Day press had to be stopped

Carine Hartman’s Saturday Citizen column about newspaper characters of yesteryear triggered memories of colourful ones with whom I rubbed shoulders.

There was Mick, chief proof reader of a now defunct daily. He suffered from an affliction he called “high-drate” which he swore brought on a “terrible thirst” that affected his eyesight. But with his lunch box he carried “vital medicine” in a Coke bottle from which he swigged throughout the day, evidently working wonders because no misspelling, split infinitives or bad syntax escaped his revived eyes.

The only irritant was his burping he put down to indigestion. His attention to detail particularly became appreciated in retrospect when one day he booked off sick, leaving the proof reading to whom he called illiterates. It was the day Nat premier Dr Hendrik Verwoerd was shot at the Rand Easter Show.

The news reached the newspaper at the end of the shift with staffers ready to leave. The edition had already been put to bed.

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“Stop the press!” was the shout from the editor. Sub-editors butchered copy hastily written by sweating reporters. The finished copy landed with the typesetters, the first of four labour intensive-processes, including proof reading, before the revised page reached the printing machine.

A typesetter, Fred, who hated the Nats, was given the text for the caption accompanying the photo of Verwoerd’s bloodied face. Fred added the words … “and serves him bloody right”, assuming the proof readers would giggle and delete it. Wrong. The stand-in proof readers, editor and the subs missed the offensive line and the page reached the print room untouched.

Believe it or not, an apprentice machine minder, scanning the pages for colour ink disparity, came across the caption. His holler led to total chaos and confusion. The blame game became ugly, but as expected, the buck ultimately stopping with the proof readers. At this point Mick’s worth was confirmed. It was agreed had he been on board he’d have picked up the line.

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Funny, since that nightmarish day, his burping was tolerated. Oh, yes, almost forgot, Mick also stood in as Santa at the firm’s Christmas parties. On one occasion a youngster hopped off his lap, blurting: “Mommy, Santa smells like daddy’s beer.” Between burps Mick countered: “Indigestion, rug rat. Now, go blow your nose.”