Tiberius Anar
Aug 1st, 2006, 02:34:58 PM
Most governments live and die by the headlines. Are we popular or not? Do the people approve? Is our message getting through? Do they love us? It really is quite pathetic.
The Imperial Government was not as caught up in this particular aspect of politics as other governments. The minsters all agreed it was nice to hear that people liked them. It was always gratifying to know that people approved of what one was doing. They were, quite naturally, concerned to get their message out. But they did not have elections to win or legislatures to pacify. It made things so much more civilised and sensible.
That is not to say, of course, that His Imperial Majesty's Government ignored the papers and the newscasts. On the contrary, the government paid close attention to the media.
There were whole departments devoted to nursemaiding the media. Whole floors of the Ministry of Propaganda were given over to graduates of journalism courses. Large salaries were paid to the directors and managers of the state controlled outlets. Vast entertainment allowances were spent smoozing the propietors and employees of the many privately owned outlets. There were even teams of surprisingly burly looking civil servants on hand should the Ministry need to throw its weight around.
In the old days Ernst Blomberg had done it from a dingy little office in Party Headquarters, cajoaling reporters in person. Now he did it by proxy from a well appointed office on the three hundred and third floor of the Ministry. It was quite enjoyable, as long as things were going well. Which they weren't at the moment.
Blomberg threw aside the latest of the offensive editorials culled by his staff. There had been some fifteen today. He took a pill box from his suit pocket and extracted one of those chalky anatacids his doctor had foisted on him. He popped the thing in his mouth and began working on it.
The editorials that had been pulled were not openly hostile to the regime. No editor was that foolish. No, the editorials had been pulled because they were not sufficiently enthusiastic about the regime.
Blomberg's fat hand reached out and snagged one of the offending articles. His eyes ran down it again.
Our forces remain well equiped...
"Where's the 'glorious?' Where's the 'steadfast?'" he demanded of the air in his office.
...we were moved by the words of the injured soldiers...
"So you should have been, but you should have been stirred to heights of patriotic fervour!"
...the dissidents remain at large...
"The traitors will be found and punised. They cannot escape the forces of the Empire, who valiantly defend every citizen." Blomberg dictated the line that should have been there. Then to vent his rage a little he hurled the data pad across the room where it smashed into the wall with a most satisfying thud.
Then the minister went to work. His mind ran through the situation weighing the evidence, sifting through his wide knowledge of the media. He considered the various social groups. He pondered the nature of the rebellion.
He sighed.
He huffed.
He banged the table.
He got it.
The Minister flicked the intercom. "Get me the next free moment the Chancellor has. Then call up my car."
He smiled generously at his office. Then he thought of something else and keyed the intercom again.
"And get me a new pad!"
The Imperial Government was not as caught up in this particular aspect of politics as other governments. The minsters all agreed it was nice to hear that people liked them. It was always gratifying to know that people approved of what one was doing. They were, quite naturally, concerned to get their message out. But they did not have elections to win or legislatures to pacify. It made things so much more civilised and sensible.
That is not to say, of course, that His Imperial Majesty's Government ignored the papers and the newscasts. On the contrary, the government paid close attention to the media.
There were whole departments devoted to nursemaiding the media. Whole floors of the Ministry of Propaganda were given over to graduates of journalism courses. Large salaries were paid to the directors and managers of the state controlled outlets. Vast entertainment allowances were spent smoozing the propietors and employees of the many privately owned outlets. There were even teams of surprisingly burly looking civil servants on hand should the Ministry need to throw its weight around.
In the old days Ernst Blomberg had done it from a dingy little office in Party Headquarters, cajoaling reporters in person. Now he did it by proxy from a well appointed office on the three hundred and third floor of the Ministry. It was quite enjoyable, as long as things were going well. Which they weren't at the moment.
Blomberg threw aside the latest of the offensive editorials culled by his staff. There had been some fifteen today. He took a pill box from his suit pocket and extracted one of those chalky anatacids his doctor had foisted on him. He popped the thing in his mouth and began working on it.
The editorials that had been pulled were not openly hostile to the regime. No editor was that foolish. No, the editorials had been pulled because they were not sufficiently enthusiastic about the regime.
Blomberg's fat hand reached out and snagged one of the offending articles. His eyes ran down it again.
Our forces remain well equiped...
"Where's the 'glorious?' Where's the 'steadfast?'" he demanded of the air in his office.
...we were moved by the words of the injured soldiers...
"So you should have been, but you should have been stirred to heights of patriotic fervour!"
...the dissidents remain at large...
"The traitors will be found and punised. They cannot escape the forces of the Empire, who valiantly defend every citizen." Blomberg dictated the line that should have been there. Then to vent his rage a little he hurled the data pad across the room where it smashed into the wall with a most satisfying thud.
Then the minister went to work. His mind ran through the situation weighing the evidence, sifting through his wide knowledge of the media. He considered the various social groups. He pondered the nature of the rebellion.
He sighed.
He huffed.
He banged the table.
He got it.
The Minister flicked the intercom. "Get me the next free moment the Chancellor has. Then call up my car."
He smiled generously at his office. Then he thought of something else and keyed the intercom again.
"And get me a new pad!"