LETTER FROM CAPE TOWN: JOHN O'SULLIVANgives an insight into the sometimes mind-numbing chore of etching out some copy

LIVING IN the rarefied and privileged world of a Lions touring team is a curious phenomenon. Management, players and media nestle cheek by jowl on a daily basis in an ordered world of schedules, press conferences and interview opportunities. Everything is carefully choreographed, the processes parcelled to fit a strictly governed time-frame.

Slots are apportioned to television rights holders, radio broadcasters and finally the print media, players coaxed down the production line until the media machine spits them out at the far end. It can be a mind-numbing dance for both parties, one side trying to elicit some colour, be it in opinion or personality, the other studiously steering conversation towards the safety of the banal.

There is fault on both sides. The players will complain that having the same questions repeated again and again as they walk from one camera or microphone to another induces a slightly catatonic state, where there is little thought required to peddle generic rugby clichés.

The print media will lament the scarcity of one-on-one interviews, where conversation can be teased out at a leisurely pace. It’s difficult to blame a player for attempting to be word perfect when faced with a barrage of microphones and dictaphones thrust inches from his face and being bombarded with questions.

It’s quite funny to watch journalists ape a shoal of pilot fish as they scurry from one player to another desperate not to miss dining on those rare verbal sprats occasionally tossed their way: there’s a lot of plankton to be eaten along the way though. One requirement of the job is to be able to listen to two conversations simultaneously while trying to lip read a third, 40 feet away.

In those circumstances it resembles queuing in that it can readily become apparent that you are in the slow-moving one that’s not likely to go anywhere. It’s okay to get up and go when there are 30 journalists surrounding a player but if you are one of three, it takes a flinty heart to stand up, nod and walk away mid-conversation with a muttered thanks.

A player’s popularity, or, more accurately, his facility to give good copy, is a mathematical equation that can be solved mentally in a nanosecond. It’s applied on a daily basis when the list of interviewees is unveiled.

The media liaison on the current Lions tour is cheerfully efficient and professional but the process is hugely sanitised: think painting the whole house with brilliant white emulsion and staring at the walls for seven weeks. It’d give a headache eventually.

Much like the players, the media have a daily schedule of events concerning team announcements, press conferences, group player interviews, photographic and television opportunities. Everyone’s diet is the same. They have buses that collect and drop, media tickets that are personally delivered to their hotel, a hot housing process that keeps the herd together.

It’s a far cry from Lions tours of the amateur era where just a handful of media accompanied them. The interaction was of a more personable nature, right through to socialising together.

The Lions team is on the world wide web 60 seconds after it is announced, quotes from players and management there within the hour. Their only variety is based on the interpretation of the information. The skeleton is the same for everyone. Newspapers have changed hugely with the advent of the online arm where blogs and their ilk are seen as fundamental to the coverage.

Snatched conversations with players or management in hotel foyers without a notebook or tape recorder are generally far more insightful and beneficial rather than being corralled like battery hens and fed once a day. The simple human dynamics of the media sharing a hotel with the sportsmen about whom they write can make for some quality comedic sketch material.

In Johannesburg one particular journalist use to dread getting into the lift for fear that there would be Lions players present and he’d be torn between a polite greeting and keeping his eyes glued to the floor. As a result he’d often choose to walk up or down the eight flights of stairs. He used to find those four or five seconds of ‘tumbleweed blowing past silence’ in the lift, absolutely excruciating.

In another hotel this time in Bloemfontein, players and some media were billeted on the same floor, with ridiculously long corridors. The number of imaginary phone calls received while walking the gauntlet of stilted social interaction was amazing.

The line separating the media-player relationship seems to be fading as both sides are increasingly directed by the one administrator. The players’ days are strictly structured but so too are those of the media. Everyone is working off a printed sheet of A4 paper telling them where they should be and what they have to and can do. At least we’re still allowed to dress ourselves according to personal taste; or lack thereof in some cases.