Frank Johnson obituary
The journalist Frank Johnson, who died just before Christmas, described himself in Who’s Who as “the son of an East London pastrycook”. It was a grateful nod back to an East End past he never forgot. Speaking of the seven years of cancer that preceded his death at age 63, he attributed his fortitude to “the stoicism of the London working class from whence I came”.
For a Shoreditch boy it could be hard to reconcile traditional East End pursuits with the higher things in life though. Football and boxing were the norm, and remained passions throughout this life. Literature and opera were less acceptable, and the young Frank had to conceal his love for these.
Frank Robert Johnson was born on 20 January 1943 (his dad calling him ‘Frank’ rather than ‘Francis’, which he considered effeminate). Despite a keen brain and a love of books, the boy somehow contrived to fail the 11-plus. A marvelling Johnson later said that “you had to be almost feral” to miss the mark, but instead he ended up at Shoreditch Secondary Modern. It fell to Frank to educate himself, devouring books from local libraries. It was a passion for auto-didactism that persisted through his life, and made him the acute sketch writer he became. “To write well you have to read well,” he insisted. “You need Dr Johnson, Dryden and Bagehot.”
Frank was now a keen amateur boxer, fighting at Eton Manor boxing club near Victoria Park. Eton Manor was in the tradition of the university settlements and missions established in the East End, by toffs gamely ‘giving something back’ to the less privileged parts of the capital. The club had been formed by Old Boys from Eton on the site of the Old Manor House at Hackney Wick, and sat next to the former Victoria Park railway station (now beneath the concrete of the A12).
His other burgeoning passion was classical music and opera, but he had to retain the veneer of East End machismo. He would sneak up to Covent Garden to watch Saturday matinees, ensuring he grabbed a copy of the Evening Standard for the tube ride home, absorbing the football scores so he could pretend to dad he had been at the match.
Leaving school at 16, he headed the couple of miles west to Fleet Street and marched into the first newspaper office he hit, joining the Sunday Express as a messenger. It was the classic route into journalism in those days. Soon he had joined the Walthamstow Post as a reporter then the Liverpool Daily Post as assistant political correspondent. In 1969, the big break came. Back on Fleet Street, he joined the Sun as a lobby correspondent. The erudite Johnson was never dismissive of the tabloid, crediting it with helping him hone his writing, fashioning an economical style high on punch, low on adjectives. It created problems though. Frank was still living at home and had to rip out Page 3 before his straitlaced mum saw it. He blamed this on the printers refusing to run the page.
In 1972 he joined The Daily Telegraph, writing parliamentary sketches. The 1979 election, when Britain swung dramatically to Thatcher and the Right, was enlivened by some superb sketch-writing (though much was cut as being disrespectful to the Tories). Johnson found the constraints frustrating, and headed to James Goldsmith’s shortlived Now! magazine (much lampooned by Private Eye). The title, and Goldsmith’s dream of becoming a press baron, folded - and Johnson headed for The Times.
He was, successively, a parliamentary sketch-writer, Paris diarist, Bonn correspondent and associate editor. Throughout, he retained his determination to improve - learning the language and immersing himself in the cultures of his postings. In 1988 he joined The Sunday Telegraph as associate editor and political columnist, then in 1995 became editor of The Spectator. It briefly fulfilled a longtime desire to run a title. He had previously worked with Stephen Glover and Francis Wheen on their plans for a new national paper. “I don’t want to be on the treadmill when I’m 50,” he told one friend, “I want to be a big shot.”
It wasn’t a success. A brilliant writer, Johnson was perhaps less of a manager and he was sacked in 1999. Frank returned to his parliamentary sketches for the Telegraph until he became too ill. Despite that, he described his final years (he married Virginia Fraser in 1998) as his happiest.
[suggested boxout]
Wit and wisdom … quotes from Frank Johnson’s sketches
“One hurried to the House of Lords for the State Opening of Parliament, but swiftly retreated to watch it on television, for you can’t beat the real thing.”
On Tony Benn. “The sort of man who brings stupidity into disrepute”.
“The Government’s controversial new Heseltine went on its first sea trials. Scores of Conservative backbenchers lined the shore. All of them were conscious that Mr Heseltine might never see a home ministry again. Many of them were worried that he might.”
“Mr Callaghan as prime minister gives the impression that he is seriously engaged in the activity of politics, something which Sir Harold could never bring off.”
“Stravinsky said, in a most elaborate jibe, that ‘Richard Strauss is the Puccini of music.’ Well, James Callaghan is the Harold Wilson of politics.”
On Anthony Crosland, then Labour Foreign Secretary. “One of the cleverest men in the Commons, as he himself would concede”.
“Edward Heath arrived in the hall and advanced menacingly on the platform… neatly dressed as ever, facially impassive, arms thrust straight down his sides. It was as if he had stepped out of the window of a nearby branch of Burton’s. He was warmly applauded and seated himself one place away from Mrs Thatcher. They gave each other a welcoming stare.”