Goodbye Evening Standard.

 Goodbye Evening Standard.

It was the saddest day for British journalism and London journalism. We shed a river of private tears because we knew just how much it meant to thousands of London commuters on their way home from work. It was our reference point for the entire population of London because London loved it, treasured it, revered its presence, knew where to find it and were always delighted to get our hands on one of London's greatest evening newspapers. 

The London Evening Standard, or the Evening Standard and occasionally referred to as the Standard, became a reliable mainstay of our lives, a reassuring constant for as long as any of us could remember, an essential read for the local news, politics, art, international news, an advertisement opportunity for the latest theatre, music, cinema and all manner of fascinating stories that veered from the sublime to the ridiculous. 

Today the Evening Standard rolled its presses for the last time as a daily evening newspaper and many of us, although far from heartbroken or desolate, will still mourn its passing. The Standard will close tonight but remain a weekly paper, no longer the hugely informative and deeply literate voice for the capital city. And yet we will cherish the memories, the hard, investigative and probing articles, the superbly measured and balanced news coverage, the impartiality that any newspaper tries so hard to maintain at all times. 

And so it is that a vast majority of the capital will look forlornly on at now empty and noiseless Tube stations, a veritable graveyard now silenced by the harsh realities of modern technology and, quite possibly, Covid 19. Once one of the biggest selling of all evening papers in London, in recent years the impressive popularity of the Evening Standard had now fallen away dramatically. Some of us privately suspected that the market had disappeared, the demographics had changed quite evidently for the worse and people were taking their news from now prosperous social media networks.

Then there were the wide variety of alternative podcasts and online information that was so overwhelming at times that the Standard's days were always likely to be numbered. Most of us receive our news and sport almost immediately and, as soon as we wake up, we know exactly what Sir Keir Starmer has had for breakfast and, of course, the latest comedy routines performed by Donald Trump. But we'll miss the Standard deeply because it always seemed to be there. You could hear the vendors outside most of London's biggest and most influential Tube train stations from miles away because it assumed an almost vital significance. 

Outside the Bank station, Liverpool Street, Fenchurch Street and all the major newsprint arteries such as Paddington, Waterloo, Kings Cross and St Pancras, were hives of activity. Every day, five editions of the Evening Standard were rushed out of speeding vans and dumped respectfully onto the well trodden pavements of London's vibrant streets. Gentlemen wearing dark coats and caps would sling the Standard over the railings and we knew we were in business. The evening had arrived and this was the catalyst for performances of beautiful theatricality.

Suddenly, the Standard news seller would start up a stirring rendition of repeated yelling, shouting and hollering at the tops of their voices. The air would be split by deafening, stentorian announcements and pronouncements. "Standard, Standard, they would cry in heartfelt fashion, get your Standard". Only 50p. And throughout those classically eventful days of the 1960s when wars would meet headlong with the current fashions of Swinging London, the Evening Standard would accurately reflect all of those life changing developments in the very heart of the capital.

Some of us of course still recall the Evening Standard's sister paper with undiluted affection. The Evening News was equally as valued and surely one of the most highly esteemed evening papers. The St Paul's Cathedral masthead in the corner of the Evening Standard's front page gave the paper its distinctive identity but the Standard was a must read, a necessity as you squeezed onto a train carriage fit to burst. 

Then there were the everyday struggles with the redtops, tabloids as well as those distinguished broadsheets including the Times, Guardian and the Daily Telegraph. At this point, rows of seats would unfurl masses of print, smartly attired City economists and bankers carefully turning those huge sheets of paper with almost religious zeal. The bowler hats and pin striped suits would suddenly sink into a world of devoted reading of the Financial Times stocks and shares. And then, quietly unnoticed, the London Evening Standard would be revealed in all its literary glory.

This was, so to speak, the standard routine for huge swathes of Londoners who just wanted to know the latest greyhound results in a small corner of the Stop Press with brief details from White City, Catford, Walthamstow and Romford. It may have seemed unimportant in the wider scheme of things but to those who adored the dogs, this was an absorbing read never to be missed and always looked forward to.

Personally there were the football writing virtuosos of Bernard Joy, formerly of Arsenal and Michael Hart, latterly Ken Dyer and Steve Stammers. There was Neil Allen on the athletics track and boxing ring. The cricketing words of wisdom were delivered by John Thicknesse and there was always lively comment from these sporting scribes of some distinction. 

And finally, who could ever forget the wonderfully learned and remarkably knowledgeable Brian Sewell, for years the art critic of the Evening Standard. Sewell seemed to know everything there was to know about art from the most avant garde Impressionists, Surrealists, sculptors, Cubists, curators of museums right across the capital and a general egghead who kept us right up to date with the very latest exhibitions including every portrait and landscape gallery in London. Sewell, was, probably by his own admission, an eccentric but simply a man who filled up most of his weekly columns with paragraphs the size of a country mansion or a pied a terre in Kensington.

But above all, we'll miss the crosswords and the much bigger crossword on a Friday, the detailed analyses of London councils, politics, the familiar royal occasions, the invariably heavy traffic which the Standard were always there to report on, the tragedies, disasters, the rich tapestry of life. There were the big West End musical reviews, the gloriously observed plays, the famous and obscure without forgetting those who were on the fringes. There were the lesser known and the stage celebrities and performers who were always available for a comment and opinion from the Standard.

So there we are folks. It's time to bid a fond farewell to the London Evening Standard. Time to say thankyou for the superb Max Hastings, eminent historian and the man who covered the Falklands War with such rich eloquence. Time to say to express our gratitude to the incomparable Simon Jenkins, who seemed to know London like the back of his hand. And of course  there was Milton Schulman who wrote so brilliantly with his wonderful, American turn of phrase.

Finally you'd just like to add your personal thanks to the London Evening Standard because although you didn't quite make the grade as a jobbing journalist, the Standard were all stars in the highest firmament. Oh, before you forget, thankyou to my Facebook friend's dad Manny Robinson. You're a gentleman and scholar because you lived in my neighbourhood of Gants Hill in Essex and wrote about sport for the Evening Standard quite magnificently. Thankyou sir. Goodbye the London Evening Standard. The moments were magical and we'll never ever forget you.