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Modern manners

There are no jobs for trainee journalists, but miracles keep happening to Jeremy Clarke

By Jeremy Clarke   March 1996

Just before Christmas, I came down to London from Glasgow by train, feeling a bit gloomy. In October I had started a postgraduate course in journalism at Strathclyde University. It involved sitting in a high-tech simulated newsroom, banging out news stories about Oxtown, an imaginary town familiar to anyone who has sat for a National Council for the Training of Journalists examination. Mr Barr, a hard-bitten, retired Glaswegian journalist with silver hair and elbow clips, would give us each a fictitious press release about a trivial incident-a fire in Oxtown’s bingo hall, a minor road accident on the Oxtown bypass-then…

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