There are two regular periods of hiatus in the media.
One comes every year around Christmas-time when everyone pisses off to the beach, and if there is any news around there is no-one around the newsrooms to report it. Media mavens call this the Silly Season, because what does appear in what passes for news is evern sillier than what we normally see.
The other hiatus arrives once every four years when thousands of reporters are flown to the Olympics several weeks before they start, to find they have nothing yet about which to report until the Games actually commence. So, finally sick of interviewing each other and being ignored by the masses they think are following them, they occupy the bar writing stories about how Olympic venues are only half-ready, their water is only half-drinkable (poor lambs), and the air everywhere is only half-breathable. (You want to respond, “so only breathe the toxic half. Please.”)
It’s half-baked. It’s happened every Games since Heracles was a lad. And it’s tiresome.
They could just copy and paste their stories from every other year – and do.
They’ll be right one year. Or maybe half-right.
Which would be a better score than normal for most of them.