12 October 2026
The gods of hubris teach me a painful lesson.
The days began to blur into weeks, then months, as I settled in at my first Canadian newspaper job.
It was early 1966 and I’d been hired to sell advertising on The Progress, a small weekly newspaper in Prince George, central British Columbia. I’d sold advertising on The Daily Mirror back in my hometown of Manchester, but I’d never really enjoyed it. My dream was to become a journalist but, frustratingly, sales seemed to be as close as I’d ever get to a newsroom.
And so, under the direction of Don, the sales manager who hired me, I beavered away on this small Canadian newspaper owned by Bob and Esther, a couple not much older than my 23-year-old self.
There were seven of us in all: Bob and Esther; Ron and Ray the two reporters; Wayne our paste-up man; plus Don and myself in sales. We were a small, young-but-enthusiastic crew, often staying late to get the paper to press before staggering off home in the wee-small hours.
To my delight, when Ron and Ray were sometimes too busy, I’d be asked to do the occasional interview. Armed with my very own press pass, I jumped at each chance to write, pestering our two reporters mercilessly for writing and photography tips. 
I would put in extra hours at night, writing stories for the next edition. Small steps and long days, sure, but I thrived. Finally, my career in journalism had begun!
Then, in late summer, it took off for real. Ray left us and Bob asked me to move from advertising to fill the vacancy in our tiny newsroom. I didn’t need asking twice.
Slowly-but-surely, I began to gain experience and confidence, both as a reporter and a photographer. Each morning, armed with pad, pen and camera, I’d head out hunting stories, often working seven days a week.
No story was too small, no photo too boring, for me to chase. It was all valuable experience and I loved it.
“Mad dog” newsman meets a sad dog
One fine morning, Bob took me aside and told me I had a new assignment. Our little newspaper also printed a flyer for the local Spruceland Shopping Centre. The 16-page flyer contained advertising from the various stores, plus a mish-mosh of canned editorial filler.
“Peter,” said Bob, “it’s time we started using local items in the flyer, instead of all that canned stuff.”
Bob told me to spend each Wednesday at Spruceland, wandering around, sniffing out tid-bits of gossip, little feature stories and anything else that might be newsworthy.
And so, each week, he’d drive me to the shopping centre, drop me off, and pick me up again, late in the day.
What a fun assignment! I’d wander around, chatting with shoppers, store staff, coffee drinkers, anyone and everyone.
Soon, the Spruceland Flyer became so popular that people were taking it from The Progress without buying the actual newspaper itself!
While all this was happening, Bob suggested it was time for me to get my Canadian driver’s licence so he didn’t have to keep chauffeuring me around. No argument from me. I’d failed the test back in England but I was ready for another go and jumped at his offer for some lessons in the company’s bright-orange VW bug.
To my delight, I passed first time and, two hours later, set off proudly on a story assignment in the VW. Unfortunately, my first-ever solo trip behind the wheel turned out to be memorable for all the wrong reasons.
Ahead of me as I tootled along the main downtown street, I spied a large Buick backing out from an alley. I sounded the horn but the Buick kept coming, and coming!
I froze, my foot still on the gas pedal, and as I swept past, the Buick nicked one of my rear fenders, ripping it cleanly from the body. Horrified, I glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw the fender cartwheeling merrily down the street.
Needless to say, Bob was not impressed when I arrived back at the office with the bruised fender in the back seat.
One evening a few weeks later, Bob and Esther were treating the rest of us to a meal at a local restaurant. We’d all had a few drinks and, as I leaned contentedly back in my chair, I spotted a familiar face at another table.
“That’s him!” I cried, jumping to my feet. “That’s the idiot who drove into me!”
And off I set, determined to have it out with Buick man. I was almost at his table when I felt myself being lifted off my feet. It was Bob.
“Duffy, sit back down! Leave it be!” he croaked. “That’s the biggest hood in town!”
And he carried me back to our table, much to the amazement of the other diners around us.
Yes, there was never a dull moment and, before I knew it, my anniversary came round. It had been a year since that cold January day that I’d hitch-hiked from Vancouver to start work at weekly The Progress. To celebrate, I went for lunch with my friend Dave, one of the photographers at the local daily newspaper. We’d both been assigned by our bosses to cover the grand opening of the new, $12-million Prince George City Hall. This was a big deal for the mayor, the council and all the local civil servants. For Dave and me, however, it was a complete pain in the neck. Almost as bad as cheque-presentation pictures. B-O-R-I-N-G!
As we sat eating our lunch, we brainstormed ways to make a plaque unveiling interesting. It was impossible. Or was it…?
I jumped up. “Wait here, I’ll be right back!” I told Dave, and shot out the door.
Minutes later I was back, clutching a large brown envelope.
“Where did you go?” asked my mystified friend, “and what have you got there?”
I chuckled. “I went back to the office to pick something up. I’ll show you when we get to city hall. Let’s go!”
Ten minutes later we were there, picking our way through a sea of empty chairs facing the official plaque, which was hidden behind a small purple curtain. According to my watch, the opening ceremony was still a good 15 minutes away and the hall was empty.
I reached in my envelope and pulled out…a large photo of a voluptuous Playboy nude. Dave was bewildered.
“I thought we’d have some fun,” I explained. “I brought some tape so we can attach it to the plaque and take some photos before anyone arrives, just for a laugh.”
And with that, I slipped the photo under the still-closed curtain and taped it to the plaque. But as I stepped back to get my camera, a babble of voices behind me announced the arrival of a wave of local and provincial dignitaries, led by Mayor Garvin Dezell.
I stood there, frozen in shock, as they made their way onto the stage, crowding me out of the way. With all hope gone of retrieving the picture, I stumbled off to one side while Dave took up position across from me.
The speeches seemed to last an eternity until, finally, the moment arrived. The mayor reached for the gold cord and gave it a tug. The curtains swished open and there she was, in all her naked glory: Miss January!
There was a shocked silence – and then laughter began to spread around the hall. The hapless mayor stood there, a stunned look on his face as he gazed at the disfigured plaque.
The whole situation felt surreal as I took photos and made notes for my story. Everything was happening in slow motion. Finally, I fled.
When I got back to the office I should have confessed to my prank but I didn’t. Maybe it was fear of the repercussions; maybe it was bravado; maybe it was a bit of both. Whatever the reason, I stayed silent and that night we went to press with my photo of the gob-smacked mayor staring at Miss January.
Soon, the incident, and my photo became the talk of, not just the town but the entire province and then much of the rest of the country, thanks to the wire services.
Miss January takes the mayor by surprise
Curiously, the daily paper that my friend Dave worked for ran a different photo, one he’d taken when the plaque unveiling was restaged later, without the nude.
As the day wore on, Progress editor Pat Denton’s phone began to ring…and ring…and ring. Soon he was besieged by calls from other newspapers as well as TV and radio stations. They all had one question:
Did Duffy do it?
My heart sank. Obviously, friend Dave had told someone in his newsroom and that someone had called the big daily papers in Vancouver and, well…judgement time was upon me,
Late that afternoon, Pat called me into his tiny office.
“Did you do it?” he asked me. “Did you set that shot up?”
Avoiding his stern glare, I nodded and admitted all.
Pat sat back for a moment, eyes closed, then leaned forward and spoke the words I was dreading.
“Peter, you’re fired,” he said quietly. “And do you know why you’re fired?”
I shrugged. “Because I set the photo up?”
Pat shook his head. “No,” he said. “The fact you did was bad enough, but that’s not the reason. I’m firing you because you didn’t tell me. You let me print that photo in good faith and, as a result, you’ve hurt our credibility, our integrity, in the community.”
My dismissal was immediate. Exhausted from shock, I went back to my apartment, wrapped myself in a blanket and fell deeply asleep. The next morning, my phone rang. It was my mother calling from England. She told me a neighbour had just called with a copy of that day’s local newspaper. In it, she said, was a story about my escapade and the fact I’d been fired on the spot.
Story from Duffy’s hometown paper
Needless to say, Mum was not amused. She tore a strip off me for what I had done and for bringing embarrassment to the family. Further, she suggested that my prank represented a real slap in the face to a country that had made me welcome.
Bruised and remorseful, I hibernated for the next two days, refusing to answer the phone. On the third day, I was feeling ready to face the world again. It was time to find a new job.
As I pondered, the phone rang. I reached for it.
“Hello?”
It turned out it was none other than Destiny on the line.
Next: My luck returns, plus another hitch-hiking adventure leading to a bewitching encounter in the Mojave Desert.
English-born journalist Peter Duffy came to Canada in 1965, liked what he saw and stayed. Something of an ink-stained nomad, Peter has worked on papers in England, Canada, New Zealand and even, briefly, Las Vegas! He retired from The Chronicle-Herald in 2009. He’s married to Barbara and has two grown step-children. Peter is Secretary of the Royal St. George’s Society of Halifax.
