There was a fine journalist and all-round bon oeuf called Anthony Holden, who died far too young. I once heard him tell a story about his earliest days in journalism. Straight from university, he joined Thomson newspapers. In those days, recruits were usually sent as apprentices on local papers, to learn about the rougher end of the trade. In his case, it was the Hemel Hempstead Gazette.
His boss and editor was a bitter misanthrope. No doubt, he had once entertained dreams; the heights of Fleet Street, foreign postings, glamour, fame. Instead, he had ended up in Hemel Hempstead. His one consolation was to make life as unpleasant as possible for the bright new boys who were still dreaming dreams.
There was one ghastly aspect about life in Hemel. It was at the bottom of the M1. That often meant road accidents, frequently horrible accidents with deaths, often of youngsters. So the editor would send Tony on the silver round. The first time, that sounded innocuous. 'What do you mean: silver round?' 'Easy. You knock on the parents' door. You talk your way into their living room. There, you're bound to see a photograph of the dead child in a silver frame. You've got to borrow that so we can put it in the paper.'
So Tony had to deal with people who had just been shattered by grief, whose lives would never be the same again, in order to leave with the photo. Often, he could not do it. He would tell the editor that the parents were not prepared to hand over the frame. It was all they had to cling to, in their weeping and misery.
The editor was delighted. 'Call yourself a journalist? You're just a useless...' [Fill in your own choice of Anglo-Saxon epithets. Tony would be drenched in them.]
Not a second too soon, he escaped. But the experience left a scar. He said that he still had nightmares about his ordeal in Hemel and would wake up sweating. But relief was at hand. He could reassure himself that whatever vicissitudes might come his way, whatever life might throw at him, he would never again have to endure the silver round in Hemel Hempstead.
I thought about this when reading about the five boys and two policemen who have just been killed in a dreadful crash near Middlesbrough. One shies away from imagining all the affliction of pain and grief which is now blighting the lives of seven families. So is there anything that can be done?
Perhaps there is. One trouble with boys around the age of twenty is that they think they are immortal. Another is that they like showing off. They may be good drivers. They might well enjoy demonstrating their skills to admiring girls. Even a small amount of drink will release their inhibitions, but speed is the killer: alas, literally.
So: first, there are machines which measure speed. Lorry-drivers use similar devices. Make it illegal for any driver under the age of 25 to be behind the wheel unless the machine is on, and with rigorous maximum speed limits according to the type of road. It could even be that this should only apply to young male drivers, because there is a case for discrimination. Girls are safer.
A boy manages to break the law. He should face a driving ban. But before getting back on the road, he should also have to watch a film. I believe that footage exists, of the consequences of the sort of tragedy which has just occurred in Middlesbrough. Blood everywhere: blood-stained bodies. Whimpering from the injured while grey-faced ambulance crews are in a desperate struggle to save lives. It is the sort of film which might well make the watchers throw up and would certainly cause nightmares. Horrible? Yes, but imagine the real-life horror which led to seven deaths.
This will not work in every case. It appears that some of those killed in Middlesbrough had been in trouble with the police. But the methods outlined above should work in the majority of cases.