I HATE THIS TIME OF YEAR

Have I got Christmas music for you?

Please don't get me wrong. (I ask that a little too often - I must say a lot of random stuff) It's not Christmas I hate. I love eating bad food. I love spending time with family and friends. I love being allowed to drink on week nights. 

I love, love, LOVE not getting up at 3 in the morning. God I love that. I love that so much.

What I don't love is the week before.

I would like to miss out the week before. If I could get the Grinch to steal the week before Christmas, I would. The week before makes me feel like Superman... after a long stay in a kryptonite cell.

I'm not looking for sympathy - I'm sure it's the same for everyone. The rushing around. The getting everything organised for whoever's standing in for you at work while you're away. The search for the present that was supposed to be so easy to find but has ended up being the last one in the country so the quest to locate it, purchase it and actually get it delivered on time has become an impossible mission even Ethan Hunt would think twice about accepting.

Who could be bothered feeling sorry for me anyway? You're exhausted too, right? Your back is killing you just as much as mine. Your kids have already started whining, "I'm bored. What can I do?" and they've only been off school 3 days. Basically what I'm doing here is moaning too. Just because I can.

I think the thing that makes this week so excruciating is the promise of relief. Never is your headache more intense than during the minutes you're waiting for the Nurofen to kick in. This week is no different - because the break is just days away makes those days the hardest you've had to endure all year.

Every Christmas song I play on the Mike Hosking Breakfast is a stinging reminder it isn't Christmas yet at all. Every Christmas special I hear advertised on air is like the ticking on the time-bomb that is my Christmas shopping crusade.

Too much to do, not enough time, it's the same every year and I hate it.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm taking next December off, the whole month. And I'm REALLY taking it off. I'm going to find a helpful anaesthetist to put me in a voluntary coma. They can bring me round Christmas Eve and I'll be refreshed, relaxed and blissfully unaware. And bloody starving probably - perfectly placed to get the most out of the happiest time of the year.

The only thing that could possibly make that scenario any more dream-like would be if Santa brought me a new smart phone to play with... but which to choose? A Lumia 920 or a Galaxy SIII? Now there's a stressful decision to make. I think I could handle that one though.

Yum! They both look so delicious! How's a boy to choose?

THIS TIME, THE MEDIA REALLY ARE TO BLAME

I know - compelling reading, right?

I work at a radio station. I produce current affairs podcasts. I have a satirical online video show. I write these blogs. I guess I'm just going to have to accept it; I'm part of "The Media."

This is why I tend to squirm uncomfortably (is there any other way to squirm?) whenever I hear someone blame "The Media" for something. It's always something bad too. Nobody ever says, "Full credit to The Media. We couldn't have done it without them." Nope, it's always, "The Media have blown this out of all proportion," or, "The Media have taken this whole thing out of context."

Usually this is not true. If a politician blames the media, it's because they have lied. If a sports personality blames The Media, it's because they have lost. If a celebrity blames The Media, well, they're an idiot - without The Media, they wouldn't be a celebrity.

In the sad case of Jacintha Saldanha though, it's pretty hard to find someone else to hold accountable. From 2Day FM's idiot phone stunt, to the global reporting of that stunt, to the incessant hounding of the nurse involved, The Media's hands are covered in blood from start to finish.

The real problem here of course, is there was no story to begin with.

How is a woman becoming pregnant a story? Because she's a princess? Because she's beautiful? Because she's feeling a bit poorly and has sought medical advice? Give me a break. If a man had got himself pregnant, that'd be news. Severe morning sickness? Gross, but not interesting. Okay, I'll admit (I have to, I've admitted it before) I couldn't give a stuff about the Royals. In fact, I may have described them as a complete waste of everybody's time, money and attention. I may have even referred to them as a bunch of drunk and insane, unemployed inbreds. I may not have too. But I may.

I'll make you one concession; some people, and I have no idea why but I know they're out there, some people are actually interested in royal babies. The jump from there to camping outside the entrance to a hospital 24/7 is tenuous to say the least. To then jump again to thinking it's hilarious to pose as Liz and Chas, ring the hospital and ask how Kate's getting on is... well... what can you say? It doesn't even matter whether the prank call was appropriate or not, it should have been binned on the grounds in wasn't funny in any way.

Which is the other weird bit about this sorry saga; who the hell makes radio this way? Apparently the whole thing was recorded well in advance and someone somewhere actually decided to broadcast it. On our show, (the Mike Hosking Breakfast on Newstalk ZB) we generally make it up on the spot. What you hear is what we hear as we hear it. It's called... ah... that's right... NEWS. Sure we'll pre-record the odd interview due to time differences and guest availability but the concept of pre-recording a joke phone call you don't even think will work is kind of pathetic.

Trouble is, this all happened in December, and everybody knows no news happens in December, so when their lame-arse prank actually worked (technically, I mean, not as a successful bit of radio comedy) the British press jumped on it like the pack of slavering jackals they are. Really bad timing for 2Day FM - not only was it No-News Month, but due to the Leveson Inquiry, the U.K. papers in particular had been held in check for so long you could literally hear them baying for blood all the way down here in the Southern Hemisphere.

Once the awesome, terrifying and omnipotent machine that is the English Fourth Estate is set in motion, it won't be stopped. Not by a mere Sydney radio station, and certainly not by a 46 year-old nurse who had the misfortune of answering the phone that day. You can only imagine the pressure she would have felt once her identity was fed into the British press juggernaut.

Assuming suicide is confirmed as the official cause of death, obviously the only person to blame directly is Jacintha herself, but as I type those words, the keys feel hollow beneath my fingertips. Because I know this time The Media was in it up to its eye teeth, from the inception of the worthless radio stunt, to the incessant coverage of the fallout, even now after someone's paid the ultimate price. When The Media itself becomes so entwined in the story, instead of just observing it and reporting it, we're on dangerous ground. Now we're all tainted, all partially responsible, we, The Media.

If only more people along the way had posed themselves one crucial question, perhaps this whole stinking, squalid, shameful mess could have been avoided. It's a question so important, so obvious, all too often it's left unasked and this time the results were fatal.

That question: "Is this even a story?"

Beware the all-powerful press juggernaut

SCHOOL PRIZE-GIVINGS AREN'T SO BAD

The final barrier between school and summer. Dun dun dah...

It was always the storm before the calm. The final challenge. The ultimate test. The one thing standing between you and freedom - the sweet, sweet freedom of the summer holidays. If you could just survive that last 2 excruciating hours of torture, Christmas would be your REAL prize.

The end-of-year prize-giving. So cruel. So unusual. Why so many speeches? Why so many categories? Why so many items from the orchestra/choir/rock band/drama department? These are just some of the questions I would find myself considering every year of my scholastic career.

And I was IN the orchestra/choir/rock band/drama department. God only knows what was running through the minds of those poor sods who just had to sit there and take it.

But that's all changed now. Now, 30 years later, I love prize-givings. Prize-givings rock. Prize-givings are better than an ice cream after a trip to the beach. Because my daughter is Performer of the Year.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves though. One of the coolest things about being an adult is not having to go to school. No exams. No P.E. No detention. No Mr. Menzies. (Sorry, Mr. Menzies, but you WERE a jerk, and we all know it) Best of all, no assemblies and no prize-givings.

As the years roll on, school becomes a mere memory. A darker time you can put behind you. Sure, now there are bills to pay and jobs to go to, but at least you don't have to wear shorts with long socks anymore.

However, if parenthood strikes, (and for those adults out there reading this, I should warn you, parenthood can strike at any time, so be ever watchful) school will eventually pull you back in, a bit like the Death Star's tractor beam snagging the Millenium Falcon.

Two quick questions: 1) Do you think I use too many Star Wars analogies? 2) Is "Millenium" supposed to have 2 L's? It looks wrong.

ANYWAY...

You can't escape it. School will eventually reclaim you. It may take 5 years, or 10, but sooner or later you'll find yourself back at that end-of-year prize-giving, only this time the chances of you personally winning anything are effectively nil. (I did claim a hamper from the local pharmacy on behalf of the Domestic Manager once, but that was just a raffle that happened to be drawn the same day)

HOWEVER...

Should your kid's name be called out to step forward, trip up the steps, then accidentally grab their certificate before shaking hands with the principal like they were supposed to, your whole world will suddenly grind to a halt, heavenly choirs will start to sing and your heart will literally burst with pride, so you'd better have a defibrillator handy, just in case.

Should that child then go on to claim 2 MORE awards, even though you didn't quite hear what they were for because you weren't expecting her to win anything else, your pride levels will be so out of control, paramedics may have to be called in.

And if that child, that golden child, that gifted, anointed, MIRACLE child should go on to take out the grand prize for her year, yes, an actual CUP... well, you'll probably just die on the spot. Splat. Dead from a parental pride overdose. What a way to go.

That's how my loathing of prize-givings turned to love. Still no excuse for a flute choir though. That kind of torture is against the Geneva Convention.

Pretty good haul for someone with a gimpy hand