I don’t get my news from
Facebook, so its threat to Australia won’t bother me. One reason I look
elsewhere for news is that what appears on Facebook is usually what we old
print newspaper hacks call “unsubbed”, which means it’s beneath contempt. Shaun
Micallef’s weekly Mad as Hell take on Sydney Daily Telegraph headlines is a fair
indicator that sub-editors with even the most tenuous grasp on the English
language no longer work for Rupert Murdoch.
The
other day an old newspaper friend mentioned that seriously endangered species Spikus vulgaris, better known by its
common name “sub-editor”. There obviously aren’t many still employed in
Australia or New Zealand, nor in Britain or, it seems, the United States (where
they were called copy editors). Their demise has been a long time coming. More
than 27 years ago Robert Richardson, author of the “Ode to the Ancient
Sub-Editor” (see below), declared in the London Independent that Spikus vulgaris was “a retiring beast
inhabiting the jungle of journalism.” That jungle has now overrun the
sub-editor, so it’s worthwhile looking back on what Richardson described.
“On
morning papers, he - the female of the species was not discovered until the ’60s,
so the masculine pronoun will suffice - spends his life in the twilight zone,
arriving anonymously in the afternoon, ruminating over spelling and syntax as
the day dies, and padding softly into the night when all is finished. For him
there are no picture bylines, no glamour of a regular column, no politicians
seeking his ear or agents lunching him at Le Gavroche, no encounters with the
rich and famous, no lucrative appearances on television chat shows. His gifts
are unsung, his merits undervalued, his contribution scorned, his . . . (That's
enough poncy phrases. Get on with it - Ed.)
“Subs
are the people who make sure there is always exactly enough material to fill
each day's paper and that it bears some resemblance to sense. Their creative
input comes principally in the form of headlines, and any gathering of the
tribe eventually lapses into nostalgic recall of classics. One example of this
high art must represent all the rest. Many years ago, the Hollywood actress
Gloria Swanson arrived in Southampton on a Monday, after crossing the Atlantic
on the Queen Mary; at her dockside press conference, she complained that it had
been an awful voyage and she had been violently seasick. A forgotten sub
headlined the story 'Sick transit Gloria, Monday'. That, children, is true
genius.
“From
the reporters' (or writers', as some preciously insist on being called) point
of view, the sub is either friend or a tacky form of life that they are faintly
surprised to discover has mastered the art of walking upright; it is a
relationship now symbiotic, now hostile. There are writers who consider their
prose only slightly below God's on a good day and visibly bristle at the heresy
of removing a comma; queries regarding style/ accuracy/ clarity/ sense/
grammar/ are akin to suggesting that their daughters sell their bodies nightly
behind King's Cross station. Others grasp the fact that if the sub does not
understand their copy, there is a possibility the reader may not either; that
an adjective should not be used as an adverb; that there really is a law of
libel; that 58-line paragraphs written all as one sentence take on a certain
tedious quality fairly quickly.
“One
common curse of the sub's life is the writer who inserts some alleged fact,
adding the memo 'Subs please check'. By the time his copy reaches the subs, all
known sources of checking are unavailable and the writer is in a wine bar
without a telephone, surrounded by beautiful women inexplicably impressed by a
12-point byline. Back at the darkened office, the sub vainly consults the
library, pores over reference books, and finally tosses a coin in despair. If
the published fact is correct, the writer takes the credit; if wrong, it was
the sub's fault. But all this, of course, concerns the Good Sub. There is also
the kind of sub who would brutally chop the final couplet off a Milton sonnet
or cut the Ten Commandments down to six because they wouldn't fit the space;
the kind who can take any well written piece and cold-bloodedly butcher it; who
uses 'gilding the lily' in a headline and all the saints since Peter could not
persuade him it's a misquotation.
“Know
him by his markings - shabby sports jacket and pullover, dirty fingernails,
overweight, bored, impregnated with the faint odour of a four-ale bar, obsessed
with the times of trains that take him home - and avoid him. As the great
Samuel Johnson said dismissively of the compilers of dictionaries, the
sub-editor is a harmless drudge.”
ODE TO THE ANCIENT SUB-EDITOR
It was an ancient sub-editor
and he stoppeth many libels,
Fowler's Modern English Usage
and the ODWE were his bibles.
We met in the Bodoni Arms, it
was his favourite venue,
He sat alone, a pint in hand,
and made corrections to the menu.
"Pray tell me, master
sub-editor, your secrets and your tricks,
"How many prima donnas
you have saved from looking pricks."
He raised his head and gazed
at me with a piercing, bloodshot eye,
“'T'would be my pleasure,
sir," he said, "but I am rather dry.
"A double brandy will
suffice; it helps soak up the ale,
"You get 'em in, then
I'll begin to tell my subbing tale."
I hastened to the bar and
bought the drink that he desired,
Convinced that what he told
me would be sober and inspired.
Returning to the table, I set
the glass within his reach
Then sat, a humble acolyte,
as he composed himself to speech.
"In the beginning was
the word, but which word we'll never learn
"Because a sub deleted
it to avoid a widow turn.
"And in the Gospel of St
John, one chapter seems too terse,
"Where the two-word
sentence 'Jesus wept' appears as just one verse.
"A sub-editor did that,
my boy, and I shall tell you why:
"He had to make a par
somewhere 'cos the text was one line shy.
"And so it goes, from
age to age, in every realm and land,
"You'll find the
diligent sub-editor, a style book in his hand.
"We guard our Mother
English tongue, keep her pure and unalloyed,
"Just see what dreadful
things go wrong when our talents aren't employed.
"We'd have asterisked
out those filthy words Lady Chatterley learnt from Mellors
"And if Dickens had but
had a sub, his books would be novellas.
"We know 'can' from
'may' and 'may' from 'might',
"And never say 'less'
when 'fewer' is right,
"We punctuate
punctiliously and are alert for innuendoes,
"We can all spell
'desiccated' and don't rise to crescendos.
"Of grammar and of
syntax our knowledge is formidable,
"Though frankly we don't
give a toss about an unstressed syllable.
"To denigrate the
sub-editor is the action of a moron,
"A word that very nearly
rhymes with that little twat Giles Coren.
"When it comes to
writing headlines, polysyllables we eschew,
"We have a taste for
shorter words, like 'mull' and 'ire' and 'rue'. "
"Your wisdom overwhelms
me, no counsel could be finer,
"But can you explain to
me, I beg, the role of the designer?"
"Don't speak to me of
that lot!" (He gathered spit - and spat),
"A paper needs designers
like an oyster needs a hat.
"Oh they'll draw you
pretty pages, you can't change them 'cos it's art,
"Then once you've made
the copy fit, they rip the thing apart.
"The reason why they do
that is a mystery to man,
"But I've a shrewd
suspicion that it's just to show they can."
I feared I had offended him,
my question had been crude,
But a treble double whisky
put him in a better mood.
"And tell me of your
colleagues, whose work is so essential,
"That I might dare approach
them with demeanour reverential."
"Right across Observer
the subs are brilliant, off the scale,
"The Times can only
dream of such - and f*** the Daily Mail.
"But even with such
talents, sir, once the story's in the queue
"And is 86 lines
over, what magic can you do?"
The old sub smiled and shook
his head as if he were amused
At meeting one so young and
green and easily confused.
"Nothing is writ that
can't be cut, that is the Subbing Law,
"Give me the Ten
Commandments and I'll trim them back to four.
"Thou shalt not miss the
deadline, or write in 'Subs please check',
"And if perchance you
use a fact, don't get it round your neck.
"But the first of all
commandments you must follow to the letter:
"However good your copy
is, a sub can make it better."
"And yet," I
ventured cautiously, "can what they say be true?
"I've heard tell that
the management wants to get rid of you."
'''Tis true," the gloomy
sub replied, now glugging down red wine,
"They got rid of the
NGA, now we're the next in line.
"But mark my words,
young journalist, the cup they drink is bitter,
"Mistakes will sprout
like dandelions and literals will litter.
"Comment it may still be
free, but faith in facts will shatter,
"Whatever garbage fills
the space, that's all that's going to matter.
"And there will come a
day, I fear, when one sub shall remain,
"Facing those damned
accountants and battling in vain.
"He'll stand astride the
subs' desk like that Dutch boy at the dyke,
"Until, professional to
the last, he falls upon his spike.
"And as those bastards
stand and jeer, a golden age shall cease,
"But not before his
dying words: 'Has the lawyer seen this piece?'
"They'll bury him with
honours, even Murdoch will be there,
"FoC will read the
Lesson, Rev Indent will say the prayer.
"Good Spot will start
the banging out, as flags fly at half mast,
"A choir of solemn hacks
will sing 'Oh Sub, our help in ages past'.
"And in the years that
follow that tragic last defeat
"You'll find the Tomb of
Unknown Sub in St Bride's upon the Street.
"On either side shall
angels weep, and proudly in between
"You will see a pencil,
blue, crossed with an eyeshade, green,
"And on Carrara marble,
carved in ninety-six point caps,
"You'll read subs'
eternal question: 'Who wrote this piece of crap?'"
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