An Irishman's Diary

I recognised the old geezer who stood, a little unsteadily, in front of me in the foyer of the Europa Hotel in Belfast on a dreary…

I recognised the old geezer who stood, a little unsteadily, in front of me in the foyer of the Europa Hotel in Belfast on a dreary November evening. He was one of my heroes: a central character in an Evelyn Waugh novel set in the 1930s, winner of a Military Cross in the 1940s, a Conservative MP and Cabinet minister in the 1950s and 1960s, an editor in the 1970s, a character in a Private Eye column in the 1980s, a columnist, a confidant of Princess Diana, writes Kieran Fagan.

Of course I recognised Bill Deedes.

Lord Deedes, W.F. Deedes, the reporter "Boot" in Waugh's novel Scoop, "Dear Bill" in Private Eye's fictional correspondence from Denis Thatcher and the man who - despite his military and Tory background - campaigned with Princess Diana to rid the world of land-mines. He also has been a harsh critic of bullying in the military. I adore him.

"Do you know where the Shociety of Editorsh' resheption ish, dear boy?" he asked politely.

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The tones were unmistakeable. This was the man who gave journalism the catch-phrase "Shurely shome mishtake?" . The unsteadiness, as I soon learned, was that of a spry getting-on-for 90-year-old who is more comfortable moving than standing still.

Theme bar

I indicated a pub across the road, where the reception for the great and the good (not many of them!) of the world of journalism was in a theme bar named Fibber McGees, God help us, at the rear.

My questioner looked a bit uncertain .

"Come on, I'll show you." We stood at the pedestrian crossing. "I'll take your arm. dear boy, if you don't mind."

"I've just come up from Dublin this evening" I explained, "The Irish Times sent me."

"Dublin, yesh dear boy, know it well, Mother's people were from Dublin, Chevenix she was called, they were sholicitors, in Merrion Shquare. I don't make too much of that connection around here, they don't go for it."

Now we were across Great Victoria Street, and on our way into the pub. A huge security man stood in our way. "Lord Deedes," I announced grandly and the security man melted to one side.

Four or five musicians played an Irish air, and there was the usual huddle at the bar. My companion arched an eyebrow at a passing waiter, and effortlessly flagged down two glasses of white wine.

Benn Bradlee

I wondered if I should find a chair for him. He shook his head. His eyes ranged around the small crowded room. He fastened on a compact, elderly man. He plucked at my arm.

"Dear boy, I think that'sh Ben Bradlee."

He was right. The former editor of the Washington Post, the good guy who, along with his publisher Katharine Graham, gave young reporters Woodward and Bernstein their chance to bring down President Richard Nixon, was standing at the bar.

(It was not such a long shot. He was billed as a speaker at the Society of Editors' conference in Belfast which began the following day. That was also why Bill Deedes was there. And myself, though not in the same breath, you understand.) He shook his head.

"I'll introduce you. Follow me." Bradlee, who had a sleek and polished patina, like you sometimes see on senior diplomats, had just turned in our direction as we approached, Bill Deedes bobbing along slightly behind me.

"Mr Bradlee, I'd like to introduce you to Lord Deedes, if I may".

The two princes of modern journalism immediately plunged into a welter of greetings and goodwill.

I moved away and left them to it.

About an hour later, I decided to leave. Ben Bradlee was nowhere to be seen. Bill Deedes was chatting animatedly to the best-looking woman in the room.

Next morning, as the first session of the conference was about to begin, I looked around; I could not see my companion of the night before. He arrived, puffing a little, in the nick of time. He had, he said later, been to see at first hand the "ugly schenes" at Holy Cross School in Ardoyne where Catholic children had to run the gauntlet of hostile Loyalist demonstrators.

While the rest of us so-called journalists had been having a leisurely hotel breakfast, this octegenarian had made his way to the only news story in Belfast that day. We might have known: he has been covering flashpoints since Italy invaded Abysssinia in 1935, the event which to Evelyn Waugh immortalising him as "Boot" the war correspondent.

Back on the road

When he finished his spell as editor of the Daily Telegraph in 1986 Bill Deedes went back on the road as a reporter. As I write these words, he is in Australia reporting on forest fires. He had a mild stroke last year while covering an Indian earthquake, but it didn't stop him filing his copy. His recent exploits include stints reporting from war zones in Bosnia, Kosovo, Angola, Liberia and Sudan.

And he has given something to the English language too. "Deedesisms". I am indebted to Bob Chaundy of the BBC for the following from his collection of the great man's words: "You can't make an omelette without frying eggs"; and: "I've written this leader to tell the Tories to pull their trousers up."