As a journalist turned PR (via banking) I’m often asked whether I miss journalism. Sometimes is the answer, although I do plenty of writing, which was the bit I loved most. In fact I love the media and still enjoy my role in it. What I don’t miss, however, is the faux morality of journalism, which I was reminded of again this week following James Naughtie’s slip of the tongue on Radio 4’s Today programme. For those who missed it, Naughtie made the classic near-Spoonerist mistake of mixing up the letters of Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt’s name to produce the one Anglo-Saxon word that taste still precludes from everyday usage. Inexplicably, Andrew Marr then repeated the mistake on Start the Week.
This is pretty harmless stuff, although their apologies – through suppressed guffawing – was the bit that reminded me of the media’s faux morality. These were clearly not heartfelt apologies, which is fine for the media-savvy cognoscente – no offence was really meant by the gaffs. But my guess is that it was the apologies – not the inadvertent swearing – that would have compounded, rather than relieved, any offence caused to more sensitive ears.
I realise this sounds petty, especially from an Essex lad who would have used the gerund of the “f” word to introduce every noun as a schoolboy, but I’ve had some insight into the other side from knowing, and respecting, my mother-in-law. She is a woman of the 1950s. A Royalist, a churchgoer, an old school Tory who always had great faith in the BBC as the mouthpiece of the nation, until recently. And she wouldn’t have taken offence at Naughtie’s slip. In fact, I doubt she’d have even picked up on it so untuned is her ear to coarse language. Yet the unmeant “apologies” delivered through stifled mirth would have, indeed, offended her. That’s what I mean by the faux morality of the media.
In fact, my only compliant to the BBC was on behalf of my mother-in-law. The 10pm news was immediately preceded by a trailer that was nothing more than a stream of shouted swear words from an actor – beginning and ending with “f**king”. She was obviously shocked and, seeing it from her point of view, I sent an email complaint – pointing out that many people tune in specifically to the 10pm News and your 9.59 and 50 seconds timing for the shouted expletives was pretty inconsiderate if not deliberately provocative. I received one of those “sorry you were offended” non-apologies followed by some nonsense reeking of faux morality. “We take our obligations very seriously with respect to warning viewers of potentially offensive material,” it bleated (or something like it) before excusing themselves with such smug arrogance they may as well have sent a picture of the respondent giving me the finger. It would have certainly been more fitting.
As an ex-journalist, I carry my own guilt in this respect – in fact mine is worse because I caused someone to lose their job. When editor of a business magazine I carried a story regarding the behaviour of a bank that had recently changed direction thanks to the appointment of a new director, brought in from the US. I had no idea regarding the figures, or whether this was a good idea in the long-term. I was going on industry gossip, from rivals. Nonetheless, the tone of the article can be easily surmised by the fact we shamefully accompanied the article with a full-page cover cartoon of the bank – clearly represented in human form – shooting itself in the foot. The director, at the time one of few women directors of a European bank, did not survive the poor publicity.
In fact her departure – which may have been for a host of reasons, not just the article – shocked me into re-evaluating my role as a financial journalist. I admired the sector I reported on and began to feel that I’d betrayed it – with the feeling growing with every congratulatory note or phone call I received from other journos (this was pre-email). Yet when confronted by the bank’s PR, I defended the article on the grounds of “public interest” of course. “Stakeholders in the bank have a right to know” blah – but both he and I knew it was tosh. I’d repeated, exaggerated and luridly expressed industry gossip, and no amount of faux morality was going to cover that up.
What has all this got to do with What’s Stopping You? my book on overcoming fear of failure? Quite a lot, actually, because it’s the media’s treatment of vulnerable people that is most at play when it comes to its faux morality. We may immediately think of Susan Boyle – a woman with very apparent vulnerability who shot to fame because of her extraordinary singing voice – yet she’s fine: her fame should compensate her adequately for her Faustian pact with the media.
My main concern, however, are the 1,000s of failed Susan Boyles who are sucked into the media machine – usually via reality TV – and then destroyed by it. Thinking fame their destiny, they are thrust into the limelight and encouraged to behave outrageously, before being thrown off after some humiliating vote or judgement from a panel of celebs (Big Brother, X-Factor, The Apprentice, Dragon’s Den – are all versions of this).
Of course, as we giggle at the humiliation we are comforted by the notion that they volunteer for this modern-day version of gladiatorial combat. Yet in many cases their dreams of celebrity were the classic avoidance tactics of High-FFs (as I call those with a high fear of failure in my book, and as explained in previous posts). Riddled with insecurities, they assume celebrity will cure them, which makes them willing fodder for a media machine that has found reality TV a cheap and popular genre in an age of proliferating channels and tightening budgets. And, of course, the odd casualty can be dealt with by serious statements of concern, funeral attendance (if it gets that far) and other tactics from the Media Book of Faux Morality.
But not all the victims are “volunteers”, or so easily dealt with. Probably the most shocking example I can remember happened on a local radio station. The expansion of local radio in the UK in the 1980s led to some pretty desperate programming to acquire an audience, one of which was the agony aunt phone-in. Seared into my memory is the call from a recently-widowed woman pouring her heart out over the loss of her husband. “I miss him,” she kept saying, “I just miss him so much, I can’t live without him.” This went on for no more than two minutes (maybe less) before it became clear that, having enjoyed her on-air blubbing at first, she was unlikely to add anything more juicy to the programme.
In fact, her refusal to cheer up was becoming a bit boring, so they cut her off and went to another caller. Concerned this appeared brutal, they later spoke of their deep concern for the woman, and that she’d been passed on to a non-existent back-up team of professional counsellors able to deal with her very specific grief-based agonies. Meanwhile, John in Basildon’s got an erectile disfunction problem he wants to share with the entire county. Faux morality indeed.
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