The Post has a problem

There was no use denying it any more: The Post had a problem.

Last week, I walked down to the Pier Head, long coat flapping in the early March breeze. Taking care to shield my still magma-hot steak slice from seagulls the size of small family cars, I tried to forget about the hundreds of unread emails. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket. Which of my rogue’s gallery would it be this time? The gun-toting Wirral councillor? The unscrupulous stone mason? The racist ice cream man? The Rhyl bowling alley gangster? The ex-porn star Nazi bar owner? Abi?

Dutifully, I took out my pen and reporter’s notebook, so heavy with quotes, telephone numbers and figures in intricately-scrawled ink the paper is more black than white. If anyone ever found it they’d think my shorthand was some impossibly byzantine code, like a ring-bound Voynich manuscript in biro. Suddenly, I was seized by a totally irrational urge to throw both the phone and the book in the Mersey. Maybe then I could jump on the ferry and sail away to a new life in Seacombe, where nobody would ever bother me with tip-offs, story ideas or spelling corrections ever again. 

I watched the ferry sail away, Gerry Marsden’s vanishing refrain a too-cheery death knell for the carefree existence I could’ve led as a New Brighton doughnut vendor, bit the lid off my pen, and answered the phone.

“Thompson,” said the boss’s grizzled, cigar-and-bourbon-damaged voice. One more Havana and it’d be the polyps talking. “Where are we with the kung-fu mafia story?” 

I hadn’t expected small talk. Two divorces, three hernia operations and life in local journalism had hollowed him out: now it was The Job that stared out of those narrow, beetle-black eyes. He was like a tarantula infected by cordyceps fungus, no longer possessing free will of its own but still climbing, ever climbing towards The Story. 

“Copy’s filed,” I lied. “I just need to find an editor.”

I heard his breathing, heavy and thick like a piece of old factory equipment. If the laryngitis didn’t get him, the emphysema would. I heard the rustle of paper and knew he was checking the dreaded Schedule, which by now was an impossibly complex web of photographs, documents, push-pins and multicoloured string over an old MDF bulletin board. The chop-socky killers I’d been pursuing were just a small detail in this chaotic tube map of upcoming stories, wedged between the spate of Superlambana attacks, the Dingle missile crisis and the disturbing truth about Steve Rotheram’s hair. 

“You know, Thompson,” the boss said, in between chewing on something wet and gristly. “I been in this business near forty years, ever since I was a cub reporter at the Old Post. And I seen it all, most of which we couldn’t even print. Billy Fury’s UFO abduction; Derek Hatton’s secret budget; the so-called Joe Anderson Dancers. But what I ain’t never seen is the day we had too much shit and too few writers.”

He was right, the filthy bastard. We had finally reached that point. The Post had too many stories and not enough people to write ‘em. Worse, we only had three publishing slots a week. How would we possibly make space for all this material? Where would we find the time to edit it? I cupped my hand against the rising wind and lit my last cigarette. 

“Lissen, Thompson,” he said, further degenerating into a stereotypical 1940s detective novel character before my ears. “I just spoke ta Whistance. She’s got a to-do list longer’n a Reach PLC nostalgia listicle. You sound like you’re about to do the Charleston off Canada Dock. No offence. But we gotta face facts. We need somethin’ else.”

He may have been a run-down, alcohol-dependent, fatally dyspeptic figment of my overworked imagination, but the old man knew a breaking point when he smelt one. The truth was, only one person — or group of people — could help us now. And it wouldn’t be easy to tell them. I dragged the superking so hard it nearly burnt down to the filter and snorted a stream of smoke into the sea wind.

“The free subscribers,” I said. 

“You got it, son,” the boss said. “If anythin’s gonna change around here, we need those good folks who’re enjoying the free stories to become members. You gotta talk ‘em round.”

“But how?” I said, waving manically at a seagull who had decided my ink-soaked notebook was food. I was thinking about how good The Post’s totally free content was, and how many of those people who read us regularly without paying might quite reasonably think they weren’t missing out. 

“How!?” he said, nearly choking on his stogie. “You’re a writer, ain’t yer? Convince ‘em! Tell ‘em about all the investigations they’re missing out on. All the unique deep dives into local culture ‘n’ history. Our entire archive of crucial journalism that they could be readin’ any time they want. How we’re holding city hall’s feet to the fire every week with those emails you love sending. Haw haw, that one you nailed Wirral Council with last week! I nearly coughed up my ulcer.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” I said.

“Make ‘em an offer they can’t refuse. And for God’s sake, jazz it up. Make it colourful. You’re good at all that fruity stuff, adjectives and what have you.”

“Alright,” I said. I braced myself. “How about this: £1 a week for the first three months?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. I knew he was weighing up how low he could afford to go. It was a risk for him: he had payments left on his clapped out jalopy, alimony for his surviving ex-wife, college bills for his grandkids studying art history at the Courtauld. Hell, it was a risk for all of us — could I really go back to being a desk jockey for some dour financial firm? And what would become of Abi? Sending her back to the Yorkshire Evening Post could turn her feral. Well, more feral. 

“£1 a week,” he repeated, mulling it over. “For the first three months. For God’s sake, son, that’s cheaper’n a pint in a Rob Gutmann joint. Even the Echo’s now charging £4.99 for writing I wouldn’t wipe my ass with, and you wanna give away the best damn old fashioned journalism in the North West for £1 a week!?”

“I do,” I said. “You said ‘an offer they can’t refuse.’ We need to bring them on board, boss. If we don’t, we can’t deliver the premium journalism this city region deserves.”

He knew I was right. I could hear it in his wheezing intake and discharge of breath. He just didn’t like to admit it too quickly. With a few more paid members, we could pay for overtime, freelancers, pro photographers — maybe even a third staff member. More importantly, we could keep The Post going as a reader-funded paper that stands up for the little guy. 

“OK,” he said at last. “Hit it. Drop the martial arts story for now. Write up an appeal and let ‘em know about the £1 a week. But if this doesn’t work, I’m gonna have your ass for an ashtray.”

“I don’t really know what that means, but OK,” I said. But he had already hung up. 

I stood on the Pier Head, staring out at the river and the Wirral, and then back at the line of skyscrapers obscuring the best city I knew. I needed a drink, a smoke, and a two-week holiday in the Bahamas — what I had was a notebook and a pen. What the hell could I drag from my diminished reserve of consciousness to get people to sign up? Could I get away with a little artistic licence? A bit of embellishment? Of course, I’d tell the truth about the important things: the old fashioned premium journalism and the low, low price of £1 a week for the first three months. But I needed an angle. 

I looked around. The seagulls had buggered off. The sun was coming out from behind the gunmetal-grey clouds. The ferry was sailing back in, thronging with smiling faces from Seacombe and further afield, ready to fill the city with more stories. I put my notebook and phone away, gritted my teeth, and strode off towards The Post’s cramped, “cosy” office on the Albert Dock. Damn it, I was determined. No more self pity. No more running from the job. It was going to be another fine day in Liverpool. And you can trust The Post to tell you about it.