Diane Chanteau, who has died aged 71, was fun, feisty, irrepressible, mercurial, and a force of nature. ‘Chanteau’, as she was widely known, was an old-style news reporter, femme de caractère and a Fleet Street legend.
While she may not have been recognised outside the journalistic bubble, (although a certain Margaret Thatcher could pick her out by name among the press pack), she was respected and loved by all who worked with her at the Irish Press in Dublin and, later, at the London Evening Standard under the editorship of the great Charles Wintour.
The late Nicholas Tomalin codified the qualities essential for real success in journalism: ratlike cunning, a plausible manner and a little literary ability.
Diane Chanteau ticked all the boxes, and then some. She was endlessly curious, resolutely determined, and a committed contrarian. Some might say bloody-minded. But her innate charm and infectious gap-toothed grin were enough to deflect the wrath of a news desk, especially as she invariably came up with the goods.
Frank, fearless and very free with her vocabulary, Diane favoured basic Anglo Saxon which, delivered in her husky voice, sounded incredibly posh. Instantly identifiable by her trademark white shirt,black skirt, tights and shoes, Diane’s philosophy was simple. Work hard, play harder.
At the end of her Evening Standard shift she was often to be found in one of the Fleet Street pubs swapping gossip over several large glasses of red wine, fondly dubbed: ‘vino collapso’. A new verb was coined. To be Chanteau-ed was to spend the next day in queasy regret. Diane, on the other hand, was at her desk by 6am, raring to go.
‘When you’ve seen one cock, you’ve seen them all’
Diane’s journalistic career and her first taste of Fleet Street began at the London office of the Irish Press. Still a teenager, she was hired by the London Editor, Aidan Hennigan, who saw the budding reporter waiting to burst into bloom. As the junior, her first job was to man the phones after the Staines air crash in 1972 which killed 118 people.
Soon enough, Diane was seconded to the IP head office in Dublin for a few months; it lasted four years. She became a senior reporter and feature writer.
With her Chelsea accent and blonde hair, she was once mistaken in the street for Rose Dugdale, the renegade English aristocrat art thief and IRA gun runner. Believing they had a ‘gotcha’ moment, the Gardai wrestled Diane unceremoniously to the ground before she put them right in her inimitable way. For Diane it was another anecdote in her store to be recounted over several pints in Mulligan’s. Rose Dugdale died earlier this year.
Fellow IP journalist Muriel Reddy tells how she and Diane were sent to Dublin’s Fitzwilliam Lawn Tennis Club to interview Bjorn Borg, then the world’s Number One tennis player. “We did not fare well. Diane was incensed that we were being given the bum’s rush and took matters into her own hands, making her way into the men’s locker room.
“Suddenly, there was an explosion of screams, Diane, by far the loudest, yelling, ‘When you’ve seen one cock, you’ve seen them all!’
“I learned a valuable lesson from Diane that day – not simply to walk away when given a ‘no’ but to agitate for a story. It was a lesson that has served me well in my career.”
“She was wonderful. Bold, brash, brilliant and ballsy. She was also hilarious. It would be impossible to forget such a force of nature.”
Never happier than doorstepping ‘some difficult bastard’
Never one to settle for a comfortable billet, and anxious for new adventures, Diane returned to London. Former Evening Standard News Editor Stephen Clackson recruited her at the Mirror Group News Holborn HQ.
He said: “We met late one night in an otherwise empty canteen. I was on a late shift, buying mugs of tea for the rump of a night news desk at the Sunday People.
“Diane was fresh off the boat from Ireland and, having gatecrashed the heart of Fleet Street on a Saturday night, probably had nowhere to spend the night. I was of no immediate help, but was so impressed by her derring-do that I offered her a casual shift on the Standard on the Monday morning. The rest is, as they say, history.”
Diane applied her signature determination and, on occasion, rat-like cunning, to every assignment, whether it be bombings, high-profile court cases, hunting down miscreants, or the Chelsea Flower Show. Sent to Mallorca to flush out crooked entrepreneur John Bloom, she spotted the Star of David worn discreetly by the photographer and told him to display it prominently. Their target opened the door, eyed the symbol, and they were in.
She recalled: “I was never happier than outside in a warm coat, doorstepping and making life difficult for some bastard who richly deserved it.”
Diane also had a hinterland of passions. She was a cordon bleu cook, which she attributed to her French father’s side of the family (she spoke fluent French, including the slang and swearing). It was a pleasure to watch her craft her dishes as meticulously as she would her copy. She was a founder member of the Evening Standard’s coveted Greedy Pigs Club, inevitably rebranded by Diane the ‘Food Fuckers’.
She adored the theatre, art galleries, concerts, and especially jazz sessions at Ronnie Scott’s in Soho. But she could be equally at home in a dodgy south London pub with an even dodgier clientele.
Diane’s farewell to journalism followed her appointment as news editor of the resurrected London Evening News edited by John Leese. Their task was to see off Robert Maxwell’s evening paper interloper, the London Daily News. The LDN soon closed, and so did the Evening News.
Tales of her unbidden kindness abound
Newspaper executive life was not for her. She described it disparagingly as endless meetings about market share and demographics. So, in mid-life, Diane took a law degree and was called to the Bar in 1997. She practised in the London criminal courts, and appeared at the High Court of Appeal to argue an obscure point of law, which she won. The law was where her intellect and fast-thinking, impressed colleagues and judges, who recognised a true character in their midst.
Cancer of the lung and mouth cut short her working life. There was never a shred of self-pity. A heavy smoker for years, she remarked: “I earned it”. Surgery and gruelling chemotherapy gave her the extra years to enjoy life to the full.
Diane was phlegmatic about the re-emergence of the lung cancer and looked forward to a new immunotherapy treatment. She had successful surgery for a hernia in July but developed breathing difficulties soon after. She died on 3 August.
In her final days, Roger Beam, her ex-Daily Mirror husband of 43 years who she met at the climax of the Iranian Embassy siege in 1980, kept constant vigil at her hospital bedside with Cara, her younger sister.
Diane will be remembered, not only as a reporter of the first rank, but for her lust for life and for her capacity to make, and to keep friends from every stage of her life. With her cry of “Darling!” and bear hug, she had the unique ability of making you believe you were the one person she really wanted to see. Tales of her unbidden kindnesses abound.
The essence of an extraordinary woman is captured by Stephen Clackson. “Diane was a chaotic firework display of a character whose enthusiasm for life and generosity of spirit shone through.”
Diane Hélène Geneviève Marjorie Chanteau 1953-2024
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