Bill Newman was with the newspaper from its founding in 1964 and urged his colleagues to back Rupert Murdoch’s bid for it in 1969.
Newman not only kept Sun readers informed of the latest news, he also entertained them. Blessed with a sense of the ridiculous, he leapt into action when British truck drivers were caught in a European blockade in the 1990s, setting off in a helicopter equipped with a mobile newsroom to provide them with supplies of Yorkie bars and a morale-boosting visit from the paper’s Page 3 girls.
Newman had been a mainstay of The Sun’s newsroom since the paper was started by IPC as a successor to the Daily Herald in 1964. When IPC wanted to sell the title five years later, Newman, as father of the chapel [shop steward], urged his colleagues in the National Union of Journalists to back Rupert Murdoch’s bid over that of Robert Maxwell, insisting that Murdoch was the more honest of the two media barons.
Seven years ago he was at a performance of Ink, James Graham’s play about Murdoch’s ownership of the title, and was dismayed to see history being rewritten. Tom Clarke, a fellow former journalist who was with him, recalled: “Bill muttered as the play went on that it was not getting the facts and language right. Finally, he stood up and shouted towards the stage, ‘I was there. It wasn’t like that. You’ve got it wrong’.”
Back in the newsroom, when passions between proprietor and journalists also grew heated, as they sometimes must, Newman proved a calming presence. “He has seen blood pouring from the ceiling and the floor at the same time,” Stuart Higgins, one of his former editors, said. “On these occasions it’s always nice to have Bill there because he’s a tower of strength. He stays silent and shakes his head in disbelief.”
To his subordinates he was a gentleman at a time when newsroom bullying was seemingly obligatory. “Bill dealt with even the sorriest ineptitude with a weary sigh of exasperation rather than a torrent of verbal abuse,” said Hilary Bonner, who was one of only two female reporters when she joined the paper in 1972.
Newman worked with a succession of editors including Larry Lamb, Bernard Shrimsley, Kelvin MacKenzie, Higgins, David Yelland and Rebekah Wade, recalling that in their younger days he had sent some of them off to cover their first assignments. He was involved in many of the paper’s most infamous stories, including the hunt for Lord Lucan, the Jeremy Thorpe scandal, the Falklands conflict and the comings and goings of the royal family including the marriage of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer. “Bill was a key part of what was probably one of the greatest newsdesk operations in Fleet Street,” Higgins told the paper after Newman’s death. Under MacKenzie he was promoted to night news editor, associate news editor and, in 1989, managing editor. In addition to overseeing the budget he was responsible for hiring and firing, though he found the latter stressful.
In 2014 Newman was a founding member of the Independent Press Standards Organisation (Ipso), but was dismayed to be dropped a year later while undergoing successful treatment for pancreatic cancer. His crime was apparently that many years earlier he had been robust in his defence of The Sun’s coverage of the Hillsborough football stadium disaster.
Lord Black of Brentwood, director of Ipso’s predecessor organisation the Press Complaints Commission, had many dealings with him. “He was a journalist of the old school, often sorting out business over a protracted lunch,” said Black, a lifelong friend who visited him only a couple of days before his death. “If something was wrong in the paper, he wanted to know why and wanted it put right. However, if he thought the paper was right, he was absolutely robust in his defence.”
Although Newman formally retired as managing editor in 1998, he remained as the paper’s ombudsman, dealing with queries and complaints from readers. This brought him into the orbit of the Organisation of News Ombudsmen, a venerable international body that to his mind took itself a little too seriously. At one of their gatherings in Vienna, he decided to liven things up over dinner at a wine bar. Black, who was also present, recalled that this involved music of a variety known only to a British audience. Newman found the words, tracked down a German dictionary, made a quick translation and hummed the tune to the bar’s resident lederhosen-clad accordionist. He then led the rest of the diners in a raucous rendition of Knie hoch, Mutter Braun (Knees Up, Mother Brown).
William Newman was born in 1941 in Luton, where his parents James and Olive (née Ewing) were working in the wartime aircraft industry: his older brothers, James and John, predeceased him and he is survived by their younger sister, Judy. He was raised in Southend, where he developed a love of writing and an interest in world affairs and current affairs. However, he left Southend Grammar School before taking his A-levels to become a cub reporter on the Langdon Recorder. After working his way around several local papers he landed on the Birmingham Evening Dispatch, from where he was headhunted in 1964 at the dawn of The Sun.
Newman was a habitué of Twinings tea shop near Fleet Street, where he met Patricia May (née Rose), a barrister who was also a regular client. They were together for several years before marrying in 1972. She survives him with a stepson Alex, who is a solicitor, and their daughter Sarah Victoria, a doctor. His other regular haunts included El Vino, the Fleet Street wine bar famously patronised by journalists, and the Garrick Club, where he was known as a connoisseur of fine wine. He was passionate about the Journalists’ Charity, which had been set up by Charles Dickens in 1864 to care for the casualties of Fleet Street and their dependants, serving as chairman.
Blessed with good looks, a shock of brown hair and blue eyes, he was a great conversationalist and a talented artist. Some years ago one of his works was selected for the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition. He enjoyed the opera, especially performances of works by Mozart at Covent Garden or Glyndebourne, and played golf at every opportunity.
On one occasion Newman famously led his Sun “troops” on an invasion of France, marching into Calais waving an umbrella. Years later at Newman’s leaving do in 1998 Higgins announced: “And we are still paying the bills for that bloody hotel.”
Bill Newman, journalist, was born on January 9, 1941. He died from peripheral artery disease on December 18, 2024, aged 83
This article was published on Friday, January 3 by The Times