If I’m honest, it’s not difficult to get on the front page of the local newspaper. A couple of weeks back someone managed it by claiming they’d found a potato that looked like the prime minister. The newspaper sent round not just a reporter, but a photographer too, who took shots of the spud from different angles. Now, I admit, a couple of blemishes on the potato’s skin did give the impression of eyes (if you were very imaginative), but other than that it looked … like a potato.
The editor even put a photo of the PM next to the spud so readers could see for themselves. But it was never going to happen that someone would gaze at the pictures, scratching their head while muttering, ‘one of these is the leader of our nation and the other is the raw material for a packet of salt and vinegar chips, but I’m buggered if I know which is which’.
Anyway, this story dominated not just the front page but spilled onto page two as well, where a reporter debated which of the two was best suited to run the country (the potato narrowly lost on economic vision but won overwhelmingly on popular appeal).
The point I’m making is that the newspaper isn’t known for investigative journalism. It’s more school fetes, gardening tips and cats stuck up trees. It shouldn’t, therefore, have been difficult to interest it in a local story, particularly one with huge moral implications. Turns out it was. Maybe I should have claimed I owned a carrot that could communicate with extraterrestrials. That would have turned into a three-page spread.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said.
Andrew and I had dropped round to the newspaper’s offices after school on Friday. If I’d been expecting a large, noisy office with dozens of reporters all on phones, with the occasional cry of ‘hold the front page’ ringing out, then I was disappointed. A young man with acne sat behind a desk, staring at a computer screen. In the dim reflection of a picture hanging on the wall behind him I could see the game he was playing. He didn’t reply, but after a minute or so, paused the game with an irritated clicking of his tongue (and his mouse).
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a tone suggesting it was unlikely.
‘We’d like to speak to a reporter,’ I said.
‘That’s me.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Andrew.
The guy looked around the bare office in an exaggerated way, as if in search of hiding colleagues. ‘Maybe there’s someone else here, but he’s really good at camouflage,’ he said. ‘However, if you can’t spot him in the next couple of minutes, we’ll have to settle for me.’
‘Are the others out chasing leads?’ I said. It’s best to ignore sarcasm, in my humble opinion.
‘The other is out having an ingrown toenail removed,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m very busy here, so what can I do for you?’
‘I want to give you notice of a breaking story,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow, at nine in the morning, the two of us will be chained to railings outside the shopping centre on Mitchell Street, protesting the sale of meat by both the supermarket and the local butcher. That meat is sourced from the scandal-plagued abattoir that’s been dominating the news in recent days.’ I was pleased with myself. I thought I’d summarised the story well.
‘You’re chaining yourself to railings?’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry. Why?’
I sighed. Maybe my summary hadn’t been so good. Or maybe he simply hadn’t been listening. I explained again.
‘What scandal-plagued abattoir?’
I reminded him about the video of the animals’ ill-treatment. He’d never heard of it. I had to get the story up on my phone. I even had to find the video so he could watch it. It was disturbing to discover our local newspaper was ignorant of important local news stories. Or maybe they only bothered with breaking potato newsflashes and left everything else to other agencies.
‘And what’s this to do with the shopping centre?’
This time Andrew sighed. We were splitting up the sighing duties, even though we hadn’t planned this beforehand.
‘Because they get their meat from this abattoir. It’s tainted meat and that’s what we’re protesting about.’
‘By chaining yourself to railings?’
‘Jeez,’ said Andrew. He has a short temper, if truth be told. ‘I’m not presenting you with a riddle puzzling the greatest scientific minds around the world. Yes. Chains. Padlocks. Protesting the supermarket and butcher selling meat that has been obtained through appalling cruelty.’
‘Does it have to be nine?’ the man asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said nine in the morning. Can you chain yourselves up a bit later?’
‘Why?’
‘I have a sleep-in on Saturdays,’ he said. ‘How about midday?’
‘Will you bring a photographer?’
‘I am the photographer. Well, if I remember to bring my mobile phone, which I’m pretty sure I will.’
‘Do you postpone all news stories so they don’t clash with your sleep-in?’ said Andrew.
‘What?’
‘You know. Ringing up tsunamis to see if they wouldn’t mind waiting a couple of hours, that kind of thing?’
‘Okay,’ I said. A battle of sarcasm was only going to end badly. ‘Midday it is. Don’t forget, now.’
‘Good point,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ll put an alarm on my phone.’
I wasn’t convinced. When Andrew and I left the office he was playing his game again and swearing at the screen.