Some people just have the gift of prophecy, and Nick McKenzie from the Fairfax press is simply one of them.
This bloke’s a genius, a dead set modern-day Moses, for how else could he possibly know the things that he knows, well before the rest of the world does?
For example, Quick Nick knows that Gorgeous George Alex is an underworld figure, even though poor Gorgeous’s only ever conviction has been for giving his girlfriend the flick, telling her to take a hike and not to stop walking until she ceased giving everyone within 100 miles a bucketload of grief and worry.
It’s the stuff of Tony Montana isn’t it? You bad man Gorgeous, you’re a goddamn crook, Quick Nick says so, and he knows, cos he’s mates with Andrew Zaf, the biggest criminal in Salem, a crook who would steal your mother’s purse as soon as look at her, and a bloke who if he told you the sky was blue would cause you to race out and buy a raincoat, quick smart.
Real journalists ply their trade by digging and delving, checking their sources and checking them again, making sure that the low down that they lay is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Its reporting 101, the fundamental principle of the Fourth Estate game, but it’s not one that bothers Quick Nick overly.
You see, he’s got the sneak leaks, peeps. The inside goss, the illegally begotten info direct from his deep throat at the AFP. The gift that keeps on giving, the slanted fairytales that Quick Nick reprints without question, and keeps on copping, cos free bullshit’s better than having to work for a living, and if he can keep on printing press releases from the Feds he will never have to worry about working for a living, will he?
Struth Ruth, what’s the truth? And who bloody cares anyway.
First they came for the ……………………….