Aussie breakfast television at its sensitive best. Sigh.
Archive for the ‘media’ Category
Had a bit of arseclownery float my way a couple of days ago.
Some genius anonymous blogger who thinks of himself (or herself, come to think of it) as a bit of a crusader for freedom of speech, or the press, or bloggers, or something, in the city I used to call home, managed to mistake me for someone who was apparently giving him (or her) some grief over some gibberish he (or she) had written.
Proceeded to slag me off on their ever-so brave anonymous blog. Knew what I used to do for a living, knew where I work now. Called me the Fat Controller. Oh, that’s so smart and clever.
Hilarious. Anyway, I was tipped off by a friend who had stumbled across this rant and I contacted the arseclown involved and pointed out that (a) I’d never known he (or she) existed, (b) never read their blog, and (c) didn’t care enough about the doings in my former city to write a response, so what was his (or her) game?
I also pointed out that he (or she) had been stupid enough not only to mistake me for someone who gave a rip but had managed to defame me and my totally unconnected current employer as well, and perhaps he (or she) might want to have a rethink of their ever-so brave strategy.
Funnily enough, this morning the anti-me rant had completely disappeared of his (or her) ever-so brave anonymous blog. It was as if it had never happened.
Good thing I kept a screenshot of it, eh? You know, just in case … *winks*
I’m so thoroughly confused by the current situation in Boston right now that I find that I just have to disconnect from it.
Two bombing suspects, names released. Then the two suspects in Watertown, supposedly the bombing suspects, but now the names are completely different. And one of them’s supposedly dead. And then he’s lying in a hospital bed recovering next to the people he blew up on Monday. And who was the other guy being put naked in the back of the police car, if one guy’s dead and the other one’s on the run.
I cannot keep track. Too. Much. Information.
From too many sources. Some of them credible, like the Boston Globe. And some of them not, like the police scanners.
If you think what comes over a police scanner is in any way an accurate representation of what’s actually happening out there, then you’ve never worked in a newsroom. Cops are as susceptible to hyperbole and rushed judgements as anyone else.
Nope, I give up. My need to know RIGHT FUCKING NOW has just been superseded by my need to know WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
And so, I’m disconnecting from the live news feed, and twitter and all the rest of it. Wake me up when it’s over and someone can tell me the facts.
So, it’s been a bit of a day. Had some surgery this morning, courtesy of a touch of gynaecological chicanery which has been on the go for a few months or more.
I’ll spare you the gory details, suffice to say I was home by 1pm and i’m now reclining, Cleopatra-like on a pile of pillows, with cat on my foot and my mother in the kitchen, cooking m’dinner.
It wasn’t an entirely smooth medical journey, however. On Monday I rang the hospital cashier in order to pay my $150 private insurance excess. There was a bit of trouble retrieving my file so the cashier said she would pull up all the details and call me back with the receipt number.
An hour or so later she did indeed ring me, and told me they’d had some trouble finding me but had finally retrieved my file by some roundabout method.
Jokingly, because y’know, that’s how i deal with terror, i suggested that i hoped that wasn’t going to be indicative of their ability to match me with the right surgeon on Friday.
“I hope not,” said the cashier. “Wouldn’t want to leave without a bit you really needed.”
Harmless enough banter. But then she asked me who my surgeon was. I told her.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that wouldn’t be my choice.”
I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.
It was at that moment that i considered telling her that I was a journalist with the Medical Journal of Australia and thanks for the great story idea. But in the end i decided to let it all come as a glorious surprise for her.
Now, my gynaecologist happens to be of Indian extraction. So maybe the cashier is just a racist.
Whatevs. At best it’s unprofessional. At worst it’s revolting AND unprofessional.
Good yarn material, though.
As you know, I am an ex-tabloid journalist, 22 years playing the game. And it is a game, believe me. It’s a game of dollars and cents, readership v circulation, truth versus what’s sellable.
I’ve never been happier to be out of the business than since the announcement of the election date and the complete and utter bullshit that followed the retirement announcements of Nicole Roxon and Chris Evans.
I have never seen such utter shit talked as the press gallery and major newspapers have churned out since. ‘Chaos’, ‘shambles’, ‘turmoil’. And that’s just what they think is happening to the ALP.
Any journalist who truly thinks the Prime Minister doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing or chooses to believe some chump backbencher with an agenda of their own should hand in their press card now.
The trouble is, i don’t think the journalists themselves are the problem. The editors are the problem, and the system that means they do as they’re told and not what they believe to be the truth.
I tried to have a conversation with an editor on Twitter today. I was objecting to their big political expose of the day … how Margie Abbott is the first lady in waiting. All i got back from the editor in question was some schoolboy giggling and a picture of his comics page as an indication of all the good things i’d missed.
Now, perhaps he thought that because we’re former colleagues and that we’ve shared a laugh or two, that maybe i was joking. Or perhaps he forgot that we weren’t just talking in a room by ourselves but were in fact out in a public forum.
I just want fair, balanced, accurate reporting of the issues. And that includes nailing Tony Abbott down with some substantive policy questions that he has to answer. It includes calling knobs like Abbott and Campbell Newman for using the Bundaberg floods as a call for ‘stable government’ … that includes calling out Chrissy Pyne for comparing the ‘chaos’ in the ALP with the downfall of Adolph Hitler.
Do some real reporting, for fuck’s sake.
I have been sitting on this for a week, but today I signed the actual contract so here goes.
As of January 7, 2013, I am a Journalist/Writer with the Medical Journal of Australia.
The job’s in Sydney so I am now spending a lot of time on planes trying to find somewhere to live. If anyone knows of a 2-bedroom unit in a cat-friendly block, with onsite parking for under $500 a week … WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING???
Anyway, the next several weeks are going to be mad hectic, so forgive the sporadic appearances here.
I HAVE A JOB!!!!!
I’m having an oddly contented Monday.
Cricket’s on the teev … NFL’s on the other channel … Dora is settling in for a long wash and a nap … and the Chest Infection of Doom is starting to ease.
I was just thinking how good it could be if I could somehow make money while watching cricket, NFL and the cat when I fielded a call from the nice chap who’s been giving me some casual subbing work. He wants to send me about three times as much as work starting tomorrow so, yay!
Don’t want to say too much else for fear of mozzing myself but I have another little nibble on the line. Ssshhhhh.
If you’re of a mind to send up a good thought/prayer/vibe … feel free.
Why do we try and play Test cricket in Brisbane in November and December?
I’d be pretty shat off if I could only get to the Gabba today and I’d shelled out a small mortgage for tickets only for it to rain. Quelle surprise!
I’m already pretty shat off and I’m sitting on the couch at home, watching a bloody awful Gary Cooper movie (Springfield Rifle, 1952 — Major Lex Kearny becomes the North’s first counterespionage agent as he tries to discover who’s behind the theft of Union cavalry horses in Colorado during the Civil War) that Nine has plonked on while the rain comes down in Brisbane.
You would think, wouldn’t you, that Nine, with all its experience broadcasting cricket over the decades, would have thought to themselves: ‘Hmmm, November in Brisbane — we’d better have a decent Plan B for the three days of the Test it’s going to rain’.
Maybe they did and Springfield Rifle was the Plan B they came up with. Scary.
Meanwhile, I have a chest infection. It’s miserable. I am miserable. But tomorrow it will be a little better, and a little bit better again on Monday.
And who knows? By Tuesday we may even get some cricket.