Working with Eamonn McCabe can be hazardous to a reporter’s ego. McCabe’s photographs often convey the essence of an event or a performer with such dramatic succinctness that the writer assigned to the same job is left with the feeling of having turned in a 1,500-word caption.
The first glance at the printed results of our labours frequently comes on a Saturday night in The Cockpit, the pub in which hacks and smudgers (Fleet Street’s favourite term for photographers), wearied by the ceaseless pursuit of truth and beauty at the Observer next door, gather for refreshment. Bracing yourself is easier there.
