Ludo Dawnay
Staff Writer
Joy, the deputy editor of the Diary, threw pictures of Mike Tindall and Zara Philips onto my desk and told me to write an article. When I was taking a long time, Joy snapped at me, asking me if I was finished yet. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s very good’, I replied.
‘Oh don’t worry’, she reassured me ‘James has been working here for a thousand years, and he still writes bad copy’. James, sitting to my right, smiled sheepishly at me. So I sent it to her. And it was published the following day. I’d done a few work experience placements and expected the same old thing; sitting there on the internet, waiting for something to do. But as I was going to find out, I was going to be paid for each article I wrote.
The Evening Standard is a London daily newspaper which is published in the early afternoon, catching rush hour as commuters head home. Their office is located just off High Street Kensington, in West London. I was working for the Londoner’s Diary section, which is devoted to gossip and hearsay. It is not concerned with celebrity trivia, but at the ongoings of the elite of London; the writers, the politicians, the socialites and the like. Many of the stories, as I discovered, were from people phoning in to give us a tip off. I had to pick up many phones and hear: ‘Sebastian!’ (the name of the editor of the section). In October 2009, it became a free giveaway, ending a hundred and eighty year period of paid circulation and doubling its consumption.
I wrote stories on various topics, from a public dispute between literary types to the Wikipedia page describing a well-known figure playing Call of Duty with his nephews. The most eventful, however, concerned the knighthood of Paul Ruddock. Often I was asked to ring various people, to gain a quote or to validate an article. But I’ve never had a phone call like the one I had with Paul Ruddock’s wife, Jill. I had been tipped of by a source that the Ruddocks had celebrated their knighthood with a party. The knighthood was controversial because Ruddock was a friend of Cameron, and a significant Tory donor. Having a party after being honoured with a knighthood from a buddy would be frowned upon. So there I was, with the number that had come from Joy, who had a filofax with almost everyone who’s anyone’s number in London. The source had warned me not to phone her, describing Jill as a ‘scary’ American woman. Joy called me over, staring at the article and said, ‘It’s lacking something’.
‘I could ring her, I guess.’, I heard tumble out of my mouth, ‘And Cameron might have been there’. Her eyes lit up with delight.
I quickly learnt that every phone call had a very similar script. Initially, the person being called is usually friendly and polite. As soon as I mention that I am working with a newspaper, their tone suddenly changes. They become either cautious with a ‘What do you want?’ attitude, or curious, depending, perhaps, on previous experience. At the final stage, I mention the topic of conversation, at which point they are either very accommodating, if the story is publicising them, or they become rude and defensive. Jill was one of the latter:
‘Did you have a party on Saturday night to celebrate the knighthood of your husband?’, I asked.
‘No, I didn’t have a party on Saturday‘
‘What about Sunday then?’
‘No. Why didn’t Sebastian ring me? Why didn’t Geordie (the editor of the entire paper) ring me?’, she said, getting increasingly irate, ‘Who are you? You’ve been so kind to me recently.’
‘I’m here on work experience’
‘You’re a workie?’, she said, now shouting, ‘A workie? Let me speak to your boss’
I passed the phone to Joy, who I heard saying, ‘Calm down, OK, calm down’. She smiled as she hung up. I wonder why she was so angry, maybe it’s because I didn’t call her Lady.
It turned out the party happened on Friday, and Cameron wasn’t there. And Jill never found out the source. She kept on talking about this ‘Ludo Trawlney’ (I’m Ludo Dawnay).
Sometimes, when I had little to do, I enjoyed just soaking up the ambiance of the newspaper atmostphere. I enjoyed glaring at the Sky News and BBC News blaring on the wall, and my desk had a view of the front page being produced. The template had ‘SPLASH HEADLINE’ in bold letters. There were phone calls with Peter Hitchens, and the editor would occasionally patrol the office. This was different to an advertising agency or an accounting office. There seemed to be more of an excitement, more of a collaboration. Around the hours of 11am, the pace would pick up; it would be near filing time. Things would be rushed, in time for the printers.
I would get my Evening Standard on the way to the bus on the way home, and pick up the issue for the day. I would always turn to the Londoner’s Diary section to see my articles in print. As well as the £250 I received, there was a greater pleasure. Seeing your words, chosen by you, in print, even if they are heavily edited, and there is no byline, I still wrote that. And that is there forever. I felt like an architect, a sense of pride. No one can unpublish that, it will be in the archives forever. People may not read this article, but I have written a combination of words and language read by 1.5 million people, all over London.
