Those in the journalism business do not retire to opulence in palatial abodes in private estates (unless a generous inheritance sails in).
So why do mainstream journalists choose a career working endless hours and under constant deadline pressures instead of becoming brain surgeons, affording them a lifestyle of super-fast cars, slow pony-tailed trophy wives and glass houses?
The excitement and power the news industry offers, though often overstated in the movies, have much to do with it – as confirmed by university research on the subject.
Journalists move among the stars, celebs and the powerful. They themselves wield a great deal of power, so much so that they can bring down presidents.
They are the super influencers.
On this score, the public must praise the gods we still have a strong group of committed and underpaid investigative journalists doing the hard yards – often amid serious threats – to expose our corrupt politicians.
Media practitioners work hard, play hard and do not – cannot – shy away from the “drink-you-under-the-table” environment.
That’s where many of the exposés flow from – unguarded, slurry tongues opening Pandora’s boxes. So they learn to hold their liquor and still function optimally.
But not always – as I personally can attest.
Covering crucial talks in the 80s between SA foreign affairs minister, Pik Botha, and American assistant secretary of state for African affairs under the Reagan administration, Chester Crocker, for TV News, I wangled a one-on-one session with Botha after the usual boring, fruitless “fruitful discussions” door watch type interview.
He agreed, I was SABC – “His Master’s Voice” – after all (despite the SABC’s vehement denials of being captured by the ruling party at the time).
But he hauled out a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer with the instruction we would do an interview only after sharing a few “proppies” (neat tots from the bottle cap). He was in a relaxed, jovial mood.
Long story short and an empty bottle later, the cameraman and I were totally plastered (I don’t think Botha was – being a notorious iron man in that department).
We completed the interview and I did my piece to camera wrap-up in front of the Union Buildings.
Swerving my way home after dispatching the piece to head office, I realised I had no recollection of anything I asked or said. This was not good – it was an international story, for heaven’s sake.
They would no doubt notice my state of inebriation on screen and struggle to decipher the gobbledygook I uttered, dump it and concoct something from radio and the wire services for the newsreader to read.
I would be fired the next morning.
I manned up, waited for the 8 o’clock news bulletin – albeit with great trepidation – to have my worst fears confirmed.
It was the lead story – and there I was, suave and professional-looking in navy jacket and red tie informing the nation about the latest international developments with not a hint of anything untoward.
High-fives all-round, but it was a very close call.
(And no, I still don’t know what I said – but it obviously sounded good).
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