LET THE PRESSES ROLL

How some of the media barons might distort the news.

Sinjun (that was how he spelt it) was on the phone to the news editor of the Daily Growler, the newspaper he had bought only last week. It had a modest circulation, but he wanted it to sell to more people because every copy sold was cash in his pocket, and not just the measly twenty pence he charged for the paper but the dosh he charged for advertisers to advertise in it.

“What’s your lead story” he asked.

The news editor, (Thomas Blockhead, yes, that was his real surname, and he hated it) replied to him. “There’s the one showing the leader of the opposition giving a sweet to a little girl because her daddy just died and she’s in tears,” he said, “it’s really heart warming and illustrates how politicians can be really caring.”

“And what’s your headline?” asked Sinjun.

“OPPOSITION LEADER CALMS FATHERLESS CHILD” Thomas told him, “It really tells it how it is.”

“You’ll be looking for a new job if you print that!” snapped Sinjun. “I order you to use this, and make sure it’s as big as you can make it:: PERVERT POLITICIAN GROOMS BEREAVED CHILD” roared Sinjun

“But I can’t, sir,” protested the news editor.

“Why the hell not if I tell you to!” demanded the newspaper’s owner from his home in the Bahamas.

“Because, sir, it’s not true.” stammered Thomas Blockhead, “and if I were to print it as you spoke it I may get sued in court.”

“Sod the courts!” roared Sinjun, “Just you bloody well do as you’re told or get yourself down to the Job Centre! Now tootle off before I get really angry!” And he slammed his phone down and muttered to himself “I haven’t got the billions in the bank by telling the truth every time an opportunity to lie comes along!” And he called his secretary into his office, sat her on his knees and pulled her knickers off. “Don’t you agree, Denise?” he asked.

Denise giggled. “If you say so, sir, and to coin a phrase, is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

“I don’t like bananas,” he told her, and she giggled.

Meanwhile, back at the newspaper office in London Thomas Blockhead was quivering. He was in a quandary. He had a good job that paid really well and the last thing he wanted was to lose it and have to try to find another, but what could he do? He didn’t like lying, but he’d been given an order by the paper’s owner and if he didn’t obey that order, well, he knew there were out of work journalists in every Job Centre queue, and he didn’t want to join them. He had a wife and kiddies, for goodness sake, and kiddies aren’t cheap. Neither are wives if they set their heart on something sparkly and pretty. And Jake had reached his teens, and those are truly expensive years. For once he began to sympathise with his own parents when he’d hit his teens himself.

So after a few more seconds of thought he picked his phone up and barked into it “Change the headline on the front page!”

A disembodied voice replied “The old one is already rolling, sir, and we rather like it. Mr Gardener is our favourite leader of any party and he looks really generous, looking after that poor little girl.”

“Stop it from rolling and change it to PERVERTED POLITICIAN GROOMS BEREAVED CHILD!” snapped the news editor. “I’ve had my orders from you know who, and Mr Gardener is used to the odd criticism in the press. One more headline won’t hurt him!”

There was a mumble of dissent from the print room, but Blockhead hung up and called his secretary into his office.

Meanwhile, the presses rolled and piles of freshly printed newspapers were packaged ready for distribution.

Next day was to be a strange one because within an hour of the Daily Growler going on the streets and into the hands of paper boys on their bicycles other news organisations got wind of what that paper was implying about Mr Gardener, leader of His Majesty’s opposition, and some lazy news editors saw it as a way to maybe increase their own circulation. So they stole the idea.

The National Treasure, one of the most watched television channels, was first. The main news anchor, Toby Morrah, started the debate which took almost no time at all to attract a large questioning audience.

“It can’t be true!” protested one telephone call, “I i believe it! It’s nothing but a lie!”

“But if it isn’t and you saw your own daughter being given sweets by Mr Gardener, what would you do?” asked Toby Morrah in his most svelte voice, and that made the mother of three little girls hang up.

Eventually other newspapers came to the aid of Mr Gardener, but a little too late to be anything but an annoyance to the owner of the Daily Growler because even those who knew that newspapers don’t always tell the truth believed that the National Treasure must have access to things nobody else knew, and weren’t they discussing the morality of the leader of the opposition, especially with regard to small girls who had pretty curls? There shouldn’t be any risk to such charming creatures, should there?

Sinjun in his Bahamas luxury residence saw how things were going and began to detect the sickly aroma of a challenge in the courts and realised it might lead to a severe loss of income for him. He had more money than enough, but his true delight in life was accumulating ever more. So he telephoned the London Office of the Daily Growler and asked for the newsroom.

“Newsroom here!” muttered Blockhead, who was far from happy with the way the newspaper was being seen by some of his friends since Sinjun had taken it over.

“Drop the anti-Gardener campaign because you got it wrong!” snarled the owner, “and on, let me see, page 5 and in the last column in your least readable font, small enough for even the good Lord to need reading glasses, print a standard apology, and add, I quote This paper regrets the incorrect information regarding Mr Gardener and expresses full and honest apologies to him. Got that, Blockhead?”

“Yes sir, but don’t blame me,” replied the News Editor.

“I do!” snapped Sinjun, and he hung up. “Denise!” he called, and his secretary with a fixed lipstick smile sauntered into his office.

“It’s so easy to make people believe anything,” he sniggered at her, “what colour are they today?”

“Guess,” she replied, trying not to look bored.

Meanwhile, back in London the presses rolled and at the very bottom on page five the disclaimer was printed.

Not that it mattered much because just about nobody noticed it and, as a rider, Mr Gardener’s political career was as good as over when he was replaced by Mr Steady, a safe pair of hands as far as Sinjun in the Bahamas was concerned.

© Peter Rogerson 19.09.22

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Reviews

[SweetNutmeg]

Ugh, yes. Hurl lies, stir up the shark feeding frenzy, then give the tiniest retraction and apology possible. No one will remember the apology and retraction. They'll just remember the lie. FAUX news has perfected this and because they make oodles of money, other news outlets mimic them. Jeez.

[Peter Rogerson]

And then lies become the truth and things go wrong for the believers and they don't know why.

[SweetNutmeg]

Unfortunately, over here, when things go wrong, the believers of the lies think they DO know what went wrong... Their enemies have caused all the problems. It is very unfortunate for all of us that people are thinking of their neighbors and fellow citizens as enemies. FAUX fans the flames of division, intolerance and hostility. What to do? It's very frustrating. All I can really do is vote, and I live in the most gerrymandered state in the country, which means my vote doesn't count for much.