Synopsis
Clubman, yachtsman and bon viveur, Johnnie Coote modestly suggested in the first volume of his autobiography, Submariner, that he was endowed with a measure of indifference to hardship and the other operational hazards of submarine warfare. Now he tells how a different but equally desirable form of courage was called for when he left the Royal Navy soon after promotion to Captain and entered the jungle of Fleet Street as an executive trainee in Beaverbrook Newspapers. Intrigue and disloyalty were quickly in evidence to an extent which would have been inconceivable in his earlier career. Since his only apparent qualification was acquaintanceship with Lord Beaverbrook's son, Max, it says much for his talent for survival that he thrived in this unfamiliar cut-throat world. So, under his unobtrusive management, did Beaverbrook Newspapers.
Johnnie Coote joined the Group when all its newspapers were on the commanding peaks of Fleet Street, the mecca of every aspiring journalist, envied and imitated by their rivals. But the leaders of the print unions with their restrictive practices and grossly inflated manning scales, were already holding the industry to ransom.
He tells how the union leaders refused to see that they were digging their own graves; and of happier encounters with such titans of the Street as John Gordon, Hugh Cudlipp, John Junor, Chapman Pincher, Charles Wintour and the ageing Canadian autocrat who held nearly all the voting shares. The pace of work, and of play was hectic, calling for the stamina of a team of oxen.
But, unlike most of its competitors, the Express had failed to diversify its interests, and the writing was on the wall. John Coote tells with some sadness of the twilight of the greatest days of Fleet Street and how his far-seeing survival plan fell victim to others' ambitions and blind optimism.
He ends on a happier note, describing some of the joys of retirement, with time to read and write, to support the Chichester theatre, go sailing, play Real Tennis and visit his favourite watering-holes, the Garrick Club and the Royal Yacht Squadron. Above all, alongside his charming wife Sylvia, he enjoys his role as a stimulating host in their 400-year-old cottage in West Sussex with a diverse circle of interesting friends passing the port. From time to time their three left-wing daughters with right-wing tastes add their gaiety to the proceedings.
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