A New Breed Of Sneaky (LINK)
August 15th 2007 06:14
This is a Public Service Announcement for anyone doing nothing more than live their life. You could be lunging in your step class, standing in line to buy socks or smacking your child at a Wiggles concert. You could be complaining about your mobile service coverage, eating a chocolate bar or getting your hair cut.
Then all of a sudden, one a lazy Sunday morning, you’re flipping the pages of your local newspaper and there you are, alive in black and white. You’re the subject of a snappy little lifestyle article entitled, ‘Where The Yummy Mummy’s Are At’.
Your name has been changed Judy, the Eva Longoria look-alike and your son has been renamed Jefferson, the screaming three year old on the flying fox. As you read every word, it’s more and more you. It’s reaffirmed by the fact that you and your son were in the park last Tuesday.
The writer of the article is a dashing, young undercover reporter with a head full of hair [not that you remember], taking pleasure in telling all and sundry that he got your phone number.
Our debonair lovelorn social journalist may or may not reveal that he only scored your number because he backed into your car and you swapped insurance information. He may or may not mention that he looked uneasy when propping up his sisters’ on loan ten month old baby.
There’s a special name for these types of reporters, both the male and female variety. ‘Wrobber’. Part time writer, part time dobber.
It’d be easy to assume that by its name sake, ‘Wrobbers’ steal something. They do. But it’s not the type of steal where you find yourself shoving dresses into your handbag Winona Ryder style. ‘Wrobbers’ steal something very important to all individuals; the truth. They take its core and spray it with a bit of alphabetical Febreeze.
When submitting their articles, ‘Wrobbers’ have the same brief. Go out, observe the quirks of human behaviour and report back with a 600 word witty ditty about your always exciting experience. Always exciting, because even if you go to the morgue, a good writer can always jazz it up with an anecdote about the Jamaican taxi driver on the way there.
When talking about ‘Wrobbers’, there are two kinds. First there’s the obvious ‘Wrobber’. This is a person who ask you 101 questions about speed dating, how you got there, what you get out of it, have you met any interesting people, rather than simple things like what’s your name and what do you do for a living.
Then there’s the less obvious ‘Wrobber’. They’re the one’s constantly looking around like a baby bird afraid of the big bad swooping eagle hiding in amongst the trees. They’re eyes are wide open, they’re constantly looking around and ducking when asked any meaningful question.
Essentially, ‘Wrobbers’ really aren’t a creature to be afraid of. There not like Senior Constables, or Magistrates. Everything you say in front of a ‘Wrobber’ is generally protected. They won’t use your name and unless they’re a real lunatic, they won’t delve too much into your pants.
But as harmless as they are, it needs to be said that right from the get-go, they’re not on the same playing field with everyone else. It’s one thing to take an interest in a subject and write about it, it’s an entirely different one to form a talking relationship, just to gauge their reaction so you can get sixty cents a word from your Publisher.
Now fellow ‘Wrobbers’, before you blog and unleash your spray of intellectual venom in my general direction, hear me out. I’m a ‘Wrobber’ as well, and will continue to be. I’ve stood at the bus stop and looking for my next inspirational hero. I’ve even named characters after my Butcher, ex-boyfriend, local Member of Parliament and Grade Three Teacher. I’ve been guilty of standing in a crowd of people giving mental nicknames like Puff’N’Fresh, Mr Squiggle, Lleyton Hewitt and Steady Eddy, just so I can remember them when I get back to my laptop.
And just as there’s two types of ‘Wrobbers’ in this world, there are two types of outcomes. The first is where your trusty reporter looks around purely commentates on what they saw. The second is the fun type where the ‘Wrobber’ jumped in there got their feet wet, splashed around and ended up with a fish down their bikini top. This is your best kind of ‘Wrobber’. It’s a glorious gift to pick out other people’s flaws but write about it in a way that you spend more time picking on yourself than your subjects. Self deprecation is just as important as the observation itself.
But just like Paris Hilton, like us or love us, we’ll still continue to do what we do? Why? Because true ‘Wrobbers’ will always find the human character and the human conversation fascinating.
So watch out and be suspicious of us. Look out for those people who engage you in conversation, listen, maybe a little too carefully and won’t give too much away about themselves. This is because they’re aware there might be another ‘Wrobber’ in the room.
Actually, come to think of it, having more than one ‘Wrobber’ in the room; that’d be something to really write about.
Then all of a sudden, one a lazy Sunday morning, you’re flipping the pages of your local newspaper and there you are, alive in black and white. You’re the subject of a snappy little lifestyle article entitled, ‘Where The Yummy Mummy’s Are At’.
Your name has been changed Judy, the Eva Longoria look-alike and your son has been renamed Jefferson, the screaming three year old on the flying fox. As you read every word, it’s more and more you. It’s reaffirmed by the fact that you and your son were in the park last Tuesday.
The writer of the article is a dashing, young undercover reporter with a head full of hair [not that you remember], taking pleasure in telling all and sundry that he got your phone number.
Our debonair lovelorn social journalist may or may not reveal that he only scored your number because he backed into your car and you swapped insurance information. He may or may not mention that he looked uneasy when propping up his sisters’ on loan ten month old baby.
There’s a special name for these types of reporters, both the male and female variety. ‘Wrobber’. Part time writer, part time dobber.
It’d be easy to assume that by its name sake, ‘Wrobbers’ steal something. They do. But it’s not the type of steal where you find yourself shoving dresses into your handbag Winona Ryder style. ‘Wrobbers’ steal something very important to all individuals; the truth. They take its core and spray it with a bit of alphabetical Febreeze.
When submitting their articles, ‘Wrobbers’ have the same brief. Go out, observe the quirks of human behaviour and report back with a 600 word witty ditty about your always exciting experience. Always exciting, because even if you go to the morgue, a good writer can always jazz it up with an anecdote about the Jamaican taxi driver on the way there.
When talking about ‘Wrobbers’, there are two kinds. First there’s the obvious ‘Wrobber’. This is a person who ask you 101 questions about speed dating, how you got there, what you get out of it, have you met any interesting people, rather than simple things like what’s your name and what do you do for a living.
Then there’s the less obvious ‘Wrobber’. They’re the one’s constantly looking around like a baby bird afraid of the big bad swooping eagle hiding in amongst the trees. They’re eyes are wide open, they’re constantly looking around and ducking when asked any meaningful question.
Essentially, ‘Wrobbers’ really aren’t a creature to be afraid of. There not like Senior Constables, or Magistrates. Everything you say in front of a ‘Wrobber’ is generally protected. They won’t use your name and unless they’re a real lunatic, they won’t delve too much into your pants.
But as harmless as they are, it needs to be said that right from the get-go, they’re not on the same playing field with everyone else. It’s one thing to take an interest in a subject and write about it, it’s an entirely different one to form a talking relationship, just to gauge their reaction so you can get sixty cents a word from your Publisher.
Now fellow ‘Wrobbers’, before you blog and unleash your spray of intellectual venom in my general direction, hear me out. I’m a ‘Wrobber’ as well, and will continue to be. I’ve stood at the bus stop and looking for my next inspirational hero. I’ve even named characters after my Butcher, ex-boyfriend, local Member of Parliament and Grade Three Teacher. I’ve been guilty of standing in a crowd of people giving mental nicknames like Puff’N’Fresh, Mr Squiggle, Lleyton Hewitt and Steady Eddy, just so I can remember them when I get back to my laptop.
And just as there’s two types of ‘Wrobbers’ in this world, there are two types of outcomes. The first is where your trusty reporter looks around purely commentates on what they saw. The second is the fun type where the ‘Wrobber’ jumped in there got their feet wet, splashed around and ended up with a fish down their bikini top. This is your best kind of ‘Wrobber’. It’s a glorious gift to pick out other people’s flaws but write about it in a way that you spend more time picking on yourself than your subjects. Self deprecation is just as important as the observation itself.
But just like Paris Hilton, like us or love us, we’ll still continue to do what we do? Why? Because true ‘Wrobbers’ will always find the human character and the human conversation fascinating.
So watch out and be suspicious of us. Look out for those people who engage you in conversation, listen, maybe a little too carefully and won’t give too much away about themselves. This is because they’re aware there might be another ‘Wrobber’ in the room.
Actually, come to think of it, having more than one ‘Wrobber’ in the room; that’d be something to really write about.
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Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
Ok, You're brilliant! I think Im a Wrobber too, I loved these lines! I know exactly how you feel......