“Hello-Hello-Hello! This is Jackie here. Jack Rawdin R-A-W-D-I-N. How are you? I am calling to give you the exciting news that we are running a special supplement on Burma next week ...” And so would commence another of Jackie’s “super-sell” advertising promotions for the Ceylon Daily Mirror.

Jackie, who resigned from Earth in March this year to take up a new assignment with The Great Advertising Agency Up In The Sky, was a former advertising manager for the Daily Mirror. But he was much more than that: he was the femoral artery and lifeblood of that virile, young tabloid in its heyday in the 1960s.

The Mirror’s meteoric rise from nowhere to become an English daily with the second largest circulation in Sri Lanka was due largely to the editorial policy of the then editor, Reggie Michael, who believed in calling a spade “a bloody shovel”. He was aided and abetted by a small group of journalists who always thought outside the square (reporters, sub-editors and columnists). It was my privilege to work with these nonconformists.

We followed Reggie’s “fear nothing” dictum. But merely observing the editor’s rules alone would not have kept the Daily Mirror afloat for long, if it had not been for one man: Jack Rawdin (he was actually christened Jack, not John). A newspaper depends on advertisements for its continued existence, and it was left to Jackie to bring home the bacon. And that he did!

The only help he had was from his assistant, Felix Cooray, and a team of three advertising canvassers. That was the Daily Mirror Advertising Department, as far as I can recall. The department itself was a single desk, Jackie’s. It sat cheek-by-jowl with the news editor’s desk. From this position, Jackie directed his troops, talked non-stop on the telephone and waved his begging bowl.

To get companies to advertise, Jackie would reason, plead and cajole – and promise bucket-loads of business stemming from ads in the Mirror. He would keep close tabs on all countries that had an embassy or consulate in Sri Lanka. A month before a national day, he would ring the ambassador or consul and say with great pride that the Mirror was running a special supplement to mark the occasion. He would ask the dignitary for a message that would be “prominently featured” in the supplement.

Of course, the message was always forthcoming. Say the country was China. Jackie would ring every company doing trade with China, or had even the most remote connection with China, and tell them about the special supplement and that the ambassador considered the supplement so important that he was writing a special message for it.

“Obviously,” Jackie would say, “given your close relationship with Chinese companies, you will want to take out a full page advertisement in the supplement.” He would even ring every Chinese restaurant in the telephone book. He did not always get full-page ads, but a high percentage of the companies he called did advertise.

Then came the next problem: producing the supplement. Jackie was no journalist. He adopted the same tactics he used with advertisers. He would plead with feature writers, reporters and sub-editors to produce the supplement he had promised. And he usually gave us – on average - 48 hours’ notice. We knew that if we did not support Jackie, we may soon have no newspaper.

Sometimes he really had to cut it fine. On one occasion, 24 hours before we went to print, he pulled me aside and said we had to produce a four-page supplement on Burma. I was the only feature writer on deck at the time. After much ranting, I went down to the library, gathered every volume I could find with articles about Burma, came back and dropped the stack on Jackie’s desk. Unfortunately, the books landed on Jackie’s little finger. Jackie was in agony, although it was only a bruise.

Using my handkerchief, I wrapped pieces of ice round his finger. My guilt was great that night as I worked away while Jackie watched. I produced every single Burma article he wanted – from trade and politics to history, geography, tourist destinations, sports, etc., etc. He left the office that night with a very sore finger but a happy heart. Jackie reminded me of the incident when I visited him and his gentle, cheery wife Norma, in January this year.

Jackie and Norma (nee Siebel) had what may be described as an “up-and-down” courtship: In the early ’70s the Daily Mirror occupied the 4th floor of the Times Building, and the 3rd floor housed the editorial and advertising departments of the Times of Ceylon. There, in her capacity as secretary to the circulation manager, sat the charming, willowy Norma.

As love blossomed between the floors, we on the 4th floor lost count of the number of times Jackie had to go down to the third floor “to check on something important” about this or that ad, and the number of times Norma had to fly up the stairs to “double-check” something. By the time they got married in 1976, they had both lost at least five pounds with all that exercise, running up and down!

Their marriage was one long honeymoon from beginning to end. They were blessed with a son, Keith, born in 1977, and he was blanketed with their love. As an adult, Keith, in turn, looked after his parents with a fervour to which we should all aspire.

Jackie was a rare individual. He was completely without guile. You had to talk with him for only a few minutes to sense this, as well as his innate goodness. If you had a problem, Jackie was the first to offer help. Blessed with an impish sense of humour, he was absolute joy to have as a companion – except when we played bridge. Jackie’s bidding made his partners weep. They threatened to do unspeakable things to him if he repeated his mistakes. “Next time, we’ll keep a grand slam, buddy,” he would reply with a twinkle in his eye.

Jackie left the Daily Mirror to take up an appointment with the Mikechris Company in 1979. He retired in 1997. He leaves his wife Norma and son Keith. He was 78 years old. We mourn his passing, but I can already see him making up a fourth at some Bridge Party Up There.

“Jackie, here’s a word of advice: Just because you have three spades in your hand, it does NOT mean you can automatically bid five Spades!”

By Iggy Paiva