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Authors: Steve Lewis
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tried to convince himself he was still handsome despite the creased face that looked all its fifty-five years and offered a little too much history. Still, the first flourish of grey added a certain Clooney lustre, he thought.
Not too shabby, mate.
His hands pinched at a belly several kilos heavier than he would have liked. But the back was ramrod straight and his arms retained enough muscle tone to suggest this body was a fine athletic specimen. Once.
He was still entangled in his physical stocktaking when the bathroomâs digital radio burst into life. The familiar trumpet of the ABCâs NewsRadio heralded a lively discussion with Marius Benson about the morningâs headlines. Dunkley turned down the sound so as not to disturb his sleeping beauty.
A cursory run through the Fairfax papers and Murdoch tabloids was the warm-up for a full-scale dissection of The Australianâ s front page. Not all of it complimentary, either.
âThank you Marius,â Dunkley muttered caustically.
He stifled a yawn as he opened the front door to his small apartment. He avoided reading the papers online whenever possible, and was pleased to see real-world print resting with reassuring tactility on the porch.
As he carried the five mastheads inside, he was dismayed by their meagre weight. The rise of the internet and changing reading habits were strip-mining advertising dollars from the old media, by the millions. And as the cash dried up and profits shrank, the farewells for journalist colleagues were becoming routine. Every paper in the country was fighting for its survival, slashing costs as it shed hardcopy readers. Jesus, even his local newsagent, Chris, was toying with scrapping the paper run.
âItâs costing me money,â Chris had told Dunkley recently as heâd settled his monthly account. âI only do it âcause of customers like you. And youâre getting fewer every year.â
It had hit Dunkley like a punch. Something that heâd assumed would be a permanent feature of his life was about to vanish. That reassuring thud of paper-on-grass would soon, like the clink of the milk run, become a story that grandparents told to wide-eyed youngsters. He thought about that often. He had always revelled in unwrapping the papers and spreading them out on his kitchen table, as he did now.
A quick scan of the headlines to see if heâd been scooped by one of his colleagues in the blast furnace of the federal parliamentary press gallery, still the most competitive marketplace in journalism.
Patrick Lion from the Tele had a small-beer yarn about yet another Coalition MP forced to pay back money for a dodgy travel claim. The MP had retreated with a template excuse. The jaunt across the country to attend a colleagueâs birthday was a legitimate expense given the important matters of state that were inevitably discussed. But, just to clear the matter up and âto ensure the right thing is done by the taxpayer and alleviate any ambiguityâ, the MP had agreed to repay $5000 clocked up in airfares and expenses.
You grub.
He knew Lion and his other rivals would be frothing over his own story â and, more importantly, so would their editors.
By habit, Dunkley saved the national broadsheet until last.
Despite nearly thirty years in the game, Dunkley still felt the same kid-in-a-toyshop thrill when he broke a yarn that would set the agenda. One that would be the envy of his mates and enemies on the Hill.
A tingle took hold as he gazed at todayâs headline: TOOHEY IS TERMINAL .
Farrrkkkk.
Dunkley shuddered and for once it was not the result of a late-night drinking bout but the sheer thrill of re-reading the lead on a yarn that hit like a prizefighter.
Labor risks electoral annihilation with just one in four voters now backing the embattled Toohey Government, secret internal ALP polling reveals.
The credibility of Prime Minister Martin Toohey has also crashed with voters
Not too shabby, mate.
His hands pinched at a belly several kilos heavier than he would have liked. But the back was ramrod straight and his arms retained enough muscle tone to suggest this body was a fine athletic specimen. Once.
He was still entangled in his physical stocktaking when the bathroomâs digital radio burst into life. The familiar trumpet of the ABCâs NewsRadio heralded a lively discussion with Marius Benson about the morningâs headlines. Dunkley turned down the sound so as not to disturb his sleeping beauty.
A cursory run through the Fairfax papers and Murdoch tabloids was the warm-up for a full-scale dissection of The Australianâ s front page. Not all of it complimentary, either.
âThank you Marius,â Dunkley muttered caustically.
He stifled a yawn as he opened the front door to his small apartment. He avoided reading the papers online whenever possible, and was pleased to see real-world print resting with reassuring tactility on the porch.
As he carried the five mastheads inside, he was dismayed by their meagre weight. The rise of the internet and changing reading habits were strip-mining advertising dollars from the old media, by the millions. And as the cash dried up and profits shrank, the farewells for journalist colleagues were becoming routine. Every paper in the country was fighting for its survival, slashing costs as it shed hardcopy readers. Jesus, even his local newsagent, Chris, was toying with scrapping the paper run.
âItâs costing me money,â Chris had told Dunkley recently as heâd settled his monthly account. âI only do it âcause of customers like you. And youâre getting fewer every year.â
It had hit Dunkley like a punch. Something that heâd assumed would be a permanent feature of his life was about to vanish. That reassuring thud of paper-on-grass would soon, like the clink of the milk run, become a story that grandparents told to wide-eyed youngsters. He thought about that often. He had always revelled in unwrapping the papers and spreading them out on his kitchen table, as he did now.
A quick scan of the headlines to see if heâd been scooped by one of his colleagues in the blast furnace of the federal parliamentary press gallery, still the most competitive marketplace in journalism.
Patrick Lion from the Tele had a small-beer yarn about yet another Coalition MP forced to pay back money for a dodgy travel claim. The MP had retreated with a template excuse. The jaunt across the country to attend a colleagueâs birthday was a legitimate expense given the important matters of state that were inevitably discussed. But, just to clear the matter up and âto ensure the right thing is done by the taxpayer and alleviate any ambiguityâ, the MP had agreed to repay $5000 clocked up in airfares and expenses.
You grub.
He knew Lion and his other rivals would be frothing over his own story â and, more importantly, so would their editors.
By habit, Dunkley saved the national broadsheet until last.
Despite nearly thirty years in the game, Dunkley still felt the same kid-in-a-toyshop thrill when he broke a yarn that would set the agenda. One that would be the envy of his mates and enemies on the Hill.
A tingle took hold as he gazed at todayâs headline: TOOHEY IS TERMINAL .
Farrrkkkk.
Dunkley shuddered and for once it was not the result of a late-night drinking bout but the sheer thrill of re-reading the lead on a yarn that hit like a prizefighter.
Labor risks electoral annihilation with just one in four voters now backing the embattled Toohey Government, secret internal ALP polling reveals.
The credibility of Prime Minister Martin Toohey has also crashed with voters
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