MONDAY
Interesting day. I was shown into the offices of The Post, where I have been appointed editor in a move that is sure to shake up all the handwringers out there who will be upset that the job has gone to someone who has never worked in journalism.
I set foot in the front door and confronted the issue head-on with a fiery speech. I said, “The naysayers are in for a shock. They won’t know what’s hit them and I am going to hit them right between the eyes. I believe in going in hard. I believe in a wild attack that takes no prisoners and seems to have no meaning beyond the observation that life is cruel. I don’t make the rules. It’s a jungle out there. Dog eats dog. Yea though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil for I am the biggest sonofabitch in the valley. Do, or die. Prepare to die. Are you ready to die? For this is my sword, and it shall smote evildoers. My patience is thin. My tolerance is zero. My name is Hooton, Matthew Hooton. I make the rules!”
The receptionists started running. A promising start.
TUESDAY
Quiet day. I still only made it as far as reception, but that was because I was the one who ran.
I made an oath not to give the same welcoming speech to staff as yesterday and approached the office in a calm frame of mind—until I saw something I neither understood or recognised.
“What,” I said, gesturing with disgust at an inky pile of rags on the front desk, “is this?”
I was told that it was a “newspaper”.
“What,” I said, my hackles beginning to rise, “is the meaning of it?”
I was told that it was a package of “news”.
“What,” I yelled, throwing my phone through the nearest window, and enjoying the silvery sound of breaking glass, “is the point of that?”
I ran outside to pick up my phone, and carried on down the street with a merry whistle. Day two of the revolution is going to plan.
WEDNESDAY
Good day. I ventured into the pits of Hell, and slew the dragon.
No one in reception looked up and conversation stopped when I set foot in the front door. A “newspaper” was taped across a broken window. The only sound was my footsteps stomping up the stairs to the editorial department.
“What,” I said, thudding my finger into the chest of someone with shrewd, watchful eyes, “is this?”
I was told that it was a “journalist”.
“What,” I said, my dander on the up, “does it do?”
I was told that it gathers “news”.
“What,” I screamed, attempting to overturn a desk, but found it too heavy, so I kicked a waste paper basket instead, “did I tell you about ‘news’? I don’t want it! No one wants it! It’s old hat! It’s from a time of civilised discourse! No one has the patience for it! I don’t have the patience for it! I am not a patient man! I am the editor of The Post! So let’s everyone start posting hot takes on our socials!”
The revolution is on track.
THURSDAY
Productive day. I held forth in the editorial department, and told the “journalists” that their job was to gather opinions. I said it was a matter of coming up with any old crap so long as it was thunderous and sure to gain attention, and was preferably right-leaning, but with special emphasis on eroding confidence in Christopher Luxon as Prime Minister.
One or two in the press gallery already had a good handle on that so I began with training reporters assigned to covering the weather.
FRIDAY
Quiet day, until I was called at home and asked what ideas I had for the front page of the Sunday Star-Times.
“What,” I said, yawning in bed, and flipping a page of The Road to Serfdom by Friedrich A Hayek, a seminal text arguing that state control of economic planning inevitably leads to the loss of individual freedom, “is the Sunday Star-Times?”
I was told that it was a “newspaper” published on Sunday.
“What,” I said, foaming my iced white mocha with vanilla sweet cream and extra caramel drizzle, a coffee which confirms I am a man of the people, “could anyone possibly want to read on a Sunday?”
I was given a range of story ideas but gave instructions to run a hot take arguing that state control of economic planning inevitably leads to the loss of individual freedom. A hundred characters ought to do it.
