View from the Bridge: 59
by John Morrison
Contents
The Milltown Times
is celebrating its centenary this year. Launched during the last years of Queen Victoria's
reign, the paper first found success as a cure for insomnia. Since then, of course,
it has witnessed - and largely ignored - the momentous events of the twentieth century. The editor had planned to bring out a special facsimile edition of that very
first issue, but abandoned the idea when he realised it looked much the same as what
he's publishing today. Even that first headline had a familiar ring: Mafeking Relieved: No Milltown Residents Involved
.
It's easy to knock a local newspaper for being parochial and dull, but it's become
part of our lives. We read it avidly from cover to cover and, for most of us, those
five or six minutes are the highpoint of our week. A subscription to the Milltown Times
makes an ideal present for an uncherished relative, or anyone who has left the area
and might want to keep abreast of local issues. There'll be nothing in the paper
to disturb delicate sensibilities and, indeed, nothing to make the recipients regret
for an instant their decision to leave Milltown.
The Milltown Times
is like the maiden aunt you feel obliged to visit. You don't want to miss a week,
just in case she decides to cut you out of her will. You settle yourself into a wing-back
chair, adjust the foot-stool and rest your head against the antimacassar. You are
so bored you could eat a scatter-cushion. You give yourself up to fantasy (yes, a lengthy
bout of oral sex with Michelle Pfeiffer will do nicely) and adopt an indulgent smile
you hope will be taken for rapt attention... while your aged relative rabbits on
and on and on...
"I think
I'm 100... Maybe it's 101... I've been taken for 99 in a dim light. I can work it
out. I was born the year they repealed the Corn Laws. Or was it when they built the
Crystal Palace? It all seems so long ago. It's different now, of course, you only
have to blink and another year's gone. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the young people of today
think they know it all, but I've forgotten more about Milltown than they'll ever
know. And their music - if you can call
it music - well, it's just noise really. Now where did I put my glasses? And what's
that smell? Sorry, you'll have to speak up, dear, I'm a bit deaf. Oh, yes, I don't
mind if I do, a small sweet sherry, thank you..."
The centenary nonwithstanding, these are difficult days at the Milltown Times
. The paper's owners have decided to break with long-standing tradition, and get the
paper to show a profit. It's never been the kind of paper to chase celebrity interviews;
it doesn't even chase stories
very hard. Our editor, unaccustomed to ultimatums, is floored by a terse phone-call
from his publisher - "Make a fucking decision for once in your life" - that leaves
him open-mouthed with shock.
However, we should never underestimate the obstinacy of weak men. His first idea for
making the paper more profitable - selling it pre-shredded as hamster bedding - is
greeted with a snort of derision by his sub-editor. His second idea is to cut down
on expenses. So it's goodbye to company bicycle clips and pies funded from the petty cash
tin. When this idea, too, is openly mocked, our editor take his publisher's words
to heart... and sacks his sub.
It's not easy to replace the only member of staff who really knew what he was doing.
And, although she's easier on the eye, the temp who arrives from the secretarial
agency seems disturbingly inexperieced. "What's that ringing noise?", she asks brightly.
"It's a phone", the editor replies, with a shake of the head and a world-weary sigh.
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