Take a moment and look out your window. Get up from your chair, walk up stairs if you're in a basement, peer between the bars if you're in a jail, do what you must, but get a glimpse of the outside world. Just remember to come back and finish reading once you're done.
If you are reading this on the day I published it then chances are you just looked out on a glorious, sunny day without a cloud in the sky. But where are you now? Sat back in front of a computer, that's where.
Birds are singing, bees are buzzing, fish are swimming, all manner of creatures are going about their animal business, but not one of them is sitting in an office moving a little arrow around on a screen which makes their eyes hurt.
While aforementioned bees make honey, we voluntarily sit indoors creating systems for applying for passports online, choosing pictures to go with leaflets on safe lifting, making graphs about the volume of flat-bed trucks round international airports, or whatever it is we have convinced ourselves we need as a society.
We are self proclaimed 'kings of the world', but what are we doing with our reign? Creating a load of pointless systems and structures to keep everyone busy until they die.
I am well aware that if no one in the world turned up to work today there would be all sorts of horrible chaos, but if you didn't, just you, what would really happen? Would society collapse? Would the struggles of our ancestors be in vain? Would anything in fact be any different, except for the fact that you didn't spend a day of your short life sat at a computer waiting for the home-time bell to ring?
There are vital jobs in this world - doctors, farmers, power station operatives etc. But increasingly there are more and more jobs which contribute nothing to society - paparazzo, tax inspector, Ant and Dec and so on. How did we come to this?
I am in no way claiming to be above all this - as I type blue skies are nothing more than a tantalising glimpse through a window out the corner of my eye. But I intend to change this state of affairs.
You've only got one life and if it makes you happy feel free to spend it typing out spreadsheets and sending out jargon-filled emails. I for one am going to make hay while the sun shines.
]]>At least, that is eleven people who the Metro felt were significant enough for us to know about.
These included a family in a car crash, a suicidal Welsh soap actress and superb writer JG Ballard.
Now, these weren't the only people who will have died yesterday, so what criteria means they make the headlines?
Death is without a doubt a massive part of the news business, from murders to accidents or celebrity funerals, I defy you to find a newspaper without at least one corpse within its first ten pages, even if it's not a fresh one.
Anniversaries of deaths, memorial services, tributes, they all make compulsive reading for those who cared about the passed-on.
And there it is - caring - if your audience care about whoever has shuffled off this mortal coil, they will read the piece. This doesn't mean the reader has to like the person in question - I imagine the eventual deaths of Charles Manson, Peter Sutcliffe and even Noel Edmonds will generate a fair amount of interest.
If the corpse was a celebrity in life then you've got an audience. If they empathise with the deceased, maybe see something of themselves, then you've also got a winner.
It is a sad truism, but apply it to yourself - are you more likely to read about a middle-class graduate stabbed while walking through a park in the nice part of town, or a teenage hoodie knifed in a gang conflict on a council estate? And be honest.
Of course there are other factors which turn a death from an unfortunate inevitability into a headline story. For example, was the demise untimely? Were the circumstances unusual? The success of the Darwin Awards shows that we will read about the death of a stranger if he fell down a well rescuing a chicken or chocked to death eating live ferrets.
So there you have it, if you want to make the headlines it's simple - just drop dead, but make sure you make something of your life before you do!
]]>Or, in other words, if I told you I loved you would you let me hold your hand?
The beauty of the English language is that there are many ways you can express yourself and describe everything from a glorious sunset to a tiny atomic particle. The downside of this though is that you can use a lot of pointless words to say absolutely nothing.
The Local Government Association recently published a list of 200 words and phrases which councils should avoid using, as they are considered jargon.
Having trawled through my fair (and often unfair) share of unreadable council agendas I agree wholeheartedly with this list, but why stop at local authorities? With one great push we could remove objectionable phrases such as 'blue sky thinking' or 'thinking outside the box' from usage all together.
And while we're at it I've got a few more choice bits of our lexicon which I think myself and the other Word Police (all self-appointed) could crack down on. I'm not necessarily saying these words and phrases should be banned completely, just not used in ways that make you want to drop pianos on the orator:
Basically - Nobody who starts any statement or explanation with the word 'basically' ever goes on to actually say anything basic. This word normally precedes a long, incomprehensible rambling, which could so easily have been edited down to one succinct sentence.
Inappropriate - This word has been misappropriated so much it no longer holds any meaning. It is a favourite tactic among cowardly politicians to accuse people of being 'inappropriate' when said people are doing something they don't like - normally objecting to, or pointing out flaws in, their ideas. This tactic means the accuser doesn't have to explain what they don't like about the other's actions, and it saves them from having to address any issues which may have arisen as a result.
exciting - Jumping off waterfalls is exciting. Learning to fly a plane is exciting. Fighting a genetically engineered giraffe-eagle hybrid is exciting. Rolling out strategies, compiling spreadsheets or completing workstation safety assessments is not exciting, and it never will be, however much you repeat the word.
Needless to say - If something really is needless to say then you don't need to say it do you? Simple.
These are just a few of my suggestions for inclusion on the list. I haven't quite decided what punishment should be prescribed to misusers, but I imagine it would involve a dictionary and that bizarre eye-opening device from A Clockwork Orange.
Feel free to add your suggestions below and together we can create a better, more intolerant world.
]]>That's right, take a moment to have a good look at yourself, hunched over your keyboard, your empty cereal bowl at your side, wondering if you can get away with another day's wear from those pants. No? Okay, just me then.
But anyway, look at yourself, because you are where it's at. In the words of that modern master of poetry Bryan Adams 'Everything we do, we do it for you'. So what better way to please you than to let you in on the news?
Online news is all about interactivity. The ability of readers to add their comments to a piece allows it to grow and expand in all variety of ways, for the whole worlds to see. And further than that we now ask you to send us pictures, videos and songs. The news is yours to own and shape, but are you up to it?
In case you're worried I have compiled this simple quiz to help you answer the burning question:
ARE YOU A JOURNALIST?
1) How do you dress?
a) In a grey mac and fedora, with a little 'press' card tucked in your hat band.
b) Smartly, shirt and tie, suit jacket when required.
c) I am in every piece of clothing all the time.
d) Always naked.
2) You witness a car crash, what do you do?
a) Quickly whip out a camera and take pictures of the injured parties then try to force your way into the ambulance to get quotes.
b) Call 999 then see if you can help. When everyone is out of danger talk to witnesses and get their numbers for later.
c) I see everything, this holds as much interest to me as a fly stuck in jam.
d) Carry on chewing, stare blankly as the emergency services arrive.
3) You have to knock on the door of a family who recently lost their teenage son. The mother says she doesn't want to talk about it and is about to close the door. What do you do?
a) Shove your foot in the door and tell her you won't leave until she talks to you. Offer her a load of cash, because that makes up for a dead son.
b) Tell her you understand, give her your card and say that if she ever does want to do a tribute to her son you will be happy to help, then walk away.
c) Smite her.
d) Panic, kick the door down, run through the house into the back garden and churn up the lawn.
4) Police are hunting a serial killer on your patch, how do you approach the story?
a) The killer rings you with enigmatic clues which you refuse to pass onto the police for the sake of getting a scoop. You end up hunting down the murderer to an abandoned warehouse where you kill him yourself in a dramatic standoff.
b) Work with the police to put out descriptions of the hunted man, put out appeals with victims' families and follow the trial when he is eventually caught.
c) You know who the murderer is, but it is his free will to kill, so you don't interfere.
d) You sit down - it looks like rain.
5) You are sent photos of a top celebrity caught having sex with a cow. The celebrities agent rings up saying their client is suicidal and will kill himself if you run the story. What do you do?
a) Splash the pictures all over the front page - the suicide will make a nice follow-up story.
b) Agree not to publish the pictures but ask the agent for exclusive interviewing rights in return.
c) You knew about it already - you see all.
d) You feel funny and you can't sit down any more.
6) You suspect your local mayor is an international drug dealer. What do you do?
a) Your paper funds you to follow the mayor around the world, where you stay in the best hotels, gathering evidence. Eventually he realises you are on his tail and you get embroiled in a savage gun battle at the dock of a Colombian drug-dealers hideout. You escape by leaping into the water as conveniently placed barrels of fuel explode around you.
b) You gather as much evidence as possible from your office and take it to the police, asking for exclusive inside information on the story as a reward for your help.
c) You unleash a series of plagues upon the town, including a rain of badgers, little mould patches on all the bread and the disappearance of everyone's left shoe.
d) You follow your brothers happily into the back of the truck driven by the nice man in the white hat and apron. You wonder where you're going - on a nice adventure perhaps? Or to the seaside?
So, how did you do? Check your answers below to find out:
Mostly As - you are Hollywood's unbelievably ridiculous portrayal of a journalist. You wouldn't last five minutes in the real world of reporting, you're probably better off going in search of the lost island of dinosaurs.
Mostly Bs - Congratulations! You are well on your way to becoming a real journalist. Now you just need to develop a healthy aversion to money.
Mostly Cs - You are God. Please don't smite me, I've been good (that doesn't count - I had had a long day and that tree has been threatening to fall over for months, how was I supposed to know about the flamingo enclosure?).
Mostly Ds - You are a cow. Admittedly a very intelligent cow who can somehow read, has wi-fi access and can operate a keyboard and mouse with hooves. But you are a cow nonetheless and unfortunately there's not many openings for farmyard animals in print journalism, try television.
Mostly Es - You've been doing the wrong quiz. Even the cow was more intelligent than you.
]]>All the signs are there - we're suffering a miserable recession, the IRA are killing people and Michael Jackson is preparing for a sold-out tour.
That's right, our worst fears have happened - we're back in the Eighties!
Somehow Great Britain has become stuck in a time loop and my fear is it will spread to the rest of the world.
Now, I know that the recession isn't limited to our own corner of the world, but imagine if this hideous Eighties epidemic were to spread as voraciously. We must all be on alert, from the global authorities to the man (or woman) on the street. As a public service I have decided to compile a list of early warning signs to keep an eye out for:
Admittedly the last one has already happened (I would say check out Noel's HQ, but really please don't), so we may already be too late.
The problem is, now we have diagnosed the disease we have to find a cure. My suggestion - we force the Nineties to arrive early (or late, depending on how you look at it). So run out now, buy a hoody, a whistle and some baggy jeans, I'll call Shaun Ryder and I'll meet you all down the Hacienda. Mad for it!
]]>Sure, they could be at school, college, work, or, in my case, but a twinkle in someone's eye, but are you sure? What if they're indulging in a drugs-fuelled orgy, injecting heroin into their ears while writhing in a naked mass of teenage bodies, all being filmed to be posted on Youtube or Facebook?
This may sound unlikely, but that's only until you learn of the immoral activities of 'Generation Sex'. If you are unaware of this scourge on the face of society, let the Daily Mail educate you with this article, published today.
This is textbook Mail stuff - it reinforces the idea that society is something to be feared and we are collapsing into the last days of the Roman Empire. It also reinforces the idea that in 'The Good Old Days' (Copyright Daily Mail), when the world was black and white, kids sat quietly and pleasantly, amusing themselves with a cup and ball and never once even acknowledging they had genitals until they were adults with moustaches (including the women).
The problem is that even if Ms Lichtenstein does have some pertinent points they are buried in such sensationalist ramblings that any dissection instantly leads to their collapse. Glazing over such ridiculous digressions as the obligatory insertion of fear of paedophiles into the piece, it still seems that all we are left with is a lot of unanswered questions, without any real solution being offered, other than to "pull up our pants".
For a start, our esteemed author claims that the internet makes it easy to access sexually explicit material at the click of a button. But there are many parental filters out there which will not let little Johnny and his furtive imagination discover anything more offensive than a Tellytubby.
Then there's just the simple fact that teenagers are teenagers, and I can remember during my youth the excitement elicited when one of my classmates smuggled a pornographic magazine into the playground and displayed it proudly for all to see. Enquiring pubescent minds will find this sort of thing however hard you try to stop them (whether they know what to do with it afterwards is another thing - I remember at least a couple of worried looking spotty faces gazing with barely-hidden confusion at the centrefold in all her adult glory), so surely it is better to responsibly educate them on the facts of life, rather than trying to hide it like a dirty secret, leaving them (often literally) fumbling in the dark.
If Ms Lichtenstein is so worried about these debauched parties her daughter is apparently attending, why is she allowing her to go to them in the first place? She offers us a lot of examples of problems within today's modern society, but no solutions and she seems unwilling to lead by example. What I want to know is does she still allow her 13-year-old daughter on Facebook? Is she making an effort to keep her away from 'Skins parties'? And most importantly has she actually sat down and discussed this whole thing with her progeny? Now there's a video I'd be tempted to watch on Youtube.
]]>I flicked on ITV news this morning only to be confronted by some unrecogniseable author telling the anchors that beards are pure vanity and Prince William shouldn't be allowed to grow one. Of course this chap didn't have a speck of hair on his tubby face, and I'm willing to bet that if he did decide to grow some facial foliage he would end up looking like a toddler who has got hold of a Biro and scribbled randomly across its chin.
I myself sport a beard which ranges from quite carefully tended and trimmed to, more often than not, fairly untamed and bushy. I do not see this as an act of vanity, if anything it is laziness which buys me five extra minutes in bed each morning, but since growing a beard I have been amazed by the number of people who have felt the need to pass comment on it.
Facial hair has become so naff in the eyes of the general public that people can actually raise money by letting their inner primate out. My friend recently participated in 'Movember', a charity event which originated in Australia, where men are sponsored to grow a moustache during the eleventh month. But if you think about it participants are actually receiving money for being lazier than usual, as they have a whole lip-worth of face which they no longer have to regularly shave.
It seems strange that something which is essentially a natural part of life can actually go so out of fashion, to the extent that people seem surprised if anyone under the age of about 40 grows some chin cover, and now the heir to the throne has decided to bin his Mach 3 it is actually making headlines.
What will outrage the media next? "Harry in hat-wearing scandal"? "Revealed: Camilla wears contact lenses!"? It's ridiculous that we are actually using time which is supposed to be for news to discuss whether it's a good idea for the little prince to experiment with five o'clock shadow.
I realise the irony of complaining about something not being newsworthy then dedicating a whole blog to it, but as a militant beard-wearer I thought someone had to speak up. I don't care if it is no longer the mode, facial hair now has the royal seal of approval and all I can say is leave beardies alone!
]]>I know this is a sweeping generalisation, but I spent four years of my life at Imperial College of Science, Medicine and Technology, surrounded by the analytic autistics, and I'm afraid it has tainted my views in a way that can't be remedied.
I was reminded of the reason I most dislike members of the scientific fraternity today when I read this article on the BBC news website.
Science is a beautiful thing, it contains incredible revelations, such as the fact that all known matter is made up of only 118 elements, and uncovers even greater mysteries, such as the double slit experiment, which shows that light can act like both a particle and a wave.
The problem is the people who tend to research science are, by definition, scientists. Now I'm sure there are a few good egg scientists out there who can empathise with people's feelings and recognise things outside their own work as being important. The problem is that in the academic world these people are probably not very good scientists.
Apart from a small group of my close friends (I know that I would say that, but remember that birds of a feather drink heavily together) almost everyone who I encountered at Imperial fell into the category of bad scientists.
These people are not malicious, or in any way stupid, but what they are is blind to humanity. They are the kind of people who could be talked into designing a bomb which could destroy the universe for the sake of the challenge, and then be suprised when someone actually builds it.
Everything in the world of scientists has to be rationalised - there is a theory that if you knew the position and direction of every particle in the universe you could map out the future. But where does that leave humanity and the concept of free will?
The above article angered me because it is part of this whole school of thinking that says love is nothing more than synapses flashing in our brain, predictable human behaviour, part of our internal programming to make sure we procreate and the species survives. Who is anyone to tell us that our ideas of romantic love are delusional? That there is no such thing as love at first site?
Why can't people be allowed to believe in magic, even if they are wrong? Why does everything have to be explained? Why shouldn't we hold out for someone we believe is perfect for us and who seems to be able to read our mind?
And the worst of it is that once again the good old media get the blame. This time for spreading an unachievable view of the romantic ideal.
But if you look at it I think it is the exact opposite - the media and advertising have been killing the idea of true love for ages. Open any fashion magazine and you will see airbrushed pictures of the beautiful folk wearing £1,000 dresses or cufflinks studded with diamonds, with vacuous unemotional looks in their eyes.
Television tells us we must all be on the property ladder and decorate our homes with IKEA cupboards and eggshell paint. No longer are relationships supposed to be about feelings, but instead financial security, desirable possessions and superficial looks.
Now I'm not saying it is wrong to chose this path, I'm just saying I wish modern life wasn't quite so accepting of it, with pre-nuptial agreements and online wedding gift lists.
Like a kind of emotional X-Files, I want to believe, I think there is one person out there for me and I'm not going to settle until I find that person. In the meantime I'm off to watch the Princess Bride, a film which features giants, miracle workers, true love and pirates, but no scientists...
]]>I am emerging from behind my notepad, feebly waving a pair of white Y-fronts on a stick and keeping my hands where they can be seen (there's a joke here which can't be made on a family website).
I can no longer maintain my clearly outmoded idea that you need facts, sources or even a shred of the truth to publish stories. I have spoken in a previous post about my dislike of the fashionable "wicked whisper" style celebrity pieces in various national, and city-wide papers. But after reading this morning claims that a female celebrity has decided to dye her pubic hair white to resemble Santa's beard I have decided that there is no depths to which they will not sink, and if you can't beat them, join them.
I present therefore for your consideration my own series of insider gossip taken from my new column 3am Whispers from the Molehill:
In my defence the last bit of absence was unplanned as I was struck down with some kind of nasty plague that most lesser mortals would probably work into a spiffing book featuring deep thoughts on mortality and the triumph of modern medicine over colds.
But previous to that I had a week off during which time I helped my sister and her fledgling family move house. This includes my sister, my incredible 11-month-old niece who has somehow made me tolerant to babies, well at least her, and my sister's partner (this makes it sound like they're in a legal firm together but I'm still waiting for this whole area of nomenclature to let go of the Victorian era).
Moving they say is one of the most stressful things you can do, but this move is in all a good thing. Previously the gang (as I'm sure they would like to be known) had been living with my parents, so this buys a valuable amount of independence, showing they can go it alone.
Of course by moving they may be costing themselves a little more, but if you look at it the benefits are obvious:
So all in all, you would have to be some kind of money-grabbing lunatic with the long-term vision of an amnesiac blowfly to think that my sister and her brood not living in their new home was a good idea.
Sorry to be do self-indulgent, chatting on about my family like this, but everyone knows if you treat family well they will be happy with you in return. I suppose I should try to give you a little newsroom insight to keep this blog on the theme which it is supposed to prescribe, but having been away so much recently I fear I don't have much to say.
There is one thing I guess you should know - if you want to write to me, or any of the other Harrow Observer team, please note the address is now:
Harrow Observer
Gazette House
28 Bakers Road
Uxbridge
UB8 1RG
Comments on a postcard please...
]]>We are happy to sit smugly in the court press box with our notepads, watching a procession of the criminal underclass get their comeuppance. But the moment it is even suggested our seat could be shifted to the dock while an unhappy restaurant owner's lawyer draws big red circles around errors in your copy, we suddenly develop a fearsome aversion to the entire judicial process.
The smallest mistake or improper suggestion can cost a publication hundreds of thousands of pounds in libel damages (for a recent example see everyone's favourite orgy-lover Max Mosley - just don't mention the war).
So how do we avoid being dragged through the courts by outraged celebs and business owners? The simplest answer, and one I subscribe to where possible, is don't make stuff up. If you can't verify something then don't print it, simple. Not only does it save you a small fortune in lawyers' fees, but it will also mean your publication maintains a reputation for accurate and truthful news.
But what if you hear something that is an absolute dynamite story, but you can't prove it? The day was (and I wasn't actually in journalism on this day, but I've heard talk) when such a story would be dropped and the journalist would return to his desk (there were no female reporters on that day - it was a man's world), head hung, to begin work on a story about how some crackpot scientist has predicted people will be able to carry phones around with them in the future.
Then some forward-thinking hack, a journalistic Einstein, one who undoubtedly is among the few figures of our generation to earn the epithet 'genius', came up with a solution which would save us ever having to worry about nasty old libel again. This divine device is known by many names but seems to most commonly appear under the title 'wicked whispers'.
You know the type of thing I'm talking about - short pieces that start with things like 'which boyband member...' or 'which soap star...' and go on to detail some outrageous celebrity behaviour which, if directly attributed to an individual would see the publication up before the bar faster than you can say "massive out of court settlement."
But have no fear loveable tabloid editors. For with no identification there can be no libel and the company lawyers can remain happily in their offices focusing on ways to lay off employees without the costly bother of a redundancy payout.
Of course there is one potential snag in this otherwise infallible device, and I feel like a ghastly pedant in even mentioning it, but if the story doesn't identify anyone and is therefore not traceable to any source couldn't it just be made up? Just a thought.
]]>It's a good rule of thumb that things which have to be introduced as interesting are normally incredibly dull. The conversational gambit of "Interesting story..." is nearly always a prelude to a tale guaranteed to have similar sedative effects to drinking a litre of absinthe while wrapped in a kingsize duvet.
But therein lies the rub - the narrator clearly feels the story is interesting enough not only to recount, but to actually flag up the fact at the beginning. Who am I to say that a detailed explanation of how the protagonist cleverly avoided heavy traffic on the M1 last Sunday by driving on 'a little detour he knows' is dull? How can I say that my standards are correct when I will happily spend an evening discussing which is Brian Wilson's best Beach Boys composition?
Normally what we find interesting and what we don't does nothing more than govern the lengths we're willing to go to to avoid ending up stuck chatting to a man called Fotherington, about the impact of the credit crunch on overseas investment accounts. But as a journalist we have to decide what we think will be interesting for other people because, after all, if they are not interested in what we write they simply won't read it.
The interests of the readership will dictate the order in which stories are published in a paper, which to an outsider can seem totally illogical. For example, the average person across the UK is probably more likely to be interested to read about someone being mugged by hoodies than flats being built in Harrow town centre, but if you consider our readership there really is no competition as to which would make the front page (unless the mugging victim is someone famous such as Pat Sharp).
So as a newspaper survival is absolutely dependent on knowing who your readers are and what they are interested in. It is with this in mind that many national newspapers are beginning to make me really despair over the state of the national psyche.
The best example of this recently was in one of the free commuter papers a couple of days ago (I can't remember which, but it was probably in all of them anyway) which dedicated an entire half page to a photograph of David Walliams chatting to Jude Law after the pair bumped into each other on the street. There was no mention of what the two were actually talking about, we were just supposed to be unquestioningly interested in the occurrence of the event itself.
Now as far as I can see there are three possible explanations for this sort of news:
- Celebrities have developed different metabolisms to the rest of us mere mortals and they must constantly be in the public eye or they will shrink and grow antlers.
- The general public are genuinely interested in the minutia of the lives of people, some of whom are merely famous for being famous, and however inane, pointless or inconsequential their activities the average reader will lap it up with gay abandon.
- The British press has become so patronising and caught up in itself it believes the above to be true.
Sad as it is I sincerely hope it is the third option which is true and not the second, as this would truly be a miserable indictment of our society.
I'm not saying I'm above reading celebrity news, I obviously looked at the picture of Walliams and Law, but I could think of at least ten news stories that day which I found a lot more interesting and which could easily have been put in its place.
Anyway, if you've read this far thanks, I hope you've found it interesting and just so you know - my vote goes for God Only Knows every time.
]]>Before you start thinking that I have a weird thing about standing for hours on a platform watching train after train be cancelled, or being rammed into an out-dated train carriage and forced to stand with my face in the armpit of a man who smells like he spent the previous evening wrestling weasels on the floor of an illegal moonshine still, let me clarify.
The good point of commuting is the little bookends it offers at the beginning and end of each working day, a moment to get your head together and read, in the company of a multitude of bizarre passengers who you can surreptitiously peer at over the pages of the terribly intellectual book you're holding open in an attempt to make the less weird ones believe you are clever and interesting.
This morning however, a surprise awaited me upon boarding my train. I was in search of commuting gold - a completely empty four-seat section, you know, the kind where two seats face two others and if you get there first you can lay claim to the best leg room.
As I walked up the carriage my path was blocked by another man, clearly on the same hunt, and we pushed forward to the very front of the train, where we had to make do with opposite sides of the same booth.
I think my brain must have just registered the man as just another tired commuter in a suit and I looked up with only mild interest when he started fiddling with a device that I assume was a portable DVD player.
It was then that it struck me - this was no ordinary Jo Schmo commuter, but a chap I had known at school, who had even been in the same tutor group as me. He seemed deeply engrossed in the screen of his DVD device with a pair of blue earphones embedded in his ears and, as I confirmed with myself that this was definitely the chap who had tripped in a gravel-lined car park while on a school trip only to have us squirt the ensuing wound on his arm clean with a barrage from the barrels of our newly-acquired Supersoakers, I realised the full gravity of the situation.
The problem was an unusual one which I have only encountered a couple of times in the last few years - how do you instantly convert a relationship from school life to adulthood?
Now this chaps surname was Bettesworth, but as a result of the imaginative and humourous nature of odious Lynx-wearing, acned youths he was known as 'Betty'. At school there is always a complex social ladder, with the most popular at the top surrounded by the usual swarm of sycophants a couple of rungs below. Bettesworth, I think it is fair to say, occupied the lower rung of this ladder, along with the likes of Stinkey Sturmey and Chilly Chilvers.
Now looking back on it there was no reason for this - Bettesworth (even now I have the instinct to type 'Betty') was one of the nicest people you could even meet, but of course that is often reason enough for teenagers.
It is at this point that I could quite easily rewrite history and say that I gallantly braved the scorn of my contemporaries and stood up for Bettesworth when the spotlight was turned upon him by the crueler of my year. But truth be told I laughed along with the others. I was only one rung above him, having climbed from the bottom of the social ladder between middle school and secondary and, as is one of the unfortunate truths of life governed by the very laws of gravity itself, faeces falls down.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't steal his lunch money or push him down a well, and we got on pretty well. But sometimes you can be just as cruel purely by joining the pack in casually referring to someone every day as Betty, even if you have convinced yourself it is a light-hearted joke in which he shares.
So there it is, that was school and that is how it probably is for all generations, but now here I was today, sat on a train opposite 'Betty', both of us on our way to work in adult jobs, wearing adult clothes and living in an adult world.
A few months back Bettesworth added me as a friend on Facebook and I happily accepted, but now he was right there in front of me the actual prospect of having to engage in conversation seemed a lot less appealing.
Everyone knows those awful conversations with people you had never expected to see again.
"Soooo, how are you? What have you being doing these past ten years? Hasn't the weather suddenly changed?"
Then it would all descend into the depressing world of grown-up conversation, talking about credit crunches and mortgages and other things that make me want to pull my tongue out through my eyes. All it would take is one accidental look of acknowledgment and we would be riding the awkward train to destination 'we really must meet up for a drink some time.'
Then I realised something - he wasn't just naturally engrossed in his DVD player, he actually hadn't looked up from it at all in the last ten minutes. If a party of ninjas had chased a raptor onto the train Bettesworth would not have known about it until he was run through with a katana. He was pretending not to have seen me!
So there it was, we were going to be terribly British about the whole thing - both pretending we could not see a man sat facing us less than a metre away for an entire 40 minute train journey (this became particularly difficult when at one stage I picked up the strains of 'It's Raining Men' spilling out of his tinny earphones, best case scenario - being used ironically to soundtrack a comedy movie).
In the end it worked and I got off at Clapham Junction to seek out a more packed train where I could take refuge in the enclave of a stranger's armpit.
I'm sure there's a lesson here somewhere, but if there is I didn't spot it. Then again we don't have to learn from everything that happens do we?
]]>This may be because this is my first day back from a two week holiday (I invoke bloggers' bragging rights for that mention, but I promise no tedious traveler's tales).
More likely an explanation for my red-eyed Monday yawning is that I stayed up last night watching a horror movie.
This was no average horror movie - there were no globulous monsters enveloping screaming fraternity girls, or a hairy Lon Chaney baring teeth resembling a miniature porcelain alps - the horror here was in the mind.
As I supped my warm cocoa and hid cringing behind my Transformers duvet (Optimus Prime on one side Megatron on the other - you decide) a nightmarish vision unfurled on the screen in front of me.
Okay, by now I know you're thinking I'm leading you down the garden path, cunningly attempting to make you believe I was watching a nasty slasher flick only to whip back the curtain (I don't know why there's a curtain in the garden, maybe the tulips are shy) to reveal a childish flick called something like "The Fluffy Bunny Wunnies Visit Cuddle Land", and thus hilarity ensues.
But no, the film in question, Shattered Glass, genuinely did cause me to break out in a cold sweat, if only because the very concept was such a horrific one for any journalist to witness.
The plot follows the true story of The New Republic reporter Stephen Glass, who between 1995-1998 repeatedly fabricated quotes, and in some case whole stories, until his lies were eventually unwound by a rival publication.
Now every journalist, no matter how good, knows the horrible stomach-turning feeling that you have when it turns out an important fact in a story is wrong.
Normally this will be due to an error beginning with one of your sources - there is always a certain amount of trust you have to place in people like councillors or the police, but even such lofty bodies will make the occassional boob.
However, in Glass's case the errors were entirely his own fabrication, so, unsettling as it felt to watch his stories unwind, I had little sympathy for the young chancer.
The real horror was in watching his editor realise the real magnitude of Glass's journalistic crimes.
Editors must place an incredible amount of trust in their reporters - if someone decides to sue a paper it is the editor who is directly in the firing line.
Much as certain facts such as road names or dates can often be checked independently, the accuracy of crucial points such as descriptions or quotes has to be trusted entirely to the reporter.
I should quickly point out this is not a problem here in Harrow (all our reporters have the ability to make their eyes swirl while they hypnotically hiss "Trussst in me"), but just watching a depiction of an editor coming to the realisation that he had a rogue reporter on his hands was enough to send shivers down my spine.
I have written on the subject of accuracy before, but I don't think I can emphasize enough the importance of it, and just plain fabricating stories in unforgivable in the world of reporting.
Admittedly there is a certain pressure to find the big scoops and the articles which will draw the public's attention, but making them up negates the whole idea of news and turns any newspaper into a potential work of fiction.
Readers must also form a bond of trust with journalists and a publication, and they have every right to believe that what they read is truthful, whatever their opinion on the matter.
Nothing is more damaging in any relationship than finding out you've been lied to by someone you have trusted and in the case of a paper and its readers this relationship can be near impossible to rebuild.
So there it is, an insight into the journalist's second-worst nightmare, falling just behind attempting to run through a swamp filled with caramel while being chased by a 50ft chief executive in a mini-skirt who is set on draining your blood to serve to shareholders at their annual meeting.
Lucky it's all just a dream eh?
]]>In the course of chasing a story it is fairly easy to get into a scrape, most often when you least expect it.
Only a few weeks into my career as a reporter I found myself rapidly attempting to talk my way out of a beating at the hands of an angry man who made guns for feature films. He was incensed that I should take an interest in a robbery which had happened at his warehouse, despite the fact the thieves had made off with a small arsenal of weapons.
But this was nothing compared to my last paper, the South London Press, where our crime reporter was threatened with an axe by the friends of a murdered teenager just for asking if they wanted to pay tribute.
The problem is, people want the news as it's happening, and the best way to bring that to our readers is either to talk directly to the people experiencing whatever is going on, or better still, have it happen to you.
A prime example of this is currently being displayed on our newsroom television (describing it with the word 'newsroom' always makes it sound far more dynamic than your common or garden television, though realistically if you've got a television in your garden it's probably pretty special. Or broken).
As I type a Sky News anchor is stood in a field in New Orleans attempting to be heard over the incoming hurricane and occasionally pointing at a puddle around the bottom of a telephone pole, with the purpose I can only assume of reminding us all that rain = puddles and big rain = big puddles, or flooding.
Now this news anchor looks like he's having no fun at all, with one hand desperately clasping onto his microphone and the other constantly readjusting his anorak hood in an attempt to keep a storm which is threatening to devastate a massive city from ruining his hair. But he must stick it out - not only is he reporting the news, but, more importantly, the news is happening to him.
As the storm thunders ever closer to the East American coast an interesting and bizarre competition is unveiling in front of the viewing public - namely who can stand out in it in front of a camera the longest.
Earlier today a female news anchor was talking about who was left in New Orleans after the mass evacuation and came out with the line: "The streets are empty apart from groups of militia and, er, journalists." As the last words came out her mouth you could see a brief flash of panic across her face as she realised just what they meant - the only people remaining are people who are trained to face death unquestioning and people such as herself who, when confronted by the grim reaper, would be likely to break a new land speed record (stopping only to ask the skeletal scyther to appear exclusively on her show next week).
But that is what the viewing public want, and if the BBC anchor is still stood up to his waist in corpse-ridden flood waters as alligators gnaw at his knees then why should Sky's correspondent be safely tucked up in a warm studio hiding from the excitement of the news? I'll tell you why - because we're not soldiers, nor are we modern-day King Canutes and in the end no story is worth dying for.
Much as it would entertain me to see certain on-the-scene reporters swept up in a Wizard of Oz-style hurricane I salute the first network to get out of town (as nearly all authorities and aid agencies have repeatedly advised), as that may well be the first example of intelligent and responsible reporting I have seen on television for a while.
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