When new journalists, especially inexperienced ones, started in the office, we had tradition of giving them a sign that reads: “Being a journalist is easy. It’s like riding a bike. And the bike is on fire. And everything is on fire. Because you are in hell”.
But I love every second of my work. I learn something new every day, meet interesting people, have been shot at, threatened and followed. But there is another quirky, queer and downright bizarre side to it as well. And while I often don’t find this side funny at the time, my colleagues and I always have a good laugh afterwards. Mostly it is our readers who are the subject of these surreal moments. Let me relive a few moments.
I collect law suits. In the office, receiving your first one is a proud rite of passage. But the most absurd law suit against us took place when a business approached us, desperately asking us for help because vehicles kept on crashing through their perimeter wall. I obliged and did the story. Unfortunately I mistook the company for a gambling joint while in actual fact they supplied gambling equipment. Suddenly I found myself at the wrong end of their wrath and they threatened to sue if we did not correct the mistake. So I went from their knight in shining armour to the one on the receiving end of a law suit. So much for wanting to help.
Then there was the time when I received a phone call at about 3.30am one Saturday morning. Usually when I get a call during the night, it’s something serious like a fire or major crime that was committed. I thought this would be the same. But the conversation went something like this. Me (sleepy): “Morning, Riaan speaking?”. Woman: “I’ve got a big story for you!”. Me: “I am listening?”. Woman: “I’ll tell you on Monday”. Seriously?! You phone me up at this time to tell me you got a story to give me on Monday?! By the way, nine out of 10 times the public’s idea of a “big story” and our idea of one is worlds apart. But give them to us anyway.
Last one for the week. As everyone knows, I do hard news, but every so often I end up with a school story or koek-en-tee story. So it happened that I once had to write about the winners of a primary school choir competition. The only problem was that the person who supplied me with the information failed to give me the name of the third school, which won. I wrote the article. A short piece which was of no significance to me but obviously significant to one of the moms of the school I failed to mention. The Monday after publication I received a furious email that finished with “and therefore I am going to report you to the Human Rights Commission for hate speech and discrimination”.
She was not joking. I kid you not. You can’t make this stuff up.
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