By John Fullerton The other day someone – a stranger – tweeted that there was a very special place in hell for journalists who work as spies. It caught my attention partly because there has to be a special place across the Styx reserved in my name because...
By John Fullerton Brian, scruffy in rumpled t-shirt and jeans, sits in the front row, perfectly still, eyes closed, notebook in his lap, pen loosely held in one hand. There’s nothing to suggest he’s awake, let alone listening to the politician speaking on the platform...
