Memories of a Newsroom

Recollections of the Newcastle Morning Herald news staff in the late 1960s

Introduction

 It's June 2026 and the exNBNers' Facebook group is disconsolate to hear that NBN's new owner, WIN, having just acquired it from Nine (owners since 2007), will 'slash' NBN's weeknight news from an hour to 30 minutes, move it to 5:30 (a death knell), and eliminate the weekend news bulletins. 

Pictured ~ The Newcastle Morning Herald and Newcastle Sun building, Bolton Street, in 1964.

The stark announcement by WIN set me thinking of earlier times in a thriving newsroom at the Newcastle Morning Herald in the late 1960s. From a short tenure as cadet journalist, I've vivid memories of the "literary staff," as we were so grandly designated. 

Those impressions have eroded over nearly sixty years to the point where I suspect they might be caricatures. But I shall lay them out below nevertheless, in the hope of immortalising a team of legendary reporters from a time when the Herald's ascendancy seemed unchallenged - even by that upstart TV outfit just over the hill in Mosbri Crescent.

Television journalists are well known to their public, for obvious reasons, while print journos are rarely more than bylines at most. While many of the Herald's feature writers were well known locals to the citizens of this small parochial city, it was not yet the age of celebrity journalists. 

With this memoir I hope to bring to life the women and men of newsprint reporting in 1960s Newcastle, so that those remarkable people are not completely lost in time. 

And lost they seem to be. When I asked Newcastle author and historian Greg Ray to name who was in his newsroom of the 80s and 90s, they were unknown to me. When I listed the people from my time at the Herald in the sixties, they were unfamiliar to him. Our two consecutive generations of newsroom staffers in this little city's most prominent masthead might as well have existed on opposite sides of the planet. 

The Start

It was my brief moment of glory and most magnificent failure. 

When it came to job-searching after leaving school, Broken Hill Pty Ltd (BHP) was the big firm around town. I told them I was engineer material and they offered me an electrical apprenticeship. That would not have gone down well with my parents' ambitions. Worse, there would inevitably have ensured little chance thereafter of escaping that monstrous steelworks complex until given final notice when it closed 30 years later, sending me on a middle-aged tradie job hunt. I was sufficiently offended pride-wise to reject a potential career crawling along steel girders covered in grease and iron ore dust 50 metres above the ground to repair broken rolling cranes. 

A letter - against all odds I would have thought - landed two days before Christmas, 1965. The Newcastle Morning Herald's editor, Eric Lingard, told me beneath a modest letterhead: "We have decided to offer you a cadetship with the literary staff. With the News Editor, I was impressed by your trial articles and your responses in our two discussions."

I had many questions, and as decades wore on, they only grew more demanding. You see, I'm a timid, antisocial lad from the bush, whose first five years were spent on an isolated farmlet in the Blue Mountains. Certainly by nurture, and possibly by nature, an introvert. Shy and socially inexperienced by that initial circumstance of life. 

That these two experienced newsprint veterans - who dealt routinely with a coterie of egos the size of the State Dockyard - imagined I would be an asset still defies my conception. What could possibly have gotten their attention? 

The Job

My cadetship began on $23 a week that, inflation-adjusted, rounds out to about $370, less than Australia's starvation-level Jobseeker allowance. But about par for the times for cadetships and apprenticeships. 

It was the age of Aquarius, The Beatles, LSD, hippies, love in San Francisco, beards, flares, sideburns, and really long men's' hair. When I presented with military crew cut and a cheap suit it was a great relief to find only besuited men and smartly attired women reporters. No flairs, no facial hair or fancy waistcoats. A straight-laced lot. Professionals, not posers.

Day one assigned me to young reporter Susan Smith, a lass with little humour to spare, clearly (I felt) due to having a graceless novice follow her around - an indignity she must unfairly bear. But kudos to my keeper and instructor for her patience.  

A newspaper cadetship in those times was traditional tedium: expose the recruit to mundane repetitive tasks. Phone regional folk for their weather readings, along with Nobbys and RAAF Williamtown "met office" meteorologists. Or the Hunter Springs resident atop Barrington range. And so forth. Calls to Customs House for shipping clearances, and to the Harbour Master's office for ship departure and arrival times. Council meetings were big time, so not for me. Mine were the rounds of Parents and Citizens meetings in evenings, and late night RSL meetings. All dutifully note-taken and transcribed into the endless columns of the Herald's back pages. 

The police beat was for specialist Frank Kellet, so also not for me. But minor court reporting was. Not the city's courthouse, but out in the suburbs at Belmont and Wallsend courthouses where prosecutor Police Sergeant Scroggins proposed to the court that the offender had exceeded the speed limit of 30 mph by an extravagant five of six additional. Whereupon a senior partner of a local leading law firm counter-proposed that due to the defendant's good character (and deep pockets) that perhaps Section 55A of the traffic act might see him treated leniently, the charge dismissed with a warning from the court. Occasionally, however, there were startling moments for this shy, unworldly novice newshound, when a 'sexual coercion' case was listed. Red-faced I sat, shrinking behind my pen and notepad, as the victim was coaxed to declare (in order to prove the act occurred) "...and he put his private part into my private part..." - Ye gods, this is going on in the real world? I must get out more.

The same magistrate attended these suburban courts. A humourless balding little bloke who squinted through his glasses while dealing out cruelly excessive fines to miscreants who had dared consume his time rather than simply admit guilt and pay their fine in the first place. After one such day’s punishment-doling (that convinced me never to cross his path in the defendant’s box), while returning to the Herald to report these matters, his polished Morris Oxford managed to arrange itself ahead of my shabby old Austin A40. We progressed across town until I lost him at Darby Street... when he drove blindly through a stop sign. Yes, without stopping. Life’s lesson learned!

The Staff

Days in a news bureau are the most interesting and educational job anyone could have. I still fondly recall the people of that newsroom, the nature of the work, it's variety, freedom and open-endedness. One of the best jobs in the world. 

Mentioned earlier, my recall has assumed the form of caricature, and the descriptions that follow are based on the slimmest of evidence and minimalist observation. Inevitably, because my newsroom presence had the prominence of a typewriter, I observed senior staff from a distance, never growing to know them well, nor they me. With a few happy exceptions.

Editor Eric Lingard was a soft-spoken and very tall man. His face was also tall, which allowed its far more prominent features to be scaled beyond the norm. His projected neutrality towards me was reassuring, and I now believe it was his nature, that he spoke to the lowliest and newest reporters as equals. I was not to see him again for several years after leaving. It was in Darby Street and he knew me instantly, though I'd changed greatly and completely out of context. He again spoke as a respectful equal, sharing anecdotes in relaxed conversation. Eric came from the Queensland Times to the Herald in 1929 to tread the usual path through News Editor to Editor in 1950.

News Editor Harry Dickinson was a hard-bitten, grey-haired old-school veteran. A real-world Perry White and much scarier. Life was written on his face and modulated his voice - there was no modulation. I still see him leaning back in his chair to the side, cigarette burning, staring at me like Tom O'Connor, my former deputy headmaster on one of his bad days - all Tom's days were bad days. Harry's face was expressionless and white, like his hair, like his shirt. I cannot recall many, if any other, meetings with him. He too was a Queenslander who migrated south in 1935 to join the Herald, where he progressed from reporting and article writing to subbing, chief-subbing, and eventually News Editor.

Chief sub was Jim Hooker. For a time his surname had gone from mind, but never his sleeve bands, eye shade, or unforgiving severity, sending me back across town late at night to retrieve the concluding minutes of a meeting I’d failed to finish in case I'd miss the dreaded "publishing deadline.” Years later, visiting the office, I found Jim in Harry’s chair and Harry’s job, responding to a request with "Sorry, there's been too much water under the bridge." 

Editorial writer Bill Ormond (?) - surely it's "W. B. Ormonde" whose articles and name appears regularly from the war years onwards. Rolled shirt sleeves, soft-spoken, approachable, likeable, possibly in his sixties. One of those quiet giants of journalism that makes you beg for time over to properly know.

On police rounds, a regular at the city’s cop shop just around the corner from the Herald, was Frank Kellet, who'd drift into a Scotch accent while talking to his dad on the phone. Nothing else reveals itself about Frank, although I did bump into him in the late 1970s as he wandered with a group tour of NBN’s Mosbri studios, all of whom bore an executive aura.

Film and theatre reviewer, and book author, Alan Watkins’ bespectacled, balding, middle-aged, but animated and perennially enthused had my attention, though little did I know that behind the welcoming face was a legendary figure and prolific writer.

Writing as LAC Watkins for the former Cessnock Eagle. His "Letters for Home' about life in the armed services column was retitled "Darwin Diary' when stationed at Batchelor, near Darwin. Post-war he gained work with the Herald from a short story competition conducted by the newspaper and Editor Eric Lingard offered him a job. 

Watkins' film reviews, which appeared in the Herald for eighteen years, are remembered for their clear assessment and professionalism. Some were republished as models of criticism. "Although the job meant often going to the movies five times a week, it was a pleasure and never a chore.'

~ University of Newcastle, Australia - 1987 | Living Histories 

Industrial roundsman (at the time) Ken Longworth, short, amiable, rectangular faced, usually thinking out loud in a distinctive pitch, a thorough and relentless workman. It hadn’t dawned on me that his passion and specialty was theatre, for which he would later be rewarded.

Ken Longworth received a well deserved OAM (Order Of Australia Medal) on the Australia Day weekend, January 2017. The Newcastle Herald reported: 'Newcastle Herald critic Ken Longworth receives Australia Day honour. For more than 40 years Ken Longworth has cast his critical eye over Newcastle's theatre scene. Detailing, promoting and analysing the majority of productions that have originated or visited the city. The 76 year old Newcastle Herald contributor's unwavering passion for theatre has been recognised with an Order of Australia Medal for service to the community. Through his roles as critic, reporter, inaugural chairman and judge of the City of Newcastle Drama Awards (CONDAs), it could be argued that nobody has provided a greater service to the theatrical arts in the Hunter than Mr Longworth.'

~ Ken-Longworth-OAM-2017  

That solid historian Percy Haslam emerged from his cubicle announcing some mission or other, toting a script, smiling amiably, peering over his spectacles, wandering in search of someone or some other. He was imposing as a large ageing gent in a dark suit and unassuming presence. Perhaps the smile was wry, not so much amiable. One of the paper’s giants.

Following in the footsteps of his mother's father, Thomas Denny, who had worked with the Newcastle Morning Herald for over 50 years from the 1880s, Percy Haslam joined the Newcastle Herald in 1933, writing a weekly column on friendly societies, featuring historical material. He became the Newcastle Herald's industrial and political roundsman and was later an associate editor. Haslam was also official historian for the now defunct Newcastle Friendly Societies Association, the only person to undertake friendly society research in the region, and was published extensively in lodge magazines.

~ Percy Haslam | The University of Newcastle 

Fond memories return of Adrian Ashford, a man of diligence and detail. Tall, dark-haired crew cut, boyish face behind large spectacles. Adrian, among his many tasks, collected tales for the Topics column, and one day I had one for him. 

The previous weekend I’d completed the round trip in that old Austin, bravely driving up the valley to Scone, across the Barrington Tops - when it was just a maze of forestry tracks dotted with muddy bogholes - to Gloucester, and home again to Newcastle. The trip took about 12 hours. 

I loved the adventure, oblivious to the risk of breakdown and subsequent night in a freezing forest with no food or warm clothing. Or chance of rescue. On one of my wrong choices in the Barrington forests I followed a track that looked more certain. As Adrian completed the topic item: “…as he progressed, the freshly overturned soil was rather disconcerting. Then, upon rounding a bend, a bulldozer merrily crunching through virgin forest marked the end of our adventurous friend’s journey.” 

I recall, perhaps wrongly, that Adrian’s wife was Chinese, and equally vaguely that I visited their home (at Valentine?) for some reason. So I must have taken a liking to him. Which makes all the more mysterious how little I can say of him, or of anyone in this article. The only readily found snippet, one that attests to his character quite profoundly, is in an article on a WordPress website about Laos: 

In Australia, news was scarce. Publicly, Australian officials could shed no light on Sharman’s disappearance. His girlfriend, Joy Hooper, went on national television with a plea to the Department of Foreign Affairs for news. Nothing.

Word came to Sharman’s Newcastle mates from an interesting source. Newcastle Herald journalist Adrian Ashford, a son of pioneering restaurateur and adventurer Clem Ashford, had slipped quietly into Laos in 1975 to arrange safe passage and resettlement in France for the family of a Lao public servant who faced death or internment under communist rule. Ashford mentioned the camera-thrown-in-river story. The word on the Mekong, he said, was that Sharman and the American were dead.

~ Neil Sharman, Charlie Dean; journalists who disappeared in 1974

He wrote what might be a relevant “Short Fiction: A 1977 Australian newspaper feature story by Adrian Ashford titled "Escape from Indo-China," that is indexed in historical archives of Newcastle (NSW) Libraries Digitized Collections.”

John Bunton also merited his own cubicle (with Bill Ormonde, Allan Watkins, and Percy Haslam) but his specialty escapes recall. He was tall, heavy, a face of character and commanding voice. Fortunately a mini-bio at a most unlikely web location supplies and describes what I cannot: 

John Bunton began his journalistic career on radio and was a journalist on The  Newcastle Herald and The Newcastle Star. When this book went to press John was Public Affairs Officer at the Newcastle Steel Works of the B.H.P. Co. Ltd. He has been a member of the Australian Journalists' Association since 1964 and is a member of the Committee of the Northern New South Wales Branch of the AJA. He is a J.P. and is involved in Newcastle musical and theatrical activities. 

~ Shaping the Hunter (PDF) 

Probably his disparate interests coincided with mine, and brought me to his home at Broadmeadow on occasion. So again, it seems I was getting on with meeting and knowing the senior staff. 

Greg Smith was a young easy-going junior reporter. Lanky, haircut conceding the times, easy-going, mildly sardonic expression, and constant companion to the inestimable Allan Farrelly. And in Mr Farrelly we have one of the few well-known names, and a story of considerable note. The Allan Farrelly I knew was a young, ambitious, overly-confident swaggering reporter who visibly owned his place at the Newcastle Morning Herald, if not the entire town. Black curly hair and heavy glasses dominated and complemented that mid-toned, animated voice that never rested, like his all-encompassing mind.

Farrelly, the son of Winfreda and Terrence, a coalminer, started his career at The Newcastle Morning Herald in 1957, and discovered his humanity in Melbourne. He ditched the Sydney hard man approach and embraced his staff as friends and accomplices. He created a spirit, a sense of unity, a belief system and pride. He let people write and gave rein to the mostly young men and women who had been drawn into what became something of a cause. Soon, all who worked at the paper thought they were working for something of international stature.

Farrelly's newspaper grounding was solid. In 1972, he switched from his first newspaper (NMH) to become news editor at the Newcastle Sun, and two years later moved to the Fairfax stable to become assistant editor of The Sun in Sydney.

~ Obituary - Alan Farrelly The ANU

Then there was Lloyd Turnbull, perhaps the most prominent Herald alumnus of all. His voice resonated from that burly chest as he gazed through his thick lenses at its intended object. He came, he went, and I can’t recall what he did. But his sight was set higher than the rest of us. 

Born in Australia, Turner worked on the Newcastle Morning Herald before moving to England working for many years as chief sub editor of the Express, Turner was appointed editor of its stablemate, the Daily Star.

~ Lloyd Turner (journalist) - Wikipedia 

There were others. Of course there were. Ian McNamara, Civic roundsman (again, I recall with uncertainty), young, sharp-witted, clean-cut: his typing skill and speed had me in awe. On socials was the delightful Marlene McEwan (call me besotted) who flitted butterfly-like in and out of the space. Jenny McAlister who asked me to nick down the street for snacks once too often, at which I still so regret my one snarling out of character (I assure you) response. 

In later years the most-affable and likeable Jim Reeves arrived. Jim was short, mid-forties, a perfect trooper of a reporter, with an ability to face me smiling and nodding as I chatted at him whilst he typed in full his story never glancing at the typewriter. He’d drag me around the port in his little Colt sedan to meet various captains of newsworthy ships. Another a late arrival in my term, maybe from the Sun, a hard-core city beat archetypical Tom Barrass, who upset my parents by quoting them in an article that threw aspersions on Port Stephens council and its mayor. "We told him what we thought but didn't think he'd quote us," bemoaned Dad. Well, I mused, one look at Tom and you'd know he was gonna quote you.

 Last and never least, there were artists, particularly editorial cartoonist Les Lumsdon and his associates at the time, Col Richardson, and the tall distinctive Norm Fairbairn. And photographers such as legendary Ron Morrison, David Wicks (a school mate), Allan Jolly, and Ron Bell. So many others are equally deserving of mention, their names long gone. An unforgettable and alarmingly thin secretary in her tiny office; or the smartly-dressed Yvonne breezing in with despatches from the teletype machine.

Pictured ~ The Newcastle Morning Herald and Newcastle Sun Linotype operators at their machines, circa 1960s.

Special mention? The guys on the Linotype machines. Amazing devices to watch, as were their operators, a fine and intelligent bunch who did their share of spotting bloopers and typos that the subs and proofers might miss. It was classic "engine room" work, hard, hot, noisy and often dirty, yet they were clearly proud to be part of a tradition, at the iconic 'coal face' of an industry so vital to society. 

Sad I didn't spend more time down there. Or with the crew rolling the presses. Why on Earth I never took more notice of that magical exciting space is beyond me.

Strangely, the proof readers have a curious place in memory. I still only visualise them like monks in cubicles whispering daily devotions, except it was late night and they were mouthing the foetid scripts written by unlettered fools like me.

Epilogue

By now the reader is wondering, with morbid curiosity, how your author got on after these adventures. Well, funny you should ask.

I left in my third year of cadetship, 1968. As the kind letter of reference said, "...He left our employ of his own accord, telling me he was convinced that he should not make journalism his career. While with us he was trustworthy and his work was quite acceptable." ~ H. J. Dickinson.

Quite acceptable?

Why would I leave such a 'plum job'? Mentioned earlier, I'm naturally timid, and was, at that age, incredibly shy. While I was handling the work well enough, I was not handling the people in the real world. I could pass as a reporter dealing with the public, but lacked the confidence and, well, flair and style to really hit the mark. I could see after two years that I was not improving those vital people skills. In fact - and I think it was an unconscious strategy to force the issue - I became self-conscious at the most inappropriate times, which made me falter even more. The voice on my shoulder suggested I should get out. 

The final shove came from that brash duo, Allan Farrelly and Greg Smith. They took me to lunch one day and as I launched into a toasted sanger they launched their damning critique, telling me that I had to get with it, show some initiative, and (these words burned in) that "in this job it's sink or swim, and right now you're sinking." It was harsh enough to make me to bolt out the door and kiss that wonderful job farewell. A stronger or more confident person would have told them to jam it up their overly-confident arses and go on to prove them wrong. But back then, for me, life was rather a mystery and people more so. As I said, I was from the bush.

I had long since passed probation with never any hint of negative feedback from management - Harry, Jim, or Eric - and apparently wasn't sinking. Because they were non-plussed when a resignation hit their desks. No-one had ever quit like that before, with no good reason. Eric Lingard was particularly puzzled, his only concern, when he called me in to confirm events, was how might he explain it to management! 

Final encouragement came from Bill Ormonde whose generous words implied that my work was looked upon well enough and there were career paths within the paper for which I seemed well suited. I'm fairly certain I didn't concoct that encounter during a wish-fulfillment dream.

It was so long ago...

~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note

Corrections or recollections are invited in the comments, or by email to NewcastleOnHunter at Gmail dot com. Your contributions are most welcome.