Not really. But I’ll let my imagination take care of this. If I was a public relations representative for BP, with a diary, this is what it would read like:
July something, 2010:
It’s been so long since I’ve written in my journal. I don’t even know what day it is anymore. Monday? Thursday? Since our recent fumble I don’t even recognise weekends anymore.
And now the Board has decided to bend down and hold their ankles for the American media and say farewell to the presiding Hayward. If only those blokes listened to us about confronting those bloodthirsty hounds, Hayward may not have been sacrificed.
Course not; so now we’re stuck cleaning off a muddy (or oily if you fancy irony) house with the head now American Dudley.
All we had to do was tell the public:
-What exactly happened
-What Hayward’s title encompassed
-How this situation was being handled (with a tad more haste)
But since our recommendations were shoved back under our chins, now we look like we’re simple, and our chief is losing his position.
Not to mention the worse quarterly loss for our organisation.
Do the public actually believe that relieving Hayward of his title will turn the ship around? Will they remember the name of the new chief executive once the Mexican Gulf is cleared?
I’m weary of this public nonsense. And even more weary of our faint attempts of pleasing them.
I have written so many media advisories, talking points, and tweets that my hands are shaking. I fear that if I write anymore, my fingernails will start to bleed.
And I am terribly hungry. We’ve been cooped up in our war room upon hours, and I think our colleague who was eager enough to fetch our meals is still enjoying their release. That lucky bastard.
Ah well, I believe it is time to check the email, to see what mess our department has to clean up now. May the pain end quickly.