A Day Like Today: Memoirs. John Humphrys

to edit it and, because there was no money for reporters, to do all the reporting as well. I did not complain – mostly because my editor would not have listened but also because I used my fancy title (I called myself Showbiz Editor) to blag free tickets for all the big concerts in Cardiff. Since it was the capital city of Wales it attracted lots of big stars and I usually managed to persuade the promoters to fix an interview for me with them. I won’t pretend they were memorable interviews, but when you’re sixteen and discovering (or hoping to discover) what sex was all about, that wasn’t really the point.

      A casual ‘Fancy meeting Cliff Richard next week … or Billy Fury or the Everly Brothers?’ would surely work miracles with girls who had been way out of my league even before I was struck down by late-onset chickenpox and spottier than a Dalmatian. The theory was sound – I’d be able to bask in reflected glory – but I failed to spot the obvious flaw. The girls did indeed fall in love – but not with me.

      My greatest professional triumph was to set up an interview with the one star who put all the others in the shade. She was Ella Fitzgerald, easily the greatest singer of her generation. It was also my greatest disaster. The interview was scheduled to happen in her dressing room before she went on stage with another musical giant, Count Basie, and his orchestra. When I arrived at the theatre I was not so much paralysed with nerves as the exact opposite. I was hyperactive, bouncing from one foot to the other, waving my arms and speaking much too loudly. And when I was finally ushered into the presence I was overwhelmed: hopelessly star-struck.

There she stood, magnificent in her glittering stage gown, and utterly terrifying. She was a living legend at the height of her powers and I was an awkward teenager in total awe of her – so awkward that as I advanced towards her my elbow caught the corner of a mirror, which fell from the table and smashed to pieces. Smashing a mirror was said to be bad luck at the best of time. Smashing a mirror in the dressing room of a star minutes before she was about to go on stage put it in another category altogether.

      She glanced across at me. ‘Get that fucking kid outta here!’ she snarled. And they did. Within a second I was surrounded by her heavies. My feet literally did not touch the ground. They took my elbows, lifted me about a foot off the floor and deposited me outside the dressing room with the big star on the door. So ended my career as a showbiz reporter.

      Many years later when I was working in New York for the BBC I (almost) met my other musical hero: Duke Ellington. He was performing for a small, invited audience in the Rainbow Room at the top of the Rockefeller Center in Manhattan and I wangled an invitation. I was determined to shake the great man’s hand and be able to claim in years to come that we’d been old mates, so when he left in the interval I followed. He was headed for the gents’ toilet. I stood at the urinal next to him and tried to strike up a conversation. And I froze. I suppose I can boast that I peed alongside the greatest jazz musician of all time but the truth is I was so intimidated by his presence I couldn’t even manage that.

      As for my career on the Cardiff & District News, it did not last long. Apart from writing most of the paper (stealing stories from the Echo and Mail) I also had to deliver it. Physically deliver it, that is, to the few newsagents in Cardiff who had agreed to stock it on the strict condition that if it didn’t sell they got their money back. I was too young to drive, so the publisher hired the services of a nice old lady who owned a pre-war Ford Prefect. She and I would pile the newly printed papers on the back seat and sail off to Cardiff. The following week we would repeat the journey, each time collecting the unsold papers and dumping them in the boot. Logic dictates it is impossible, but I have always believed that we took back more newspapers than we had delivered the previous week. The Cardiff & District News did not live to see the year out. I don’t think anyone noticed.

I had hit seventeen when that happened and decided it was time to leave to work on my next newspaper, the Merthyr Express. It was also a weekly, but there the similarity ended. Penarth was prosperous and so prim and proper in those days that it may even be true that it was the inspiration for the old gag about its residents believing that ‘sex is what coal comes in’. Merthyr was a tough industrial town with a glorious past and not much of a future. It went from being the most prosperous town in Wales to the poorest. There was still coal mining in the South Wales valleys but towns like Merthyr were living on their histories. And what a history.

      At the peak of the Industrial Revolution, the Welsh valleys were producing vast amounts of coal and iron. Merthyr had four great ironworks (one of them was said to be the most productive in the world) and – maybe Merthyr’s proudest boast – the first railway. The locomotive was designed by the Cornish engineer Richard Trevithick – Stephenson’s Rocket came later – and it managed to haul twenty-five tons of iron and a few passengers too.

      So there was plenty of money being made, but not much of it found its way to the wretched souls slaving for a pittance in the ironworks and the pits as they created the wealth for the mighty ironmasters and pit owners to enjoy. The great Victorian essayist Thomas Carlyle wrote of ‘those poor creatures broiling, all in sweat and dirt, amid their furnaces, pits and rolling mills’.

      The area where most of them lived became known as ‘Little Hell’ – and for good reason. If their jobs didn’t kill them there was a pretty good chance they and their families would be seen off by the cholera and typhoid which thrived in the open sewers. Flushing toilets were a stranger to Little Hell. A century after Carlyle, when I was reporting for the Merthyr Express, I had my own tiny taste of what the miners he had written about all those years ago had to endure. To this day I marvel that any of them managed to survive.

To drop in a cage to the bottom of a deep mine is not an experience for the faint-hearted. The speed of the descent through total darkness is terrifying, made worse by the grit that flies through the air, stinging your face. And when you get to the bottom all you can think about is how quickly you can get to the surface again. The idea that these men could spend a third of their lives down there was simply incomprehensible to me – as was the massive physical effort it had taken to create this and every other deep mine in the valleys.

      I suppose I had imagined in my childish ignorance that once a mine had been sunk the miners immediately found the coal waiting for them to hack away and get it hauled to the surface. But first, of course, they had to dig out the thousands of tons of rock and waste to form the tunnels that gave them access to the black stuff. I looked up at the roof of the tunnel we were walking through to get to the coalface. All that stood between us and instant death were the ceiling props these men had put in place. If they got it wrong they died. And, of course, vast numbers did die: some from roof falls, many more from the deadly gases that could seep into the tunnels and reach the coalface.

      Carbon monoxide was one of the big killers until, in 1913, someone had the brilliant idea of taking canaries down the mine. If the canary keeled over, the miners knew they had to get to the surface fast. Canaries were still being used until only a few years before I first went down a mine in 1961. An even bigger killer was methane.

      An old miner told me what it was like to be working at the coalface and hear a loud bang. It happened to him once and, mercifully, turned out to be a relatively minor incident – a few injuries but no one killed. Even so, I struggled to imagine the sheer terror as he and the men with him raced back through the tunnel, not knowing whether the blast had brought down the roof ahead of them so they would be trapped. Perhaps rescuers would break through the fallen rock to save them. Perhaps they wouldn’t and they would die, as so many miners had, when their oxygen ran out or the attempt to rescue them brought more rocks crashing down and crushing them. Fatal accidents were commonplace.

Every miner in the Welsh valleys had his own story to tell of disasters that nearly happened – and those that did. The worst – only a few miles from Merthyr – killed more men and boys than any other mining disaster in the history of British mining. It was in 1913. Nearly 950 men were working at the Senghenydd colliery when a massive explosion ripped it apart and 439 were killed either by the blast itself or the poisonous gas that had created it.

      Like most reporters working in the valleys in the days when almost every village had its colliery and every colliery