A BLACK NARK

The latest nonsense we are asked to swallow is the revelation that black models are not used in catalogues because white people will not buy anything modelled by them.
Our feral young dance to black rhythms, ape black rappers, speak in an argot which they have copied from Negro communities. The human race has its origins in an African valley. We are literally brothers and sisters under the skin. I do wish our race relations experts could be made to realise that racial tensions have nothing to do with colour.

On the contrary, white people envy people who are brown. Every year they head in their pale battalions, like washed out lemmings, for a fortnight in the sun, clutching flasks of ambre solaire, to spend their days immobile in scraps of material being grilled like kippers and hoping to turn the same colour as those fortunate fish. Many will spend the winter under sun beds in the hope that they will not turn white.

The problem is a matter of tribe. Since Neanderthal man discovered the only true safety from dinosaurs and the like was to be found in the family unit we have hung out with people we know and with whom we share an identity. The Clan system was an extension of that. The notion that a Campbell was superior to a MacDonald led to a confrontation which did not speak well for either party.

As a young reporter I strayed into a Shebeen that had an all black membership. I was asked if I believed in the colour bar. ”Certainly not,” I said. “We do. P… off,” I was told.

At school my chum was black. I called him “Rastus” and he called me “Specky Four Eyes”.

I am fortunate enough to have a neighbour who is beautiful, kind, sophisticated, funny, hospitable, intelligent and caring. She has two children who are beyond peradventure the most charming and polite I have met in years. They are black. I wish there were more like them, If, however, I was the only white person in the neighbourhood I would feel uneasy because I came from a different tribe.

A DIFFERENT TRIBE? My family are a genetic cocktail: Jewish, Cambodian, German, Welsh, Scottish, English. I even have a son who was born in Yorkshire. I had my female genes investigated by an Oxford University department which has done pioneer work in DNA. Fifteen thousand years ago my family lived in the Pyrenees. A branch went to Lapland but the main stream moved to Spain, then Norway, and Normandy, before coming to England at the invitation of Edward the Confessor. I am a professional alien.

By trade I am an author and broadcaster but my early days were spent in newspapers. My closest friends are the newspapermen I met in the Forties and Fifties and with whom I now chat daily, thanks to the Internet.

And where would we be without our friends?




Forgive Us Our Press Passes (Paperback)
by Ian Skidmore (Author)


(3 customer reviews)
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Customer Reviews




Now It Can Be Told, 23 April 2008
By Grassi Renee "Neil Marr" (South of France) - See all my reviews


When Fleet Street was demoted to a mere address, 'time, gentlemen, please' was called on a marathon binge that had produced some of the greatest stories in tabloid press history.

Stories that would never make the papers.

These unprinted legends circulated secretly among an elite handful of national newspaper reporters and photographers -- colourful characters whose own outrageous tales often eclipsed those in the headlines they created.

Now that well-paid jobs and bumper expense accounts are no longer at stake, vintage scribe and broadcaster Ian Skidmore blows the whistle on the jolly jape that was journalism in the 50s, 60s and 70s.

*Forgive Us Our Press Passes* is a surreal yarn of the slapstick and wit shared by a crackpot but talented crew of hacks who somehow produced the greatest newspaper circulation figures in the history of the world press ... between pub opening hours.

Only a Methodist, a tailor's dummy or a university journalism student could fail to split his sides at the anecdotes in this hilariously written, warts-n-all account of the media circus BEFORE they sent in the clowns.

I wonder how many old hands have bought this book ...and carefully hidden it from their wives.

Neil Marr



By S. Blenkinsop (Macclesfield, Cheshire, UK) - See all my reviews


It's the Great Comeback...Ian Skidmore's joyful account of the Golden Days of British national newspapers has been thoroughly revised and more than doubled in length since the first edition 25 years ago.
Effectively it is a new book -- twice as entertaining and informative as its predecessor. No one will regret buying it again.
For "Daily Mirror" journalist "Skiddy" muses on the changes in national journalism in recent years. His misgivings on the massive entry of university graduates are clear. And his erudition and sense of humour are apparent on every page.
Ian is truly a man of many parts and has worked as hard as he drank. He has now written 26 books -- histories, biographies, fiction, comedy. For many years he was a BBC broadcaster with many millions of listeners round the world. His regular talks to Australia drew record audiences "down under",

Stanley Blenkinsop, "Daily Express" news editor, 1969--86

By K. Ashton "Ken Ashton" (North Wales) - See all my reviews


The Scallywag is back - and twice as much of him. Ian Skidmore, doyen of national newspapers, radio and writing, relates his quirky anecdotes in his usual ebullient style in a new version of his original book. He doesn't pull punches as he talks about the Grand Old Days of Journalism as it was and should be. The cycle of fun and fact, hard news hunting and companionship come alive under the pen of Skidmore. Written from the perspective of a journalist who worked in the days of typewriters, phoned copy, notes on cheque book stubs, and when media studies was scanning the opposition for their takes on your story - if they had it! - 'Forgive us our Press Passes' should be required reading for all journalism students, and journalists - but not their wives or girlfriends. Brilliant.
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With quiet pride I offer this extra fan mail received from the bbc (these days, alas, it does not merit Capital Letters):

“Dear BBC Blog contributor,

Thank you for contributing to a BBC Blog. Unfortunately we've had to remove your content below.

Comments posted to BBC blogs will be removed if they are considered likely to provoke, attack or offend others; are racist, sexist, homophobic, sexually explicit, abusive or otherwise objectionable; are considered to have been posted with an intention to disrupt; contain swear words (including abbreviations or alternative spellings) or other language likely to offend.
If you can rewrite your contribution to remove the problem, we'd be happy for you to post it again.

Please note that anyone who seriously or repeatedly breaks the House Rules may have action taken against their account.


Regards,

The BBC Blog Team


URL of content (now removed):

:
AS A FAN IT PAINS ME TO WRITE THAT IN HIS INTERVIEW WITH BORIS ON PM, EDDY MAIR FELL A LONG WAY BELOW HIS USUAL STANDARDS. HE MADE HIS DISLIKE OBVIOUS.IT WAS NOT HELPFUL TO HARP ON ABOUT THE CLOWN IMAGE. PADDICK IS HOMOSEXUAL, LIVINGSTONE A DRUNKEN, OVER SEXED CORRUPT POLITICIAN ACCORDING TO THE SAME MEDIA SOURCES THAT HAVE LABELLED BORIS A CLOWN. I LOATHE LONDON, CANNOT STAND ETONIANS AND HAVE NO INTEREST IN POLITICS. BUT AS A PROFESSIONAL BROADCASTER I REVERE THE MEDIUM AND DO NOT LIKE TO SEE IT BESMIRCHED BY BAD INTERVIEWING.

The contents of this message may contain personal views which are not the views of the
BBC, unless specifically stated.
???????????????????????????
If they are not the views of the BBC, who sent it?
I did not make the allegations: I reported that the allegations had been made in the Media. By the BBC, among others.
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KILLER BISCUITS WANTED FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER ........... (the actual AP Headline)


Linda Burnett, 23, a resident of San Diego, was visiting her in-laws and while there went to a nearby supermarket to pick up some groceries.

Several people noticed her sitting in her car with the windows rolled up and with her eyes closed, with both hands behind the back of her head.

One customer who had been at the store for a while became concerned and walked over to the car. He noticed that Linda's eyes were now open, and she looked very strange.


He asked her if she was okay, and Linda replied that she'd been shot in the back of the head, and had been holding her brains in for over an hour.

The man called the paramedics, who broke into the car because the doors were locked and Linda refused to remove her hands from her head.

When they finally got in, they found that Linda had a wad of bread dough on the back of her head.

A Pillsbury biscuit canister had exploded from the heat, making a loud noise that sounded like a gunshot, and the wad of dough hit her in the back of her head.

When she reached back to find out what it was, she felt the dough and thought it was her brains. She initially passed out, but quickly recovered.

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And for two more good reads try:

http://www.northtrek.co.uk

and

http://www.gentlemenranters.com


ends