Journalism stuck its fish hook in my heart as a 14-year-old. The Royal Navy’s task force was steaming towards the Falklands and, as it advanced, my paper round slowed. The front-page photograph of HMS Antelope spraying molten debris into a night sky 8,000 miles away made me late for school, even though I had risen with the lark. There it was: that guilty thrill of being among the first to know, even if it was simply by dint of getting up a couple of hours before my peer group in a Bradford suburb.