Barking in the media

Working in the media brings its own unique set of challenges – as I am sure other people have found with other boulots and in other walks of life.

Personally, this year marks my 20th in journalism and I can say without ambiguity that the past two decades have been both the best of times and the worst of times.

From feature articles on the whole gamut of life, society and community – school meals to parachute jumps to unmentionable tragedies – there isn’t much I haven’t written about since I first tucked in my shirt, donned a tie and pretended I knew what I was at, way back in 2003. It has been… memorable, to say the least (although I no longer wear a tie – or tuck in my shirt).

Latterly, of course, there is the small matter of a hairy-faced fiend whose antics have featured in my writings. The past few years (he’ll turn four on New Year’s Day) have been both the best of times and the worst of times (well documented, as you know). However, out of all the features and articles and interviews and reviews (and poems!) which I have had the good fortune to write over the past 20 years, it has been the hairy-faced fiend who has elicited the most feedback from Mr and Mrs Joe and Josephine Public.

I have touched on this in the past but there is hardly a day that goes by when I’m not asked about His Hairyness.

“What about the dog?”

“How’s Waffle keeping?”

“Where’s the wee man the day?”

And, as I always say, it’s nice to know someone is reading this other than my mother.

However…

Journalism isn’t solely about hairy matters or what next disaster will suddenly be ejected from one or other of Waffle’s orifices. There are matters which aren’t so much on the ‘laughing’ end of the spectrum like domestic abuse, knee-cappings and, in general, people having their heads handed to them.

Without being facetious in the slightest, there are also elements in society whose agendas don’t always tally up with the mainstream governance agenda.

One Friday night in recent times, I received a phone call to my mobile from an unknown number. Reluctant as I am to answer to unknown numbers, I picked up anyway; you never know who might be ringing to offer me a bag of gold doubloons. The reality though wasn’t quite as lucrative.

It turned out the phone call was a nameless individual speaking on behalf of other nameless individuals from a dissident organisation, individuals who wanted to meet me, so as to pass on a message pertaining to their agenda. This message, it was vaguely alluded to, might include a threat to the security forces.

Now, much as I lurve giving up my Friday nights to meet with shady dissident groupings, I was caught in two minds. The One Show was on and I was knackered after a week’s work and besides, there was beer in the fridge. On the other hand though, journalistically speaking, there might be a story in it – not to mention the suggested threat to others.

“I’m away to meet the dissidents again,” I told the clan with a sigh. “Don’t let anyone drink that beer.” And with that, I grabbed a hoodie and made for the car.

En route to the rendezvous, a predetermined meeting place in a local town, I couldn’t help but wonder what lay in store. Would there be animosity? Balaclavas? Tea and digestives?

My mind drifted to story a fellow journalist recounted once after he met with a dissident grouping. The circumstances were similar: Unknown phone number. Predetermined meeting place on the edge of dark. A vital message in the offing.

On that occasion, my friend told how, after meeting the intermediaries, he’d listened to a statement which was read out by a man holding a piece of paper. After the reading, the reader promptly screwed up the paper, popped it into his mouth, chewed it up and swallowed.

“Maybe there will be tea, after all,” I wondered aloud.

And yet, as I drove, I couldn’t ignore the fact that my unease was mounting.

“How will I recognise these guys?” I had asked of the unknown voice from the unknown number.

“They’ll recognise you, don’t worry.”

Unsurprisingly, that had only amplified my apprehension.

Eventually, I pulled the car around a corner and into the predetermined meeting place, which happened to be a deserted car park. The evening was cloudy and although gloomy, the rain hadn’t as yet returned.

Killing the engine, I turned off the car’s lights and glanced around. How will I recognise…

Immediately two men approached, both bundled up against the evening’s chill. One was wearing a hat. A balaclava wrapped up?

I smiled the smile of a man treading water in the deep ocean and I popped off my seat belt and opened the car door. And there they were, the bearers of the message standing – looming, even – by the kerbside. I climbed out of the car in what felt like slow motion.

Without preamble and with a grin which belied the seriousness of the situation, the man with the hat remarked, “Did you not bring the dog?”

Working in the media brings its own unique set of challenges.