Memories of a Newsroom

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

It's June 2026 and many in the region are disconsolate that NBN's new owner, WIN, having just acquired it from Nine (owner since 2007), will 'slash' NBN's weeknight news from an hour to 30 minutes, move it pre-recorded to 5:30 (a death knell), and eliminate weekend bulletins. 

The stark announcement evoked NBN's bustling newsroom, which then set me thinking of a much earlier thriving office at the Newcastle Morning Herald in the late 1960s. Tenure as cadet journalist granted me vivid memories of the "literary staff" as we were so grandly designated. 

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

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, with the desire to enshrine those legendary reporters from a time when the Herald's ascendancy seemed unchallenged - even by that upstart little outfit over the hill in Mosbri Crescent.

Television journalists have always been well known to their public, for obvious reasons, while print colleagues are rarely more than bylines. Although the Herald's guest feature writers were well known local experts, it was not yet the age of celebrity journalism. 

This memoir tries to give life to the women and men of newsprint reporting in 1960s Newcastle. Remarkable people who should not be lost to time. But 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 largely unfamiliar to him. Our two consecutive generations of newsroom staffers in this city's most prominent masthead might as well have existed on opposite sides of the planet. Which is only to lament how readily a group of professionals, whose life's work was to daily transcribe the region's social history through wide-spread relationships within the community, could so rapidly fall from public awareness.

With most of the team from my era almost certainly gone, this is an overdue attempt to at least sketch them, however faintly, so that a tiny slice of the city's fading history remains. There are many books on Newcastle, but few reach down to describe and name the people who built and laboured in our industries and organisations. Ironically, though, it is one of Facebook's redeeming features, where workplace communities swap tales and experiences of everyday lives from the past.

The Start

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

When it came to job search after leaving school, BHP was the big firm in town. I told them I was engineer material and they offered me a trade apprenticeship. That went down no better with my parents' grandiose ambitions for their son any better than it did with his pride. Had I accepted, thirty years on when the steelworks evaporated I would have been an ageing tradie job-hunting in a new age.

Against all odds a letter 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, retiring lad from the bush, whose infancy was spent on an isolated farmlet in Blue Mountains bushland. Isolated, as in no neighbours. Nurture that quite likely created an introvert. That two experienced newsprint veterans who dealt routinely with a coterie of egos, each the size of the State Dockyard, imagined I would be an asset, that I would 'fit in,' still defies conception. 

First thought entering the Herald's spacious newsroom, overwhelmed by commotion and activity was, well, one of these people is not like the others. And yet, although it was the age of Aquarius, hippies, love in San Francisco, beards, flares, and sideburns, when I nervously presented with schoolboy crew cut and a cheap suit it was such great relief to find besuited men and smartly attired women. A straight-laced lot.

My cadetship began on $23 a week. Inflation-adjusted about $370, less than Australia's starvation-level Jobseeker allowance. And, as any boomer will tell you, it was a fortune.

The Job

Newsrooms in film and television are chaos embodied, desks smothered in piles of paperwork, overwhelmed by clutter. Not mine. The room was spartan, my wooden desk more so. A cheap office chair (no wheels), black Bakelite rotary-dial telephone, an old pale green 'office piano.' The only paper on my desk was a little stack of blank copy paper cut from newsprint rolls.

Day one assigned me to young reporter Susan Smith, a lass with little humour to spare, I hoped due to a graceless novice following her around, an indignity she must unfairly bear. 

A newspaper cadetship in those times was, per tradition, enforced tedium in mundane repetitive tasks. Phone regional folk for their weather readings, along with Nobbys and RAAF Williamtown "met office" meteorologists and the station manager at Hunter Springs atop Barrington range. And so forth. Calls to Customs House for shipping clearances, departure, and arrival times. Perhaps a quiet word with the Harbour Master of incidentals that should be passed on to the shipping rounds reporter. Council meetings were big time, so not for me. Mine were Parents and Citizens meetings in evenings, and late night RSL sessions. Surprising how well received was the young reporter, either through respect for the mighty Herald, or nefariously to recruit his sympathetic pen. Anyway, all the nit-pickings were dutifully noted and transcribed into those endless columns of minutiae that marched across that comprehensive broadsheet's flowing pages. 

The police beat was for specialist Frank Kellet, so also not for me. But minor court reporting was. Not the city courthouse, oh no, but out in suburbia at Belmont and Wallsend courts where the police prosecutor, uniformed Sergeant Scroggins, proposed that the offender had exceeded the speed limit of 60 kph by an extravagant five of six additional. Whereupon senior partner of a 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 leniently dismissed with but a warning from the court - if not, then surely a token of appreciation rather more modest than the original fine might find its way to No. 6 Macquarie Street. Occasionally, however, there were startling moments for this shy, unworldly novice newshound when a 'sexual coercion' case was listed. Shrinking red-faced behind pen and notepad, I grimaced as the victim was coaxed to declare, as proof of the alleged offence: "...and he put his private part into my private part and went up and down for a minute..." - 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 accept 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 neatly polished Morris Oxford arranged 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

Working in a news bureau is the most interesting, educational, and rewarding job anyone could have. I still so 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 memories have assumed the form of caricature. The descriptions that follow are based on the slimmest of recall and minimalist observation. Inevitably so, because my newsroom presence was that of a typewriter. Just part of the furniture. I observed senior staff from a distance, barely getting to know them, 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 more prominent features to likewise scale. His projected neutrality was strangely reassuring and I now believe it was his nature, that he spoke to the lowliest reporter as an equal. Eric came from the Queensland Times to the Herald in 1929 to tread the usual path, through News Editor, to Editor in 1950. I was not to see him again for many years after leaving. It was in Darby Street and he knew me instantly, though I'd changed greatly and was completely out of context. He again spoke as a respectful equal, sharing anecdotes in relaxed conversational mode. He also managed to flog me the book he was carrying, a heavy glossy tome about the city or region, freshly published. 

News Editor Harry Dickinson was a hard-bitten, grey-haired old-school veteran. A real-world Perry White but scarier. Life, written on his face, inflected his voice. I still see him leaning back in his chair to the side, cigarette burning, staring at me like my former deputy headmaster Tom O'Connor on one of his bad days (all Tom's days were bad days). Harry's face, as it sized me up, was expressionless and white, like his hair, like his shirt. I cannot recall any other meetings with him, which likely speaks either well for my progress, or luck. 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 missed 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 Ormonde is surely "W. B. Ormonde" whose articles and name appears regularly from the war years onwards. Open-necked shirt, rolled sleeves, soft-spoken, approachable, likeable, ageing. One of those quiet giants of journalism that makes you beg for time over to properly know.

On police rounds, at home in the city’s cop shop just around the corner from the Herald, was Frank Kellet, young, pleasant, thirties, who'd drift into a Scotch accent while talking to his dad on the phone. Nothing else reveals itself about Frank. Memory has a vivid photograph of him, like everyone portrayed here, but putting it into words is not my forte. I did bump into him in the late 1970s as he wandered with a group touring NBN’s Mosbri studios, all of whom bore an executive aura.

Film reviewer and author Alan Watkins’ - bespectacled, balding, ageing but perennially enthused - had my curious attention. Little did I know that behind the welcoming face was a legendary figure and prolific author.

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, short-haired, 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 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. Imposing as a large old 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 that day I had one for him. 

The previous weekend I’d completed a trip in that old battered Austin, arisen at 3am to bravely drive up the valley to Scone, then to cross the Barrington Tops when it was just a maze of forestry tracks dotted with muddy bogholes. Descending to Gloucester over dozens of cattle grids through endless farm gates, then home to Newcastle. The trip took about 14 hours. I loved that adventure, however foolhardy, oblivious to risk of breakdown and night in a freezing forest with no food or warm clothing. 

Of many wrong choices in the Barrington trails was a track that looked more useable. But, as Adrian's topic concluded: “…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 young 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

Listed in historical archives of Newcastle (NSW) Libraries Digitized Collections: "Short Fiction: A 1977 Australian newspaper feature story by Adrian Ashford titled 'Escape from Indo-China.' " How much lived experience is in that, I wonder.

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

John Bunton began his career on radio and was a journalist at 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 one of mine, and that brought me to his home at Broadmeadow on occasion. So again, it seems I was getting on with meeting and knowing some senior staff. 

Pictured at right: Allan Farrelly ponders conquering Sydney in 1965.

Greg Smith was an easy-going junior reporter. Lanky, haircut conceding the times, mildly sardonic, and constant companion to the inestimable Allan Farrelly in whom we have one of the better known names, and whose life bore considerable note. The Allan Farrelly I knew was a young, ambitious, overly-confident swaggering reporter (the epitome of swaggering!) who emanated ownership of place at the Newcastle Morning Herald, if not of the entire town - justified, however, by his prolific output. Black curly hair and heavy glasses dominated and complemented a 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, maybe the most prominent Herald alumnus of all. His voice resonated from that burly chest as he gazed through his thick lenses at its quarry. 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, recalled with uncertainty), young, likeable, sharp-witted, clean-cut, his typing skill and speed had me in awe. He made the job look so easy. On socials was the delightful effervescent Marlene McEwan (call me besotted) who flitted butterfly-like in and out of the space while broadcasting in that tuneful voice her pressing itinerary. Of the few women, also Jenny McAlister, who asked me to nick down the street for snacks once too often, at which I still ever so regret my out of character snarl (which surprised even me). 

In later years the most affable and likeable Jim Reeves arrived. Jim was short, mid-forties, dark hair, tanned, a perfect trooper. His super power was to face me smiling and nodding as I chatted at (yes, at) him whilst he typed in full his story, never glancing at his typewriter even to change sheets. The only senior to take me hunting, I was dragged around the port in his little Colt sedan to meet various captains of newsworthy ships and visit unseen corners. Another a late arrival in my term, likely from the Sun, a hard-core city beat archetypical Tom Barrass, who upset my parents by quoting them in an article that censured Port Stephens council and its mayor Bruce MacKenzie. "We told him what we thought but didn't think he'd quote us," bemoaned my father. Well, I mused, one look at Tom and you'd know he was gonna quote you.

Almost last, never least, were the artists, particularly editorial cartoonist Les Lumsdon and his associates at that time, Col Richardson and the tall stylish Norm Fairbairn. Photographers such as legendary Ron Morrison, David Wicks (a school mate), Allan Jolly, and Ron Bell were the only shutterbugs I recall knowing. So many others are equally deserving of mention, their names long gone. An unforgettable and alarmingly thin secretary in her tiny office, maybe named "Pat." A smartly-dressed and pleasant Yvonne (definitely 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 great tradition, working at the iconic 'coal face' of an industry so vital to society and democracy.  

Still sad I didn't spend more time down there. Or with the crew rolling the presses. Why on Earth didn't I take more notice of that magical exciting space?

Proof readers have a curious place in memory. I can yet only visualise them as 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 might be curious, if only morbidly, 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. I could pass as a reporter dealing with the public, but lacked the confidence and, well, quick-thinking to really hit the mark. Clearly, after two years I was not gaining confidence or improving those vital people skills. 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 Allan testing his previously described "hard man approach" on me and was enough to make me to bolt out the door and kiss that wonderful job farewell. A stronger or more confident person would have gone on to prove them wrong. But back then, for me, life was quite the mystery and people more so. As said, I was from the bush.

There was one final hurdle to leap on the way out, a cultural one. You would think I'd have absorbed a little company lore other than the stifling style guide. The Sun's Vic Levi relates manager Ernie Morris telling him: "We like to think that when we train a young man like you, you will stay with us." Well, I didn't get that memo. But did see the movie "The Firm." This probably explains why Eric and Harry were non-plussed when a resignation hit their desks. Eric Lingard was particularly puzzled. His only concern, he muttered, was how he might "explain it to management"! 

Final salving 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. 

Your scribe did do well enough in life, however. After a dozen or more odd jobs, career false starts, business start-ups, eventually I settled till retirement at NBN Television, another of this town's wonderful incubators of sharp minds and flamboyant personalities. 

Looking back on that chequered odyssey, I wouldn't have done it any other way. Had I stuck to a single vocation for life I would not be this person today. The spectrum of workplaces in this grand little city provided broad experience, a seasoned outlook, and a life well lived.

It was all so very 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.