Newspaperman Danny was forged in crucible of the ‘Irish Independent’
SCEPTICISM is meant to be one of the doors to truth, and veteran journalist Danny Thornton kept his foot firmly wedged in its doorway.
In his more than 40 years working for the Irish
Independent he was found to be a stickler. A former production editor and picture editor, he could manage a three-ring circus and get a tune out of a tipsy orchestra at the same time.
He came into newspapers the old way – from the shop floor. He loaded papers on to the vans in the mid60s but, in his typical contrarian way, he rose to become what was known as a “stone man” back in the day when papers were produced in hot metal. Armies of compositors and printers and readers had to be negotiated with before a single comma could be inserted in a sentence.
This was a fraught, delicate business that he managed without breaking sweat, with a whimsical: “What’s your problem, head? ”
If there was a florid and suitably withering epithet thrown in, then it was deftly done – his target rarely knew they had just been “sorted”. Danny would shimmy on to the next snafu unruffled.
Destiny had a way of cannon-balling off this courageous Dub. He took a liver transplant in his stride, along with everything else that catapulted into his path.
He was a talented golfer and keen hill-walker.
In the shadow of the 19th hole, somewhere close to cloud nine, a dry Dubliner will be heard to shout “fore” and anyone who doesn’t have the sense to duck will be reminded that this was a fella who knew how to play from the rough.
Even under the most severe stress he had a serenity about him, as if everything could be laid out under the terms of some Royal and Ancient Celestial Golf Club.
He will be sorely missed by his wife Marguerite, daughters Niamh and Aideen, son Liam and his many colleagues.