The hard-boiled, investigative journalist sat with his legs up on the desk throwing grapes at the cat. His self-respect had taken a tumble. Where had his critical eye gone? Had he lost control? Become feeble?
That last chapter had had a strange effect on him. A stubborn subconscious thought had made the laborious climb up the soul’s slippery stairs and tried to attract his attention. Why was everybody so excessively positive to the vodka? As soon as anybody opened their mouth a torrent of words and tirades of empty advertising rhetoric buzzed around the ears like flies round a cow’s arse.
In pure defiance, he went over to the wine rack and uncorked a Rioja, full to the brim of esters and other rotgut, which is taboo in the production of vodka. He poured a healthy glass and sat ruminating.
Every writer with self-respect must safeguard against being manipulated. It came to him after a few swigs of wine that he had actually persisted in asking about the projects teething problems and other mishaps. The mistakes they had remedied, but it was essential that he had taken a critical stand and not just soaked up all PR bumf that was thrown at him.
This must be examined in depth, he thought. It must undergo some kind of personal field study. He picked up the phone and dialled the numbers to two of the craziest party animals he knew. They both had sophisticated tastes and styles as well as being nigh-on impossible to drink under the table. The writer has tried on countless occasions and always failed miserably. They would be perfect for his investigative task. He reached for the phone. (more…)