2006-08-13T18:54:00.000-07:00

the only point of being a journalist in Sri Lanka these days is the fact that you have access to a media ID card...

2006-07-17T18:28:00.000-07:00

Officials from the Presidential secretariat yesterday shamelessly duped dozens of journalists. Press conference invitations intimating a commencement time of 8.30am were dispatched to a number of media organisations, with instructions to report there an hour early. In an effort to comply I got there by 7.15am only to be held up by officials who had fastened their papers in the wrong order and thereby insisted that I was only due there at 4.30pm. One moderately long sitting stint later I went in to find out that the press conference time had been SHIFTED to between 9.30 and 10.00am. However no one had bothered to inform the media. Journalists in the board room had little else to do except mill around aimlessly, engage in "phatic" conversation and drink free nescafe.
Officials wearing mismatched ties smiled apologetically, but journalists were not amused. I was particularly irritated but found it in me to exchange a nod with a distinguished looking gentleman wearing a sombre grey shirt and a VIP Pass. "I should know him" I thought... However that thought process was interrupted by a general scraping of chairs as everyone stood at attention. "Its the President!" we thought.... but noooo!!!! it so transpired that it was a Buddhist monk, bespectacled, fat, and far too patriotic for his own (and our) damn good.
By now I was drawing curious glances from the gathered and bored multitude who were wondering what in heck I was writing. So I looked up and asked a far too smiley woman from ITN who the distinguished looking gentleman was. 'Sathischandra Edirisinghe' she replied. "Whoopee" I thought as I bent back to my writing.
In the meantime as the ongoing phatic conversation showed signs of becoming increasingly boistrous, I idly pondered the possibility of initiating a riot. Given the bumbling yet seemingly trigger happy guards at the event, I placed chances of success at 50%.
At this point a relatively nice looking man sat next to me but his cheap perfume began driving me mad. It smelled clottingly cloyingly sweet like an incense stick gone bad. At this point a favourite Terry Pratchett quote began running though my mind - "Ohbuggerbuggerohbuggerbuggerohbuggerbuggerohbuggerbuggerohbuggerbuggerohbugger.. etc. This was positively inane.
I had by now taken to looking hopefully at the door everytime it opened. But it turned out to be yet another caffeine craving journalist every time. (The Nescafe machine was in the next room you see)
Meanwhile RGLGWHP (relatively good looking guy with horrid perfume) tried to read my musings. "Notes"? He asked. I mumbled something about doing some background research for an article while not so subtly placing my arms over what I had written. I also tried a mysterious smile but have an awful feeling that I ended up looking slightly choleric. Luckily he was disturbed by the arrival of another official with a mismatched tie who was engaged in passing out badly photocopied press releases to the restless gathering. Desperate for a break in the monotony I decided to read mine. ... but was even more irritated to find that it comprised only an itenarary detailing who would get a garland and where. "Whoopee"I thought for the second time in 15 minutes.
A man in black opened the door. Was the President here? Considering that he lived there he was awfully late. But no - the black garbed stranger closed the door and walked away. I then engaged in swinging my feet, looking at random faces and yawning widely and rudely. My attention was then diverted as a number of other national patriots - namely Wimal Weerawansa, Gunadasa Amarasekera and some other kurta clad manel distributors came in and sat down. At that point I was overcome with the sudden realisation that my hatred for Weerawansa was not merely an articulated cool standpoint but very very scarily real. I imagined the pleasures of maybe spitting at him or launching myself on him shouting DIE BITCH DIE!!! But the harsh reality of my powerless situation prevented me from doing little less but fervently wishing that he dropped dead. Needless to say that didnt happen either.
Anyway after watching a politician intimidate a little boy by making him practice pinning a badge on the President for a while I decided I had to go to the toilet. I had barely finished when a general hullabaloo intimated that he had finally arrived. It was now past ten. He came in, made a 5 minute speech and departed.
I was left to shoulder my empty Nescafe cup and make my way home.

Wandering thoughts