputy editor looked up from his place in the corner of the room and blinked, unable to believe that the editor was addressing him. ‘Well, I’ve been following up a lead on the foreign secretary’s private life for some weeks, but I’m finding it hard to make the story stand up.’
‘Why don’t you knock out three hundred words on the subject, and we’ll let the lawyers decide if we can get away with it.’
Some of the older hands began to shuffle in their chairs.
‘And what happened to that story about the architect?’ asked McAlvoy, still addressing his deputy editor.
‘You spiked it,’ said Rushcliffe, looking surprised.
‘I thought it was a bit dull. Can’t you spice it up a little?’
‘If that’s what you want,’ said Rushcliffe, looking even more surprised.
As McAlvoy never had a drink until he had read the first edition from cover to cover, one or two of those present wondered if he was feeling well.
‘Right, that’s settled then. Kevin gets the front page and Campbell gets the second lead.’ He paused. ‘And as I’m taking my wife to see Pavarotti tonight, I’ll be leaving the paper in Kevin’s hands. Do you feel comfortable with that?’ he asked, turning to face his deputy.
‘Of course,’ said Rushcliffe, looking delighted that he was at last being treated as an equal.
‘Then that’s settled,’ said McAlvoy. ‘Let’s all get back to work, shall we?’
As the journalists began to drift out of the editor’s office muttering to each other, Rushcliffe came across to McAlvoy’s desk and thanked him. ‘Not at all,’ said the editor. ‘You know this could be your big chance, Kevin. I’m sure you’re aware that I saw the proprietor earlier this afternoon, and he told me that he’d like to see the paper challenging the Globe on its own ground. In fact, those were his exact words. So when he reads the Citizen tomorrow, be sure it has your stamp on it. I won’t be sitting in this chair forever, you know.’