12. Journalism

Graham's dabbling in journalism... but when he gets a scoop, things don't go to plan.

Hello, 

If you can see an improvement in my writing skills, that’s because I’m doing a bit more of it at the moment. No, I don’t have a second secret newsletter – I’ve recently found myself on the staff of the university newspaper, The Wombat. 

I know that at the end of the last newsletter it looked like I was heading in a theatrical direction – well, sorry to any fans out there, but a different profession has called me. And who am I to ignore a call (my phone doesn’t ring much – Charlie and Ella, get in touch!).

So, my first steps in journalism. A long slog, I’m sure – but I have to start somewhere. One day, maybe I’ll be paid by the word, but not yet! With that in mind, there’s no point over-writing this introduction… let’s crack on with the update.

Everyone’s a critic

After my seminar with Doctor Sarah Trevaldwyn (Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop), she asked me to stay back for a second. A copy of The Wombat was shoved into my eyeline, flipped open to a King Lear review.

Look, it wasn’t great. I don’t remember all of it, but I can recall that lines such as “Anthony Taylor-Turner’s dentist should probably be concerned about how much he’s chewing the scenery” and “Taylor-Turner’s geriatric gurning brings to mind a Mr Punch puppet – one fixed expression, and yet that’s too much.” I was glad to see that my own performance was described as “refreshingly naturalistic”, choosing to ignore the preceding sentence which read “Strangely elderly for a student play, Graham Nutkin was…”.

Sarah: Thought you should see this!

Me: That’s almost nice, I guess. But I think I might have retired as an actor. 

Sarah: Well, it seems like treading the boards took your mind off things. Linda things. 

Me: Yeah. It did. A bit.

Sarah: Goodness knows we all need our distractions. From things like that.

Me: Eh?

Sarah: Romantic things, Graham.

Ew. I didn’t like where this was going (and stop saying things). It was strange talking to Sarah about matters of the heart – a bit like talking to my kids about my personal hygiene regime (daily damp flannels, FYI). The idea that our conversations could have an undertow of something more serious wasn’t one that I was keen on. So I panicked, pretended to read the newspaper, and changed the subject back.

Me: Anthony definitely had two gurning faces. I spent a lot of time looking at both. This reviewer doesn’t know what they’re on about…

Sarah: Maybe theatre criticism is your next Linda-distraction?

Me: Hmmm. I did always fancy myself as a writer.

Sarah: Well write for the paper! Just don’t do a “William Boot”, eh?

Me: ?

Sarah: The protagonist. Of Scoop. 

Me: ?

Sarah: By Evelyn Waugh. The novel we’ve just done a seminar on. Are you sure you’ve over Linda?

Me: I’m really fine, there’s no need to keep bringing it up.

Sarah: Sorry, sometimes talking to other people about their problems takes your mind off your own. I’ve decided that’s the whole point of being a teacher.

Sarah let me take the newspaper – featuring the review – and I had almost left the room when I saw her sit forward in her chair a little, looking tired. 

Me: Is everything… are you alright? 

Sarah: Yes! Absolutely. Just… I’m… I’ve got a lot on. I’m fine, really.

Me: If you’re sure… 

Sarah: Give the paper a go. I’m looking forward to reading your journalistic debut! Don’t worry about me. Honestly.

The Wombat 

Ever the diligent student, I decided to follow the instructions of my tutor.

Wasting no time, I traipsed down to the Students Union building and located the Wombat office on the first floor. With my copy of the article in one hand, I chapped the door with the other. 

The answer came quickly, a girl with bags under her eyes and dark curly hair (held in place with a pencil stub) blinked out from the office. 

Girl: Yeah? 

Me: Hello! Could I speak with the Editor?

Girl: I’m the Editor. 

Me: Ah right. I wonder if you could point me in the direction of the Arts Sub-editor. 

Girl: Yep, you’re looking at her. 

Me: Oh! Okay, well, in that case… maybe you could send me to your theatre critic?

Girl: Speaking. 

It took a moment for me to realise what she meant. She had written the offending (offensive) review! This bleary-eyed, exhausted looking girl. She introduced herself as Rachel Lopez. 

Rachel: I do everything. Literally. Every word in that newspaper is written by yours truly. Everyone joins up in Freshers week and drops out by Christmas. So now it’s just me, doing it all. And I really need to get back to it.

She was about to close the door when she paused, giving me a strange look. 

Rachel: Don’t I know you? Weren’t you in King Lear? If you’ve come here to give me a hard time about the review, don’t bother. I don’t have time to engage, let alone write anything nicer. 

Me: Oh, no… I was actually going to offer my services. 

Rachel: As what? 

Me: A writer. If you could use the help? 

Rachel’s expression went from mild annoyance, to open-mouthed bafflement, to a strange joyful openess, then on to absolute confusion. 

Rachel: Seriously? 

Me: Absolutely. I’ll do anything. When do I start? 

Rachel: You’ll do… anything?

Dear Graham 

Dear Graham, 

I’m a third year mechanics student, and I’ve been with my girlfriend since first year. As finals loom, I’m getting really worried that I won’t be able to balance my studies, my relationship and my extra-curricular activities (D&D Soc). Do you have any advice about how I can keep all these plates spinning, and still enjoy myself? 

T – 3rd Year M.Eng

Graham says… 

Hi T. 

I don’t want to piss on your chips, but it’s extremely unlikely you’ll stay together with your girlfriend once you graduate. I recommend just focusing on your studies and having a good time. You can explain at the 10 year reunion. 

Dear Graham 

I really struggle with my confidence and sense of self – I feel like I’m not as attractive or cool as any of my friends. Do you have any tips on how to develop confidence and to live a happier, healthier life? 

L - 2nd Year French & Spanish 

Graham says… 

Hi L.

You’re a student, so you’ll never look more attractive or cool. Seriously, take it from me… enjoy it while you can! You won’t be thinking these days were uncool when you’re having your first colonoscopy. 

Graham 

Dear Graham 

What is the meaning of life? 

R – 1st Year Philosophy

Dear R, 

I’m not here to do your coursework. 

Graham. 

A problem shared

I have to say, I was loving my start in journalism. I really couldn’t see why the Agony Uncle column was the section Rachel most wanted to give up – something to do with it being the only thing that wouldn’t look good on her LinkedIn. Well, her loss was my gain. 

It entertained me greatly to read about all these problems which were so different from mine, and to give my thoughts on them – even if my thoughts were usually very brief. I merrily answered as many as I could, hoping they’d make the next issue. 

When I bumped into Sarah T in the English corridor, she seemed delighted for me.

Sarah T: I enjoyed the one where you told the kid with eczema that his problems were only skin deep.

Graham: Ah.

Sarah T: I might write in myself sometime. “Dear Graham, I need help teaching a 56 year old undergraduate… blah, blah, blah”.

Graham: Some problems are too hard for even me.

A different beat

After a few days, Rachel called me into the Wombat office. Gingerly, I slid inside, like someone slipping into a cold swimming pool. I wormed around the huge table on which the layout of the next issue was slowly taking shape. 

Rachel: It’s not working, Graham. The Agony Uncle column.

Me: But people love it! Well, one person does.

Rachel: You need to be a little more… understanding. How about we try something different? We’ve got a gap in the News section. We could do with something for the On Campus page. Go and find something good for me. Get me a good story. 

Me: And will it make the paper? 

Rachel: Well, it’s that or a thing about The Dab we’ve had on standby since 2018. So I’d say it probably will. 

Doctor, doctor, give me the news

A diligent student, I followed Rachel’s instructions and went out looking for a story. Notebook, dictaphone, map and compass in hand (I just took my phone… it’s all of them in one!) I set out, visiting some of the most gossip-rich places on campus. 

I heard about Library fines. I heard about unexpected items in the bagging area. I heard about things I can’t repeat in the pub loo. But I didn’t hear of any good news stories whatsoever. 

They say inspiration strikes in the most unexpected of places. And I can confirm, dear subscriber, that this is true. Or at least, that a good story can appear when you’re least expecting it. 

I had to pause my search for some news when I was summoned for a routine Cholesterol check at the campus doctor. Despite spending most of my time mingling with the vitality and freshness of youth, I found myself in a drab, mouldering waiting room with a few other people who were clearly over the age of 50 (the threshold for this rigmarole). We were an unusual mix – I recognised a porter from the Humanities building, as well as one of the Library staff and even a dusty English professor. All oldies together.

In the corner, there was a chap who seemed really familiar. Was he from the golf course, or had I worked with him some years ago? Most people here were slightly casual looking, but he was too smart for the scruffy (under-funded, typical) space, a crisp shirt and stiff black coat, with overly shiny (expensive looking) shoes. This was the kind of man I’d have wanted to be a few years ago. Heck, this was the kind of man I had been once. But where did I know him from? 

As I cautiously took a (soft, padded, faded) seat a few spaces down from the sparklingly clean gentleman, it suddenly hit me. I recognised this man because I’d researched him. I’d watched him on YouTube giving a TED talk. I’d read all the interviews when I was doing my applications. 

He was the Vice Chancellor of the University. 

I assume everyone else in the room knew this too, hence the ring of distance around the VC. In order to preserve this separation (or just because we had time to kill), he was talking into his phone. 

VC: Look, we need to sign off the financial aspect.  

I was trying to focus on my copy of Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop, but my ears pricked up a bit. 

VC: This is Shell we’re talking about. 

Oh heck. I was enjoying my book, but… maybe this was something I should be listening carefully to? 

VC: I’m happy to sell. Shell’s happy to buy. It works for everyone. 

Shell. This is massive. Keep listening Graham (after the cholesterol test, maybe I need my ears syringing?)

VC: It’s a done deal. I don’t care what’s done with the land. We just need the money from Shell. 

Oh wow.

VC: And it’ll be a handy little windfall for me, personally.

My blood was pounding so much that I was scheduled for an emergency heart checkup following my cholesterol test.

A bigger splash

In the Wombat office, Rachel was glowing. Well, she seemed marginally less stressed. 

Rachel: Graham, this is… brilliant. How did you…? 

Me: It’s funny what you can find out from middle aged men… if you happen to be a middle aged man… 

Rachel carefully arranged my short article on the table, slotting it into the layout for the next edition of the paper. My first scoop. I gave it another skim-read with pride. 

It’s Oil-ready Done 

Petro-chemical giant Shell are making a land grab for a chunk of Wessex University. Sources suggest that the Vice Chancellor has personally arranged a deal with the multinational to secure university funding – but at a huge cost. The Wombat understands that an undisclosed portion of the Wessex University estate is to be sold off to the firm – and we’re hearing the VC doesn’t care what’s done with it. 

The Wessex University Green Party has suggested that “this is another example of this university’s worrying attitude towards sustainability and the climate crisis. And we thought the recycling scandal of 2019 was bad – this is so much worse.” 

It’s not confirmed what the oil giant will use the University land for, only that it is certain to prove controversial and will almost definitely leave the University’s B Corp status is tatters, despite only being achieved in 2022. 

Some reports also suggest the VC will benefit personally. A spokesperson for the Vice Chancellor’s office was unavailable for comment. 

Publication day 

As soon as issues of The Wombat hit newsstands (i.e. were left in stacks around the Students Union) I gathered as many copies as I could, and set about making sure all the important people saw my article. 

I posted a clipping to Ella in Durham, and a full edition to Jayne and Charlie (and Graham 2, by proxy) back home. There were copies slipped under the door of all my flatmates, as well as the two chaps upstairs who I’d met a few weeks back. As I was out on my (self imposed) delivery rounds, I bumped into Anthony who was in a jovial mood. 

Anthony: Well, well. You’ve gone over to the dark side.

Me: What can I say? I’m a natural journalist. 

Anthony: Just make sure you give me a good review next time. It’s my one-man Oedipus next. 

Me: I’m sure you’ll be the best thing in it. 

Office hours

I even took a copy to Dr. Sarah Trevaldwyn’s office, just to prove to my personal tutor that I was doing alright. 

Sarah: Graham, you know how academic essays need to be sourced? 

Me: Yeah. Boring! 

Sarah: You know you need to be as careful with your journalistic sources as with your academic ones. I assume this is all double and triple checked? 

Me: I heard it from the horse’s mouth. From the VC himself. Honestly, the benefits of a cholesterol checkup are untold. 

Sarah skimmed the piece, and mulled it over for a second. 

Sarah: I think I preferred your agony uncle pieces. I never did get to write in.

Me: Well, I’ve moved on up in the world. Never mind agony uncle, I’m a hot shot journo nowadays. In the heat of the action. I’m where it’s happening. In the mix. 

Sarah: …in the campus doctor’s waiting room?

Me: The. Mix.

Front page news 

The next day, I set out once again to find a scoop – yet after a few hours of hanging out in the doctor’s waiting room, I decided to pop into the Wombat office to see how Rachel was getting on. 

Only, when I arrived back at the SU, the office was locked. In fact, on closer inspection I could see there was a sign on the door. 

Office Closed – The Wombat is now extinct. 

I tried knocking, but no answer came. I tried again, and was told off by someone in the finance office for being too noisy. So I went to find Rachel at her halls. 

Whilst Rachel’s room was almost the same as mine, dimension-wise, it was totally stuffed with stacks of newspapers, covering every inch of the floor. As she squeezed me inside, I jealously eyed all the wonderful pink Financial Times back-issues I could see. Oh, how I wanted to dive right in. But no, present business called.

Rachel: You’ve got some nerve. 

Me: (urrrr) 

Rachel: You’re supposed to at least try and corroborate your stories. Two trusted sources, minimum. And not half-overheard conversations fleshed out into something fantastical. 

Me: I don’t understand. 

Rachel perched on a pile of Guardians, and elaborated. It turns out that the Shell I’d heard about in the doctor’s waiting room wasn’t that Shell. It was Michelle, the VC’s wife from whom he was currently (acrimoniously) separating. The financial settlement I’d heard about was her buying him out of their home. And the land? Their massive garden. 

Me: Oh shit. 

Rachel: Oh shit indeed. You managed to close the paper in your first week. Well done. 

Despite the room not being the lightest, I could just about see Rachel welling up. Everything she’d worked so hard for, everything she’d managed to keep going at, gone in the blink of an eye. And that was all because of me. 

Me: Any chance I could borrow one of your Financial Times?

Rachel: Just go, Graham.

Bugger. I was going to have to sort this whole mess out. 

The VC 

The Vice Chancellor’s secretary told me flatly that he was unavailable, from now until eternity. I said I was happy to wait. She told me that wasn’t an option. 

So, going through the official channels wasn’t going to work. Huh, well. Where could I guarantee that I could speak to the VC? Not the doctor’s waiting room, that didn’t work out for me last time. But there was one place I could guarantee I’d be able to locate him – and hopefully grab him for a chat. 

The executive car park on campus was full of the nicest cars I’d seen in months. But the nicest of all was surely the Vice Chancellor’s, right? I hovered around a freshly waxed and buffed Tesla, hopeful he would appear. After about an hour, I realised I needed to take matters into my own hands. So I tried the handle. 

The alarm set off. 

Bingo. 

In a few minutes, a very cross-looking, flustered VC appeared, cursing his car because it keeps doing this. Here was my opportunity. 

Me: Excuse me! Vice Chancellor! 

VC: Argh! Oh god! You’re not Extinction Rebellion, are you? 

Me: No… I’m… I’m Graham. Nutkin. 

The VC looked at me blankly. 

Me: I wrote that article. The one that got The Wombat closed down. 

VC: Oh. That’s you. I thought that only someone a lot younger and stupid-er would’ve failed to check their sources. 

Me: No… that was me. I’m not very young, but I am very stupid. 

By now, the VC has sorted his car alarm and was clearly trying to get back to work – or at least to get anywhere away from me. 

Me: Look, I really need you to allow the paper to re-open. It’s really important. 

VC: I think that’s a bit rich… 

Me: I promise… promise… never to write another article ever again. 

VC: Right. Well. I’ll think about it. 

As he walked away, leaving me lingering among all the fancy cars, the VC turned back slightly. 

VC: Hang on, did you say your name was Graham Nutkin? Didn’t you do those Agony Uncle columns?

Me: Oh, yes. That was me. Stilly stuff, not real journalism that.

VC: I’ve just had a meeting with our campus counsellor. Apparently that column – and your just get on with it attitude – momentarily reduced pressure on their advice line by up to 50%. 

Me: And that’s a good thing? 

VC: Yes, for my budgets. So if you fancied doing that again… well… maybe we could come to some arrangement for re-opening the paper after all. 

With that, he walked off, leaving me with a decision to make. 

Dear Graham, again 

In the newly reopened Wombat office, Rachel was fretting. We needed to make the layout accommodate a larger, extended Dear Graham page. 

Me: Maybe we could do a supplement? 

Rachel: On our budget? We really would need Shell investment for that. 

I smoothed out my submission for the latest issue, regretting that it wasn’t more heavyweight but understanding that it was important. 

Me: Are you sure it is useful? Me helping out? 

Rachel: Well, you’re the only thing keeping us open at the moment. And frankly, it’s nice to have someone else to take the blame for stuff. It’s usually just me. 

In my head, I made a mental note that I would ask Morgana to become our sports correspondent, Poppy to join as a food writer and Anthony could just write his own reviews. I was determined to actually be helpful. 

We were all ready to sign off on the latest issue, when Rachel remembered there was one letter to which we hadn’t yet responded. She rifled around in the correspondence bag, and produced the submission. 

Dear Graham 

I’m so glad you’re back! I’ve been having some trouble in my long-term relationship – not all rosy in paradise! – and I wondered if you had any advice. My partner and I are arguing a lot at the moment, and we don’t know how to freshen things up. I’m actually concerned that things might’ve run their course. I know you might’ve experienced similar. Do you have any tips for when to stick and when to twist?

S – Member of the English faculty. 

Ah. 

The Doctor’s Office 

I knocked and waited. I knocked again. And again. 

Finally, Doctor Sarah opened her door. She waved me in. 

Me: I got your letter. Or rather, Dear Graham did. 

Sarah: Oh. How did you know it was me? 

Me: I may be an idiot. But I’m not a total idiot. 

Sarah: Sorry, I didn’t know how to ask for advice in person. 

Me: Well, I didn’t know how to give good advice in print, so… 

Sarah gestured for me to sit down, but I politely declined. 

Me: Look, all I’m going to say is… just try. Promise me you will. Don’t run away at the first sign of difficulty – that’s what people like me do, not people like you. You’re made of tougher stuff. If it’s worth fighting for – and it probably is, let’s face it – then fight on, girl.

Sarah: Yeah?

Me: Oh, and don’t go to any swingers parties. You’ll regret it. That’s it, that’s my advice. 

Sarah: Thanks Graham. 

Me: No problem. You’ll be alright. 

Sarah: So will you. Probably.

Me: I’m really fine about Linda, stop bringing it up!

Look, I really am fine about Linda. Honestly. But it turns out Dr. Sarah was right, of course — sometimes helping people with their problems does take your mind off your own for a bit.

(Well, unless your problems are wrongfully accusing the Vice Chancellor of dodgy dealing and almost getting the student paper closed down. That kinda stuff you just have to take on the chin.)

Graham x

Next time, Graham takes on… politics!