In my
days of professional employment
as a journalist, I became Father of the Chapel to one of the UK's
larger collective National Union of Journalist’s collective chapters,
based in Essex and covering a broad swathe of the south of England.
I'd
been a member of the NUJ for 15 years and was at one time also
a member of good standing in the International Organisation of
Journalists (IOJ), until the IOJ sent me a threatening letter telling
me that I could not belong to both organisations, so I simply replied
with my resignation.
Later
down the line I quit my job and let my NUJ
membership lapse. When a few years later
I came into some changes and decided to resume
writing, I also decided to resume my membership
of the National Union of Journalists.
I
knew that as a former member of good standing,
renewal of my membership was a simple process
of a straightforward application and the
renewal fee. There was no requirement, as
with newcomers, to ‘prove’
I was a journalist as that was already on record.
NUJ head office in London confirmed the renewal
fee as then at £20.
The Dublin office however insisted on a £74 fee to rejoin, leading
to a challenge and dispute and a blatant display of prig-headedness by so-called
union
representatives.
From
that point onwards, respect and cordiality went out of the window.
London
had informed me that the renewal fee was £20 (imposed to cover
administration costs). Dublin however insisted on the payment of
a fee of £74
and would provide no explanation other than to say such a figure
was “insisted on by the branches” — a quote by Dublin-based
NUJ membership secretary Joyce O’Toole. When I sought clarification
of this fee, which was way in excess of head office stipulations,
never mind general good sense, the Dublin office became inhospitable
in its response.
Then
I began to be told that I would have to prove that I was a journalist
etc etc and I began to think that these pillocks were getting boring.
I
was given a hodgepodge of confused information as to what I required
when attending the NUJ’s south-west branch meeting at Adare
to which I had been invited and which was to consider my renewal
on its agenda. I was treated as a fool by people who revealed themselves
as fools.
I
explained to the then branch chair Valerie Sweeney that as a lapsed
member seeking membership renewal, there was no requirement for a
proposer or seconder, a matter she reluctantly accepted, and I further
explained that the NUJ head office retained my full membership history.
At
the meeting in Adare, my simple request to Valerie to briefly address
the members to introduce myself was perfunctorily turned down as
if I was an axe murderer there to wreak havoc. I was not extended
the courtesy of sitting in the meeting and had to loiter outside
like an errant schoolboy called before the beak. I was not enamoured
by any of this crap.
After
over one hour of loitering, Padraic Gallagher, a young journalist
from RTE radio and the branch secretary at the time, emerged from
the meeting to inform me that my application had been “deferred”.
Fine.
I take time out of a busy timetable to attend a meeting 15 miles
from my base to renew my 15 year membership of the NUJ to be told
this. I don't think it was the 15th of the month.
Well.
I decided to remain in the bar—the meeting was at the Woodlands
Hotel—and socialise with my ‘journalistic colleagues’,
most of whom in this particular meeting were beginning to appear
to me as little more than ego tripping buffoons. Anyway, I had booked
a place at a meal following the meeting and was growing hungry. Then
Ms Sweeney approached and said that I should leave, as this was a ‘private’ meeting.
“You
can’t stay here,” she said.
“Why?” I
asked.
“You’re
not a journalist. We don’t know anything about you.” That
from Ms Sweeney in stern schoolmarm’am tone. The omnipotent God
of who is and who isn’t and what is and what isn’t, stupid
damned ignorant woman.
After
a few moments of attempted parley (one cannot converse with a dumbkoff)
I suggested in the politest way that she shove her hospitality up
her ass and left the meeting.
Some
weeks later, one Seamus Dooley, Irish organiser for the NUJ who had
also attended the meeting and to whom I had introduced myself prior
to its start, rather placatingly and somewhat condescendingly made
the suggestion that I enrol as a temporary member until I had ‘proved
that I was a journalist’.
Now
this might seem nitpicking stuff, but in fact it is the stuff that
communities are built on or eroded by. I have no hesitation in saying
that I have more journalistic experience than Ms Sweeney certainly
has manners in the lining of her handbag and it is a simple fact
that I held more experience as a journalist than anyone who attended
the meeting that day.
The
worrying factor of all this is that Ms Sweeney was in a position
of influence over those members of the press whose job it is to write
of and convey the truth to the public.
Now
I won’t say that my endeavours at submitting copy have been
gagged. Far from it.
The
small world of secluded cliquedom as practised by the juppies (my
new word for the journalistic bigots who think the world, the whole
world and nothing but the world is theirs and theirs all alone) attests
to nothing grander than useless indifference. You can write reams
of sweet, harpy lageristic dribble that lays claim to your adroitness
as a humorphile. That doesn’t mean you can write. To fuddyduddle
with words and avoid rooting out the truth is a disservice to the
journalistic profession and all of us can well do without those who
promulgate such.
What
makes the above matter more unpalatable is the attempt by those within
the higher echelons of the NUJ who simply tried to ignore my reports
of the matter as though none of it ever happened.
glossary
lageristic: of, appetaining to, a lager swilling journalistic yob. May have
a beer gut.
humorphile: someone who believes life is not more than a joke
If
you are an NUJ member and have encountered similar difficulties with
the union branches within Ireland do let me know.
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