Long Time Journal Editor Dies by Elaine McCluskey

William (Bill) Winkle, a dedicated and irascible 40-year overnight editor at the Toronto Journal, the eyes and ears of Hogtown while the masses slumbered, finally caught up on his sleep. Winkle died overnight Saturday. He was a spry 68.

Winkle, affectionately known in the Journal newsroom as Winkletoes and Wee Willy Winky, passed away peacefully in his Kensington Market apartment, it was learned Wednesday. Winkle shared his modest abode with his cat Ilya. When found, he had a copy of “The Dream Life of Sukhanov,” by his side, not surprising as he was both an insomniac and a prodigious reader.

“Bill never slept when the rest of the GTA slept,” said Jilly Jones, a former colleague. “So, it is ironic he died in his sleep.”

Winkle joined the Toronto Journal as a copy boy after he graduated high school. He was self-conscious about his lack of formal education and his short stature—he claimed to be 5-5, “the same height as Diego Maradona,” but that was debatable. Winkle compensated by being a lifelong learner and by wearing lifts he ordered by mail.

“He had an extra spring in his step when he got those lifts,” said Jones, who relieved Winkle daily at 5 a.m. “They were a gamechanger.”

Winkle spent a few years as a general reporter and then found his calling as the Journal’s overnight editor, a position he held for more than half of his life. Starting work at 10 p.m., he followed police scanners and radio broadcasts. He took calls from tipsters.

“We knew we were covered when Bill was on watch,” said Benedict St. Barclay, the paper’s managing editor. “As long as he had a pot of coffee and a pack of Benson and Hedges.” The coffee eventually gave way to overproof Russian vodka—Winkle was both a Russologist and a heavy drinker—but the vodka was a struggle that Winkle worked to manage, St. Barclay said.

“If you caught Bill on a bad night, well look out,” recalled another colleague. “He was like the Tasmanian Devil.”

St. Barclay said Winkle, “despite his demons,” did yeoman’s service on overnights for four decades, and “for that the city of Toronto should be grateful. His work was his entire life.”

Winkle was trustworthy, smart, and had good contacts within the city’s police and fire departments. Those attributes helped him lead spot coverage on a major riot, numerous shootings, and the abduction of a judge from his home.

“I would call Bill Winkle an unsung hero in the news business,” said St. Barclay.

When Winkle retired in 2023, the Journal showed its appreciation by giving him a Subway gift card—Winkle had modest tastes—as well as Toronto Journal merchandise emblazoned with the paper’s motto: Real news, real people, real fast. Winkle, a curmudgeonly character, gave the office a playful middle finger when he departed. “His last words,” St. Barclay said, “were, shall we say, unprintable.”

Winkle did not have a driver’s license or any immediate family. He lived alone except for his cat. Regardless of the decade, he wore a uniform of high-waisted jeans and rugby shirts.

“He had a terrible childhood, which he never really got over,” said Jones. “He grew up in an orphanage run by sadistic nuns. Sometimes, he would become irrationally angry. He no longer looked like Wee Willy Winky. He looked like a mad man.”

St. Barclay concluded: “Bill was a slightly paranoid character, but he had a lovely lyrical voice. I always thought he could have been a voice actor.”

No service is planned.

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Reader Comments

Anonymous

This is a trash story written by a trash person. That is not the Bill Winkle I knew. I am cancelling my subscription to your trash publication.

Gerald

I worked with Bill back in the day at the Journal. Two sides to every story, he liked to say. Bill only ended up on overnights as punishment. He broke a story involving the publisher’s brother who was mixed up with some shady business—rigged horse races, gambling, and drugs. It was a ballsy story to write. The brother was known as Little Reggie in the underworld. Bill found a jockey who’d been squeezed by Little Reggie. The jockey had been instructed to throw a race on a horse named Silky Smooth. Or else. After it blew up—a police investigation followed by a slap on the wrist for Little Reggie (money talks etc. etc.), Bill took his licks. He went on overnights, which could have been a long slow death, but he made the best of it. Bill caught Covid twice after he was forced into the office to work. Then, the bastards cut off his benefits at 65. I ran into Bill weeks ago; he told me that he should have quit after the Little Reggie story. He said: “It was just donkey work after that.” Fly high, Billy.

Ahmed

Mister Winkle taught me to read and write English. He volunteered at a centre for newcomers to the country. What a lovely and patient man. When Mister Winkle learned I was an artist, he bought one of my watercolors, which he hung in his home. He said it reminded him of paradise.

Angelina

I lived next door to Bill, and we became close friends. Bill had a long relationship with a beautiful Russian woman named Annika who worked at a dance club blocks from the paper. Essence it was called. They both got off work at 5 a.m. They would walk home together holding hands. It was profoundly romantic. Bill and Annika loved poetry and art. They were two deep souls who had experienced hardship and survived. Bill learned to speak fluent Russian and Annika learned to make him his favourite dish, cassoulet. Bill kept his private life private because, as he liked to say, “people ruin nice things.” It broke his heart when his darling Annika died of cancer, and I think that’s what killed him, a broken heart.

прощай, мой друг. (goodbye, my friend)

Chandrakant

Mister Winkle was a sweet man who came into my coffee shop with his charming Annika. They always ordered cappuccino and tea biscuits. They seemed so happy. On their days off, they often went to the horse races or the museum. After she died, he was as broken as a cracked china cup. Mister Winkle told me that he had a dream in which he was offered one wish. He could relive five moments of his life and erase five others. Mister Winkle said he would relive the first time he met Annika over and over again. That was all. The rest, all the good and all the bad, were as inconsequential as traffic noise.

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