Thursday, 18 May 2006
WHENEVER I read the kind of intro that gushes: “A crack team of elite cops raced to protect…”, my cruelly damning powers of total recall conjure up an image of Kelvin MacKenzie praying at the shrine of Our Blessed Lady of Scamboli.
Our Blessed Lady was a hideous brass ornament before which he would prostrate himself in the New York Post newsroom whenever splashes were in short supply.
Amazingly, it always worked: Killer Bees [would] Head Our Way… Headless Body [would be found] In Topless Bar… Rupert’s luckiest general could always work the trick.
Of course, not for nothing was she called Our Lady of Scam-boli — none of her Great Truths existed much beyond the five-word, 240pt splash head. The bees lost interest in terrorising New York and disappeared into the Midwest, the headless body was never identified (no teeth, no fingers).
Now the News of the World is trying to pull the same stunt.
Again! Impatient for a follow-up to the Beckham kidnap fiasco six years ago, they’ve discovered a plot to kidnap Jordan, her husband Lebanon and the children Syria and Egypt (or somesuch).
Sorry, Andy Coulson & Co: Our Blessed Lady only works for Kelvin. But at least you won’t hear Jordan moaning to the Press Complaints Commission about breach of privacy!
WE WUZ robbed, all those of us who bought The Independent’s RED issue last Tuesday. Bono’s Indy wasn’t the paper I rather admire and enjoy. It preached at me and force-fed me guilt dressed up as a gimmick.
I’m all in favour of newspapers chipping in half of their day’s takings to fight AIDS in Africa as long as in order to donate THEIR hard-earned pennies they don’t screw up MY access to the news.
And as far as charitable contributions go, I’ll make my own choices, thank you.
Single-issue editions of the Indy can be stodgy enough, without help from Bono, Condoleezza Rice and Stella McCartney. I won’t be caught out again by one of Simon Kelner’s away-days.
WE’VE ALL said it, haven’t we? “Look, I’m going to give you a pay rise, but don’t for God’s sake tell anyone what you’re getting!”
No wonder the Beeb was apoplectic when word of DJ Chris Moyles’ £630,000 wedge and Jonathan Ross trousering £530,000 was leaked to The Sun.
Serves ‘em right! Maybe Aunty will think twice before recruiting hundreds of work-experience wannabes and low-paid agency temps who will snitch their secrets to the tabloids for a few quid, instead of paying the proper rate to fully-qualified staffers.
Anyway, fellow licence fee-payers, why shouldn’t we know where the public corporation’s multi-millions are spent?
davidbanks@pressgazette.co.uk
Thursday, 11 May 2006
by David Banks
CIRCULATION static? Drifting down? Worse still, plummeting? Don’t despair, dear editor: Point the finger at those meddling men in suits from Mahogany Row and play the blame game. Interesting, isn’t it, how we journalists are so quick to lambast the Fat Controller who only wants to drive the clattering train when we seek circulation scapegoats?
Cristina Odone was at it in The Guardian this week: “It is an iron rule of journalistic lore that editors must be given their head” she thundered.
“Whoever heard of an interfering suit raising a paper’s game?”
Er, far be it from me to cross dear Cristina — by and large I’m a believer, too — but fairness dictates that we give credit where it’s due.
Interfering suits who add value include the Murdochs (Rupert for his sure touch and MacLennan for his cunning) and Bert Hardy, whose determination that news should override Veronica Wadley’s comment-led Evening Standard has revived the flagging flack-ship.
On the distaff side, the only former editor I can think of whose genius translated into management was Sir David English. That’s HIS Daily Mail the whole of Britain now reads!
Montgomery? Just a costcutter. MacKenzie? A brilliant one-trick pony whose management expertise wouldn’t fill a gnat’s bum. Neil?
Back to the business pages where you knew what you were talking about, Andrew. Even Lord Cudlipp wasn’t so hot when he left the running plate and swapped an oily rag for the chairman’s gavel.
Wasn’t he the man who danced for joy when Rupe was ‘conned’
into buying a tired-out union rag named The Sun?
IN COMMON with other media publications, Banks’ Notes presents a weekly appreciation of the person or persons who most inspired a media giant. This week, LBC97.3FM’s Sony Award winner NICK FERRARI…
Note to subs: SET & HOLD copy for use in unlikely event that 2006 Sony Radio Awards judging panel rewards Yrs Trly with Breakfast Show of the Year Award. Copy reads:
WHERE do I begin? As I sit on this bench celebrating my triumph in the Sony Awards by popping the lid off a tin of Brasso, my thoughts go spinning back to the Big Boy who made it possible. The editor, friend, broadcasting partner and mentor who lunched me and launched me on the path to stardom. Where would I be without him? How long it seems since we left Mirror Group: he a shattered ex-hack demoralised by the debilitating condition known as Monty Zuma’s Revenge, and me a fresh-faced, lithe and likeable superstar just waiting to happen.
It was the Big Man (can you guess of whom I speak?) who persuaded me to co-star with him on Kelvin’s Talk Radio breakfast show. Co-star?
Sharing the billing was never enough for my brimming ambition.
Luckily, I persuaded the self-styled ‘Great One’ to undergo the sex change for which we both knew he secretly yearned. We called it ‘leukaemia’, but, in our hearts, we knew the truth. While the Big Lad became the Big Lady, the field was clear for me to dazzle those dupes at LBC with my smooth-talking style. And now the prized Sony Award is mine. But I owe it all to my Great Mate, the one and only, the unforgettable (copytaker note to chief sub: contributor slurring, lost the line…)
Thursday, 4 May 2006
THIS IS a week of ‘firsts’ for your columnist. Let me explain: firstly, it’s not very often that I am minded to take a leaf from the book of that young whippersnapper Piers Morgan, but there’s a first time for everything.
During a peppery little radio interview this week, the formerly troublesome national newspaper editor-turned TV star/proprietor was asked how his latest venture — First News, a newspaper for youngsters — would headline the current Cabinet crises.
“Sack the Lot of Them!” roared a mischievous Morgan. “Clarke the Oaf, Prescott the Imbecile, Hewitt the Deluded and Blair-the-Boss- Who-Can’t-Fire-Anyone!”
Which got me thinking: why NOT operate Government according to the Piers Morgan/Alan Sugar rules of engagement? It would run something like this: On 1 January each year, the Prime Minister would appoint 52 Cabinet ministers with specific portfolios. Thereafter, each weekend (in time for the Sunday papers) one minister a week would be fired and replaced. No pussy-footing, no waiting for resignations, no lame excuses or appeals to the Press Complaints Commission.
Gone. Finito. Auf Wiedersehen!
What a programme! It would, of course, be televised and the Prime Minister would have at his elbow at all times the meanest man any of us have ever met, Sir Alan Sugar to guide him through the not-so-subtle business of laying waste to Britain’s best and brightest.
And who would decide who gets the chop?
Why, you the viewer, of course! You text your votes to Downing Street, including in the first line of your message PMT (Prime Ministerial Tension) and the name of that week’s Westminster Wally.
In the event of a tie, demotion would be decided by the losers summoning their Campbells and Balls for a no-lies-barred spin-off.
A name for the show? Never mind The Apprentice, what about ‘The RegPrentice’? Named, of course, in honour of the Labour Minister who in 1977 famously crossed the floor and joined the Tory Party.
I SAID this was a week of ‘firsts’, so here’s the second: I’ve been ghostwritten! “Why should this be, Banksy?” I hear you ask. “You’re a former editor, not some illiterate sports star who is prone to spell ‘goal’ as ‘gaol’, however appropriate such an error might be.”
True enough. Fact is, I’ve been laid low — or as low as a man with a stomach my size CAN be laid — by a horrid bug that has seen me emitting the sort of guff at the bottom end that I normally spout from the top! So, My Daughter The Actress has stepped into the breach during one of her many ‘resting’ periods to make my delirious ramblings shine. [Tash writes: Hmmm… not really working, is it Dad? And by the way, I’m an actor! The term ‘actress’ is gender-specific and demeaning.] You see what a trying week it’s been? I’ve even had to pay her for her non-sequiturial services…
SORRY TO see a pal of mine push off leaving journalism the poorer for her retirement: Olwen Vasey who worked with me 35 years ago in The Journal/Evening Chronicle office in South Shields, has called it a day at her most recent job with Bradford’s Telegraph & Argus.
She was a wonderful colleague who turned a blind eye to my wild ways and even to the fact that after a heavy night in one of the local pubs — which meant that I missed my last bus home — I would sleep wrapped in piles of newspapers under the front office counter and heat my morning cuppa in a soup can on the office’s single gas ring.
Thanks for everything, Olwen — you’re one of the best!
davidbanks@pressgazette.co.uk
Thursday, 27 April 2006
YOU KNOW how it is: you’re drinking with a gal who says she has a pal (note to subs: I’m AWARE it all rhymes, I’m waxing lyrical!) who remembers you from 30-odd years ago and says you should be sure to tell her such-and-such a story.
Well, it happened to me the other day. The friend-in-common was Stewart Bonney, with whom I worked on The Journal in Newcastle, long before that stripling Alan Shearer was out of nappies. The tawdry story Bonney wanted retold was of the night fellow pisspots Tom Petrie, Keith Belcher and I drank a rival team of imbibers (three thirsty steel erectors, they were!) under the table in a catchweight contest at The Journal’s office pub, the Printer’s Pie.
I won’t weary you with the story here. However, it DID get me thinking along these lines: every newspaper I know has an office pub and, often as not, a host of stonking alehouse capers just begging to be revealed. Please, PLEASE tell yours to me and I’ll publish them as an occasional series here in Banks’ Notes.
I’m serious. This is social history of great import. Mail me now if, as the Grey Cardigan of Press Gazette fame would say, you’re so minded (david.banks@pressgazette.co.uk) with details of your office pub and, if possible, your favourite pub story.
So, you ask, where are they now, my erstwhile boozing buddies?
Well, Stewart Bonney is a very successful Northeast publisher, Tom Petrie continues to take the Murdoch shilling and Keith Belcher is, I hope, still belting them down at some Old Bull and Bush or other in Hertfordshire.
Chin-chin!
TIME for another edition of my ever-popular Frequently Unanswered Questions column (or FUQ to you).
WHO CONTROLS the media?
Parade magazine’s recent online poll posed this question: Who is to blame for Tom Cruise’s wobbly PR image — the actor or the media?
A surely predictable 84 per cent blamed the press. But wait… the magazine’s IT department did a little techno-digging and discovered that around 14,000 of the 18,000 votes cast were generated by only 10 computers!
Makes me wonder why Julia Hobsbawm feels the business needs even closer links between press and PR. We’re in the PR men’s pockets already!
WHO RUNS the country?
Don’t ask Julie Kirkbride, MP for Bromsgrove: she’s not allowed to say.
Pressed by radio’s Today programme presenter Ed Stourton to admit that her party’s ‘Vote Blue, Go Green’ call was just a meaningless slogan, the Tory sweetheart replied — without so much as a blush — “At the moment it’s above my pay grade to answer those questions.”
Come again, Julie?
“Questions like those are subject to a review,” she cooed, “which will be considered in about 18 months’ time.”
OK, fine… we’ll just stand here chewing our pencil ends and wait then, shall we dearie?
KOMPETITION KORNER: Following the BBC mole who gave us £800,000 worth of Wogan and half-a-million pounds’ worth of Woss, it’s time to put your thinking caps on and fit the newspaper executive to the salary.
The game’s so simple it will appeal to editorial managers everywhere! First, the salaries, each with a handy hint to make answering a doddle: a) 35p an hour when in town, zilch when he’s in the suburbs — two-tier pricing works both ways b) 30 pieces of silver — think Sarah Tisdall c) Princess Diana’s weight in gold — obsessions can be costly d) Pin money — one duff tip deserves another e) 30 camels a month and a lot of Respect — G-allah-weighheigh!
And now, the candidates: 1. Investigations editor, NoW 2. Editor, Racing Post 3. Editor, The Guardian 4. Editor, Manchester Evening News 5. Editor, Daily Express.
Just team the salary with the appropriate executive. Answers in an email to david.banks@pressgazette.co.uk
Thursday, 20 April 2006
THE STORY SO FAR: an exclusive front in the New York Daily News alleged that Page Six, the rival New York Post’s renowned gossip column, edited by the improbably named Jared Paul Stern, had indulged in a shocking breach of ethics by demanding $100,000 and up to $10,000 a month from billionaire Californian businessman Ron Burkle in exchange for “keeping out the bad stuff and running the good stuff” in the column.
Currently the dog-eat-dog-fight is in a “watch this kennel” phase: the Feds are investigating, Stern has been suspended and the backhanded beneficiary has been the wily and revelatory Daily News.
Now, here’s where Banksy butts in: it is, as you will come to see, a very British war that’s being fought on the other side of the pond.
And as I’ve worked on both of the Big Apple tabloids currently tearing lumps out of each other, I thought I would let you in on a little undisclosed or ill-remembered tittle-tattle.
Essentially it’s a battle fought between Double Cols (my old mates Col Allan and Colin Myler, respectively editor-in-chief and executive editor at Rupe’s Post) and “Party” Marty Dunn, who is — take a deep breath — editor-in-chief, editorial director and deputy publisher to owner Mort Zuckerman at the News.
Aussie Col Allan, 52, was my deputy and eventual successor at the Daily Telegraph, Sydney. He is a superb newsman with a hardman image (not for nothing is he known as “Col Pot” after another Asia-Pacific tyrant!). His alleged worst mistake? In his ’70s bachelor days he’s said to have taken an Asian beauty back to his apartment only to discover “she” was a “he” with tackle intacta.
“Jeez!” yelled Col (his only ejaculation that night!), and ejected the ladyboy into the freezing street wearing not a stitch. All apocryphal, I’m sure.
Col’s Number Two, Widnes lad Colin Myler, was editor of the Sunday Mirror and later succeeded me at the Daily Mirror (anyone see a pattern emerging here?). His return to the Sunday ended with the dramatic collapse of the trial of two Leeds United footballers after publication of pre-trial evidence which sullied the case (and which of us can honestly say he hasn’t nearly trodden that path?)
And what of my old mucker Marty Dunn? Kelvin MacKenzie’s former deputy at The Sun and editor of the now-defunct Today did a stint as editor of the Daily News before returning to his several hot seats in New York two or three years ago.
An ardent West Brom fan, Cuddly Dudley (named for his West Midlands home town) once got into a dispute with a colleague over the identity of the scorer of the Baggies’ winning goal in the 1954 FA Cup Final, a row which only ended when he rang the alleged (and now retired) matchwinner. Yelling down the phone, he screamed “You bloody well DID!” when the bemused former Baggies’ heroturned- deaf pensioner denied ever scoring, let alone in a Cup Final.
Turning to his triumphant colleagues (and this should send a chill down the spine of the two Cols in New York), a defiant Dunn — never one to be beaten — said through gritted teeth: “He’s gone fucking senile!”
Thursday, 13 April 2006Dear Banksy,
I am a 40-something Muslim/Hindu/Buddhist/Jew who could easily pass for a 35-year-old Primitive Methodist with a suntan.
My problem is one of Respect: I am being pursued by a sitting (some might say ‘squatting’) MP who is old enough to be my father and by his creepy friend, an ageing professor of journalism.
Trouble is, they have in their possession photographs I posed for when I was very young and naïve and which would now ruin my career. Worse still, I fear I am being ‘groomed’ for some unspeakable fate.
Please help me, Banksy. I shake with fear that my face (and other bits) become so widely known that I cannot walk down The Street with my head held high. What should I do?
MM, Wapping
BANKSY writes: First and foremost, get rid of the facial hair. Then you must confront your tormentors in as inconspicuous a costume as you can dream up, accompanied by an older man in similar attire.
Might I suggest a friend of mine who would be willing to help?
John Simpson is an agent for the British Burkaware Clothing company (BBC) and is willing to arrange a meeting between you and your unpleasant stalkers at the Abu Ghraib Bar & Kitchen in Baghdad.
Fly by night. Travel by donkey. And may Allah be with you… Dear Banksy, I am an ageing professor of journalism and have recently ended a long-standing and mutually satisfying relationship with my guardian.
Dear Banksy,
Sadly, my new partner and I have separated after a brief and loveless fling which ended acrimoniously. I now find myself drifting into bad company and entertaining unworthy thoughts about exposing.
Banksy, I am still in the prime of life with much to offer. What should I do?
RG, Weeping
BANKSY writes: You do not mention facial hair, which is good, but you must stop this business of showing risqué pictures whenever the mah-mood takes you. Your recent dalliances will not have endeared you to your long-suffering guardian, but you could try for a kiss-andtell- and-make-up meeting.
Failing that, set new standards, scan the horizon for pastures new and fresh rolling d’acres.
Fly by night, travel by donkey, etcetera…
Dear Banksy,
Following a recent excursion to the Middle East I have taken to crossdressing and have developed what my friends think is an unhealthy interest in dressing as a black-clad postbox in sandshoes and riding sidesaddle. Any advice?
JS, British Burkaware Clothing company
BANKSY writes: Travel by donkey.
I FIND Radio Four’s Today programme largely indispensable listening if I want to stay abreast of events, and I believe most journalists of either persuasion (quality or Street) think the same way.
I say “largely” indispensable because, too often, six-days-a-week listening means a constant earache of the same questions being dodged in the same weasel words from the same weasel politicians, forcing this hapless listener to seek solace on Five Live or (even!) Nick Ferrari’s LBC Breakfast.
Quality varies, too: a week or so ago the Today programme provided a sample of Good News/Bad News pieces within 30 minutes of one another.
GOOD NEWS: The excellent journalism behind Middle East correspondent Jeremy Bowen’s Egypt-based report explaining why all Arab countries see their futures as Islamist (were you listening, PM/President Blush?).
BAD NEWS: Twenty minutes later, a pointless, self-serving interview with Easy-Everything boss Stelios after the airline/internet entrepreneur’s PR department produced the sort of schlock, Sunday-for- Monday survey that usually only finds space in desperate tabloids after a slow news weekend.
