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25 years ago today, I sat outside the Kent & Sussex Courier offices Tonbridge, all sweaty and listening to Blackbird on a loop in my beaten-up A-reg Ford Fiesta. It was my first day at work as a journalist.
I had no idea how to get a story (still don't). Was terrified of fucking up (still am). I just knew it was what I wanted to do more than anything else (same).
On my first day, I forgot my notepad. On my second day, I crashed the pool car. In the 9,125 days since, I have travelled the world, got drunk in most time zones, including once to the point I did not notice an earthquake, and found reason to swear off Jagermeister for life.
I never once bought my own soap or booze.
And in 25 years, I have seen some shit.
*eyelid twitch*
*eyelid twitch*
I've watched a suicide. I've been shot at, quite a bit. I've been accused of being a paedophile (parked outside a school, thank you officer, bugger off now). I've become closely acquainted with the service stations of England and Wales.
I've fucked up, of course. I've had phone calls from the D Notice committee, which was ACES. I've been sent to the airport on the basis I was the only reporter with a yellow fever certificate. I've annoyed more than one Prime Minister.
I did too many death knocks, seen too many dead bodies, collected far too many biros and fridge magnets from places where bad things happened. I did beat Schillings, a few times, which is a lovely feeling.
I had success, but not that I really noticed it or was ever praised for it. And until today I never knew what success really felt like.
And then I asked my boss for a ruling on whether I could use the word "wankers" at the end of my column without asterisks, and he said "yes".
That took me 25 FUCKING years. Make sure you read the bloody thing.
