A few minutes after one o’clock, Bruce charged into his office without knocking. “They backed you,” he said. Townsend looked up, the color rushing back into his cheeks. “But it was a damn close thing. They voted 343 to 301 to make the move. I think your threat to close the paper down if they didn’t support you was what finally tilted it in your favor.”
Townsend rang Number Ten a few minutes later to warn the prime minister that there was likely to be a bloody confrontation which could last for several weeks. Mrs. Thatcher promised her full backing. As the days passed, it quickly became clear that he hadn’t exaggerated: journalists and printers alike had to be escorted in and out of the new complex by armed police; Townsend and Bruce Kelly were given twenty-four-hour protection after they received anonymous death threats.
That didn’t turn out to be their only problem. Although the new site on the Isle of Dogs was unquestionably the most modern in the world, some of the journalists were complaining about the life they were expected to endure, pointing out that there was nothing in their contracts about having abuse, sometimes even stones, hurled at them by hundreds of trades unionists as they entered Fortress Townsend each morning and left at night.
The journalists’ complaints didn’t stop there. Once they were inside, few of them cared for the production-line atmosphere, the modern keyboards and computers which had replaced their old typewriters, and in particular the ban on alcohol on the premises. It might have been easier if they hadn’t been stranded so far from their familiar Fleet Street watering holes.
Sixty-three journalists resigned in the first month after the move to the Isle of Dogs, and sales of the Globe continued to fall week after week. The picketing became more and more violent, and the financial director warned Townsend that if it went on for much longer, even the resources of Global Corp would be exhausted. He went on to ask, “Is it worth risking bankruptcy to prove a point?”
Armstrong watched with delight from the other side of the Atlantic. The Citizen kept picking up sales, and his share price soared. But he knew that if Townsend was able to turn the tide he would have to return to London and quickly put a similar operation in motion.
But no one could have anticipated what would happen next.
31.
The Sun
4 May 1982
GOTCHA!
On a Friday night in April 1982, while the British were fast asleep, Argentinian troops invaded the Falkland Islands. Mrs. Thatcher recalled Parliament on a Saturday for the first time in forty years, and the House voted in favor of dispatching a task force without delay to recapture the islands.
Alistair McAlvoy contacted Armstrong in New York and persuaded him that the Citizen should toe the Labor Party line—that a jingoistic response was not the solution, and that the United Nations should sort the problem out. Armstrong remained unconvinced until McAlvoy added, “This is an irresponsible adventure which will cause the downfall of Thatcher. Believe me, the Labor Party will be back in power within weeks.”
Townsend, on the other hand, was in no doubt that he should back Mrs. Thatcher and wrap the Union Jack round the Globe. “Argy Bargy” was the headline on Monday’s edition, with a cartoon depicting General Galtieri as a cutthroat pirate. As the task force headed out of Portsmouth and on toward the South Atlantic, sales of the Globe rose to 300,000 for the first time in months. During the first few days of skirmishing even Prince Andrew was praised for his “gallant and heroic service” as a helicopter pilot. When the British submarine HMS Conqueror sunk the General Belgrano on 2 May, the Globe told the world “BULLSEYE!”, and sales rose again. By the time the British forces had retaken Port Stanley, the Globe was selling over 500,000 copies a day, while sales of the Citizen had dipped slightly for the first time since Armstrong had become proprietor. When Peter Wakeham called Armstrong in New York to let him know the latest circulation figures, he jumped on the first flight back to London.
By the time the triumphant British troops were sailing back home, the Globe was selling over a million copies a day, while the Citizen had dipped below four million for the first time in twenty-five years. When the fleet sailed into Portsmouth, the Globe launched a campaign to raise money for the widows whose gallant husbands had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Day after day, Bruce Kelly ran stories of heroism and pride alongside pictures of widows and their children—all of whom turned out to be readers of the Globe.
* * *
On the day after the remembrance service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, Armstrong called a council of war on the ninth floor of Armstrong House. He was reminded quite unnecessarily by his circulation manager that most of the Globe’s gains had been at the expense of the Citizen. Alistair McAlvoy still advised him not to panic. After all, the Globe was a rag; the Citizen remained a serious radical newspaper with a great reputation. “It would be foolish to lower our standards simply to appease an upstart whose paper is not fit to be wrapped around a self-respecting serving of fish and chips,” he said. “Can you imagine the Citizen ever involving itself in a bingo competition? Another one of Kevin Rushcliffe’s vulgar ideas.”
Armstrong made a note of the name. Bingo had put the Globe’s circulation up by a further 100,000 copies a day, and he could see no reason why it shouldn’t do the same for the Citizen. But he also knew that the team McAlvoy had built up over the past ten years was still fully behind its editor.
“Look at the Globe’s front-page lead this morning,” Armstrong said in a last desperate effort to make his point. “Why don’t we get stories like that?”
“Because Freddie Starr wouldn’t even make page eleven of the Citizen,” said McAlvoy. “And in any case, who cares a damn about his eating habits? We get offered stories like that every day, but we don’t get the handful of writs that usually go with them.” McAlvoy and his team left the meeting believing that they had persuaded the proprietor not to go down the same path as the Globe.
Their confidence lasted only until the next quarter’s circulation figures landed on Armstrong’s desk. Without consulting anyone, he picked up a phone and made an appointment to see Kevin Rushcliffe, the deputy editor of the Globe.
Rushcliffe arrived at Armstrong Communications later that afternoon. He couldn’t have been in greater contrast to Alistair McAlvoy. He addressed Dick at their first meeting as if they were old friends, and talked in rapid-fire soundbites that the proprietor didn’t begin to understand. Rushcliffe left him in no doubt as to the immediate changes he would make if he were given a chance to edit the Citizen. “The editorials are too bland,” he said. “Let them know what you feel in a couple of sentences. No words with more than three syllables, and no sentences with more than ten words. Don’t ever try to influence them. Just make sure you demand what they already want.” An unusually subdued Armstrong explained to the young man that he would have to start as the deputy editor, “Becau
se McAlvoy’s contract has another seven months to run.”
Armstrong nearly changed his mind about the new appointment when Rushcliffe told him the package he expected. He wouldn’t have given way so easily had he known the terms of Rushcliffe’s contract with the Globe, or the fact that Bruce Kelly had no intention of renewing it at the end of the year. Three days later he sent a memo down to McAlvoy telling him that he had appointed Kevin Rushcliffe as his deputy.
McAlvoy considered protesting at having the Globe’s deputy editor foisted upon him, until his wife pointed out that he was due for retirement in seven months on a full pension, and that this was not the time to sacrifice his job on the altar of principle. When he arrived in the office the next morning, McAlvoy simply ignored his new deputy and his idea-a-minute for tomorrow’s front page.
When the Globe put a nude on page three and sold two million copies for the first time, McAlvoy declared at morning conference, “Over my dead body.” No one felt able to point out that two or three of his best reporters had recently left the Citizen to join the Globe, while only Rushcliffe had made the journey in the opposite direction.
As Armstrong continued to spend a great deal of his time preparing for a takeover battle in New York, he reluctantly continued to accept McAlvoy’s judgment, not least because he didn’t want to sack his most experienced editor only weeks before a general election.
When Margaret Thatcher was returned to the Commons with a majority of 144, the Globe claimed the victory as theirs, and declared that this would surely hasten the downfall of the Citizen. Several commentators were quick to point out the irony of this particular statement.
When Armstrong returned to England the following week for the monthly board meeting, Sir Paul raised the subject of the fall in the paper’s circulation figures.
“While the Globe’s continue to rise every month,” Peter Wakeham interjected from the other end of the table.