The most fun I had in journalism was in the Sixties as a teen working for the Observer. It was the time of “Swinging London” – as nobody called it. Super-glamorous figures such as Min Hogg, co-founder of World of Interiors, or White Mischief author James Fox would shimmer in and out to launches and lunches. Disappearing down a corridor you would see international gurus like the diplomat Conor Cruise O’Brien heading into the editor’s office to put the world to rights. The woman who would become John Osborne’s fifth (yes, fifth) wife worked two desks down from me. Nik Cohn might pop by to talk about a night out with Pete Townshend in Shepherd’s Bush. Anyone using the word “clicks” would have been assumed to be speaking ancient Etruscan. Different times.
It struck me then that this was the life: I was only paid £15 a week, but you didn’t have to get up too early, and boozing and late nights were normal, if not encouraged. Ever since those days at the Obs I have enjoyed and admired the paper, even through its dizzying changes of ownership, culminating in the Guardian’s purchase of the title in 1993. It was primarily a defensive move to stop the Independent on Sunday buying it and closing it, to give more clout to the daily Independent, the Guardian’s great rival.
Content from our partners
