When journalists of a certain age get together the conversation goes off in a familiar direction: the job’s changed… the fun’s gone…there’s no money any more.

Then, usually after another drink: no one likes us…we don’t get time to knock on doors…the office expects us to work all hours – and wouldn’t know a real story if it walked in with its hands up.

My goodness, the industry must be in a state – except I first heard these lines 35 years ago, at the end of my first shift as a cub reporter on The Star, in Sheffield.