A Day in the Life of a Journalist.

I'm a small town kind of guy. The place that I call home credits itself with a singular road in or out, a perimeter of fields, about 4 churches and the same amount of pubs; and that’s about it. No train stations connecting us to anywhere or endless floods of people rushing like salmon through busy streets. It’s not at all surprising then that, stepping off of the Temple line underground train, on my way to meet an extremely well established and credited national journalist come charity chairman for a one on one meeting in Somerset house, the main emotions flooding through me were apprehension and a sense of not belonging.

The journalist I had travelled to London to see was Charles Clover, former Environment editor at The Daily Telegraph and current columnist at The Sunday Times.  As well as winning the British Environment and Media’s National Journalist of the Year award in 1989, 1994 and 1996, he is also the chairman of his own founded organisation, The Blue Marine Foundation, and the author of The End of the Line – a book turned film about the consequences of overfishing on the seas. So my apprehension is understandable, I wasn't meeting the local sports writer but rather a man who has a serious voice in the journalistic world. Unlike my home-town, this journalist is well connected to the outside world.

To start at the beginning, for a views months I have had the good fortune to have started a dialogue between myself and Mr Clover, all through the chance that my flatmate happened to of mentioned she knew the journalist through her family. After sending a copy of my CV and an example of my work, he was gracious enough to allow me to meet him at The Blue Marine Foundation headquarters, based in Somerset House in London for a coffee and a chat about the industry.

Sitting there, in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by the stunningly bourgeoisie architecture of Somerset House, with a coffee and a croissant and talking about the nature of journalism with a well-established journalist, it was hard not to stifle the feeling of awe and keep up the image of confidence and belonging that I worked so hard to build. The importance of postgraduate degrees and NCTJ’s in journalism, the core skills fundamental to success, and the tricky and illusive nature of nepotism and the crucial process of networking – we spoke at length about all of this, yet not in the mechanically formal way I had envisioned. Instead the conversation was fluid and full of insightful stories, anecdotes laden with tricks of the field that told me more about what to do than a bullet point list of abstracts ever could. It was colloquial and relaxed, and even though when I left all I had with me was a scarcely touched notepad and clean, inkless fingers, I felt infinitely more informed than when I had arrived.

The best was yet to come. I had expected a short meeting over a coffee and then quick farewells and that would be it. Especially given the release of the Tory Manifesto on the same day which held huge repercussions for The Blue Marine Foundation, making it more than a standard day at the office for Mr Clover. Yet, despite all of this I was offered the chance to become a fly on the wall for a crucial day in a charitable lobbyist environment and watch the formulation and circulation of a national story. I won’t speak too much about this, but watching the teamwork and unity that was present in making this story was fascinating. The attention to every syllable and the contacts they used to get the word out quickly gave me my first formal glimpse of what a career in this environment would be like. It was enthralling.

As I left I was given the email address for a senior political journalist at The Sunday Times and a recommendation from Mr Clover (yet somehow I still managed to hide the project X party going on inside me and appear at least semi-professional) and that was it. It didn’t really hit me until I was safely Chichester-bound on the train, but I had just had my first glimpse at the inner-circle of journalism and had been given an opportunity to experience it again. I think the man sat opposite me mistook me for emoji given the size of the smile on my face.

It is often said that journalism is a field primarily based around nepotism; that it is not what you do but rather who you know that will cement your career in the field. Call me an optimist or a naïve dreamer, but this view has always felt too cynical for me to believe. I still believe that it’s your commitment and intelligence that define you, but knowing a couple of the right people sure as hell doesn't hurt your chances.

Freedom of Speech or Freedom to insult?

At what point should the line be drawn?

‘Je Suis Charlie’ and the atrocities that gave birth to the phrase have reignited talks of the Freedom of Speech, but what has become glaringly obvious is exactly how much true liberty the ‘freedom’ entails is obscure in the eyes of many.

An independent survey by Spiked Online has been carried out across universities across the country. The survey explores the University’s official policies and then ranks it, via a traffic light system, on how fertile the University is for Freedom of Speech. In doing so it aims to inform the public on the censorship of voices at the most powerful academic institutions and hold those which severely limit Freedom of Speech to account.

This survey was carried out at the University of Bristol, the University of which I attend, and it found that Bristol was a volatile area for those who wish to speak their minds. The University was given the red rating, with such reasons as:

‘The university believes that an atmosphere of free and open discussion is essential to its life and work. Such an atmosphere can be achieved only if all concerned behave with necessary tolerance and avoid needlessly offensive or provocative action and language.'

What constitutes offensive behaviour then, and why should I be told I cannot say what I want if it offends someone? Clearly it is trying to discourage the slander of minority groups, but at what point does this restrict actual informative arguments? If I was to shout a racial slur out towards someone of a different ethnic origin, clearly this would be deemed inappropriate. However if I, as a male, chose to disagree with a policy of the Feminist society for instance, would that be inappropriate, or is that my right? How is it possible to govern such a chalk-line of distinctions and create a policy which both protects our vocal liberty and minority groups from offence?

Freedom of Speech, as a concept and not an act, is not supposed to protect those at the abusive end of slander. In fact it exists to state that we can say whatever we want, no matter how belligerent it may be, as it is our fundamental right. Whether we choose to be hostile and abuse this right comes down to our morals and the level of empathy we as individuals contain.

At the same time, strictly speaking from an institutional viewpoint, an educational facility, especially one which houses an extremely diverse student body both in terms of sexual orientation and racial diversity, has a duty to protect those under its care. It needs to be seen to be actively encouraging diverse and stimulating discussion whilst simultaneously making sure minority groups are not discriminated against.

In short, the issue of freedom of speech is a conundrum. Whilst personally I find the Universities policies perfectly apt, I recognise that this is somewhat biased as I have never had a viewpoint of my own become restricted due to its possible offence. In terms of a national and inter-national scale there has to be a line drawn on what constitutes free speech and what constitutes deliberately antagonising minority groups which could lead to violence and the mass demonization of an entire culture. But that is an argument for another time.

Short Story: Meredith

Here is another short story I have recently written. Hopefully this should be in my Universities creative arts magazine, so hopefully you enjoy it! It was done based on the theme of memory.

Enjoy.

***

'I forget where we were now, but back in the 50's... or maybe it was the sixties? When was it the war ended?'

'It doesn't matter Meredith, it's time to take your medicine now,' with a sigh Peter pushed the pill towards her face one more time 'come on, doctors’ orders!'

'No no no it must've been in the 60's, I remember I was just starting as an estate agent,'

'Meredith you were a landlord,' the lack of life this woman held made him feel even more despondent than his job normally did.

'Oh. No I was sure... really? Oh.' Meredith turned her eyes back towards the window, tracing the drops of rain down, watching them dissipate when they reached the bottom. She took her pill.

'Good girl, I'll be back at three to give you your next batch,' he was sure she hadn't heard him, but it mattered nonetheless. By now she had probably forgotten he had even been in, hell she probably lost the notion of time long ago.

'Hey Pete can I....’

'No.' Peter didn't have many friends here, so shrugging probably a simple request off didn't bother him in the slightest. He had finished his morning rounds, and come hell or high water he would have his cigarette at eleven on the dot. Stepping onto the front steps, underneath a grand yet age tainted Georgian pillar, he blew out toxins into the fresh air. There was something soothing in the steady burning of tobacco that calmed him after the rigorous morning rounds left him feeling isolated and imperturbable. Transfixed by the pluming of the smoke rising upwards, through winter’s rain and into the clouds, Peter finally felt relieved. This place had become a plague on his optimism, with all of its bleached walls and fine, green gardens, the nursing home had steadily changed from a place of rest for life's survivors into a cesspit of the damned, the entry parlour of the river Styx. Recently his joints had been aching more than normal, his relative sleep pattern had died a death and forced him into the realms of the insomniac and he became more and more disillusioned with the current fashions and pop culture. Technology had become that spectral concept that evaded him whilst the practises he had been raised with were now renamed as the 'old fashioned ways'. Day by day, minute by minute, the monotony of his career as a carer, one of which he was particularly proud, reshaped his understanding of himself and his patients. The issue was that he was seeing more of himself in these ghouls every day, so much so that he begun to imagine he could feel the wrinkles on his brow deepening, his organs slowing down. Beforehand, the elderly had been respected by him. He came into this line of work because he loved to hear their stories, of riches and adventures, of love and loss and survival. It was the tales of youth he craved, the ability to talk to people who had experienced all life had to offer and learn from them, whilst helping them finish the final chapter of their own existence. Yet when it came to it, it was nothing like he had imagined. There hadn't been nights sat in a chair listening to them talk about their exotic and dangerous lives, but rather mornings when he would come in to find bedpans clean whilst bed sheets lay soiled, not tales and memories and lives but rather aloofness and unawareness accompanied by symphonies of 'umm, err, I do remember dear just give me a second, what was that, who did you say you were?' Loathing the prospects of business and a life led in dedication to money, he had instead opted to care for the elderly, yet reaching his 'golden' years himself he had found that he held very little nostalgia for his past and even less hope for his future. He had not seen the world, he had not found love and he had not been a success. The only true adventure he had been on was when he moved to Australia in his twenties. He had fallen blindly and totally in love, and for the briefest window it felt as if he could claim the happiness that had always evaded him. But his fear of having children and her subsequently cheating on him led to his heart breaking after 5 years of youthful happiness and eventually leaving the country without a penny to his name. In one fell swoop his lust for travelling, money and monogamy had been demolished, leaving him a husk of the man he could have been. Even know he still held her photograph, 13 years had passed yet he still went to bed with her image painted across his iris. They spoke occasionally as old friends, yet neither of them seemed to be able to forgive the other. He would always be hers, but he would be damned if she were ever to find that out. Instead, he chose to listen to the lives of others, of everything that could never be his. Lusting after tales of youthful adventures of the old had led any chance of his own youthful adventures to wither away with age. Oh the irony of hindsight! What was the point in happiness if it has an expiration date? What was the point of existence if you couldn't remember where you had come from? It all sounded a little bit too much like purgatory to him. Sucking the final drag from what had turned into his third cigarette and glancing up at the stormy sky, he returned to the vegetables.

Regular as clockwork, three O’clock struck once again. Another set of pills for Meredith, another trivial conversation about nothing because she no longer understands anything. Wonderful.

‘Come on Meredith, up you get, its three O’clock, it’s time for your medication,’ he droned, not even crediting her with a glance, ‘Meredith get up.’ Turning away from the medication on the cabinet he had been paying attention too, he faced the bed. Crinkles in the sheet and a duvet pulled open at one end showed she hadn’t been a figment of his imagination, but Meredith herself had left. She hadn’t been scheduled for social time, nor did she have any appointments or scheduled reason for her not being in her room for her three O’clock medication; no this was an escape, a 60+ course in espionage. Later he would chastise himself for his own mind, but his initial reaction was to panic at the inconvenience of losing his job thanks to some old woman going walk about. How could it be fair that his life would be ruined for losing some mediocre old lady who probably only had 6 months in her at best? Pacing through the corridors, he searched for her in the most subtle way possible, by acting as if he was very busy and couldn’t talk to anyone whilst searching every toilet, rec room and ward in the place. The walls began to appear more lucid, the cracks far wider than before. A single lightbulb hanging from its own cord gave the corridors a morbid air that worked itself into Peters mind. It began to feel like she could have slipped into any crack, fallen down any drain. She was nowhere, it was if she had evaporated from existence like a plume of smoke in the winter’s rain, dissipating into the atmosphere. Sweat began to trickle as the realisation came that the media would probably get a hold of this, he would become one of those evil caricatures that despise the elderly, the ones who get eggs thrown at them and beaten in the streets. As the image became clearer the exact gravity of the situation hit him, making his lungs begin to fail. With breaths becoming shorter, near the point of hyperventilation, Peter ran outside for cigarette to offset the encroaching panic attack. Dragging deep on the cigarette, he allowed himself briefly to stop and clear his mind when suddenly he felt the touch of hope for himself and Meredith. Standing in front of the tree line opposite the care home stood a shrunken, frail looking figure. The flow of her hospital gown in the wind gave her a ghostly presence as the woods ahead drew her in.

Winters rain had always been far more poetic when Peter wasn’t running through it in nothing but his scrubs. The tiny molecules of water numbed his skin, making the continuous onslaught of water feel as if it was tearing the flesh from his very arms. The wind got deep into his chest, making him wheeze as the mud slowed his progress into the wood, for the first time in his life he regretted that last cigarette. But he could see her, albeit obscurely, through the tree line, skipping deeper into the woods that surrounded Ms Morgan’s Care home. Wait skipping? He had barely seen her move from her bed to her wheel chair without aid, how could she be skipping. Dodging the roots that grabbed at his feet and the foliage that ripped at his clothing, he closed the gap between them.

‘Meredith what are you doing? You’ll give yourself pneumonia, its January for Christ sakes!’ Each word felt like agony in his chest, yet she hadn’t seemed to of broken a sweat getting here, ‘please Meredith, I don’t want you dying because of my irresponsibility.’

‘Oh honey, if I die it will be because I chose too, not because you didn’t poke your head round the door to make sure I hadn’t tunnelled out of my room.’ A grin illuminated her face, revealing a distinct lack of teeth that did her smile no favours. Just two hours ago she wouldn’t have been able to tell Peter her own name, yet now she seemed to of gained her own mind back. As she spoke she walked in circles, letting the trickles of rain run onto her skin as she stroked incandescent branches that shimmered at her touch.

‘These were my father’s woods an era ago. That prison up there was once my home, before the Doctors and the carers claimed it from me, finances were never quite my forte. Some of my greatest memories lie in the earth surrounding this Oak tree, sometimes it feels as if geysers lay beneath this earth filled to the brim with trickles from my life, waiting to burst open when this anchor, myself my dear, chooses to give itself back to the soil…’

The rain and the wind became irrelevant after that. Peter didn’t even notice when the sun fell from the sky and tiny pinholes of light burst through the blackness. The lucidity of her mind, the dementia and the confusion had left, and she poured forth about her own life. About the elements of her being resting in these woods; it was here she had run when her father’s wrath had scared her as a child, the salt from her tears tainting the trunk of the Oak with sorrow. He had died when she was 20 whilst hunting game from what she had suspected to be a heart attack, his body found leant against the very trunk that soothed his child from him. These woods housed her first taste of whiskey that numbed her tongue and warmed her insides surrounded by the comfort of friends, and it was here she had first felt the lovers touch. Similarly it was here that very lover was buried on his return from the war, with nothing but an unmarked Oak tree to represent his place of rest. Today was his birthday, and she never failed to visit him on his birthday. She explained how she could still smell him pulsating from the trunk, as if the roots themselves had become intertwined with his remains, letting his blood mingle with the sap within the tree, giving him a new lease of life. These woods, that house, it was all her; a nebula of relationships with each point of this great, old place. She had been raised and lived her, and it was here she would die when God willed it to be. Whilst she spoke she sat on a great root of that old oak tree, her fingertips stroking the rough surface of the bark, the touch keeping the illumination within her body alive. Stories of the war, of her subsequent depression and her inability to move past the death of her love filled the air that evening, life had broken her too young and she had never been able to marry, to move onto something new, so this was all she had. No money, no family, just an old oak tree, fertilised with the seeds of her existence. She was the richest person Peter ever had the good fortune of meeting.

That night would be the brightest her mind would shine. When Peter finally pulled her back to the house, a fever had set itself within her. Two days later she was dead. Peter was instantly fired for negligence for allowing her to go wandering about during winter, and subsequently letting her stay out for 6 hours in the rain. He did not care though, in all honesty he would quit after that night even if they hadn’t fired him. Yet he stayed for a while, Meredith held no will, had pittance in her bank and specified nowhere what was to be done with her remains. He ensured she was cremated, and sprinkled the dust of her on the roots of the Oak himself, letting the release of her life wash over him as it was dispelled into the earth. Taking out a knife he brought with him he carved her name into the Oak, marking the tree that held her life with her own epigraph, solidifying her name for as long as the Oak would live.

Peter left the care home then. He drove straight to the airport and bought the first ticket to Australia he could find. He had known a girl there once. There was apologies to be made, second chances to be taken. If fates be willing, he would still be able to grow his own Oak tree.