Although as info communication means develop, almost everybody these days can be a one-man editorial office (i.e.: you can take pictures with any kind of mobile phone), and self-appointed priests of the alternative public life post headliners for a period of fifteen seconds (read: even a blogger might have a relevant opinion), journalists are still important for us.

There are several kinds of them:

  • a copypastecopy paste is interesting for us to the extent that if he or she sends an email address, we send a press release in return, they can copy it into the paper, might even sign it if they want, we are not interested, just send a beer from the honorary fee.
  • the gonzo is a fine character, he/she comes, sees, conquers, at least that’s what they think. Let them believe it, as long as they don’t hassle us.
  • the journalist on holiday is sometimes a real pain in the ass. Once you go there, make a report! – the editors say and although the holiday maker journalists really go there, they are far from the mood of work. We ensure them of our full sympathy, release a sentence or two, maybe a photo, provided we are not on holidays as it happens (you shall be not – chief editor’s note).
  • the reporter is the favourite. These guys really come to work, and the bigger the medium they represent, the smaller they are for their boots. They ask for exclusive materials, knock down the camera, dictaphone, whatever of the other reporter in the first row, buzz about aggressively, thinking the loads of politicians take their beers at two o’clock just to give them the opportunity to push the mic into their faces. Such people can be recognised from making constant fuss rat-arsed and not talking, by any chance, of the happenings in the camp. Their topics exhaust the there and then least important news of world politics, updating their information in every half hour, calling politicians who are just not present there and there in friendly terms (secretaries of state and up, nobody’s worth the effort below).
  • the professional would sign in at the press (at) address, register, and with the badge in their necks, plough the camp over. They are there everywhere and they put down everything just as well. In ten lines.