At exactly 23:25 today it became apparent that this concept was not going to work. The idea of writing a story that had a headline as ridiculous as 'Secret Story - Do Not Read This' was perhaps well intentioned, but it was always likely to fail.
For a start it was evident that any story of such content would find it hard to get through the editing system. Secondly, nobody would bother reading to the end of the story if it seemed as though it was going nowhere.
But then, just as it seemed that the story was fizzling out and was destined to become a story that you wished you had not bothered to read, it picked itself up and blossomed.
It grew. It developed. Suddenly, it seemed as though the article was going to divulge the intimate secrets of the news. Who had paid what to whom; who had been aware of what, and which politicians should go to prison. Celebrities, Sex and Salaciousness were mentioned. Which royals are common? Which policemen are bent? And which merchant bankers are ideally suited to rhyming slang? It all became a climax of news-related excess.
But then, just as it peaked, it all began to lose all impetus and fall in on itself. All the promise became a wilted rose laid in torment on the grave of informed journalism. The story became the non-story; the anti-climax; the damp squib of stories; the erectile dysfunction of tales. People passing pointed at the story and laughed behind their hands. It had failed, but more than that, it had been seen to fail.
Then, just when it seemed that nothing could save the story, it got its second wind and rallied. All of a sudden it was not the failure of the story that was uppermost in peoples minds, it was the idea that this story, this underdog in the writing world could actually defeat the foe. Could an ordinary story become the second division football team that surmounts all odds to win the FA Cup? Could the struggler, the also-ran, become the winner? The victor? The champion?
No, it wasn't to be.
Or was it?
No. It wasn't.