Well I say, Shame on you, Mr Scargill! Just when we are all pulling together to put this country back on its feet again, who are you to take us back into the Dark Ages of industrial unrest?
How dare you put selfish greed before the national interest!
Hilary looked at her watch. Her first piece had taken slightly less than twelve minutes to write: not bad for a beginner. She took it along to the deputy editor, who began by crossing out her headline, then slid the sheet of paper back across his desk after a few moments’ bored scrutiny.
‘They’re not asking for more money,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The miners. That’s not why they’re striking.’
Hilary’s brow puckered. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘But I thought all strikes were about asking for more money.’
‘Well, this one’s about pit closures. The NCB is planning to close twenty pits this year. They’re striking because they don’t want to lose their jobs.’
Still looking doubtful, Hilary picked up the piece of paper.
‘I suppose I might have to change one or two things, then.’
‘One or two.’
Back at her desk, she read through several of the newspapers more thoroughly. This took her nearly half an hour. Then, having mastered her brief, she typed out her second draft — this time, in just under seven and a half minutes.
THEY SAY that if there’s one thing the Scots know, it’s how to look after their money. And Ian McGregor, chairman of the National Coal Board, is, if nothing else, a shrewd auld Scot with a lifetime’s business experience behind him.
Mr Arthur Scargill, however, comes from quite a different background: a lifelong union agitator, a known Marxist and an all-round troublemaker with the glint of battle in his beady little eye.
So I put this question to you: which of these two figures would you rather trust with the future of the British mining industry?
For this is the point about the miners’ dispute. For all Mr Scargill’s scaremongering rhetoric about jobs, families and what he likes to call ‘the community’, the argument isn’t really about any of these things. It’s about efficiency. If something isn’t paying its way, you close it down. It’s one of the first — and simplest — lessons that any businessman learns.
Unfortunately Mr Scargill, bless him, doesn’t seem to have learned it yet.
Which is why, when it comes to the industry’s purse-strings, I for one would rather have canny Mr McGregor in control any day — the noo!
The deputy editor read it through twice and then looked up with the ghost of a smile.
He said: ‘I think you may turn out to be rather good at this.’
Hilary’s appointment had been made against the better judgment of the editor, Peter Eaves, who for several weeks ignored her completely. One Monday evening, however, they both happened to be in the office at the same time. Hilary was writing up an interview with an old Cambridge friend, an actress who had just published a book about her collection of teddy bears, while Peter and his deputy were trying out various lay-outs for the next day’s front page. As she walked past on her way to the coffee machine, she stopped to take a critical glance.
‘That wouldn’t make me want to buy the paper,’ she said.
They took no notice.
‘I mean, it’s boring. Who wants to read another union story?’
News had just come in of a surprise verdict from the High Court. Back in March, the Foreign Secretary Geoffrey Howe had ordered civil servants at GCHQ in Cheltenham to give up their union membership, arguing that it presented a conflict with the national interest. The unions had tried to overturn the ban by bringing an action in the High Court, and today, much to everyone’s surprise, the judge had ruled in their favour. He said that the government’s actions had been ‘contrary to natural justice’. The provisional front page juxtaposed pictures of Mrs Thatcher and Mr Justice Glidewell, beneath the banner headline NOT NATURAL, and, in smaller type, ELATED STAFF HAIL LEGAL VICTORY.
‘I think you’ll find,’ said Peter, in measured tones, ‘that this is a major news story. Spare us your thoughts on the subject, will you?’
‘I’m serious,’ said Hilary. ‘Who wants to read about a bunch of civil servants and whether they can join a union or not? I mean, big deal. On top of that, why should we run a story that’s damaging to the government?’
‘I don’t care who we damage,’ said Peter, ‘as long as it sells papers.’
‘Well you’re not going to sell many like that.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I can get you a better front page in twenty minutes. Maybe less.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll write it and give you the picture.’
Hilary went back to her desk and dialled the home number of her Cambridge friend. Among the subjects they had discussed after their interview was a mutual acquaintance — another actress — who had just given birth to her third child. Her body was no longer looking its best, but this had not prevented her, apparently, from doing nude scenes for a television film to be broadcast in a few months’ time. Hilary’s friend, who happened to be living with the film’s editor, had mentioned in passing that she had access to some of the footage, which made for interesting viewing.
‘Listen, be a darling, would you, and bike some stills over?’ said Hilary. ‘We’ll have a bit of fun.’
In the meantime she sat down and typed:
IT’S BOOBS AT TEN!
Saucy BBC bosses have got a raunchy treat in store for us this autumn, with a hot new play so sexy that it won’t be screened until well after the nine o’clock watershed.
The torrid drama stars—, whose three young children will certainly be in for a surprise when they see their Mum cavorting in an outrageous three-in-a-bed romp with American heartthrob—
It didn’t take long to make up the rest. Hilary’s story dominated the next day’s front page, with the High Court’s decision relegated to a small paragraph in the bottom corner.
Later that evening, Peter Eaves took her out to dinner.
From ‘Jennifer’s Diary’, Harpers & Queen, December 1984
PRETTY WEDDING
On Saturday afternoon I went to St Paul’s, Knights-bridge, for the marriage of Peter Eaves, the well-known newspaper editor, to Hilary Winshaw, daughter of Mr and Mrs Mortimer Winshaw. The bride looked most attractive in a lovely parchment colour silk dress, with a pearl and diamond tiara holding her tulle veil in place. Her attendants wore very pretty peach silk dresses …The reception was held at the Savoy hotel, and came to a most spectacular conclusion. The guests were all led out on to the riverside terrace, where the groom surprised his bride with a lovely present: her own private seaplane, a four-seater, tied up in an enormous pink ribbon. The happy couple stepped inside and took off along the Thames to start their honeymoon in tremendous style.
So the government has published its White Paper on the future of television, and already those moaning minnies in the broadcasting establishment are up in arms!
They would have us believe that deregulation would bring us American-style television (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But the plain fact is that there’s one word which terrifies this posse of Hampstead liberals more than any other.
That word is ‘choice’.And the reason they don’t like it? Because they know that, given the opportunity, very few of us would ‘choose’ to watch the dreary round of highbrow drama and leftwing agitprop that they would like to inflict on us.