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Whither NST? uppercaise

But wait. Surely thats just the daily routine? Of course. Its just that the intensity of the Influential fever has merely risen a level or two since the Najib administration began taking over the reins of power throughout the Nasty Empire, in one dusty corner of which Zainul Ariffin is now said to be about to leapfrog over Syed Nadzri into the Group Editor-in-Chiefs chair. There is a heightened buzz over possible changes at the key desks and the resulting effects on individuals: whos coming, whos going, whos moving up, whos moving down or going sideways, whos about to be screwed, who can be shafted while everyones distracted but more importantly for the second echelon, whos getting the ears of the new powers that be. Its a virulent disease this Influential epidemic, an affliction that eventually overcomes anyone with a place to park his bum. Nevertheless it remains the favourite occupational pastime at Nasty House: the endless speculation; the never-ending conspiracies to elevate or destroy the target of the day or week; the feverish creation and circulation of gossip on whos been doing what, whos going where and whos not, whos been given what for doing what to whom on whos behalf, whos screwed up what, and of course whos screwing whom. Not to mention the continual fetching and carrying of tales for the ears of the selected power that be or would be, and the plotting of various boobytraps for the unwary unwanted. For those not directly involved (rumour has it one or two individuals do have a real life outside Nasty Times), its quite a spectator sport. A jolly time is had by all as they individually and severally whip on the pack of hounds scrabbling and baying to be Top Dog, and moving things along by helpfully throwing into the fray some raw meat in the form of a reputation or two, a scrap of gossip, or a whisper of freshly-spied-out certain knowledge, all the better to turn the scrum on each other. Is it any wonder that journalism is carried out somewhat fitfully, even perfunctorily, as merely something to fill in the gaps between the conspiring, the cheerleading and the toadying? Am I being unduly harsh? Could it possibly be as foul as all that? In truth (a quality once spotted vaguely seeking a home), Journalism at the Nasty Times is a noble profession by which nobles of various persuasions and their various party political, corporate political, and individual venal ambitions are accomplished, and large vanities and egos nobly satisfied. The modus operandi a time-honoured NST catchphrase whose antecedents reveal the object of homage is a process known as news-gathering, or the Gathering of the Select (usually at five oclock). This is where selected accounts of selected aspects of selected posturings of selected politicians and selected officiousdom and their various selected vacuous outpourings sometimes called thoughts are collated, shaped by word, phrase, clause and sentence into a semblance of coherence and occasionally into incoherence by brilliant, noble, self-sacrificing, knowledgeable, high-minded, intellectually-gifted minds of impeccable experience and a voracious appetite for newly-minted words. Copious amounts of high-sounding polysyllabic verbiage are then applied in order to obtain the requisite sheen, after which these Brilliant Stories are turned over to a tribe of semi-articulate nomadic gnomes who labour on into the wee hours. Their principal object is to creatively burnish these Brilliant Stories and apply mysteriously crafted labels of bewildering inspiration called Brilliant Headlines, then shape the Brilliant Stories into occupying vast expanses of newsprint befitting their undoubted quality. All this languidly frenzied labour has the principal aim of Reaching the Reader, a class of subservient human

life rumoured to buy copies of the Nasty Times in order to read the contents thereof and be persuaded by them. Sadly, the NST Reader does not actually figure in the actual process nor are his wishes ever taken into account. NST Reader is a figment of imagination, created by the Circulation, Advertising and Finance departments, to justify the voluminous statistics they produce in obeisance to their lord of all creation, the Bottom Line. In this virtual existence NST Reader faithfully shells out a buck or two every morning, faithfully ingests the Brilliant Headlines and Thought-Provoking Stories contained within, all the while singing songs of praise in veneration of Bottom Line. Material existence of NST Reader is fleetingly confirmed by the annual recreation of the holy of holies, the Media Index (no relation to the index of the holy see but a possible variation thereof) produced by the priestly caste of the Honourable Company of Survey Research. Daily life at the NST, all the comings and goings aside, is thus conducted at a much higher mystical plane of existence than the rest of toiling humanity. Much labour is illusorily expended for sightings of an illusion named Truth, further labour shapes the resulting dregs into an illusory Factual Report whose aim is to shape the illusory minds of an illusory Reader. Have they all become Buddhist? Thus the question at the head of this post, Wither NST? Drat. Is that the right word? Right spelling?