The Day The Story Died

When you see a bunch of journalists looking dejected don’t ever be stupid enough to think that maybe one of their own died – maybe a Rupert Murdock or Larry King. I doubt if they’ll ever cry if such happened. They never did when the Bang-Bang Club disintegrated.

In this world there are only two things that journalists dread – a deadline and the death of a story. A deadline is every media person’s internal opium that urges him to work harder or else he will miss it. It’s a bus to heaven, it's adrenalin.

To a journalist a deadline is like the last train out of a park station – you miss it you are stuck. They can bear missing everything (including coming during coitus) but not a deadline.

The second fear is when a story dies. How does a story die without ending you might want to know? A story dies when you allege that the minister (at national or in the Western Cape) used taxpayer’s money to buy a luxury Mercedes Benz and even corroborate your story by asking his PA who swears to god that she was with him when the transaction was sealed, his former driver who says “YEAH!”, that security guard at Rondebosch who says he saw it for the first time on June 30, the leader of the opposition who says she has dealership documents to support the sale, and the minister’s spokesperson who says he can’t comment on his boss’ personal ‘shenanigans’. Wow, you have a killer story of how the minister who earns R70 000 a month managed to buy a car costing a million at a time when the Credit Act limits how much of his money can be spent on luxuries and the global recession is on the rampage.

And then your shrewd editor rejects the draft and urges you to get bank records of the transaction plus check the Registrar of Member’s Interest and viola, the muthafucka actually used the credit facility afforded all executive council members to purchase the car and it has been declared. Apparently you discover that the credit facility allows him to get a car worth R1.1 million but he went for a measly million. And yeah, it was taxpayer money, and yeah he went with his PA and a driver.

Then a twist, apparently he was bonking the PA who he forced to do an abortion two months ago then dumped and she’s got a vendetta, the opposition leader requested the same allowance and was denied, the driver was reprimanded for using the minister’s car to transport marijuana since protocol dictates that it is not searched at roadblocks and the border and the poor security guard acted in good faith.

Now, why am I telling you all these? It’s because my friend saw a lot of hacks outside the Jackson family home, some sobbing and sitting their Versace bottoms on pavements and mistakened their fake crocodile tears for emotion and pain at the death of Michael Jackson, Peter Pan, The Gloved One, MoonWalker, Wacko Jacko, Lehlanya etc.

No ways, some of those fake mourners were dedicated entertainment journos whose beat (where you are deployed) was Michael Jackson – and with his death their biggest story died – and probably their beats will follow as well. So, don’t be fooled, journalists have no heart, when they see you they see a story and nothing else – once they have milked you dry they move to the next source.

PS. I’m a journo so be careful how you interact with me. I might quote you one day

No comments:

Post a Comment

Dear Commentator

Kasiekulture encourages you to leave a comment and sensitize others about it. However due to spammers filling this box with useless rhetoric that has nothing to do with our posts we have now decided that to comment you have to go to our Facebook Page titled THE Kasiekulture BLOG. We will not authorise any comments. Apologies for the inconvenience.