Herald, 4 January 2010,
Journo Jaunts
By Pedro Naik
That time of the month once again, full of pain and agony, when I get my heavy mining machinery out and try to extract my rightful dues from ye olde paper. So there I was, before the beloved crumbling edifice, ready to ascend to the rarefied climes inhabited by the editor. But as I stepped in, I was accosted by a burly guard and, before I could get a word in edgeways, violently shoved against a wall and frisked. Then followed a half-hour interrogation during which I was quizzed about whether my intentions were honourable or in accordance with my appearance. Only then was I permitted to rise upwards.
Sneaking into the editor’s den, I stood there with mouth agape, confronted by a room that resembled a nuclear bomb shelter. Behind a row of sandbags I could see a combat helmet, from below which two eyes viewed me balefully. Satisfied with the scrutiny, a Rambo-like apparition in bulletproof vest and combat fatigues rose into view. Peering at this frightful spectacle in the dim light, I perceived it was none other than the editor.
“What’s with the fancy dress?” I gasped. “Last time I was here, you were dressed and perfumed like a gigolo from a B-movie, and now you seem to be preparing for Armageddon!” The editor was not amused, “Okay, okay, enough of the wisecracks. I told you that we are now competing with the national daily down the road. So first we renumbered our entire paper from page 3a to page 3r. And now we are beefing up our security. All incoming and outgoing will be monitored. Big Brother will watch you all the time,” he snapped, gesturing at an ellipsoid object, resembling an octopus eye, that dangled above my head.
“Yeah, okay, next time I visit I’ll leave my AK-47 at home,” I said soothingly as I sank into a chair. “But tell me,” I continued, “apart from security, what’s with all this? It’s hardly like ye olde paper’s at the top of Al-Qaeda’s hit list…”
“Productivity, that’s the ticket,” he responded, sounding like a superannuated British Colonel Blimp settled in Goa, where foreign pensions go that much further. “We are sweeping ye olde paper with a new broom. As part of this drive, we have installed CCTV to watch every move, and ensure that everybody is keeping their nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel. And then we will become the meanest, leanest paper in all of Goa, and blow the opposition apart.”
“Well, you could start by paying poor contributors like me on time. Maybe you could even raise the payment to basic minimum subsistence level? And give the building a lick of paint? All this would be better than imitating those crypto-capitalists down the road…”
“Pedro, when will give up your utopian fantasies? We’re not running a charity. Anyway, we probably won’t need your articles for too much longer – the best papers are now printing only advertisements, and ye olde paper too is inching steadily closer to that goal. Also, I have been studying the latest management manuals, and have visited all the best facilities to learn how to run things. I’m just back from a study tour to Alcatraz prison. Before that I went to the old Gestapo offices in Berlin. And I’m currently reading Orwell’s 1984. Before long, we’ll have those upstarts licked…”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your brave new world of journalism,” I mumbled, stumbling to my feet. “I’ll just send my articles in by email henceforth.” He nodded, “That’s wise. But just fill in the 26-page personal details form, and go through the fingerprinting and retinal image routine. It’s mandatory for everybody who has the slightest association with us. As for staffers, we’re installing microchips in their brains to monitor their every thought. And now let me study this staff training manual,” he said, dismissing me with a wave and opening a book containing illustrations that seemed to have been taken from one of the nastier bits of the Inquisition.
Avoiding the security guard, I managed to slip out of the office with the virginity of my fingerprints and retina unsullied. As I disconsolately started my scooter, I mused over what I should do now that the brave new journalism is clearly not my cup of feni. Move into the entertainment industry, and work on producing super-hit CDs on politicians and priests, maybe? If I’m lucky, they’ll even be banned, and my fortune will be made.
