‘You cannot hope to bribe or twist, thank God! the British journalist. But, seeing what the man will do unbribed, there’s no occasion to.’ – Humbert Wolfe
Coming from the world of commercial vehicles, I was used to misbehaviour on launches, but not much of it. If you lark about and have a ding in a 38-ton artic, things stay dinged and people get hurt, so for the most part, journalists had respect. Any hanky panky there was usually involved a slightly muzzy head in the morning after an evening in the company of clubbable PRs, with eidetic memories for bad jokes, which they could spout all evening into the small hours. Quite small beer, then.
A few incidents spring to mind, however. Such as witnessing a delivery van coming off the production line in the company of two directors of a parcel firm, which had ordered countless examples. This was very early in my career so I had no idea what to expect. After a brief and dignified ceremony at the factory, the pre-assigned and paid-for evening’s entertainment was in a German beer cellar, where drink, as they say, was taken. The next, seemingly scheduled stop was a knocking shop in the middle of a Düsseldorf housing estate, the only sign of its purpose being a small blue light in the door. We were led into a comfortable living room where a quite gorgeous madame dressed to the nines offered all manner of services, of which the two directors enthusiastically availed themselves, leaving the UK press relations officer and me looking at each other somewhat aghast.
