Recently, I recounted how, as a young journalist in the Swinging Sixties, I had been ordered to drive through a Category 4 cyclone to report for work by a boss I described as an addition to the Holy Trinity – God the Editor.

Some online comments suggested I could have laughed down the phone and refused outright. But those were different times. Labor’s controversial Closing Loopholes Bill, with its ‘right to disconnect’ rules, would have been as unimaginable as life on Mars. Had I simply put the phone down, I would have been looking for a new career with a mortgage and a pregnant young wife to care for.

The Editor was omnipotent and his commands were to be obeyed at all costs. I was a mere junior reporter. But the Fourth Estate’s version of the Heavenly Trinity had some human frailties – God could make mistakes. One of these involved me where I narrowly avoided potentially costly court litigation which was brought to mind recently by the expanding legal nightmare of MeToo defamation cases.

Even as a cadet journalist, I knew you shouldn’t comment or report on things that had not been discussed in open court.

I thought I had finally found my niche when I stumbled into journalism – a career that had never been on my radar since leaving high school and completing a three-year pharmacy apprenticeship which I eventually walked away from.

Unlike pill counting and deciphering secret codes in doctors’ scrawled handwriting, journalism provided new challenges almost every day. However, as a more mature cadet than the usual crop out of high school, I was soon thrown in at the deep end while still having to paddle in the shallows.

After a few months, God the Editor had me covering anything in the Bundaberg district, from CWA and Red Cross meetings to the Magistrate’s Court, council meetings, and even big District Court trials. One day I was called into his office and had to mount my own defence for being late to the CWA Branch annual meeting.

‘Why the hell did that happen? You know it’s the most important day of the year for all those women?’

‘Er, well, Mr G, you also had me down for court and there was a bloke up on an attempted murder charge. The cop prosecutor said he had shot one of his neighbours… I thought that would be more important.’

‘But you could have picked up the details from the prosecutor later, couldn’t you? Just make sure you get a copy of the CWA president’s annual report and a list of elected officebearers. We need to cover the community’s bread and butter issues too, not just sensational court stories…’

Yeah right, what would a young cub reporter know? Several months later, I took his advice when a couple of similar engagements clashed. There was an adjourned hearing of the attempted murder case, but as God had directed, I could get the details later. Better not keep those Red Cross ladies waiting (plus they served delicious jam scones and lamingtons after their meetings, just like the CWA members. God’s wife always gave me a warm welcome too).

Well, maybe he was right. The police prosecutor was only too happy to give a graphic outline of the case against the defendant, down to the angry words and fight over a girl which had led to the shooting on a rural property.

Bundaberg, like the rest of Australia, always lapped up a gory story, dating back to the days of ‘the Pressler trial’ following the bloody murder of his cane farmer neighbours in what was apparently a love triangle gone horribly wrong, although Pressler always maintained his innocence.

This is how that outcome was reported:

‘May 15, 1959: 30-year-old Marjorie Frances Golchert and her 33-year-old husband Clifford John Golchert, 33, were bashed and shot to death by their neighbour, Neville William Pressler, at their home in Kalkie, Queensland. Marjorie and Clifford were found four days after their deaths with a .22 rifle and a half-eaten apple nearby. Police spent six weeks searching across Queensland for their killer. Pressler flew under the radar, even acting as a pallbearer at the funeral of the Golcherts. On July 1, police arrested him…’

This latest shooting, fortunately, wasn’t a murder, but it had elements of our wild frontier days which I was sure our readers would enjoy. I typed my colourful copy that night on a battered old Remington and handed it to the chief night sub.

‘Great story, John, I’ll run this as the lead on page 3.’

That was good to hear. Page 3 was almost as good as page 1, which was usually reserved for important national or international news in those days.

I felt chuffed as I went back to report the main talking points among the Red Cross ladies.

Then the phone rang. It was one of the city’s prominent solicitors acting for the defendant, who wanted to talk to me about the court case. His suspicions had been aroused by the fact there was no reporter present. He had guessed I may have spoken to the prosecutor or a police witness. I confirmed I had.

‘What did they tell you?’ the solicitor asked.

‘Well, they outlined their case against your client. They told me what happened.’

‘You can’t print any of that! None of it was stated in court, it was just another appearance and an adjournment to a later date while we prepare our defence.’

‘I’ve already handed the report in. It’s probably being type-set by now.’

‘Hold everything. I’m coming down there right now!’

Oh hell, what have I gotten myself into? I was simply following one of God’s Commandments.

Sure enough, within 10 minutes the solicitor, a sophisticated-looking middle-aged bloke in a dark pinstripe suit, came pounding up the flight of stairs to the newsroom.

I ushered him into the sub editors’ cubicle where he confronted my chief night sub (who was a world war two navy veteran dubbed ‘The Admiral’ by the back-room printers). The night sub was also a keen surf lifesaver and a pretty unflappable bloke, with an open-neck shirt exposing part of his tanned hairy chest.

He pushed himself back in his chair and lit a cigarette as he listened to the tirade from the defence counsel. The upshot was: ‘You’d better kill this story or we’ll sue.’

I saw the signs of defeat in The Admiral’s eyes. You could shoot back at the Japanese from a Naval patrol boat but you couldn’t fight the law, and in this case, the lawyer was right. Time to run up the white flag.

‘Okay, I’m sorry this has happened. We should have been in court.’

Needless to say, the page 3 lead was reduced to a small single-column report which wouldn’t win any Walkley Awards or pique our reader’s interest.

The Admiral was ready to reprimand me until I explained the circumstances.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a word to God about all this tomorrow. We don’t want anything like this to happen again, it could have been a bloody disaster.’

But in this case, God the Editor listened. Maybe he even learned from my experience. Better still, Mrs God obviously had even more influence than The Admiral and this cub reporter.

‘My wife tells me she doesn’t think you should have to attend every CWA and Red Cross meeting. She thinks you’re cut out for bigger things and maybe that’s true, so we’re asking them to appoint their own news correspondents.’

Wow! Every cloud has a silver lining, but I’d miss those scones and lamingtons.

And I completed the usual four-year cadetship in two years.

John Mikkelsen is a former editor of three Queensland regional newspapers, columnist, freelance writer and author of the Amazon Books Memoir, Don’t Call Me Nev, which includes part of the above commentary.

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