THIS ISLAND LIFEWHENEVER hacks foregather, the conversation invariably revolves around two subjects — where they used to work and the memorable people they met while working there.
It was no different at the Plessey club the other evening, when I gave one of my talks.
An affable face I hadn’t seen for almost 30 years emerged from the audience; Jeff Hunter and I were former colleagues at The News, Portsmouth.
It was an era when the editorial department there was brimming over with the sort of characters who made going to work a pleasure.
For example, there was Charlie Green, the arts correspondent, a dapper and delightful man who could sometimes be a tad absent-minded.
This was never more apparent then when you stood next to him in the gents.
Charlie preferred to operate (how best to put this?) free-hand and would happily stand there with his hands in pockets while answering the call of nature.
This made it a hazardous business for colleagues standing nearby, because Charlie was also a man with exquisite manners and would not dream of engaging in conversation with anyone without turning to face them.
This meant many an unwary hack emerged from the latrines ruefully shaking a damp trouser-leg.
Brian Snook, a consummate professional and one of the quietest journalists I have ever known, used to chew paper-clips.
In moments of high stress (which can occur quite frequently in a newspaper office) he used to pick one up, place it in his mouth and begin to chew.
Minutes later it would reappear in an entirely different shape. By the end of the day the top of his desk would be littered with mutant paper-clips which would today qualify for a Turner prize.
Then there was chief reporter Les Rothery, who once, while engaged in a heated discussion with a Christian zealot at a nearby desk, coined the memorable phrase: "There is madness in our Methodist!"
Reg Betts covered the goings-on at Fratton Park for years and it doesn’t seem to have done him much harm, which is all the more surprising since he was known as something of a hypochondriac during the years we worked together on the old Football Mail.
I eventually moved on to pastures new before having cause to return to The News Centre ten years later.
Reg, whom I hadn’t seen in all that time, was standing at the coffee machine banging on the side as usual in a vain attempt to get some change out of it.
"Hello Reg," I said. "How are you?"
Now this simple greeting would have elicited a similarly anodyne reply from most people, along the lines of: "I’m fine thanks. How are you?"
But this is Betts we are talking about.
He blew his nose loudly, before turning to me and exclaiming: "It’s just as though God said where’s the Earth? Where’s England? Where’s Hampshire? Where’s Droxford? Where’s Betts?"
He then adopted the pose of the Almighty, pointing to the ground and delivering the next sentence as a series of thunderbolts.
"Flu! Bronchitis! Sinusitis! Stomach cramps! Suffer you swine!"
In fact, he gave me everything except a copy of his prescription but I’m pleased to report he’s well past his 80th birthday and still going strong at his home in the Meon Valley.
At the talk the other night, which I’m delighted to say raised almost £1,000 for the Parkinson’s Society, thanks to the efforts of the specialist nurse on the Island, Carolyn McCormack, Jeff Hunter reminded me of a photo caption which brought The News Centre to a standstill one afternoon.
A special feature had been written about a nearby stately home and there, below a particular photograph, were the imperishable words: "This is the lovely room where the duke holds his balls and dances …"
A new lead for my technical problem
My sympathies are with Peter Knight, of Cowes, who wrote in the letters’ pages last week of the dubious technical opinion his wife received when she mentioned the poor reception they got on Freeview channels.
"It’s undoubtedly due to the large tankers moving up and down The Solent," was the explanation provided.
It reminded me of my last conversation with one of the 'technical advisers’ from TalkTalk.
The lights on our modem (or whatever the hell it’s called) kept flickering ominously and my computer would suddenly seize up.
When my usual technique of swearing loudly and banging the keyboard violently did not pay dividends, I contacted an enormously charming but entirely incompetent individual from the sub-continent.
When he had exhausted all possible reasons for the ill-performing piece of kit, a tone of desperation crept into his voice.
"Tell me Mr Newbery, do you have a dog?"
"Yes."
"Does it bark?"
"Occasionally."
"Ah, that is your problem, sir. The barking of the dog is disrupting your signal."
He had gone before I could ask him how they managed at Battersea Dogs’ Home.