t, 
THE WORLD'S GREATEST WEBSITE
McMumble’s finest hour? Frankly, no
RICK McNEILL, in an exclusive extract from his memoirs, remembers former Daily Express deputy editor John McDonald
One day news came in that Frank Sinatra had cut short a Berlin appearance due to poor audiences, and was flying instead to give a performance in London.
Deputy editor John McDonald – known perhaps unkindly as McMumble because his conversation was often flowery to the point of incomprehension – was a fan of the singer and decided to run a story about him on Page One with the grovelling headline YOU’RE WELCOME, FRANK. To this I confess I contributed the deathless line that Sinatra’s concert would be held at the “Francis Albert Hall”. Ouch!
McDonald sat down and wrote a fan letter to Sinatra, craving a meeting. Then, around midnight, armed with the letter and early copies of the paper, he was driven with Jill King, the night news editor, to Sinatra’s hotel, the Inn on the Park. There John Bodell, the driver, was instructed to take the papers and the letter, deliver them to Sinatra’s suite, and wait for the response, which McDonald confidently expected would be an invitation to Jill to enter the Presence and be given the Big Exclusive Interview.
After 10 minutes Bodell, a big man not easily intimidated, came running out of the hotel and jumped, pale-faced, back in the car. He’d had a response all right -- one of Sinatra’s burly bodyguards had told him: “If you’re not out of here in one minute we’re gonna break your fuckin’ legs!”
Farewell to Mike on a grey day in Belfast
Mike Deane pictured in Singapore in 1982 on a visit to his former colleague Nigel Lilburn. Mike had just been made deputy managing editor
By ALAN FRAME
Our old friend and colleague Michael Deane made his last journey yesterday on a suitably grey, wet Irish day. But the weather certainly didn’t deter a large turn-out at Roselawn Crematorium, Belfast. Indeed it was standing room only as we said our farewells to Mike, who died at the age of 70 on January 13, finally losing his 10-year fight with cancer.
Widow Christine and sons David and Richard, of whom Mike was inordinately proud, led the mourners together with his extended family. Terry Manners and I flew from London to be there, getting up at the sort of time at which we used to go to bed…and this meant the need for refreshment before making our way to Roselawn. There is no finer place than John Betjeman’s favourite pub, the National Trust-owned Crown Liquor Saloon in Great Victoria Street, all stained glass and booths, great Guinness and Irish stew and this time without the hordes of Japanese tourists. After the service, a reception was held at the nearby La Mon hotel, rather different now from the place bombed by the Provisionals in 1978, killing 12. As a native of the province it is a joy, whatever the weather or even the occasion, to be back in a country so different and mostly happy with itself. I gave this short address concentrating on Mike’s career at the Express which prompted many of his friends later to bemoan the general state of the printed Press:
-----------------
I rang Mike exactly two weeks ago and we had a long chat. His voice sounded much stronger than just before Christmas and, as always, he was optimistic and lively and determined. He had been fighting his damned cancer for so long that he – and most of us – thought he could go on cheating it forever. Indeed, when I came off the phone I said to a friend: “At this rate he’ll outlive us all”
My first word to him was the one which started all our conversations: “Howzeboutye?” and his last words to me that day were: “This thing’s not going to beat me you know”. I believed him and was looking forward immensely to the date Terry Manners and I had with Mike. But instead of flying over to see him at the beginning of next month we are here today in very different circumstances.
I first met Michael in 1979 when I joined the Daily Express in London. In fact we could have been colleagues 15 years earlier when I went to work as the most junior of junior cub reporters on the News-Letter where I stayed for two years. I had left Methody and Mike BRA (Methodist College and Belfast Royal Academy, two of the four rival schools in the city) at the same time but he, wise fellow, had taken off to the sun for a stint in Australia not joining the News-Letter (after UTV) until much later. By that time the young barman who served the thirsty staff their Guinness in the Duke of York, the pub in those days next door to the paper, had moved on to less peaceful employment. His name was – is – Gerry Adams.
So it was not until the Express that we bumped into each other, discovered we had so much in common and became instant friends (by coincidence I had even sub-edited the Nature Notes on the News-Letter, written by his father, the great C Douglas Deane). Mike and I were both news sub editors then, along with Terry, and it was from there that the careers of all three of us and many others started to take off. Up the greasy pole we called it. And sometimes down…
It wasn’t long before Mike was appointed deputy managing editor and in the many emails we have received from former colleagues, all have remarked on the friendly face he brought to the job. After all, few hacks appreciate having their expenses claims scrutinised, let alone questioned and slashed! But somehow he fulfilled that small part of his very senior role without alienating colleagues. Terry became night editor and editor of the Express in Scotland and I became executive editor. Considering that Terry and I were in charge of large budgets and always wanted our way, and Mike was paid to keep us in check, it says a lot about the man that we all remained such good friends right up to this sad day.
The great thing about the Express then – apart from the fact that it was a terrific newspaper, something it ceased to be long ago - was the camaraderie of the editorial staff. We played cricket (badly) together, others football, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company out of the office. In the case of the then bachelor, Mike in particular was much admired by the ladies and driving sports cars like his Triumph TR6 or Daimler V8 didn’t do anything to get in the way of that. Nor did being Irish I’m happy to say!
Mike left the paper in the mid ‘90s, returning here where he started a society/celebrity magazine and worked for a while back at the News-Letter. I would see him regularly when I returned to visit my family and we would cogitate over the old times wondering (as we all do) how the once greatest newspaper in the land had fallen so spectacularly from grace. We would lunch at Balloo House and drink long into the night at home in Killyleagh and inevitably I suppose we became two old buffers wallowing in nostalgia. And how we loved it…
Despite his cancer Mike would come to London for reunions and most recently for the funeral of a colleague of whom he was very fond (Terry Evans). Now it’s the turn of us to have come to him.
Rest in Peace Michael.
In the Frame by Alan Frame
A DECENT MAN: Captain Terence O'Neill
ENTER LEFT WITH A BANG
NOW THAT the foppish Robert Peston has finally arrived at ITN, there has been much speculation as to whether he will smarten up, sartorially that is. It reminded me of the time 50 years ago when, as a very young reporter on Belfast’s morning paper, the News-Letter , I turned up to cover a meeting of the then all-powerful Ulster Unionist Party, in an old tweed jacket, home knitted (Mum not me) brown cardigan and baggy cords. Sort of young fogey without the Jacob Rees-Mogg style. Oh, and longish hair and a beard.
Addressing the meeting was the Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, Capt Terence O’Neill, a decent man who did his limited best to end the appalling treatment of the province’s Catholics and the gerrymandering and criminality (Vote Early, Vote Often) which scarred politics in those parts.
For some reason O’Neill took exception that I was not dressed for such an important meeting (in truth not much more than one staged by a local council) and complained to the editor. Complaint duly passed on with no great force. What O’Neill didn’t know at the time was that I was pally with his daughter Ann through her friendship with the sister of a good chum of mine. Come the following Sunday the four of us drove to the Glens of Antrim in my 12-year-old Riley which, it has to be said, had seen better days.
At the end of the day I had to return Ann to her parents. As we were about to turn into the drive of their grand country house near Ballymena the exhaust pipe and silencer decided to part company with the car making such a noise that could have been heard 30 miles away in Belfast (and sadly would be with great regularity within a couple of years). The problem was O’Neill, being PM and none too popular with many of the natives, had a driveway flanked by two sentry posts, housing two cops with machine guns. Hearing the racket from the Riley and assuming an attack, they jumped out, guns at the ready, about to shoot their boss’ daughter and her friends.
Worse was to come a few minutes later when we walked through the front door, only for the Rt Hon Terence O’Neill PC MP to realise that the scruffy bugger at the UUP meeting a few days before was also responsible for the terrorist scare at the end of his drive.
I wasn’t invited back.
STOP PRESS
I was telling a pal at lunch today about the O’Neill saga and he responded with the following. My chum, who has to remain nameless, is a retired general and was a very senior officer in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. One evening at Army HQ he answered the phone to be assaulted by the tones of an irate Ian Paisley berating him for some perceived ill. My friend immediately put the phone on to loudspeaker to let colleagues enjoy the future Chuckle Brother’s tirade. When finally Paisley had to pause for breath, General X said: ”I’m sorry father, I didn’t catch your name”… Oh to have been there!
STEWPOT, A DECENT CHAP
I WAS SAD to learn of the early death of Ed Stewart, the erstwhile DJ and one of the few not to have had his collar felt by Inspector Knacker. In a former life in the village of Tatsfield, high on Surrey’s North Downs, I was a member of the village cricket team. At some point in the late 1970s we decided to stage a celebrity cricket match, a sort of Tatsfield v Rest of the World.
We trawled for celebrities, the usual suspects including the great Colin Cowdrey, a near-ish neighbour but unavailable; Tim Rice, a serious cricket nerd whom I had just interviewed but playing for his own team that day, and many others. All politely unavailable except for Ed Stewart, singer Jess Conrad (nice bloke but even in 1979 past his best) and Johnny Speight, creator of the ghastly Alf Garnett.
Ed, pictured, was a delight. He played well – that is to say better than any of us though we were hardly worthy of Wisden – but importantly was a very decent chap, especially when the heavens opened and we retired to the pub. Ed was charming, good fun and very clubbable. Ditto Jess C who had come all the way from Herefordshire for the, er, honour of playing with us, poor sod. As for Johnny Speight, he ‘fielded’ on the long on boundary, legs apart to aid unimpeded travel of the ball, chain smoking and never moving an inch. He felt much more at home when we reached the pub.
ALL DRIED UP
LAST WEEKEND we embarked on a dry January (really a dry-what’s-left-of-January). Not because we listened to Nanny (that usually has the reverse effect) but because we had never done it. In other words, a spot of self-flagellation, particularly curious as one half of us is a Born Against Catholic (her copyright by the way). I’ll let you know how we get on – all I can say for now that it is too bloody boring for words. Real flagellation must be preferable.
HELLO GOODBYE
THIS morning I was subjected to a very charming 25-year-old relating her (short) life story by frequent scatterings of ‘Back in the Day’. God, how I hate that ludicrous phrase, now as common and irritating as a goodbye which concludes with ‘Take Care’ and/or ‘See you tomorrow yeah?’ Back in MY day we had plenty of verbal irritations: the older generation would bid farewell with TTFN dating back to the war (Ta ta for now), the Cilla Black generation with Ta Ra, and the early rock’n’rollers with ‘See you later alligator’ to which one would be expected to respond ‘In a while crocodile’ after the Bill Hailey hit of 1956. As for hellos, Mohamed al Fayed used to greet me (and other blokes) with “How’s your cock?”. No reply was needed and rarely proffered.
For a while after the release of the Beatles’ A Hard Day’s Night, that brilliant phrase invented by Ringo became commonplace in every workplace as in “How are you this morning?”; “Oh, it was a hard day’s night”, usually accompanied by a snigger.
At which point, I shall take this opportunity of bidding you a fond and temporary farewell…
Monkeyspeak: What photographers really mean
FLASH HARRYS: Photographers move in for a picture of Beetles drummer Ringo Starr as he goes into hospital to have his tonsils removed in December 1964. Bottom middle, in grey hair and glasses, is Bob Dean of Associated Press, bottom right is Frank Hudson of the Daily Mail, top middle is Sid Biddell and top right is Harry Sheldrake of Barretts.
Picture: Fox Photos/Getty
By PAUL HARRIS of the Press Association who spent a lifetime with the lensmen of Fleet Street
“FaaaaaaaaaaaKinnell: ”Good gracious me.
“Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah”: Possibly
“Nokkit on de ‘ead and leggit” Pull out of this assignment
“Elbow dis” - (See above)
“Onya toes” - (See above)
Dis is a pileashit - tubbit: This print is not of the quality desired by the Press Association. Kindly place it on the picture spike.
F4: Term relating to photographic exposure
F off : A photographic term relating to positioning.
Flash: A photographic flash, or light therefrom.
Flash bastard: Rich person exhibiting poor taste.
“Bollux”: I’m sorry: I beg to differ.
Uplight: A light designed to “bounce” off the ceiling.
Up yours: A suggestion to cause immense pain.
Free 'undred: A long lens
Five ‘undred: A fucking long lens
Double: Device designed to multiply lens focal length by two.
Double bubble: Device designed to multiply income by two.
Stick: Colloquial term for monopod, a steadying device for a camera (as in Nikon on a stick)
Winnder: Elevated position
Tenna ferra winnder: Payment for above.
Getcha arse off me laddercunt: Territorial claim; derivation obscure.
Stakeout: Gathering of photographic colleagues awaiting person or persons in order to secure a
photograph.
Steak sandwich: Eaten by “dem cunts from ITN” on stake-outs, and never shared with stills photographers.
Snatch pic: Photograph taken of unsuspecting persons (“I snatched ‘im, dinneye?” or Mayfair Centrefold.)
Eeez been secret squirrel: “He has not been forthcoming in the pooling of information.
Blunt: Member of the writing press corps. Often referred to as "My blunt”.
Ping: Electronic method of sending photographic negative for reproduction.
Pinger: Machine to facilitate the above. Sometimes known as “pocket rocket. Needs to be shouted at and whistled down to function correctly.
Picture Quality:
1) Smudge: Poor quality
2) A bit smudgy: Poor but useable.
3) Pin: in good focus
4) Fakkin pin: In fucking good focus.
5) A bleedin' bellringer, mate: Excellent quality of definition and tone.
*****
Piccher(s): A photograph. Never pronounced with a T.
Gissaneg: We were photographically unrepresented on this assignment and would appreciate the opportunity to publish a picture. (Usually followed by financial negotiation.)
Scissorjob: Activity facilitating the above.
A fakkin no-no: A person who is not instantly recognisable and who has not been in the news during the previous 24 hours, See also: "Oooooo? Nevereardovim.”
Toys: Camera equipment. Blunts may occasionally be asked: "‘ere, old me toys - bustinfera piss.”
Jamjar: Car.
Jammy dog: Car phone in jamjar, dog and bone.
Bell: Verb. To telephone.
Ding Dong: Ron Bell, revered PA Coourt Photographer
“Only a bleeding’ girl”: A female photographer.
“Youwot-youwot-youwot?” Pardon?
“Oi, Una palerma blanco por favor": Excuse me waiter, may I have a blank bill?
“Whorrrr Give ‘er one!”: What an attractive young girl.
“Fukdat foragameasoldiers”: “No thanks."
Bish Bash Bosh: Three photographs taken in rapid succession, usually by motor drive.
Donk: Signifies the accomplishment of a mission to take single photograph, usually explained by finger on shutter hand gesture.
“Bungit darna tube”: Kindly send this down to the picture department via the internal message chute.
Ixy - PA Picture Editor Paddy Hicks.
VOLUME TWO
(Royal Monkeyspeak – Species: Rhesus Regal):
ARPA: Arthur Edwards, Princess Diana's favourite Royal photographer.
'EE DUN AN ARPA': He skied over a cliff.
BAKED BEAN: Queen.
BROWN BREAD: Dead.
BAKED BEAN BROWN BREAD OFFICIAL: Sun headline, circa 2023.
MILL: An evening out at a restaurant.
CRACKIN MILL: A very nice evening out at a restaurant.
ALL-DAY SIZZLA: Meal and/or restaurant favoured by photographers.
JACK: Jack and Jill - bill.
'APPY JACK: A blank bill.
KANT: A person of little worth.
FROG KANTS: The French Press.
BRUSSEL SPROUTS: The German Press.
'GERRART ME BLEEDIN WAY UNLESS YER WANNA FREE UNDRID ON DE BAKKA DE 'ED':
Multi-national welcome for foreign press partaking in royal photocall.
WASHERS: Designated name for any foreign coinage.
PHIL: The Duke of Edinburgh.
FILL: What 'Blunts' give each other.
'GISSA FILL, DARLIN': Hello, may I fondle your breasts?
WOCH-OP: Expensive jewellers where photographers purchase vulgar watches. Compulsory on royal tours.
THE DOG'S BOLLOCKS: The very best that there is. Sometimes shortened to 'Bollo'.
A WANNARR: A shop which will develop films within one hour.
NUT THE PILLER: Go to sleep.
GET SOME ZEDSIN: Ditto.
RIP VAN WINKLIN: Having an unduly long sleep.
LEICA: Prized camera.
LEICA DOG WIV TWO DICKS: Behaving in excited fashion.
'OK NAR - FREE, TOO, WUN EAR-WIGGO': Secret code spoken to picture desk executives when Pingin (For 'Pingin' see Monkeyspeak Vol 1)
'ULLO LUNDIN ALLO ALLO ALLO WAKE UP YOU KANTS WHERE DER FAK YOU GON': Another secret Pingin code.
A LOADA BOLLOCK-BRAINS: Picture Desk executives assigned to receive Pinged pix.
MAGENTA: A colour which always has to be sent again when Pingin.
FREIGHT 'EM: An old-fashioned method of transporting film.
PAKKIT: Container in which film is transported.
FAKKIT: Expression of despair.
BACKER DA BOOK: Unfavourable placement of royal photographs within the newspaper. (Example: 'Wochor lot dun wivvit den?' - I'm in der backerdabook.'
WUN, FREE ANNA SPREAD. Extremely favourable placement of Royal photographs within newspaper.
'CAM ON YOO RE-EDS!': Tribal chant. Derivation obscure.
TWO PORK PIES SHORT OF A PICNIC: A person of limited intellect.
BARKIN: Mentally unbalanced.
ASSLE-BLAD: Camera, or state-of-the-art pinger.
ASSOLE BLED: Medical complaint suffered by Daily Star reporter - (never to be discussed during 'Mill').
A WOLFIE: An unattributable briefing.
A DICKIE: An unusable briefing.
FAKKIN GOSPEL: Information from a member of the Royal Family.
DORIS: Any female.
SOME BLEEDIN DORIS: A representative of any British embassy abroad.
A COMPLETE DORIS: A man who is not to be trusted.
OFF PISTE: Where the Royal Family go.
ON THE PISTE: Where the Royal Rat Pack go.
'JEW MEMBER DAT TIME IN BANGKOK?' - Start of a very boring anecdote.
'JEW MEMBER DAT TIME IN KLOSTERS?' Start of an even more boring anecdote.
'YOU GOIN BRAZIL (etc)?': Start of extremely boring logistic planning discussion.
TITE EDS: Members of the Royal Family pictured close together.
GENSTER LIGHT: Where the Royal Family always stand.
FERSILLITY: A photo-opportunity where you are unlikely to be shot dead.
SNATCH FROM THE BUSHES: A photo opportunity where you are extremely likely to be shot dead.
PAPPS: Unscrupulous freelances; or any photographers who bring the profession into disrepute by disregarding rules of play. Often get better pictures and make vast income.
WOODY: See above.
SHARIN: Working in tandem with one's colleagues.
SQUIRRILIN: Not working in tandem with one's colleagues.
STITCHIN: Pretending to work in tandem with one's colleagues, whilst simultaneously pursuing an exclusive picture.
STITCHES: Hospital treatment needed by those who practise the above.
DEFFWATCH: An excuse to stay for long periods in exotic locations at huge expense to employers, without having to produce a picture for publication.
MONKEYSPEAK 3
(incorporating Rhesus Technos)
NEGS-R-US: Designated title of a co-operative set up with a view to analysing and exchanging negatives. (See 'sharin' and 'gissaneg', passim). One photographer's hotel bedroom can be assigned as 'The Swop Shop' to act as headquarters for said transactions.
EDWARD SCISSORHANDS: Secret Codename given to chief operative or field agent of above agreement.
DAT SHIFTY KANT: Secret codename given to photographer who refuses to take part in the agreement. See also: 'I'll Avim'.
Y or IE: Added to photographer's name or nickname to show that he has been embraced into the
camaradarie. Examples: Beastie, Woody, Backy, Cairnsy, Ocky, Frankie-lankie-lankie.
Exceptions: Son of Beast, Gavvers, Dodger.
THE PROF: Title given to Martin Keane, PA, in tribute to the elementary understanding of computers and electronics which allows him to lead the blind.
SURESHOT: Camera preferred by photographers when picture is likely to be non-award winning (ie almost all the time). Still essential to carry 25 kilos of clanking Nikons, Canons, Leicas etc around neck while using sureshot (See Street Cred).
Blunts are sometimes entrusted with photographers' Sureshots (See 'Getting yourself out of the shit').
Blunts sometimes carry their own Sureshots and send images direct to picture desk (See 'Get the Fukkin little shit').
STEVE BACK: Daily Mail photographer, known as Lord Back; much-travelled.
BILL BACK: Mythical photographer with whom everyone wants to travel.
WEDGE: An advance of cash given to photographers before embarking on a foreign trip. See also 'Lids up front', 'Wonga' and 'Luvvly Luvvly Luvvly'.
RE-WEDGING: The art of convincing the office in London that more 'Lids' are needed to continue a foreign assignment. Often facilitated by Macking note to pic desk proclaiming: 'Send more Wonga'.
MUKKY STRASSE: Street which photographers must always find when abroad in order to immerse themselves in local culture.
JIGGY JIGGY: Believed to be a dance of tribal origin, always carried out in Mukky Strasse. Definition unclear as 'Blunts' are never invited on Jiggy Jiggy Jaunts.
'IT MAY SAY CHABLIS ON THE LABEL, BUT IT DOESN'T SAY CHABLIS ON THE PALATE.': Legendary appraisal of aircraft wine by Bill Rowntree, Daily Mirror. Phrase guaranteed to clear any restaurant/plane/bar/hotel of other photographers.
FAKKIN: Adjective without which no fakkin sentence is complete.
MACKIN: Verb to describe process of sending photographic images down telephone line using Apple Mac.
RE-BOOTING: Technical term used to describe (a): Resetting computer parameters; or (b): Buying new Timberlands on expenses.
HIROSHIMA FACTOR: The point at which a hotel's switchboard melts due to excessive number of photographers using/abusing/re-wiring telephone system simultaneously. (Hilton? Naahhh. We broke it last time).
EYPEE-DEE: The Electronic Picture Desk.
YIPPEE-DEE: Exclamation at being pulled off long doorstep.
NIKON CHOIR: The sweet sound of many motordrives singing as one from massed ranks.
ELVIS: The end of an assignment. ('I'm outa here. I'm Elvis. I'm history.’)
SAMBUCCA: Alcoholic drink tasting like developer/fixer - used by photographers to set fire to themselves on foreign assignments. Origins of ceremony obscure.
BOSH-PROOF GLASS: Obscured or reflective glass used on prison vans etc to stop intrusion of cameras. Metropolitan Police vans also give off special scent which compels photographers to run alongside until outpaced. (Camera strap caught on wing mirror has same effect).
KLEX: Photographs 'klected' from trusting bereaved relatives etc. Never returned. Reporter always blamed for loss.
THE GREMLINS/THE GROWN-UPS/THE BRAIN-DEADS/THE FUN FACTORY/THE FUNNY FARM/THE COMPLETE BUNCHOVARSOLES: The Picture Desk.
ON THE SKETCH: Nostalgic phrase used by senior photographers to evoke fond memories of Good Old Days. (It's funny you should say that cos when I was on the Sketch etc etc etc...). Often accompanied by fellow photographers snoring, hanging themselves, falling on swords etc.
CAPTION-WRITER: General News reporter.
WURDSMIFF: Feature Writer.
THE ELDERFLOWER PRESS: Collective term for group of veteran senior colour-writers.
A STONKER: A jolly good picture.
A PLONKER: A jolly silly person.
A BONKER: (See Jiggy Jiggy).
MONKEY SUIT: Timeless style of dress adopted by colonies of photographers. Includes Schott leather jacket for posing. Otherwise: Sleeveless jacket; jeans; building-workers' boots. (Report once swept Tory conference that photographer had been banned from posh hotel bar for wearing Timberland boots. Later rumoured he was wearing ONLY Timberland boots).
MONKEY DROPPINGS: Plastic film containers, polystyrene cups, orange envelopes etc, dropped by photographers on stake-outs and other assignments. Trained reporters can tell how many hours earlier the photographers left by sniffing the droppings, rubbing them between two fingers and putting one ear to the ground. ('Many monkeys pass this way, bwana....').
SURF & TURF: Standard photographers' meal of prawn cocktail and fillet steak, ordered in countries where food is considered 'well dodgy'. Always accompanied by 'Bottla Shablee’
BRANKS: Essential documentation which always leads to arguments/fights/meat cleavers in Chinese restaurants where groups of photographers dine.
PEN: Writing implement which photographers always need but never carry.
NOTEBOOK: Ditto.
'OI! GISSA SHEET ART YA NOTEBOOK KANT!' Request for above.
LEFF-TRITE: What Blunts compile while photographers take pictures of more than one person at once.
'SEE REPORTER FOR NAMES': A typical photographers' caption.
'OWJA SPELL DAT DEN?' A photographer trying to write a caption.
MELT THE FUKKA: What photographers equipped with flashguns do to unwilling picture subjects. (See also 'Ose 'im darn).
ends
Jan 2016
Mike Deane loses his final brave battle
OLD FRIENDS: Mike Deane, left, at home in Co Down in 2013 with Mike Steemson
By ALAN FRAME
Mike Deane, former Express news sub and later deputy managing editor of the Daily Express, has died shortly after his 70th birthday. He had battled cancer for more than 10 years with extraordinary determination and his last words to me at the end of a long phone call a week ago were: “This thing’s not going to beat me”.
Mike Deane was born in Belfast where he was schooled at the Royal Academy. His father was C Douglas Deane, the distinguished ornithologist and deputy director of the city’s Ulster Museum. Douglas Deane also wrote the nature notes for the Belfast News-letter, the first paper I worked on and where I subbed his copy.
Mike also worked at the News-Letter after a stint in Australia after school, joining the paper from Ulster Television, at that time part-owned by the News-Letter’s holding company. He later worked on the Edinburgh Evening News and The Times. I had left the News-Letter before he joined and we first met when I joined the news subs bench in 1979. Mike was already there having been recruited from PA along with Chris Williams, your esteemed editor and publisher Lord Bingo, and Don Higgs among other stars. He and I were two of three Ulstermen subbing there, the other being the irascible long distance walker and, unlike his compatriots, the teetotal Jack Atkinson.
After a stint as FoC Mike became deputy managing editor (the management were no fools – former FoC Chris Williams later became Editor, and a very good one at that) until he left the paper in the mid ‘90s, returning to Ireland where he started a society/celebrity magazine and worked for a while back at the News-Letter, by then owned by the Mirror Group. He lived in the Co Down countryside where his wife Christine kept horses and ran an antiques shop.
I would see him regularly when I returned to visit my family and we would eat and drink far too much cogitating over the old times and wondering (as we all do) how the one-time greatest newspaper in the land had fallen so spectacularly from grace. And despite his cancer which he had endured for more than 10 years, he came to London for the First Tuesday Club and most recently, last April, for the funeral of the great Terry Evans.
Mike was a decent man, as passionate as me about Ireland’s rugby successes and, like me also, with a fondness for old cars. He drove a Triumph TR6 and then a Daimler V8-250 (I still have one) while at the Express before selling the Daimler to Barry Gomer.
The end came suddenly on January 13 when pneumonia took him. Christine and son David were there but their other son Richard was in New Zealand and due to see that venerable and permanently cheerful Expressman Mike Steemson, one of Deane’s closest pals.
When we spoke last week Mike Deane talked about the great Christmas he had enjoyed and was looking forward to seeing through this year, particularly to a visit Terry Manners and I had planned for early next month. Instead we will be going earlier, to his funeral on January 21.
FLASHBACK: Mike, centre, in the features department of the Daily Express Fleet Street office in London in the 1980s with, from left, Ross Benson, Tinu the secretary and Alan Frame
