An unconditional apology to the University of Queensland student movement

IT did not come as anything of a shock to me when The Bug's editor rang on my mobile to inform me the newspaper had been banned from Australia's leading tertiary campus.
The disturbing news certainly took the gloss of what had been an exceptionally productive afternoon, having just registered my best performance ever in Category G go-cart racing at the Grand Prix Raceway at Ormeau near the Gold Coast highway.
Luckily, a lifetime in the newspaper publishing game meant I knew instinctively what I had to do next.
"Snap some rolls of me beside my cart and rush them back to the office," I calmly told the three staff photographers who had accompanied me to the meet.
"Tell sports editorial to run the best pix over a minimum four columns wide on page 4 of sport in the country edition tomorrow, page 3 in the home edition and on the page 2 in the metro.
"Then tell the main subs desk ditto, only in reverse order.
"Well, snap to it," I barked when the lensmen seemed reluctant to leave.
"You don't want the pix run on the lead page?" one finally had the courage to ask quizzically.
I did my best to hide my scorn: "A 12th placing on the main page, you reckon?"
Humbled, they left quickly and I thanked God that photographers never, ever, got to make hard judgments about news sense in the competitive newspaper market.
I flipped open the mobile and rang The Bug editor straight back.
"So what was the final straw that broke the camel's back?" I barked.
"It was that column by our new lifestyle writer Frank Mullet, wasn't it? I just knew that piece would cop heaps of flak."
Mullet was a recent addition to The Bug's writing staff, and so help me you could have knocked me over with a poofter's wrist flick when I read that piece in hard-copy form.
"Oh phhlllleaaaassse," Mullet had written. "What is it with women and their vaginas!"
I remember turning to my good wife, Jeanette, who was busy at the time putting the Bugland Newspapers' Homewreckers Show together, and telling her: "The femmo nazis are going to have my balls for this."
She nodded sympathetically.
"Well," I asked down the mobile when the line remained silent.
"No, don't think so," the editor dithered. "Something in the Thighs Wide Shut edition, I guess."
Jesus H. Christ, I thought. I'm paying good money for a fucking over-paid editor who can do no more than take a flying fuck of a guess about what's got us into the deep poo with one of our main distribution points.
I was quickly starting to realise that if I had to sacrifice this bozzo to keep the uni students on side, then it wasn't going to be much of a loss.
The pity is that I'd handpicked the editor myself and for a long while he'd shown real news sense and creativity to justify the appointment.
But I'd noticed in recent months he'd got to going down to the Jubilee Hotel at lunch time and mixing with hack reporters from The Courier Mail and Sunday Mail. Especially some bloke called Tory Sweatman.
I reckon they've gone and turned his brain to mush with all that mainstream shit they carry on about all the time. Big-noting themselves as if they make a fucking difference.
"So, you think it might have been our Thighs Wide Shut edition," I said, the words dribbling with unrestrained sarcasm.
The editor cleared his throat and mumbled down the line. "I guess so. They reckon we've contravened their policy against racist, homophobic and sexist literature."
"Ooooh, really, " I sneered. "Do you think so?
"This is just a wild guess but I don't suppose that two-page colour spread the other month – Boong Barbecue: 20 Great Ways to Eat Native – would have had anything the fuck to do with it!"
After a ten-second silence, the editor cleared his throat and said quietly: "It was supposed to be satire. How did I know some people were going to take it seriously?"
"And that colour piece back in June urging the Sydney Olympics organisers to make muff-diving a demonstration sport? It wasn't that by any chance?"
The line remained silent.
"Especially seeing it was mainly a pix spread."
Still, compassion is also part of that indefinable trait that marks true leadership. I felt myself weakening. Sometimes, leadership can be a burden as well as an almighty adrenaline rush.
"Okay, look," I said supportively, calmly. "You go off and have yourself a nice beer with your fancy mainstream mates."
"I'll think of some way to square this off with those up-starts out at the uni campus.
"Fuck me roan. Wouldn't you think they'd have something better to do with their time than running around deciding what other people should and should not be allowed to read?"