Victor's laurel•
THE PRESS BILL GRUNDY
I have a splitting headache, you will be de- lighted to hear. I'm not entirely sure about its cause, but I think it comes from worrying about last week's International Publishing Corporation awards to various journalists for various reasons. The awards, which used to be called the Hannen Swaffer Awards, after. the chain-smoking old 131,77ard of Trafalgar Square, are the work of a panel of impartial judges. This year it was made up of Charles Wintour, editor of the Evening Standard: Charles Jervis, former editor-in-chief of the Press Association; Michael Foot, RIP; the Hopkinsons, David and Tom, one of whom edits the Birmingham Post, the other of whom used to edit Picture Post, and everybody mixes them up so I don't see why it should be left to me to clear away the confusion; and dear old Uncle Sydney Jacobson, editorial director of rec Newspapers Ltd, who organised things but who didn't have a vote.
Naturally enough the decisions of such a distinguished panel are awaited eagerly by the newspaper world, though to tell you the truth, any such awards are awaited eagerly by them, for the practitioners of the black art, just like the rest of us, aren't averse to a bit of recog- nition. But this year I feel that one or two of the awards might have been received with a touch of bewilderment. Oh, to be sure there'll be few found to disagree with the choice of Peter Black as the Critic of the Year, or of Marjorie Proops as the Woman's Page Jour- nalist. And it's particularly gratifying to see that both Michael Leapman of the Sun and Walter Panington of the Express got awards for outstanding reporting from Biafra. Most of the other decisions look eminently reason- able, too, although in commending Denis Holmes for his reports for the Mail, they might have remembered that fairly reprehen- sible one he did on Mr Wilson's salary.
But the award that is splitting my head open is the one that is without doubt the most im- portant; Journalist of the Year. This time it has gone to Mr Victor Zorza, the communist affairs specialist of the Guardian, for fore- casting 'with astonishing accuracy and against the flow of informed opinion' the invasion of Czechoslovakia.
Now Mr Zorza undoubtedly did forecast the invasion of Czechoslovakia, about a month before it happened. But he also forecast, re- peatedly, that it wouldn't happen. This is called hedging your bets, running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, seeing both sides of the question, keeping an open mind, or just plain playing safe. And it's the con- fusion it caused me that is giving me this headache I keep on about.
For on 17 July last, Mr Zorza's piece in the Guardian started with the confession that all he had previously been saying about the im- probability of a Russian invasion of Czecho- slovakia was wrong: 'I no longer believe this analysis to be correct' were the actual words he used. I remember complaining at the time that I was highly disturbed by Mr Zorza's Damascene conversion. People like me, who understand nothing, need pundits like some people need glasses; without them they cannot see. So what about a pundit, on whom you have depended, who turns round and says, 'I'm sorry but I've. been getting hold of com- pletely the wrong end of the stick'? He is clearly an honester man than many, but what about blind us? It's about as shattering as being told that your guide dog can't see either. And even though events one month later were to prove Zorza Mark H the correct version, how, at that time, could we shattered ones believe this change of heart? I couldn't and I tottered off to worship at other, equally false, idols.
And it was for this that Mr Zorza got the title of Journalist of the Year, was it? Right. Then that's finished me. It's the last I'm ever going to have to do with awards like this again. I'm going to start some of my own. I'll do the judging, and be as partial as I want to be. There will be no appeal against my decisions. There will be no presentation at the Savoy. And though nobody will take a blind bit of notice of them I don't care; I will get some nice malicious pleasure out of them, even if nobody else does.
The Bore of the Year Award can be won by a newspaper, a writer, a news story, and some person or persons in the news. This year I have decided to make an award in each category. The Newspaper Bore of the Year is undoubtedly the News of the World. The Writer Bore of the Year is won outright by an amateur; Lady Norah Docker for her drivel in the Sunday Express. The Storybore of the Year is all that singlehanded sailing that's still going on. And the Personal Bores of the Year are, of course, John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
The Snip-snap of the Year Award is given to the paper publishing the year's worst pic- ture and I have no hesitation in giving it to the Sunday Express for pictures like that one last Sunday of the dog lying down with the fox. This award, by the way, is in the form of a life-sized replica of a bulldog, wearing a sailor's cap, and hanging out of the barrel of a 14-inch naval gun.
The most important award is the Janus of the Year, -which takes the shape of a two-
faced head, looking both ways. It will normally be presented to leader-writers only. For be- neath one face is inscribed the words 'On the one hand . . .' while beneath the second face will be written but on the other hand ...'
As I said, this award will normally go only to leader-writers. But I don't mind telling you that this year Mr Victor Zorza ran them a damn close second.
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