Oliver's Twist by Craig Oliver

lay.
    Thatcher was ahead of his time in one regard: inventing the enemies’ list long before Richard Nixon. Shortly after Thatcher had moved into the premier’s office, he called me in for a chat. Out of his desk he pulled a sheet of paper and waved it in the air. “Here,” he said, handing it to me, “are names of all those goddamn socialists I intend to fire.” There were dozens of civil servants, including a number of the most capable deputy ministers of the day.
    Covering the Saskatchewan legislature in those days had its share of drama, but also plenty of mischief. A fair number of socialist politicians, whose wives would never allow them to drink, regarded the illicit press gallery bar as a home away from home. Reporters played low-stakes poker every second Friday and were regularly cleaned out by a young Cabinet minister named Allan Blakeney, later to become an outstanding provincial premier. Whenever it became necessary to throw caution to the winds and ante up another nickel for the pot, Al discouraged timid gamblers by ordering, “all ribbon clerks out of the game.”
    The parties that marked the end of the legislative sessions were always riotous—and usually all-male—affairs. The Douglas government had developed a well-oiled propaganda machinethat churned out copious press announcements. To demonstrate our independence, we journalists piled a stack of press releases on the marble gallery floor and set them on fire. The blaze was then extinguished through the simple expedient of reporters urinating on it.
    Saskatchewan had curious news priorities all its own, as I learned one quiet lunch hour at the office in November 1963. I received a call from an obviously distraught woman. Was it true, she wanted to know, that President John F. Kennedy had been shot? I assured her this was not the case and she was immensely relieved. I pointed out that had anything of such earth-shaking import occurred, I, the local representative of the vast CBC News organization, would know about it. Having satisfied her, I decided to check the wires anyway. In the teletype room, the bells were ringing wildly. There it was in one terse line: “Dallas … the President has been shot.”
    I rushed to the control room and told the producer we must interrupt the daily farm broadcast with a bulletin. I admit I was eager to read it. He looked at me like I was mad. “Not a chance,” he declared. “Farmers need to know stock and grain quotes and nothing can stop the daily agricultural market reports.” In the studio, the farm reporter continued his tedious recitation of the prices of common-to-medium cows on the Winnipeg Exchange until finally the network broke in from Toronto with a special on the Kennedy assassination.
    The shift to the Outside Broadcasts Department opened the door to occasional television opportunities. Whenever an eastern-based unit came to town, they did not miss the chance to exploit my contacts, and occasionally I was asked to do interviews with the individuals selected to appear on-camera. After atime, I was teased for having the most recognizable back of the head on the Prairies. No matter, I was working with top writers, directors, and crews and learning the ropes.
    The country had a chance to see my better side during federal election night in 1962, when the television news department pulled me in to cover Tommy Douglas. As leader of the NDP, he was seeking election to Parliament in a Regina constituency, and his supporters were so certain of the outcome, they had mounted a huge sign at the Saskatchewan Hotel identifying his headquarters there as the Victory Ballroom. The news department thinkers in Toronto were likewise confident of a Douglas win and assigned an inexperienced kid to report the predictable outcome.
    I had never worked so hard to prepare as I did that night. As I came to know the players and the constituency, I began to sniff out evidence of a