nujadm.org.uk

The President and the hangover

By Ashley Scrace

22^nd November 2009

It is true – James Doherty, president of the National Union of Journalists (NUJ) during the Annual Delegate Meeting (ADM), has been kidnapped… by a hangover.

Saturday night was a grand affair, with most delegates meeting for an arranged NUJ dinner at the Prince of Wales hotel, Southport.

The food was great – as was the entertainment. But the bar is – in words of Kevin Stanley, from Nottingham branch – where “Legends are made”.

The man, the myth, the leg-end

With this statement of notoriety in mind we headed to the bar. Having already enjoyed a bottle or ten of wine, we decided beer would go down well. And spirits. And more wine.

And so the drinks flowed – my body becoming something of a drainpipe as all the drink dripped through. Straight in, straight out, do it again. That became a mantra.

I looked around the bar. It was filled with delegates – maybe 50 of them. Colleagues slurred their words and flopped over the chairs; old hacks ranted about the changing media and past trade issues; and hotel guests looked on in utter despair and disgust.

The path to legendary status seemed ponderous. Maybe it was all a myth. People cannot drink themselves to enlightenment after all.

Yet I kept trying. I held up pretty well. At least I did for a while.

The president was in the building

James Doherty, the infamous president, entered the bar donning the attire of a proper Scotsman: a proper kilt – complete with little underneath it.

Sitting down with us bleary-eyed youth James began talking about the ADM, how he’s enjoyed the whole time here and how I look like Daniel O’ Donnell – the Irish anti-Christ to the music world.

With the conference finishing at six, everyone headed to the bar for celebrator drinks. James was among one of the first to arrive and became one of the last to leave.

River of beers

“Anyone want a drink?” said James – countless times throughout the evening.

Another note came out of the wallet. Another load of drinks came to the table. Another drunken slur was extolled.

“I really should be getting to bed. Anyone for a cigarette?” James rose and staggered outside with the remaining students in tow.

I’ve come to discover James is an indecisive drunk. “I really should be getting to bed. Anyone for a beer?”

This process repeated for at least another five rounds…

The morning after the night before

I stumbled into bed at 5am, fully aware I must be up and ready to report in two-hours time.

The alarm went off. I ignored it. Reporting starts at 9am. I knew that. But it was already 9.30am.

I rushed around the room, packing everything in my case as and when I came across it. It became a leisure-landfill site – smells and dirt included.

Running down the stairs I chucked my key at the hotel porter. She caught it well and acknowledged my departure. But I had already gone – so quickly I slammed the revolving door.

Running up Southport high-street with no possessions must’ve been an odd sight.

I did not care how much of an idiot I looked. I needed to get to the ADM. This boy, buried under layers of clothes and technology, was running up the road to prevent death at the hands of the editor.

Where’s James?

Breathless, I entered the newsroom. Surprisingly it all went down well. I told my story of debauchery and forgetfulness, gauged the slightly disappointing looks, and then rushed into the ADM.

Looking up at the stage, everyone was there – except James.

His seat was empty up on the stage. Jeremy looked worried. I was worried. Maybe he was hungover. Surely not – Glaswegians don’t get hangovers, they just get miserable.

Perhaps we’d killed him. I’d bought his last beer. Therefore it was my fault.

I’d killed the president. I was the Lee Harvey-Oswald of on the NUJ.

It was strange. Being a murderer was not something I’d aspired to. I always wanted to be reporting the murderers, not creating the news. How was I going to explain this to the NUJ? What about my family? Friends?

The ADM has made me appreciate dull walls and dim-lighting – which was about to come in handy for the rest of my life in prison.

The second coming

As Jeremy rose to the stand to speak I thought the game was up.

“Colleagues. I have an announcement: James is dead. That boy over there – Daniel, I believe – killed him. ”

I was sweating. It was becoming unbearable. My faith in James was foolish. He’s from Glasgow – I thought he could handle the drink, seeing as alcoholism is instilled from birth.

A rush of air blew papers from the table. Like waltzing into a western saloon, a lone shadowy figure pushed open the doors and stood bleary-eyed in the doorway.

I’d been saved: “James, how are you?”

“I really should be getting to bed. Anyone for a cigarette?”

And normality resumes.