Jack Atkinson, the mad foreign sub who owned an antique arsenal — and threatened to use it on, er, guess who
1966 AND ALL THAT: Jack Atkinson in the foreground at work in the Daily Express newsroom with splash sub Peter Hedley by his side
The Chief Foreign Sub on the Daily Express half a lifetime ago was a cantankerous Ulsterman by the name of Jack Atkinson.
He was a bit of a martinet, one of nature’s corporals. He showed deference to senior officers unless he did not like or respect them, in which case it was disdain.
At the same time, Atkinson expected those whom he regarded as his juniors metaphorically to doff their caps to him. This meant, of course, the 1974 intake of downtable scoundrels and ruffians who were blowing away the cobwebs on the Express.
I did not know him well but I would say, from his accent and demeanour, that Atkinson was educated in one of the province’s fine public schools.
Having prepared the foreign page splash, he would flourish the copy above his head and summon a messenger with the words: “Ah, hair dine, please!” Translated, it meant, “Would you be kind enough to pop this down the hole to the printer?”
Atkinson was an eccentric. Like other senior hands on the subs’ table, he regarded his shift as finished as soon as the first edition was safely tucked up in bed. He would then leave to catch his train to, I think, somewhere in Kent.
But sometimes, or so I was told, the lean and wiry Atkinson would run it, following the rail line under his own steam.
He owned a collection of guns. These were the days when the Troubles were tearing apart that wee corner of the United Kingdom and it might have been politic to keep details of his armoury to himself.
But when the editor of this fine organ irritated him once too often, the little man with the silver ’tache and the threadbare trousers warned him to curtail his antics or he would bring in one of his (possibly antique) weapons.
How times change. Nowadays, such a threat would see Atkinson surrounded by tooled-up coppers shouting: “Armed police! Get down on your knees! Do it now!” But we just laughed it off – albeit it, slightly nervously – as Bingo led the way to the pub.
Incidentally, there was a similar character to Atkinson – which is to say a short-fused Irish gun collector – on the Yorkshire Post during my time there.
One night the editor, an ex-Express sub called John Edwards, was standing beside him as he planned Page One. Edwards had a habit of jiggling the coins in his pocket as he concentrated on this task.
The Irishman was also trying to focus on the story he was subbing and suddenly snapped: “For God’s sake, man, will you stop jingling your f***ing change and let me get on with the job you f***ing pay me for?”
The editor, a nice man all too familiar with deadline pressure and dead end subs, deftly defused the moment with a benign smile and moved away.
But back to Atkinson. He was an expert on Yugoslavia (which he pronounced Yugo-slave-ia) and would bore senseless anyone daft enough to listen with his theories on what would happen when Marshall Tito, who single-handedly held together this ragbag of separate countries, died.
He duly did, of course. Inconveniently, it was on Atkinson’s day off and the honed and burnished, meticulously updated copy meant for a double-page spread on the looming international catastrophe was locked away in a desk drawer. It never made the paper.
Just another of Fleet Street’s sad ironies.
You could often identify, way back when, the man who had subbed a particular story. To the practised eye, there were tells: phrases or constructions that were as distinctive as a hallmark or a signature.
The great Roy Povey, for example, would remove every misused “like” and replace it with “such as”. In a Ken Weller splash, every convicted murderer would “smirk” in the dock, not smile.
And Atkinson’s giveaway – you see, we’ve taken the scenic route but we’ve finally got to the point of this story – was “strongman”, as in Yugoslavian strongman Marshall Tito.
Watching TV the other night, I saw the ludicrous Donald Trump casting himself as Churchill, eyes narrowed, chin jutting, boasting that his bunker-busting bombs had “completely and totally obliterated” Iran’s nuclear facilities, a claim that already looks thin.
Jack Atkinson, subbing the story for the foreign pages, might have reached instinctively for the word “strongman”, but, good sub that he was, would have discarded it pretty quickly.
Trump is a weak man. And unfortunately, his weakness is our weakness.
*****
What a joy to watch the Odd Couple of cricket taking England’s attack apart in the first Test at Headingley.
At one end was Rishabh Pant, India’s vice-captain. He’s a showman, a portly figure who performs a contortionist’s tricks to score runs. Regularly, he would flick the ball over his shoulder as his body tumbled to the ground.
Pant, who has only just recovered from career-threatening injuries sustained in a car crash, reached his first innings century with a one-handed six. Then he celebrated – not just his ton, it seemed, but life itself – with a forward somersault.
At the other end was his captain and great friend Shubman Gill, lean and steely-eyed. He too brought up a century, elegant and correct. To a purist such as me, it was a masterclass drawn from the MCC coaching manual.
In the second innings, Pant scored another crackpot century batting alongside KL Rahul, whose 137 was rigorously orthodox and virtually flawless.
India, not England or Australia, is now the powerhouse of cricket, with a renewed team and millions of devoted fans. And this match, gripping to the very end, might prove to be the saviour of Test cricket.
Every day brought ebb and flow; when England began their huge run chase India were odds-on favourites to win.
But Ben Stokes’s men pulled it off in the dying minutes of the match. It lasted FIVE breathless, absorbing days – when was the last time that happened? – on a pitch that offered some hope to everyone… batsmen, pace bowlers and spinners.
It was what Geoff Boycott would call “proper” cricket. Me too, come to that.
*****
I don’t want to spook anyone but a sinister news story this week has cast a shadow over the Glastonbury Festival, which starts on Friday.
The story comes from France where 145 people, mostly women, were pricked with syringes in a campaign whipped up online.
Police have not revealed if the syringes contained substances such as the date rape drugs Rohypnol or GBH, which can make victims confused or unconscious and vulnerable to sex attacks.
Some victims reported feeling unwell and were taken to hospital for toxicological tests, the French interior ministry said.
The attacks came during France’s annual street music festival, which took place last weekend in cities across the country.
Twelve people suspected of committing syringe attacks have been arrested. Before the festival began, posts on Snapchat and other social media sites had called for women to be targeted.
Glastonbury Festival, which has been running since 1970, does not usually attract much trouble and police hailed last year’s as “a very safe event”.
I pray it stays that way this year.
RICHARD DISMORE
26 June 2025
