I have this recurring nightmare. It’s just past eight o’clock in the morning and the television is on. Suddenly I come on the screen enthusing about funeral policies. Obviously it’s not always the same nightmare but there is a troublesome common theme. Sometimes the nightmare is in flickering black and white but mostly it’s in colour with Dolby surround sound, which, you have to admit, is pretty impressive for a nightmare. If I’m not flogging funeral policies I’m demonstrating a kitchen gadget which can chop vegetables, change the TV channel and drop the kids off at school—.and that’s not all, it’s non stick. Three weeks ago I awoke at two in the morning in a cold sweat in mid winter. I’d just had a particularly vivid nightmare. I’d been moderating a panel discussion among some very desperate housewives and we’d been discussing biological washing powder and difficult-to-remove stains.
My aura reader and part-time dream analyst tells me that this is a perfectly normal phenomenon among media folk who fear their careers are on the wane. A brief flirtation with fame and success may be intoxicating but it is also transient. Nothing lasts forever (unless you happen to be Mick Jagger) and once you’ve proved beyond reasonable doubt that you’re well past your best-before date it’s nice to know that you don’t have to hang around the Mugg and Bean for the rest of your life hoping that somebody will recognise you. “Aren’t you that bloke who used to be on the telly—what was the programme again?”
Just as there are charities set up to look after gaga old actors who can no longer remember their lines so there should be a charity to look after long-past-it journos. Some would argue that Verimark and the shopping channels are already doing a good job but there really are not enough fascinating kitchen tools and non-stick woks to go round. It’s inevitable that the less fortunate among us will wind up our glittering careers writing columns for the Bapsfontein Bugle or attempting to knock off a humorous monthly end-piece for The Plumber magazine. At least if you’re demonstrating a full set of 47 Japanese kitchen knives that never need sharpening you’re still on the telly—.although only just. Not everything is lost. It may not be Show me the Mommy but if anyone’s looking for an MC for the annual convention of knife manufacturers then you’re an obvious choice.
But what happens when your popularity wanes and not even The Plumber wants you? Shouldn’t there be a caring alternative for washed up hacks awaiting their final deadline? May I suggest the Hunter S Thompson Memorial Home complete with drugs mini-bar and a selection of loaded weapons. There, inmates would wander along the linoleum corridors in grubby grey dressing gowns, dribbling happily and mumbling things like “hold the front page” and “I’ve got an idea for an article”. There would be frail care on offer 24/7 and you would be able to ring for an adjective or simply to ask a fact checker the correct spelling of Hektor Pietersohn.
An in-house newspaper would enable inmates to relive the fantasies of their heyday by continuing to contribute columns, and redundant radio talkshow hosts would have a studio at their disposal to enable them to babble into thin air and continue to feel wanted. Volunteer carers would write fan letters to the columnists and phone in to the mock radio station to add to the illusion of reality. Public donations of half-jacks of vodka, unwanted bottles of Pinotage and branded clothing would be distributed every Thursday to compensate for the trauma of no more freebies. Admittedly, it’s not Pulitzer prize heaven but some might argue that the Hunter S Thompson Memorial Home option is a more dignified way of ending one’s days than the shopping channel.