Media analysis:

Express grinds to a halt

Sydney was to have had a new afternoon newspaper as of last Monday.
The Bug went into the Fairfax boardroom to discover what went wrong with that plan, which included a similar sister paper in Melbourne.

"And I believe that is all that has to be said on that particular matter," John Fairfax Group chief executive Fred Hilmer says forcefully.
"Hear, Hear," chortle the dozen or so old grey-haired men in pin-striped suits around the gleaming mahogany table.
"Well said, Sir," they mutter in unison through their muttonchop moustaches, their pith helmets bobbing up and down in agreement. They settle back and stare intently at their boss.
Well, okay most of them stare intently at their boss. Several make furtive glances at the locked mahogany-lined liquor cabinet to the side of the mahogany-framed meeting room.
For it's been a long meeting in the rarefied atmosphere high above Sussex Street in the IBM Tower, and the board of Fairfax, publishers of the Sydney Morning Herald and Sun-Herald, the Olympic city's two mastheads of merit, are at the end-of-business end of the meeting.
As if to confirm this, Hilmer clears his throat and announces: "And now, gentlemen, for the last item of business before we close."
He presses a button on his desktop. "For this discussion, I've asked a few of our senior people to join us." He spots a raised eyebrow from one of the pin-stripes to his left and adds quickly "briefly".
A mahogany panel on one of the mahogany walls slides silently open and a serious looking woman in a seriously expensive suit ushers in several men.
"Gentlemen, I believe you know Alan (Sun-Herald editor in chief).
Revell's slight nod is returned eight-fold.
Hilmer: "Beside him is Paul Lynch, the Sun-Herald depute editor.
"Peter, Sir."
"And to his immediate right is his right-hand man," Himler nods as a chuckle works its way around the table, "Matthew Bens, also from the Sun-Herald."
More nods all round.
"We've also got with us this afternoon our corporate affairs manager Mr Bruce Wolpe (nods)."
Hilmer pauses briefly and slowly takes in his audience. The left side first, slowly, then the right.
Himmler: "Now, where's that dummy?"
"Here, sir," says Revell from down the end of the table, right arm half raised.
Himler: "No. The mock-up for next Monday's launch."
Revell: "Oh."
Peter Lynch stands and moves forward to the chairman. "Here it is, Sir." He places a thick, full colour tabloid on Hilmer's mahogany-coloured desktop.
"Thanks, Paul."
"Peter."
Hilmer picks up the tabloid in both hands and scans the room with it, his arms extended.
"Netball lezzos cop a licking" screams the 400 point front-page splash.
"Gentlemen," says Hilmmer slowly, "I give you Fairfax's exciting new quality afternoon masthead, The Express."
Generous applause is interrupted by some feisty "Hear, Hears".
The chairman raises his hand and the room falls quiet.
"Now gentlemen, you all know by now that this project – we called it Project X as secrecy was paramount – is aimed at the city's commuters who currently do not read the Herald."
"Or can't read," whispers one of the inexperienced pinstripes, a young man in in late 50s, to frowns all round and a slight wave of admonition from the chairman, who nevertheless maintains his smile.
"Now, now, gentlemen, regardless of what we might think about them, we are talking about a whole new pantheon of readers for our company.
"And like them or not, the great unwashed of Sydney's west are going to help Fairfax attract the kinds of advertisers who don't presently support the Herald either – the escort agencies, the used-car yards, the pubs with live entertainment, those cheap discount outlets like Franklins and Lowes.
"In other words," says Hilmer with a broad wink, "your typical current News Limited advertisers."
A chorus of chortles and a hefty round of "Hear, Hears" are smartly put in their place.
"So now, Digger, please give us a very short report if you will on how the new paper's progressing."
Revell stands up and clears his throat.
"Thank you, Sir. As board members would know, we've been developing Project X for some months now at a not inconsiderable cost.
"Peter is the paper's editor. Like Peter, most of the other people seconded for the project have solid tabloid experience so it's been much much easier for them to make the transition to really low brow.
"That's why we picked you!" chimes in Himler, who this time makes no attempt to silence the laughter that fills the room.
Revell: "And for our production team, we've creamed off the top of the talent from our existing editorial departments."
Hilmer: "How has that affected production at our two main mastheads?"
Revell: "We're getting most editions out a bit earlier than normal, but it's nothing we can't handle."
Himler: "Excellent."
Revell: "And we've appointed a small but dedicated advertising workforce who have been working many hours a day now for weeks without overtime to the point where I can now advise the board that our first issue on Monday looks like breaking even on productions costs at the very least."
Nods of approval from the pin-stripes.
Himler: "And how are your systems people proceeding with that new softwear designed to replace complicated words in stories with suitable alternatives of one or two syllables so that our tabloid readers will feel comfortable with our new paper?"
Revell: "All in place, sir, and working well. We think even commuters who live out Blacktown way will be able to get through The Express without needing help."
Another pin-stripe: "What ... even Mount Druitt folk?"
Revel: "Why not? The softwear's pretty basic at the moment but it will improve and nothing's impossible."
Himmler: "Excellent work, Digger. And since our last meeting, have you had any luck securing the services of a rabid, illogical, right-wing columnist whom the working class will love to hate and who is absolutely vital to the success of any tabloid newspaper aimed at such a market?"
Revell: "We're holding talks with The Courier Mail's Lawrie Kavanagh and, as of this morning, Pauline Hanson hasn't definitely said no."
"Excellent," says the chairman and the stripes murmur their approval.
The chairman places the mock-up neatly on his mahogany-coloured blotting pad and scans the mahogany-clad room.
"And how are things progressing your end, Wolpe? Your people ready to go with news of our marketing masterpiece, its important role in a free press in Australia and proof positive of our fiercely competitive relationship with News Limited?"
Wolpe hesitates and glances down. "I'm sorry, Mr Hilmer, but they're not quite back from lunch just yet."
Himler: "I didn't mean right this minute, Bruce."
Wolpe looks relieved and nods. "Of course. Raring to go."
Humber again peruses his audience and pauses briefly.
"Gentlemen, this is probably the most exciting corporate adventure we've ever undertaken in my time at the helm of Fairfax. All our painstaking research tells us that The Express is a financial goer and will be around for a long, time to come. We've spent millions already in bringing this masthead to fruition and we are confident it will return us a handsome profit."
A quickly raised hand indicates the "Hear, Hears" must wait.
"We've done our sums and the figures are excellent. The Express will not only open exciting new markets for us financially, but will provide an excellent new outlet for the creative juices of our editorial workforce, and most importantly, be an ideal advertising forum for those smaller businesses who simply can't afford our two main papers.
"Nothing – and, gentlemen, I mean absolutely nothing – is going to get in the way of our making this the most exciting and financially rewarding publishing venture Australia media has seen in recent decades.
"The Express will...."
The mahogany phone on the chairman's mahogany desk rings abruptly and the chairman's face turns deeper mahogany as he snatches the receiver angrily.
"Edith, I told you to hold all calls during board meet..... oh, John Hartigan from News Limited. Certainly. Put him through."
Himmler straightens in his chair and smiles at his board members and senior staff. Then adds a wink for good measure.
"Harto, how are you, mate?" he says into the mouthpiece. Himler listens for several moments and then speaks softly. "I see. So you're saying you will too ?"
Hilmer changes the receiver to his other ear. "You will. Will you? And straight away. Huh, huh. I see."
Himler nods once or twice and the suits wait patiently, not sure if they should nod too. Several half nod just to be on the safe side.
Hilmer: "But if we won't, you won't. Then neither of us don't. I see. Huh, huh. And if we both don't, no-one else will. I see. Well, thanks for calling, Harto. Let's do lunch later this week, okay."
He slowly lowers the mahogany receiver to its mahogany-coloured cradle and slowly eyes the room, thumbs tucked under his chin, forefingers pressed to his lips.
"Gentlemen, after further careful consideration, I've decided not to go ahead with Project X.
"It was a pretty silly idea, really."
A smattering of respectful applause and some more forceful "Hear, Hears" echo among the suits. Handlebar moustaches and pith helmets nod in tandem.
Himmller presses a button on his mock-mahogany console and the mahogany panel in one of the mahogany walls of the mahogany room slides open and his private secretary appears again.
Himler nods to Revell, Lynch, Benns and Wolpe: "We appreciate your time this afternoon, gentlemen, and the board thanks your for the excellent job you are all doing."
"Hear, Hears" all round.
The panel slides shut behind the retreating executives and Hilmer jangles a set of mahogany-coloured keys in front of his face.
"Gentlemen, I believe the bar is now open," he says to spontaneous applause, a raft of "Hear, Hears" and the uncontrolled nodding of handlebar moustaches and pith helmets.